The Fire Kimono

20

At the temple in Shinagawa, sunrise colored the sky pink and the trees came alive with birdsong. Fifty priests in saffron robes, who filed toward the worship hall for their morning prayers, turned at the noise of pounding hooves. A squadron of mounted troops galloped across the temple grounds. The riders wore the Matsudaira crest on their armor. They clattered to a halt before the priests. The elderly abbot detached himself from his flock and approached the invaders.

“Greetings,” he said, bowing. “How may we serve you?”

The captain leaped down from his horse. “We’ve heard reports that there are rebels operating out of this temple. We’re here to investigate.”

Yanagisawa froze in his position at the back of the line. He’d known that Lord Matsudaira had troops scouring the country for underground rebels. It had been only a matter of time until they arrived here, but he’d hoped to launch his comeback before that day came.

“There must be a mistake,” the abbot said. “We’re a peaceful, law-abiding sect.”

Currents of fear raced through Yanagisawa. He fought the urge to run and mark himself as a criminal.

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look around and interrogate your people,” the captain said.

Yanagisawa saw his face and panicked. The captain was Nagasaka, once a commander in his army, who’d defected to Lord Matsudaira. What Yanagisawa had feared had finally happened: Someone who would recognize him had come hunting rebels. He ducked behind a tree, barely avoiding Nagasaka’s gaze.

“This is highly irregular.” The abbot remained calm, but Yanagisawa knew he was terrified because he was harboring a fugitive. Now he tried to stall and give Yanagisawa a chance to escape. “His Excellency the shogun won’t approve.”

“I have Lord Matsudaira’s orders,” Nagasaka said. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to lose by cooperating.”

He beckoned the priests, said, “Line up over here,” then told his men, “Search the whole place. Guard the gates. No one leaves until we’re done.”

As the priests obeyed, Yanagisawa slipped away through the garden. Troops moved to secure the premises. He had to reach his cottage before they did.

He ran toward the wooded area at the back of the temple that sheltered the cottage. As he veered around the pagoda, he heard troops coming. He raced a zigzag course, ducking behind the giant temple bell, the sutra hall. He almost bumped smack into a soldier, then another, then another. The sun brightened the sky and dissolved the shadows that protected him. At last he plunged into the woods, down the gravel path. Relief filled him as the cottage appeared in view.

The door was open. The sound of voices inside halted Yanagisawa in his tracks. He dove into the bushes outside the cottage and listened, breathless with exertion, his relief turning to terror.

“Someone’s been living in here,” a man said.

“Probably a guest,” said another man. “So where is he?”

Yanagisawa heard thumps, scuffling, and dragging noises. A third man said, “Hey, look at this big hole in the floor.”

They’d found his escape hatch that led to a tunnel under the temple wall. Yanagisawa’s heart sank.

“He must be a rebel. Why else would he need a secret passage?”

“If he went down there, maybe we can still catch him.”

“If he hasn’t, we should seal up the other end. We’ll go down. You tell Captain Nagasaka.”

Yanagisawa cursed under his breath as he heard two men climbing down the hole. The third soldier exited the cottage and walked past him. More troops crashed through the woods. Yanagisawa ran in desperate panic.

The troops multiplied into a horde around him. They swarmed the temple precinct; they occupied buildings. As he swerved to avoid them, he glimpsed Captain Nagasaka and a few troops with the priests outside the worship hall. The soldier from the cottage panted up to Nagasaka and spoke. Nagasaka rapped out orders to the troops. They hurried to join the search for the rebel turned fugitive.

Yanagisawa’s strength was failing. His legs buckled; he couldn’t breathe enough air. He collapsed behind the kitchen building. His heart felt ready to explode. He couldn’t run anymore. Then he saw the well. He crawled to it, lifted the lid off the square wooden base, and climbed inside, bracing his back and feet against the sides of the rock-lined shaft. He reached up and pulled the lid closed.

He heard the troops stampede into the kitchen grounds, heard their shouts.

His exhausted muscles quaked. He slid down the shaft. The rocks scraped his back raw. He plunged into water up to his neck before he managed to fix himself in place. He held his breath and listened.

Troops strode past the well, their footsteps echoing down it. The water was freezing cold. Yanagisawa began to shiver. His teeth chattered; he clenched his jaws. Eons passed before he heard someone say, “There’s nobody here.”

“He must have gotten away,” said Captain Nagasaka. “The abbot claims he’s just an itinerant priest, but I don’t think so. We’ll keep looking.”

The herd moved off. Chilled to the bone, Yanagisawa felt only a fleeting relief. Lord Matsudaira’s men would come back in case their quarry should return. The temple was no longer safe for him. And the next close call could be even closer.

Sano rose hours before dawn. Disturbed by his quarrel with Reiko, he’d lain awake beside her for hours, knowing that she was awake, too. Neither of them had spoken, lest they quarrel some more and say worse, unforgivable things, and they weren’t ready to make peace. Sano kept replaying their argument and thinking of things he should have said, as he supposed Reiko was also doing. Finally, he gave up pretending to sleep and went to his office, where he worked through the mountain of correspondence and reports on his desk in an attempt to keep control over the administration of the country. When his staff arrived, he conducted brief meetings into which he crammed as much business as possible. Then he, Hirata, and his troops headed to Kodemmacho.

The wind had quieted, and the morning was hazy, thick with the city’s smoke, dust, and breath. As the slum awakened, people emerged from the shacks, lined up at the well, and built fires from scavenged coal and trash. Sano and his men rode down the foul-smelling alley, under the clotheslines, and dismounted outside the gate to the tenement where Egen lived.

When Sano and Hirata arrived on foot, they found the yard and balconies deserted, although cooking odors and a babble of voices emanated from the buildings. Hirata pounded on Egen’s door, called his name, and said, “Open up!”

When he received no answer, he pounded louder. A woman with a crying child slung over her shoulder appeared on the balcony and said, “He’s not there.”

“Then where is he?” Sano wouldn’t have been surprised if Egen had skipped. He must have known to expect consequences for incriminating Sano’s mother.

“He moved out,” the woman said.

Hirata opened the door and looked into the room. It was full of Egen’s junk, but Egen himself was indeed gone. “He left all his wares.”

“He said he didn’t need them anymore. He was going on to bigger and better things.” The woman sneered, half skeptical, half envious.

Sano didn’t intend for Egen to escape without answering for what he’d done. “Where did he move?”

“This is quite a step up from Egen’s last place,” Sano said an hour later as he and Hirata and their entourage arrived at the tutor’s new residence.

The neighbor woman at Egen’s tenement had directed them to this expensive inn located near the main boulevard that crossed Edo. “He bragged that he was going where the rich folks stay,” she’d said. A bamboo fence around a garden containing cherry and willow trees screened the inn from other, more modest lodgings, the shops and food stalls, and the bustle of the streets. Sano and Hirata entered with a few troops. They followed the path between stone lanterns. The proprietor greeted them in the entranceway to the building.

“Would you like rooms?” His dour face brightened at the prospect of wealthy samurai customers.

“No, thank you,” Sano said. “We’re looking for one of your guests. His name is Egen.”

The proprietor’s expression grew hopeful. “Have you come to take him away?”

“Maybe.” That depended on what he had to say for himself. Maybe Sano would just kill him. “Why, do you want us to?”

Leading them down a passage to an inner garden surrounded by guest quarters, the proprietor murmured, “The fellow is not the kind of guest I like.”

In the garden lay the remains of what must have been a lavish, wild party. Servants picked up strings of red lanterns that dangled from the trees onto the ground, swept up food crumbs, and gathered wine bottles and broken cups. Sano smelled liquor, urine, and vomit. The doors to the rooms that opened onto the verandas were shut, the inhabitants presumably sleeping off their revels.

“Over there.” The proprietor pointed at a door.

Sano and Hirata strode up to it. Hirata pushed the door open. A powerful stench of feces hit Sano. He and Hirata recoiled, hands over their noses. Behind them, the proprietor made a sound of disgust.

“What a filthy animal!”

Sano entered the room; Hirata followed. It was dim, the bamboo blinds drawn. Heaps of articles that Sano couldn’t immediately identify gave it a resemblance to the room Egen had vacated. Egen lay on his back on the bed. When Sano spoke his name, he didn’t answer or move. Sano stepped closer. His heart drummed a cadence of foreboding.

Egen’s limbs were splayed, tangled in his garish cotton robe and the quilt. He reeked of liquor and the excrement that soiled the mattress beneath him. His eyes were wide, his mouth parted as if gasping for air. But he neither inhaled nor exhaled any breath.

“Is he dead?” the proprietor said fearfully.

Sano touched Egen’s neck. The flesh was cold; there was no pulse. “Yes, he is.” Dismay filled Sano.

“He must have drunk too much. He must have choked and died in his sleep.” The proprietor sounded eager to believe the death was an ordinary accident.

The witness Sano had come to interrogate had taken whatever he knew about the murder to the grave. There went Sano’s hope of learning anything from Egen that would help his mother.

Hirata yanked the cord on the blinds. Daylight brightened the room. He crouched, picked up a cushion from the floor, and examined the silk cover. “This wasn’t an accident,” he said, handing the cushion to Sano.

Sano saw a wet, bloody spot on the silk. He looked at Egen. There was blood on the tutor’s lips and a reddish-purple bruise on his chest. Sano pictured the room in the dark of night, a figure pressing the cushion against Egen’s face, a knee planted on the struggling man to hold him down. Sano imagined Egen’s muffled cries and waving limbs, his bowels voiding while he died.

“Egen didn’t die of drinking too much,” Sano said. “He was smothered.”