Shinju

occupied the spaces between the theaters, or pausing to exchange greetings. Sano knew some of them had waited all night to get a good seat to see their favorite actors.

“Where is Kikunojo performing?” he asked the attendant at the public stable where he left his horse.

The attendant pointed in the direction of the largest theater. “The Nakamura-za,” he said.

Sano made his way through the jostling crowds. When he reached the Nakamura-za, he saw signs posted across the front of the building: “Narukami, starring the great Kikunojo!” To his disappointment, there was no line outside. The performance had already started.

“Can I still get in?” he asked the ticket seller without much hope. Narukami-the story of a princess who saves Japan from a mad monk who has used magic to keep the rains from falling-was a popular attraction. And Kikunojo would fill the theater no matter what the play.

But the ticket seller nodded. He took Sano’s money and handed over a ticket, saying, “There are seats left, sir. The play has been running for a month now; most everyone has seen it already.”

Entering the theater, Sano paused for a moment to get his bearings. The vast room, lit only by windows in the roof and along the upper gallery, was dim because fire laws prohibited the use of indoor lighting. When his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out the unlit lanterns hanging from the rafters, each bearing the crest of an actor who had performed in the Nakamura-za. Women and commoners occupied the less desirable seats along the walls. Raised dividers separated the space before the stage into square compartments, where the shaved crowns and upright sword hilts of the samurai predominated. Refreshment sellers ran up and down the dividers carrying trays of food and drink. The incessant chatter and restless movement of the audience almost drowned out the sound of the musicians’ wooden clappers. Sano climbed the nearest divider and walked along it until he spotted a compartment near the front with an empty space. Kneeling on the mat with five other samurai, he turned his attention to the stage.

The play was nearing its end. Against a painted backdrop of mountains and clouds, the actor playing the mad monk Narukami sang about the havoc he would wreak upon the country by withholding the rains. Exaggerated black eyebrows and whiskers gave him a demonic appearance. The brilliant red and gold cleric’s mantle that he wore over his brown monk’s robe caught the dim light. He bellowed each word in a resounding voice designed to carry over the noise of the audience, stamping, pacing, and gesticulating to hold their attention. The musicians seated at the side of the stage played a cacophonous accompaniment on their clappers, flutes, and samisens.

The song ended, and the music with it. A hush fell over the theater. Heads turned toward the back of the room.

“He’s coming,” someone whispered.

The clappers sounded again, rapid, frantic. Sano felt a ripple of anticipation pass through the audience.

A woman was walking slowly and daintily down the gangway that extended from the back of the theater to the stage. Princess Taema, dressed in a magnificent purple satin kimono printed with white chrysanthemums, was coming to free the rains and save her people. Her face was strikingly beautiful with its stark white makeup and scarlet mouth. Long black hair, pulled back at the sides, hung down to her waist.

“Kikunojo.” The name, spoken on a collective sigh, echoed through the room. “Kikunojo.” Then the audience burst into wild cheers.

Princess Taema reached the stage. The audience quieted as she began to sing. Sano sat transfixed. Although he knew that Kikunojo was Edo ’s foremost onnagata-specialist in female roles-he couldn’t believe that the figure onstage was not a real woman. Voice, posture, expression, and movements were all completely feminine. Not even the kerchief of purple cloth that covered the actor’s shaved crown could detract from the illusion. Sano watched, fascinated, as Princess Taema began to seduce Narukami.

Any effeminate man could be dressed up to resemble a beautiful woman, but Kikunojo’s genius lay in his ability to project emotion. Sano could feel the sexual current flowing from Princess Taema to Narukami, and he knew the rest of the audience could, too. How could Narukami resist her ploy?

He couldn’t. With much song and gesture, he yielded. Princess Taema cut the magic rope that held back the rain. The musicians produced the sound of falling water. Japan was saved amid cheers, whistles, and clapping from the audience.

Sano remained in his seat until most of the crowd had left the theater. Then he headed down the divider and onto the stage, where Kikunojo held court before a group of female admirers.

The onnagata was bigger than he looked from a distance. He stood taller than Sano, head and shoulders above the women crowded around him. The actor who played Narukami must have worn high-platformed sandals to top him. As Sano moved closer, he spotted more signs of Kikunojo’s true sex. The long, graceful hands, white with the same powder that covered the onnagata’s face, had large knuckles and bony wrists. His features, though delicate, lacked the softness of a woman’s. The tricks he used to disguise his masculinity were obvious: the long, trailing ends of the special sash that made him seem shorter, the way he kept his chin lowered to hide his adam’s apple.

But none of this bothered Kikunojo’s admirers. In fact, the spectacle of male sexuality hidden beneath a woman’s hairstyle and clothing excited them to a fever pitch. They flushed and giggled as they shyly advanced one at a time to offer tributes to him: a prettily wrapped package, a stammered compliment. Each of these Kikunojo accepted with an ethereal smile and a graceful bow. He placed the gifts on a small table evidently intended for that purpose.

“Go on! I dare you!” The woman next to Sano nudged her companion, a grandmotherly matron.

Grandmother darted forward and stood on tiptoe to touch

Kikunojo’s purple kerchief. Her wrinkled face full of glee at her own audacity, she scurried back to her place. The other women howled with laughter.

Sano smiled. The government had tried to reduce the sexual appeal of onnagata by requiring them to shave their crowns, but many women found the kerchiefs just as erotic as a full head of hair.

He waited until the last admirer had departed, then introduced himself. “Kikunojo-san, may I have a word with you in private?”

Kikunojo produced a silk fan from the folds of his kimono. Hiding the lower half of his face with it, he murmured, “Honorable master… my duties… errands… another performance soon… many apologies, but I have no time now… perhaps another day…?” The gesture, the high, sweet voice, and the vague, trailing speech perfectly mimicked those of a noble lady.

“It’s about Noriyoshi,” Sano said. “We can either talk here, in public, or somewhere else. Your choice.” Impressive though the act was, he didn’t intend to let Kikunojo get away.

Awareness widened Kikunojo’s eyes before his lids slipped down again. He nodded demurely and said from behind the fan, “Come with me.”

Sano followed Kikunojo’s stately figure through a door near the stage and down a dim passage to the onnagata’s dressing room. They left their shoes outside the curtained doorway, and Sano noted with amusement that Kikunojo’s were bigger than his own. In the tiny cubicle, bright kimonos hung from standing racks. Five wigs on wooden heads occupied one shelf, while others held fans, hair ornaments, shoes, and folded undergarments. Brushes, powder puffs, and makeup jars littered the dressing table; silk scarves were draped over the large mirror. A table held packages similar to the ones Sano had just seen Kikunojo receive, probably gifts from other admirers. Had Niu Yukiko been one of them? The suicide note suggested a connection between her and the Kabuki theater, even if she hadn’t written it. And Lady Niu had commented upon the theater’s bad influence on young girls.

Kikunojo knelt before the dressing table. Sano knelt, too, feeling awkward. True onnagata like Kikunojo never stepped out of their female personae, even offstage. They claimed that this allowed them to perform their roles more convincingly. Was he supposed to join in the charade by addressing Kikunojo as a woman? He couldn’t forget that Kikunojo was a man. The actor’s very male odor of sweat, easily discernible in such close quarters, served as a vivid reminder.

To his relief, Kikunojo dropped his act, either because he sensed Sano’s discomfort or because he saw no need to waste his efforts on a yoriki.

“Whatever you have to say, please make it quick,” he said. He tossed aside his fan, lifted his head, and straightened his drooping posture. But his voice remained high and girlish, as if playing women onstage had somehow feminized him. “I have another performance this afternoon, and some very important business to