Sano disembarked from the ferry that had transported him across the Sumida River to Fukagawa, birthplace of Lady Harume. Located at the mouth of the river where it emptied into Edo Bay, this suburb stood on former swamps filled in with vast heaps of city garbage and earth excavated during the construction of canals. After the Great Fire, many citizens had moved here for a fresh start. However, Fukagawa retained the hazards of its geographic situation. Floods, typhoons, and high tides wrought mass destruction. The area was rightfully considered unlucky. Here Lady Harume had made an inauspicious start on a life that would end with her murder eighteen years later.
The approach to the town center led Sano past warehouses that smelled of pine timber, sesame oil, and hoshika, a fertilizer made from sardines. Smoke from salt furnaces on the southern tidal flats obscured the view of Edo on the opposite shore. The cold air had a lung-saturating dampness. A busy commercial district lined the main avenue leading to the Tomioka Hachiman Shrine. This contained the Oka Basho, a notorious unlicensed quarter where nighthawk prostitutes operated. Tea-houses and inns abounded, as well as Fukagawa’s excellent seafood restaurants.
Hearing temple bells ring the noon hour, Sano realized he was hungry. He entered the Hirasei, a famous restaurant located just outside the shrine’s torii gate. There he ate mixed sushi with vegetables, rice, and grilled trout. Then he said to the proprietor, 'I’m looking for a nighthawk named Blue Apple. Can you tell me where to find her?”
The proprietor shook his head. “I don’t know of anyone by that name. You might try the teahouses.”
Sano did, with disappointing results: No one had ever heard of Blue Apple; no one knew Lady Harume, except as the victim of a widely publicized murder. Sano headed toward the Hachiman Shrine. Its great copper-tiled roof rose above the streets like a giant samurai helmet; its high stone walls sheltered the Etai Temple, whose priests kept census records on everyone living in the district. They, if anyone, could direct Sano to Blue Apple.
“Her real name was Yasuko, ' said the old priest.
He and Sano stood in the Etai Temple cemetery, where Sano had finally located Lady Harume’s mother. Her moss-covered stone memorial tablet lay in the area reserved for paupers. No flowers adorned these graves. Tall grass obscured paths down which visitors rarely came. The place had an air of bleak, chill desolation. Shivering under his cloak, Sano listened to the priest’s recollections of Blue Apple, dead for twelve years.
“She came here for shelter during the floods, and I remember her because of her unique situation. Most nighthawks have no one to care for them. Their clients are usually poor, and mostly strangers rather than regular customers. But Yasuko was beautiful and much sought after. Her professional name came from the bluish, apple- shaped birthmark on her wrist. She was a trusting creature who often took lovers and tattooed herself with their names. When I prepared her body for cremation, I found characters inked between all her fingers and toes.”
And following her example had led her daughter Harume to her death.
“Yasuko won the affection of Jimba of Bakurocho when he came to Fukagawa on business,” the priest said. “After the child was born, he regularly sent money. Then Blue Apple became ill. She lost her looks- and her better clients. She serviced former criminals, and even eta to earn her rice. When she died, I brought the child, who was six years old, to our orphanage. Then I contacted Jimba. He took her home with him to Bakurocho.”
The priest sighed. “I’ve often wondered what became of her.”
When Sano explained, distress shadowed his kind face. “How tragic.” Then he said, “Still, perhaps Harume enjoyed a better, longer life than if she’d stayed in Fukagawa and become a nighthawk like her mother.”
Sano had never given much thought to how few occupations were available for women. Now, with disturbing clarity, he saw the narrow scope of their lives: wife, servant, nun, concubine, prostitute, beggar. There was honor- and possibly happiness-in marriage and motherhood, but not even those alternatives offered the chance for independence, or scholarship, martial arts, adventure, or accomplishments that made life worthwhile for men. Uneasily Sano thought of Reiko, struggling to escape the confines of Japanese culture, and his own efforts to contain her. Men made the rules. He, himself, was part of a system that had decreed his wife’s limited existence.
And Lady Harume’s.
Such contemplation wasn’t exactly enjoyable. Sano thanked the priest, then left the temple. Yet even as he regretted the time wasted on this trip, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d learned something of importance to the murder case, and to his troubled marriage.
Bakurocho district lay northwest of Edo Castle, between the Nihonbashi merchant quarter and the Kanda River. A marketplace for horses even before the founding of the Tokugawa capital, it supplied Edo ’s thirty thousand samurai with mounts. Sano rode through muddy streets, past horse breeders herding their merchandise. These shaggy, varicolored beasts had journeyed from far northern pasturelands to be sold to the stables of Bakurocho’s dealers. In a stately mansion resided the Tokugawa bailiffs, who administered the shogun’s lands. Rustic inns housed provincial officials in town to buy horses or do business with the bailiffs. The famous archery range served as a front for an illegal brothel. Low wooden buildings housed food stalls, teahouses, a saddle maker’s store, a blacksmith’s workshop where burly men hammered out horseshoes. Porters hauled bales of hay, while eta street cleaners collected manure. Sano turned past the shop of an equestrian armorer and dismounted outside the Jimba Stables, where the crest of a galloping horse adorned the gate.
An assistant hurried out and bowed. “Good day, sosakan-sama. Are you seeking a new mount?”
“I’m here to see Jimba,” Sano said.
“Certainly. Come in.”
Taking the reins of Sano’s horse, the assistant led the way into the largest stable compound in Bakurocho. Gabled tile roofs crowned the fine Jimba family mansion, two stories of pristine white plaster walls, latticed windows, and railed balconies, with servants’ quarters at the rear. A far cry from the Fukagawa slum of Harume’s birth, Sano decided. Had the adjustment been difficult for her?
Opposite the mansion stretched the corral. Around this, poles supported straw dummies. The barn’s open doors revealed stablehands grooming horses. The assistant led Sano to a stall where three samurai stood around a dappled gray stallion. A big man dressed in dark brown kimono and wide trousers held the animal by the head.
“You can tell he’s healthy by the condition of his mouth,” Jimba said, prying the lips apart to expose huge teeth. His thick fingers moved with practiced skill. At Sano’s approach, he looked up; his face lit in pleased recognition. “Ah, sosakan-sama. Good to see you again.”
In his mid-forties, Jimba looked as vigorous as his livestock. A thick, sinewy column of neck supported his squarish head. His hair, pulled back from a receding hairline and knotted at the nape, showed only a few white threads. In his coarse features and swarthy complexion Sano could discern no resemblance to Lady Harume.
Jimba grinned, revealing three broken front teeth: a permanent reminder of the one time a horse had gotten the better of him. “Congratulations on your marriage. Ready to enlarge your clan? Ha-ha. What can I do for you today?” Leaving the assistant to complete the sale, he led Sano down the row of stalls. “A good racehorse, perhaps? Impress your friends at Edo Castle. Ha-ha.”
Sano had never liked the ingratiating, overly familiar dealer, but he patronized Jimba’s stable for the same reason other affluent samurai did: The dealer knew horses. He always picked strong, healthy animals and trained them to be fast, reliable mounts. He gave good value for the price, and never tried to pass off inferior mounts as top quality.
“I’m here about your daughter,” Sano said. “As head of the investigation into her death, I must ask you some questions. But first, please allow me to express my sympathy for your loss.”
Stalking over to the fence that bordered the corral, Jimba punched it with his fist, muttering a curse. A scowl obliterated his customary genial expression as he stared at a trio of stablehands preparing a horse for a test ride in full battle regalia. They affixed a wooden saddle to its back, then attached the bridle. Sano, having witnessed angry grief in the parents of murder victims before, said, “I’ll do everything possible to deliver Harume’s killer to justice.”
Jimba waved away Sano’s words. “ Lot of good that will do. She’s gone; nothing can bring her back. Ten years of money and hard work I poured into that girl. When her mother died, I took her away from Fukagawa and raised her myself. Put nice clothes on her; hired tutors to teach her music, writing, and manners. I recognized her potential, you see-I know females, horses and women both. Ha-ha.” Jimba grinned proudly. “Harume was the
