that Sano was in perfect health, she said, “So he’s married now.” Her sigh told Hirata that she liked Sano and had once cherished hopes of a match with him. Then she regarded Hirata with lively interest. “I’ve heard lots about you. You were a policeman, weren’t you? How exciting!”
At a food stall, Midori bought a tray of tea and cakes. “Here, let me help you,” Hirata said.
She dimpled. “Thank you. You must be very brave to be a detective.”
“Not really,” Hirata said modestly. They moved to a vacant spot, and he related some heroic tales of his police career.
“How wonderful!” Midori clapped her hands. “And I’ve heard how you helped capture a band of smugglers in Nagasaki. Oh, I do wish I could have seen that.”
“It was nothing,” Hirata said, preening under her frank admiration. She was really very pretty and sweet. “Now I’m investigating the murder of Lady Harume, and I need to speak with Lady Ichiteru. I have some questions for you, too,” he added, recalling Sano’s instructions.
“Oh, good! I’ll tell you whatever I can.” Midori smiled. “Come and sit with us. We can talk until the play starts.”
As Hirata followed her into the theater, his confidence soared. He’d found it so easy conversing with Midori; he should do just fine with Lady Ichiteru.
In the sunny theater courtyard, tatami mats covered the ground. Charcoal braziers warmed the air. The audience knelt in chattering groups. At the front, the stage consisted of a long wooden railing, from which hung a black curtain to conceal from view puppeteers, chanter, and musicians. Midori led Hirata toward the choice seating area directly in front of the stage, which was occupied by a row of richly dressed ladies with their maids and guards.
“That’s Lady Ichiteru at the end.” Suddenly Midori seemed shy, uncertain. “Hirata-san. Please forgive me if I’m interfering, but-I must warn you to be careful. I don’t know anything for sure, but I-” She continued stammering, but just then, Lady Ichiteru turned and caught Hirata’s eye.
With a long, tapering face, high-bridged nose, and narrow, tilted eyes, she was a classic beauty from ancient court paintings-or from the cheap booklets advertising the courtesans of the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter. Everything about her reflected this startling combination of high-class refinement and common sensuality. Dainty red lips had been painted over a mouth that was full, lush, and not quite hidden beneath the white makeup that covered her face. Her hairstyle, looped up at the sides and long in the back, was simple and severe, but anchored with an elaborate ornament of silk flowers and lacquer combs in the style of a high-ranking prostitute. Her burgundy brocade kimono slid off her shoulders in the latest, provocative fashion, yet the skin of her long neck and rounded shoulders looked pure, white, and untouched by any man. Ichiteru’s gaze was at once veiled and remote, sly and knowing.
Hirata felt his knees tremble, and an embarrassing flush spread heat over his body. Like a dream walker he moved toward Lady Ichiteru. He was barely conscious of Midori performing introductions and explaining his presence. His surroundings receded into blurry shadow, while Ichiteru alone remained vivid and distinct. A profound arousal stirred in his loins. Never before had he been so immediately attracted to a woman.
Lady Ichiteru spoke in the trailing, mannered speech of a highborn woman: “… pleased to make your acquaintance… Of course I shall help with your inquiry in any way I can…”
Her voice was a husky murmur that insinuated its way into Hirata’s mind like dark, intoxicating smoke. She raised a silk fan, covering the lower half of her face. By lowering her eyelids and inclining her head, she invited Hirata to sit beside her. He did so, with an absentminded glance at Midori when she took the tea tray from him and began passing out refreshments to the party, her face unhappy. Then Hirata forgot Midori completely.
“I-I want to know-” he floundered, trying to collect his wits. Lady Ichiteru’s perfume cloaked him in the potent, bittersweet scent of exotic flowers. Hirata felt horribly conscious of his cropped hair; the disguise that had saved his life in Nagasaki made him look more peasant than samurai. “What was your relationship with Lady Harume?”
“Harume was a pert little thing…” Ichiteru shrugged delicately, and her kimono slid further off her shoulders, exposing the tops of her full breasts. Hirata, wrenching his gaze back to her face, felt himself grow erect “… but she was a common peasant. Hardly a person with whom a member of the imperial family… such as I… should have cared to associate.” Ichiteru’s nostrils flared in haughty disdain.
Through a haze of desire, Hirata recalled Madam Chizuru’s statement. “But weren’t you jealous when Harume came to the castle and- and-took your place in His Excellency’s, uh, bedchamber?”
The last word was no sooner spoken than he longed to snatch it back. Why couldn’t he have said “affections,” or some other polite euphemism for Lady Ichiteru’s relations with the shogun? Mortified by his own crassness, Hirata regretted that nothing in his police experience had prepared him for discussing intimate matters with women of high class. He should have let Sano question Lady Ichiteru! Now, against his will, Hirata imagined a scene in Tokugawa Tsunayoshi’s private suite: Lady Ichiteru on the futon, disrobing; and in place of the shogun, Hirata himself. Excitement heated his blood.
A hint of a smile played upon Lady Ichiteru’s lips-did she know what he was thinking? Eyes lowered meekly, she said, “What right have I… a mere woman… to mind my lord’s choice of companion? And if Harume had not succeeded me, someone else would have.” A shadow of emotion crossed her serene features. “I am in my twenty- ninth year.”
“I see.” Hirata recalled that concubines retired after that age, to marry, become palace officials, or return to their families. So Ichiteru was eight years older than he. Suddenly the chaste young girls he’d considered as prospective brides seemed dull, unattractive. “Well, ah,” he said, groping for the line of inquiry he’d begun.
A maid passed Lady Ichiteru a plate of dried cherries. She took one, then said to Hirata, “Will you partake of refreshment?”
“Yes, thank you.” Grateful for the distraction, he popped a cherry; in his mouth.
Ichiteru pursed her lips and opened them. Slowly she inserted the fruit, pushing it in with her fingertip. Hirata gulped, swallowing his cherry whole. He’d often seen women eat this way, careful not to touch food to their lips and smear the rouge. But on Lady Ichiteru, it looked so erotic. Her long, smooth fingers seemed made for holding, stroking, and inserting into bodily orifices…
Shamed by his thoughts, Hirata said, “There were reports that you and Lady Harume didn’t get along.”
“ Edo Castle is full of gossips who have nothing better to do than malign other people,” she murmured. Face averted, she daintily extracted the cherry pit from her mouth.
On its own volition, Hirata’s hand reached out. Ichiteru dropped the seed into his palm. It was warm and moist with her saliva. He gazed at her in helpless lust until the loud, insistent clacking of wooden clappers sounded. He looked up to see that the audience now filled the theater; the play was about to start. A man dressed in black walked in front of the stage and announced, “The Satsuma-za welcomes you to the premier performance of Tragedy at Shimonoseki, which is based upon a true story of recent events.” He recited the names of the chanter, puppeteers, and musicians, then shouted, “Tozai-hear ye!”
From behind the curtain came melancholy samisen music. A painted backdrop showing a garden appeared above the curtain. The chanter’s disembodied voice uttered a series of wails, then intoned, “In the fifth month of Genroku year two, in the provincial city of Shimonoseki, the beautiful, blind Okiku awaits the return of her husband, a samurai who is in Edo attending his lord. Her sister Ofuji comforts her.”
The audience cheered as two female puppets with painted wooden heads, long black hair, and bright silk kimonos made their entrance. One had a sad, pretty face; her eyes were closed to indicate Okiku’s blindness. While she simulated weeping, the chanter’s voice altered to a high, feminine pitch: “Oh, how I miss my dear Jimbei. He’s been gone so long; I shall perish of loneliness.”
Her sister Ofuji was plain, with a frown slanting her brows. “You’re lucky to have such a fine man,” the chanter said in a lower tone. “Pity me, with no husband at all.” Then he informed the audience, “In her blindness, Okiku does not see that Ofuji is in love with Jimbei, or that her sister envies her good fortune and wishes her ill.”
Okiku sang a sad love song, accompanied by samisen, flute, and drum. The audience stirred in expectancy; a loud buzz of conversation arose: silence during performances was not a habit of Edo theatergoers. Hirata, still clutching Lady Ichiteru’s cherry pit, forced his thoughts back to the investigation.
“Did you know that Lady Harume was going to tattoo herself?” he asked.
“… I was not on such intimate terms with Harume that she would confide in me.” From behind her fan, Ichiteru favored Hirata with a glance that slid over him like a warm breath. “I have heard shocking rumors… Tell me, if I may be so bold to ask… Where on Harume’s person was the tattoo?”
