The market thronged with people. Maidservants and housewives shopped and chattered as they filled their baskets with fish and vegetables for the evening rice. Young gallants strolled about, ogling pretty prostitutes who tripped by in their colorful finery and peered at them over their painted fans. Solicitation was illegal here, but the law turned a blind eye unless quarrels broke out.
Akitada liked markets. They were noisy, smelly, and full of excitement. Vendors cried their wares, and porters passed through the crowd with their heavy baskets suspended from the ends of long poles, shouting, “Watch out! Watch out!” Musicians played, jugglers juggled, live birds in cages sang, cooks fried, boiled, and stewed snacks on small portable stoves, singing out their specialties, and stray dogs searched the garbage that lay about in corners.
Each of the city’s two gated markets covered several city blocks with its shops and stands. The market office provided constables, controlled the many shopkeepers and vendors, and maintained the drum tower, which rose four stories into the air and overlooked the market and part of the city. On its top floor was a large drum that gave warning of fires, while the middle levels allowed constables to keep an eye out for pickpockets, quarrelsome drunks, and thieves in the crowds below. The lowest level was used by popular performers, and here was Tora’s latest conquest.
A crowd had gathered to listen to her. She stood above them, small and very slender in her plain white cotton gown. Her long hair was twisted into a knot low on her neck. This very modest appearance, along with the fact that she was neither young nor pretty-her face was badly scarred-astonished Akitada profoundly. What could Tora possibly see in her?
Female street singers, as a rule, were vagrants who eked out their poor daytime earnings by selling their bodies at night. Akitada considered them a public nuisance because they kept stubbornly outside the law. But as this woman was blind, he was willing to make some concessions. Besides, she had a pleasant voice.
She looked detached from her surroundings as she sang, her sightless eyes turned into the distance and a fixed expression of unhappiness on her scarred face. Her remarkably elegant hands worked the strings of a lute. The instrument was a nice one, made of sandalwood. Street singers usually accompanied themselves on small hand drums that required little musical talent.
So Akitada granted her a modicum of respect. She played her lute well, her voice was full and warm, and she told a good story about two unhappy lovers who died in war. Akitada knew it. A young woman had followed her lover into battle disguised as a common soldier. When he found her fatally wounded on the battlefield, they bade each other a touching farewell, and he ended her suffering by striking off her head and then plunged the sword into his own belly. It was a story of love and death, designed to please a simple crowd and romantic enough to be performed by a woman.
There was a smattering of applause, the singer bowed, and a few small coins fell at her feet. Tora, a silly grin on his face, shouted into Akitada’s ear, “Isn’t she wonderful?” and made his way to the front. His master wished himself elsewhere, but the blind woman began another song and Tora stood rooted at her feet with a look of rapture on his face.
Something tugged at the skirt of Akitada’s robe and he looked down. A half-naked beggar crouched there. He extended a filthy hand, keeping a firm hold on Akitada’s silk robe with the other. “A copper from the rich lord?” he whined. “In Buddha’s name? Only a copper?”
“Let go of my robe this instant,” Akitada snapped, seeing the dirty streaks he was leaving on the fabric.
It was against the law for beggars to seize people’s clothes or harass them in any way, but this fellow was not easily intimidated. He grinned, revealing nearly toothless gums, and released Akitada only after rubbing the material between his fingers and saying, “Such thick silk! It must be lovely to have that against your skin. I’d be grateful for a bit of food in my empty belly.”
Frowning, Akitada dug a copper out of his sash and dropped it into the grimy hand with its long, curling yellow fingernails. “You should not grab people,” he said severely. “The constables frown on that. Besides, next time you may get a kick instead of alms.” He looked the man over. The beggar was middle-aged, bony, and utterly filthy, but he did not seem to be crippled. “What’s wrong with you anyway? Why don’t you work?”
The beggar tucked the coin into a small pouch he wore on the rope around his waist. “My health is poor,” he whined. “Can’t afford to buy medicine. It’s a hard life.” He coughed.
Akitada gave a snort and looked around for a good example of a working man. His eye fell on the street singer. “Look at her,” he said. “She’s blind, yet she works for her daily rice.”
The beggar spat. “Her! She’s a whore. You think she’s living on the coppers she gets singing a few songs? She isn’t pretty, but she’s got a mouth and men have cocks. They give her silver and when she’s done singing, she’ll give them her personal attention.”
A well-dressed man standing near them laughed. “When the sun sets, the pleasure women drop their silken sashes. It’s easy to forget a face then.”
The beggar was disgusting, and the stranger was not much better, but Akitada knew that they were probably right. This woman was not attractive enough for anything but the most basic of sexual services, though silver was hardly what she would earn for that.
Tora had climbed the steps and was talking to her, pleading even, and she touched his arm in a familiar manner. Akitada regretted his generous impulse. Trust Tora to set up an assignation while his master waited.
The beggar snickered. “See? She’ll open her mouth and spread her legs for that one all right. You’d think a blind whore wouldn’t care who she does it with, but that bitch thinks she’s somebody special.”
Akitada snapped, “Keep your dirty gossip to yourself!” and stalked to the steps of the tower. “Tora!”
Tora came down. “Sorry, sir, this is not a good time. She can’t leave yet.”
“Tora?” asked the woman on the platform, her hand searching the air. “Where are you?” A street urchin burst into laughter, and someone in the crowd joined in. Akitada saw that the pile of coppers at her feet was pitifully small and felt a twinge of guilt. The blind engaged in certain professions because it was the only work they could do. They did not need eyes to sing a few songs, to wash someone’s hair, or to massage a body. And women needed no eyes to provide sexual services either.
“I’ll tell her you’ll see her later,” Tora said.
“No.”
Too late. Akitada glared after Tora as he ran back up the steps. He told the woman, “We’ll come back and you’ll tell him what you told me, won’t you? He’s very good at solving mysteries.”
Akitada raised his voice. “Tora!”
The woman turned her head toward him and bowed a little from the waist. She said in her warm voice, “You are doing too much honor to this insignificant person, my lord.”
Akitada said brusquely, “We were only passing.” He had no intention of listening to a street singer’s private affairs. Tossing a few coppers at her feet, he snapped, “Come, Tora. It’s getting late.”
Tora looked stricken. He said hurriedly to the woman, “I’ll try to be back in time, but if I’m not, remember what I told you. And lock your door.” Then he joined the fuming Akitada.
Akitada said, “Next time don’t get me involved with your women.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But something’s really wrong. You can see that Tomoe’s blind and can’t help herself.”
Akitada thought of what the beggar had said. A woman need not have eyes to earn a living by selling her body. “She’s a prostitute,” he said coldly. “They learn to handle themselves.”
Tora gasped. “A prostitute? Tomoe? Never! She’s afraid to death that some guy will rape her again.”
“Hmmph, spare me. I have more important matters on my mind than street singers.”
Tora’s fixation on this woman irritated Akitada. To his knowledge, it was the first time in the many years they had been together that Tora had ever shown a romantic interest in a plain woman who was older than he. And in addition to being unattractive, this one was blind and had a bad reputation, regardless of what Tora thought of her. It was not normal, and something must be done before Tora ruined himself. The trouble was that ordering Tora to stop seeing the girl would only produce the opposite result.
Near the wine shop beside the market gate, Akitada remembered that he had promised to treat Tora. Perhaps it would make up for his refusal to speak to Tora’s girlfriend. The waiter scraped and bowed before the tall official and his handsome servant and quickly led them past the customers filling the rooms at street level and up some narrow stairs to a pleasant private room overlooking the bustling market below.
Akitada ordered a flask of their best and two servings of noodles. Tora looked dejected and kept glancing through the thin bamboo railing toward the drum tower where the blind woman was singing another ballad. He muttered, “That girl will not listen, no matter how hard I try to talk sense into her stubborn head.”
They seemed to be well matched in personality at least. Akitada asked, “Why not?” and regretted it immediately. He had no intention of becoming involved in the woman’s alleged problems. In his opinion, she was just using her helplessness to attach Tora more firmly to herself.
Tora plunged into explanations. “It’s like this, sir. Somebody’s been following her home. She can hear his steps. Once she turned around and asked who was there, but he stopped and didn’t answer. It scared her. She says she can smell him. He has a disgusting odor, and she’s sure it’s the same man each time.”
“In her way of life, what does she expect? I imagine it’s a customer who is a bit shy and loses his nerve.”
“There you go again. I told you Tomoe is no whore. People make up bad tales about single women like her. When someone’s as hard up as she is, people should try to help. The trouble is, Tomoe doesn’t complain. She’s too proud to ask for help, even if she’s blind, and very poor, and all alone in the world.” Tora glowered at Akitada. “And she’s only a woman,” he added, as if that made her case even more pathetic.
Akitada’s heart sank. He saw the whole scenario now. This Tomoe, clearly in need of a protector and a meal ticket, had found the perfect fool in the softhearted Tora. Pity for her situation was just about the only thing that would make him forget her lack of physical charms. He controlled his anger at the cunning vixen, and said soothingly, “I am sorry, Tora. No doubt, she has a hard life. But she seems to manage very well and has survived so far.”
Tora said bitterly, “That woman knows nothing about taking care of herself, but she’s as proud as a lord.”
Akitada flinched.
The waiter arrived with the wine and two steaming bowls of buckwheat noodles and vegetables in a savory broth. The food was excellent, and for a while they ate and drank in silence.
Finishing his noodles first, Tora picked up his tale again, “Take this business with the gangster, for example. It’s funny, but some people seem to think a blind person is also deaf and dumb. They go right ahead talking about private business just as if she wasn’t there at all. This character thinks she brings him luck. He asks her to sing a special song before he does a job. I asked her for his name, but she won’t tell me. Doesn’t think it’s right to carry tales. Hah! I told her it’s dangerous, but does she care? Why are women so stupid?” Tora scowled in frustration.
“Well,” said Akitada, weakening, “perhaps I’ll have a talk with her after we’ve made some progress tracing Haseo.”
“Thank you, sir! You won’t be disappointed. And you’ll see that Tomoe’s a very refined person.”
Akitada suppressed a snort.
Tora’s eyes went to the drum tower again. “It’s getting late. We could go around to that last school tomorrow,” he suggested.
“Why not today? I like to finish what I start.”
“But you could take off from work again tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Why not? I thought you were ready to quit anyway.”
The notion apparently did not trouble Tora at all. Akitada reflected bitterly that the people who depended on him for their livelihood seemed to place total trust in his ability to provide. “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “I just took off a few hours. The minister is only going to be away for a short time.”
Tora looked at him. “Slacking off ’s not like you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I am not slacking off. Sometimes more important matters take precedence.”
“I guess you don’t want his high and mighty lordship to find out, because that bastard’s just waiting for you to make a mistake.”
Akitada glared at Tora. “You must think me a coward.”
“No, sir. I know better. But you’ll do crazy things when you think it’s your duty to do them. And I’m confused. You used to think being an official and working for the emperor was the most important thing in the world.”
Akitada had no answer to this. He had walked away from his work because he could no longer bear Soga’s insults and the dull routine of paperwork. Would he have put aside a more challenging and interesting assignment for Haseo’s sake? Haseo had died five years ago on a distant island, and they had hardly known each other. It struck Akitada forcibly that he was trying to solve a criminal case without knowing what crime had been committed, who the victim was, or where it had happened. All he had was the name of the alleged culprit. It would have been so much easier if the government did not expunge the records every time someone made a case for doing so. To Akitada, records were inviolable.
But he said stubbornly, “A promise to a dying man cannot be broken.”
Tora nodded and finished his wine. “Maybe we’ll pick up something at the next school,” he said with a sigh.
As they rose, Akitada glanced out at the market. Though the sun had not quite set, a lantern lighter was already lighting the big paper lanterns in front of the restaurant. The housewives and maids with their baskets had disappeared, and the crowd was mostly male now. Government clerks, artisans, laborers, farmers on a city visit, soldiers, servants on their night off, teachers, and a few young rakes of noble blood strolled about, eyeing the wares of fan sellers and comb shops for a present to give to some woman, peering at waitresses, and shouting rude compliments at the pretty harlots. Tora’s singer had left. The tower platform was empty except for a tall man who was leaning against one of the pillars.
Akitada looked, then looked again. It could not be. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“What is it?” Tora asked, following his glance.
The man turned his head a little, and Akitada took a deep breath.
“A ghost.”
The stranger walked down the steps of the tower and disappeared in the crowd.
“A ghost?”
“That man at the tower. I swear it was Haseo.”
“Ah.” Tora nodded wisely. “It happens when you’re thinking too much about the dead. They take shape in someone’s body. Even animals sometimes. I had an aunt who…”
“Never mind your aunt. You’re right. I must be seeing things. Let’s go.” Akitada paid for their meal and they left the market just as the temple bells began to ring.
Akitada still felt shaken. The image had been so vivid. It was nothing but foolishness, of course, or an overwrought conscience, not ghosts. The man had not really looked much like Haseo. He had worn good clothes, and his hair and beard had been trimmed neatly, while Akitada and poor Haseo had been in rags and half-naked, their hair and beards grown long and tangled.
Kata’s training hall was on the wrong side of the city and surrounded by the huts and tenements of the poor. The building, a former warehouse, was open to the street. A small crowd of ragged idlers had gathered there to watch the lesson. They expressed their interest with raucous cries of, “Kill the filthy bastard!,” “Cut off his nose and ears!,” “Split him down the middle!,” and “Show us some blood!”
This was a far cry from the quiet, intense silence of concentration that had prevailed at the other two schools. Several students watched two of their fellows circling each other, wooden swords in hand. Two other men practiced stick fighting with long bamboo poles, and several more tumbled, kicked, and wrestled on mats. They looked like unemployed soldiers or underweight wrestlers, and the fighting style had an aggressive edge to it which had more to do with achieving a quick kill than matching skills in single combat. Akitada doubted that Haseo would be known here, and was about to turn and tell Tora so, when he caught sight of a familiar figure in the shadows. There, on the far side of the hall, just behind the master, stood the man from the drum tower.
Akitada blinked, but the shadowy figure remained, a silent onlooker of the swordfighting bout. Again, Akitada was shaken by the resemblance. It was in the way the man stood, wide-shouldered and with an unconscious grace, and also in the way he held his head.
“Tora,” Akitada said in a low voice, “look at the man in the shadows behind the master.”
Tora leaned forward and peered. “So?”
“The man from the market. And he still looks like Haseo.”
He must have felt their eyes on him, for he turned his head their way, then leaned forward to say something to the master. The master, a short middle-aged man with the wide-legged stance of the professional soldier, shot a sharp glance toward Akitada and Tora.
Tora muttered, “They’ve seen us. In this crowd we stand out like a pair of hawks among crows.”
It was true. Even Tora’s plain blue cotton robe looked almost distinguished among the multihued assortment of rags, loose shirts, and short pants that covered those around them, and Akitada wore his official’s silk robe and small black hat. He met hostile stares from the crowd but was not about to retreat. “Come,” he said, touching Tora’s arm, “we’ll have a word with Master Kata and his friend. I want a closer look at the fellow.” He moved past two burly loafers toward the training hall.
Inside, the man from the market spoke again, rapidly, to the master, then melted into the shadows as if he had never been.
“Quick,” said Akitada. “Around the back. He’s getting away.”
They separated, each running for a corner of the long building. But suddenly Akitada’s progress was impeded. People moved into his path, legs were extended, elbows protruded, and a basket of bamboo scraps fell over, scattering in the dirt before his feet. He heard shouts and curses, and finally the cry, “Stop, thief!” When he finally reached his corner, he had a shouting mob on his heels. A rock hit the back of his head, knocking off his small black hat and causing him to stumble. Someone laughed, and the next moment he was face down in the dirt with people on top of him. He struggled, then roared, “Stop! In the name of the emperor.” Instantly more weight piled on, taking his breath away. He tried to cry out again, but there was dirt in his mouth and he had trouble breathing. Strangely, what he felt most at that moment was a sense of outrage that the rabble had dared attack an official.
Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Tora shouting. Then-blessed relief-the weight eased, lifted. He was rolled on his back, and Tora’s anxious face peered down at him.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Of course not, you idiot,” gasped Akitada ungratefully and struggled to sit up. “What is the matter with these people? Are they mad?” He wiped the dirt from his face and looked around him. The ragged creatures had retreated; a few were nursing bloody noses and black eyes. Dull, hostile eyes.
“This is a bad neighborhood,” said Tora, shaking a broken fence rail in their direction before giving him a hand to get up. “They don’t like officials here.”
“Outrageous!” Akitada glowered at his attackers. “Who threw that rock?” he demanded. There was no answer, but they retreated a little more. He raised his voice. “Where is the warden for this quarter?” They began to melt away, slinking along the wall of the building and disappearing down alleyways. “It seems they do have a little respect for authority,” Akitada said sourly, feeling a tender lump on the back of his head. “I suppose the fellow got away.”
“Afraid so. When I saw the crowd going after you, I turned around. I expect he’s long gone by now.”
Akitada scooped his hat from the dusty road, brushed it off, and tucked it into his robe. “I’m going to have a word with this Kata. You go take a look around the neighborhood. See what you can find out about Haseo’s double.”
Tora trotted off, and Akitada approached the training hall again. The master, surrounded by his pupils, was waiting. The pupils looked belligerent, their hands on their swords, but the master bowed deeply. He had the broad, flat face and squat build common among the peasants of the South, but his military stance and the scars on his face told Akitada that he had an army background.
“You are Kata?” he demanded.
“Yes, that is my name.” The man bowed again. “I hope the gentleman has not suffered any ill effects from this stupid mistake?” The students eyed Akitada as if they hoped the opposite.
“Mistake? Someone threw a rock at me, and then a crowd attacked me. I might have been killed. Did you see who was involved?”
“I’m very sorry, but I was in the middle of a lesson. There are many rude and stupid youngsters about.” He turned to his students. “Did any of you see anything?” They shook their heads as one, and chorused, “No, Master.”
A lie, of course. Kata had been looking at Akitada only a moment before the incident. Akitada narrowed his eyes. “I wish to speak to the man who stood behind you and left just before the incident. What is his name?”
Kata gestured. “These are all of my students for today. Please feel free to speak to the one you mean.”
“No. There was another man. Back there.” Akitada gestured to the back of the hall. “He spoke to you and then left.”
“He spoke to me?” The master looked blank. “Impossible. Nobody interrupts me during a lesson.” He turned to his students. “Isn’t that so?”
They all nodded and said in unison, “That is so, Master.”
Akitada let his eyes move from face to face. They gloated, each man locking away his knowledge firmly. For a moment he was tempted to force the issue, but they all clutched their wooden swords and poles, and his ragged attackers no doubt still hovered nearby.
“I shall report this incident to the authorities,” he threatened. “They will get the information from you, or your business will be closed.”
Kata bowed, but not soon enough. Akitada had caught the fear in his eyes.
He met Tora coming back from his own futile errand and told him about Kata’s words. Tora said angrily, “He lied. And those students are cutthroats if ever I saw any.”
“Probably. The man is nervous about being investigated. Whatever his background, and I suspect he’s a former army officer, he’s illegally training common roughnecks.” In order to keep the peace, the carrying of arms was strictly regulated in the capital. Only men of good family and their retainers could carry swords, but few paid attention to such laws any longer.
Tora looked back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Kata was training them to be bandits.”
“And the fellow who ran away was one of them. When he saw us looking at him, he got frightened.”
Tora looked down at himself. “Amida,” he muttered. “I think you’ve got it. I look like a thief-taker to them. Should’ve worn my sword.”
Akitada suppressed a smile. Having once belonged to the class not permitted to wear or use a sword, Tora was inordinately proud of his present status as a retainer.
But life is a candle in the wind, and not all men can have what they wish for. Akitada had hoped for a modest career of legal scholarship, drafting codes and writing commentaries on the law, or perhaps a minor governorship administering those laws in some distant province. Instead he had been assigned to the Ministry of Justice, where a vengeful Soga had kept him at dull paperwork. And now he had even lost that position. And he had failed again to keep his promise to Haseo. As head of his family, for his people, and for his son’s future, he must return to duty until Soga returned. And then he must suffer Soga’s insults in order to avoid a negative evaluation that would make it impossible to get another appointment.
But sacrifices are not without their rewards. Happy laughter greeted him at home. Genba was cavorting about the lantern-lit courtyard with Yori on his back as Seimei and Tamako watched from the veranda.
Genba had joined Akitada’s household shortly before his master’s marriage and had made himself indispensable without quite achieving the closeness that existed between Tora and his master. For one thing, Genba was too much in awe of his master. He was a huge man, taller than either Akitada or Tora, both of whom were above average, and he was quite fat these days. He had developed a passion for food when he had prepared to become a wrestler.
Now his face was red from exertion, and sweat glistened on his bulging neck as he pranced and huffed around in a circle, his belly and buttocks bobbing, while Yori shouted and made passes with his sword at the straw man Tora had built.
Tora gave a sharp whistle, and Genba whinnied and stopped, letting the boy slip from his shoulders before he trotted to the house and collapsed on the veranda steps.
“Father, Father,” cried Yori, catapulting himself into Akitada’s arms. “I hit him six, no, seven times. It could have been more, but Genba is so slow and clumsy.”
“Genba is no horse,” said his father. The big man was wiping the sweat off his crimson face, and his huge chest rose and fell as he drew breath. “Perhaps we should get you a small horse instead. What do you think, Tora?”
Tora was dubious. “Not many around that are small enough. Maybe a donkey?”
“No,” shouted Yori, outraged. “A horse. A proper horse. I shall not sit on a donkey.”
Tamako called out anxiously, “You are too young for a horse, my son. Wait a few years first.”
Akitada regretted his rash offer. Putting Yori down, he said, “I shall consider your request, Yori, when your writing improves.”
He went to greet Tamako and Seimei and then sat down beside Genba to remove his shoes. He was very tired. They had walked far, and his old leg injury still ached occasionally.
Seimei said, “That nice young man from the ministry stopped by on his way home.”
Akitada’s heart stopped for a moment. He looked up at the old man. “Some problem at the ministry?”
“No, sir. He said to tell you that all was quiet still. His exact words. I wondered why he would bother to bring such a message.”
But Akitada knew. Nakatoshi had warned him that, though Soga had not returned today, he might be back tomorrow. Well, it was settled. Akitada would return to work in the morning. The game was over-and he had lost.
He had little appetite for his evening rice that night and soon retreated to his own room. Taking a slim roll of brocade from the bookshelf, he went out onto the veranda. The air had cooled off and it was quite dark, but a few stars glimmered in the heavens. This was the time of night when trees and shrubs took on an impenetrable blackness and loomed against the lighter sky and the faint glow of the city beyond. He thought of the blind woman. Once he had been buried underground for many days and found his terror of the darkness had been greater than his fear of his captors. Tora was right: People should not turn their backs on those whose distress was manifest. He would at least listen to the woman’s problem.
From the corner of the house, a cicada called, and another answered from the neighboring garden. Now and then there was a small splash, as one of the carp in the tiny fishpond jumped for an insect.
Akitada unrolled the brocade and took out his flute. He touched the familiar shape lovingly. As always, when he placed the flute to his lips and began to play, his sadness lifted, the tension in his muscles eased, and his mind emptied itself of worries. He felt as light as a moth on the night wind.
Much, much later he stopped. He was still tired, but his mind was calm now. Putting the flute back into its cover, he rose and went inside. Someone had spread his bedding. Tamako. He felt vaguely guilty but was too tired to go to her. Taking off his robe, he slipped under the quilt and closed his eyes.
In that last half-conscious moment before sleep, it occurred to him that the swordsmith had said something significant, but he was too tired to remember.