The Concubine’s Tattoo

13

After leaving the Satsuma-za puppet theater, Hirata rode aimlessly around town. Hours slipped by while he relived every moment spent with the woman he desired but could never have. He couldn’t think of anything except Lady Ichiteru.

Eventually, however, his physical excitement subsided enough for him to grow aware of his actions. Instead of working on the murder investigation, he’d wasted a whole morning on hopeless daydreams! And he’d automatically traveled to his old territory: police headquarters, located in the southernmost corner of Edo ’s administrative district. Seeing the familiar high stone walls and the stream of doshin, prisoners, and officials passing through the guarded gates restored Hirata’s wits. He realized what had happened, and cursed himself for a fool.

Lady Ichiteru had avoided answering every single one of his questions. How would he explain to Sano why he’d failed to establish whether Ichiteru had motive or opportunity for Lady Harume’s murder? He’d made a complete mess of the crucial interrogation of a prime suspect. Now he could admit that Ichiteru’s evasion indicated her guilt. And, Hirata thought miserably, a woman of Lady Ichiteru’s class wouldn’t dally with a man of his, unless for unscrupulous purposes.

Still, the knowledge didn’t stop Hirata from wanting her, or from hoping she was innocent-and that she wanted him, too. Though he feared another episode of failure and humiliation, he longed to see her again. Should he go back to the theater and demand straight answers? Hot blood filled his loins at the thought of being with Ichiteru, of finishing what they’d started. Reluctantly he decided he was in no shape to conduct an objective interrogation; he must first regain control over his feelings. And Hirata had other leads to investigate besides Lady Ichiteru. Fortunately his detective instincts had brought him to a good starting place.

Hirata entered the police compound. After giving his horse to a stableboy, he crossed the yard lined with the barracks where he’d once lived as a doshin, then went inside the main building, a rambling wooden structure. Officers signed on or off duty and delivered criminals in the reception room. From a raised platform, four clerks dispatched messages and dealt with visitors.

“Good day, Uchida-san,” Hirata greeted the chief clerk.

Uchida, an older man with a humorous face, gave Hirata a welcoming smile. “Well, look who’s here again.” The police station was always a font of information, and Uchida, across whose desk all this information passed, had proved a valuable source many times. “How’s life at Edo Castle?”

After exchanging pleasantries, Hirata explained why he’d come. “Any reports of an old peddler selling rare drugs?”

“Nothing official, but I heard a rumor you might be interested in. Some youths from wealthy merchant families in the Suruga, Ginza, and Asakusa districts have supposedly gotten hold of a substance that induces trances and makes sex more fun. Since there’s no law against it, and the users aren’t suffering or causing any harm, the police haven’t arrested anyone. The dealer is reportedly a man with long white hair and no name.” Uchida chuckled. “The doshin are looking for him, mainly, I think, so they can try the drug themselves.”

“A man with pleasure potions might also have poisons,” Hirata said. “It sounds like he could be the one I’m looking for. Let me know if there’s any word on his whereabouts.”

“Be glad to-if you’ll recommend me to your important friends when they hand out promotions.” Uchida winked.

Hirata left police headquarters, mounted his horse outside the gate- and immediately thought of Lady Ichiteru. He forced himself to concentrate on the work at hand. Suruga, Ginza, and Asakusa were separated by considerable distance; apparently the nameless drug dealer ranged all over Edo, and might have moved on by now. Instead of questioning the doshin who had reported on him, Hirata would exploit a better, albeit unofficial, source of information.

Perhaps the activity would keep his mind off Lady Ichiteru.

The great wooden arch of the Ryōgoku Bridge spanned the Sumida River, linking Edo proper with the rural districts of Honjo and Fukagawa on the eastern banks. Below, fishing boats and ferries glided along the water, a shimmering mirror that reflected the vivid autumn foliage along its banks and the blue sky above. Temple bells tolled, their peals sharply vibrant in the clear air.

The hooves of Hirata’s mount clattered on the bridge’s wooden planks as he joined the stream of traffic bound for the far end of the bridge, an area known as Honjo Mukō-“Other Side”-Ryōgoku. This had developed in recent years as Edo ’s population had overflowed the crowded city center. Marshes had been drained; warehouses and docks now lined the shore. In the shadow of the Temple of Helplessness – built upon the burial site of the victims of the Great Fire thirty-three years ago-a flourishing merchant quarter had sprung up. Honjo Mukō Ryōgoku had also become a popular entertainment center. Peasants and rōnin thronged the wide firebreak, patronizing teahouses, restaurants, storyteller’s halls, and gambling dens where men played cards, wagered on turtle races, or hurled arrows at targets to win prizes. Lurid signs above a menagerie depicted wild animals. Barkers shouted come-ons; peddlers sold candy, toys, and fireworks. Hirata headed for a popular attraction, where a large crowd had gathered before a raised platform. There stood a man of remarkable appearance.

He wore a blue kimono, cotton leggings, straw sandals, and red headband. Coarse black hair covered not only his scalp, but also the other exposed parts of his body: cheeks, chin, neck, ankles, the backs of his hands and tops of his feet, and the wedge of chest at the neckline of his garment. Shaggy brows nearly obscured his beady eyes; a sharp-toothed mouth grinned within his whiskers.

“Come to the Rat’s Freak Show!” he called, waving toward the curtained doorway behind him. “See the Kantō Dwarf and the Living Bodhisattva! Witness other shocking curiosities of nature!”

The Rat was no less an oddity than his freaks. He came from the far northern island of Hokkaido, where cold winters caused men to sprout copious body hair. The Ainu, as they were called, reminiscent of apes, very primitive, and usually much taller than other Japanese. Short and wiry, the Rat must have been a runt of his tribe-and an ambitious one. He’d come to Edo as a young man to seek his fortune. A tobacco merchant had let him live in the back of his small shop, charging customers money to see him. The Rat’s rodentlike visage had earned him his nickname; his business acumen had turned the merchant’s sideline into this lucrative, notorious freak show. Some twenty years later, the Rat now owned the establishment, which he’d inherited upon his master’s death.

“Step inside!” he invited. “Admission is only ten zeni!”

Coins in hand, the audience lined up outside the curtain. The Rat leapt off the platform to usher them inside; his assistant, a hugely muscled giant, collected admission fees. Hirata joined the queue. Seeing his empty hands, the giant growled, frowning.

“It’s you I’ve come to see,” Hirata told the Rat.

“Ah, Hirata-san.” The Rat’s beady eyes took on a gleam of avaricious cunning; he rubbed his hairy paws together. “What can I do for you today?”

“I need some information.”

The Rat, who roamed Edo and the provinces in an ongoing hunt for new freaks, also collected news. He supplemented his income by selling choice information. While a police officer, Hirata had caught the Rat during a raid on an illegal brothel, and the Rat had bartered his way out of an arrest by telling Hirata the whereabouts of an outlaw who had eluded Edo police for years. Since then, Hirata had often used the Rat as an informant. His prices were high, but his service reliable.

“Better come inside,” the Rat said now. “Show’s about to start, and I have to announce the acts.” He spoke with an odd, rustic accent. “We can talk during them.”

Hirata followed him into the building, where the audience had gathered in a narrow room with a curtained stage. The Rat jumped onto this. Extolling the wonders of what was to come, he whipped the crowd into a noisy, eager frenzy, then announced, “And now I present the Kantō Dwarf!”

The curtain opened and out walked a grotesque figure, half the height of a normal man, with a large head, stunted body, and short limbs. Dressed in bright theatrical robes, he sang a song from a popular Kabuki drama. The audience cheered. The Rat joined Hirata at the side of the stage.

“I’m looking for an itinerant drug peddler named Choyei,” Hirata said, relating the meager background material that existed on the man.

The Rat’s feral grin flashed. “So you want to know who sold and who bought the poison that killed the shogun’s concubine. Not easy, finding someone who doesn’t want to be found. Plenty of hiding places in Edo.”

Hirata wasn’t fooled. The Rat always began negotiations by stressing the difficulty of obtaining a particular piece of information. “Thirty coppers if you find him by tomorrow,” Hirata said. “After that, twenty.”

On stage, the dwarf’s song ended. “Excuse me,” said the Rat. He bounded onto the stage and announced, “The Living Bodhisattva!” Amid more cheers, a woman appeared. She wore a sleeveless garment to show off her three arms. She struck poses reminiscent of statues of the many-armed Buddhist deity of mercy, then invited audience members to bet on which of three overturned cups hid a peanut. The Rat rejoined Hirata. “A hundred coppers, no matter when I find your man.”

Other acts followed: a dancing fat man; a hermaphrodite singing the male and female parts of a duet. The negotiations continued. At last Hirata said, “Seventy coppers if you find him within two days, fifty thereafter, and nothing if I find Choyei first. That’s my final offer.”

“All right, but I want an advance of twenty coppers to cover my expenses,” the Rat said.

Hirata nodded, handing over the coins. The Rat stuffed them into the pouch at his waist, then went to announce the final act. “And now, the event you’ve all been waiting for: Fukurokujo, god of wisdom!”

Out walked a boy about ten years old. His features were as tiny as a baby’s, his eyes closed, his head elongated into a high dome that resembled that of the legendary god. Gasps of surprise came from the audience.

“For an added charge of five zeni, Fukurokujo will tell your fortune!” cried the Rat. Eagerly the audience pressed forward. The Rat said to Hirata, “To seal our bargain, I’ll give you a free fortune.” He led Hirata onto the stage and placed Hirata’s hand on the boy’s forehead. “Oh, great Fukurokujo, what do you see in this man’s future?”

Eyes still closed, the “god” said in a high, childish voice, “I see a beautiful woman. I see danger and death.” As the audience emitted oohs and ahs, he keened, “Beware, beware!”

The memory of Lady Ichiteru came rushing back to Hirata. He saw her lovely, impassive face; felt her hand upon him; heard again the wild music of the puppet theater underscoring his desire. He experienced anew the stirring mixture of lust and humiliation. Even as he recalled her trickery and the penalty for consorting with the shogun’s concubine, he yearned for Ichiteru with a frightening passion. He knew he must see her again-if not to repeat the interview and salvage his professional reputation, then to see where their erotic encounter would lead.