“More like millet and beans of late,” grumbled the man.
“When did your master begin to liquidate his property?”
The servant stared at him. “Liquid what? He didn’t drink. Not like that brother of his!”
“I meant, when did he begin selling off everything?”
The man chewed on his lower lip. “He started selling the last of the antiques right after it happened. The buyers went away grinning. I guess word got around, for after that more and more people came, and then he sold all his wife’s things. Good riddance, I thought! We had a bit of fish with our rice after that, and the wine barrel was filled with better stuff.”
Akitada recalled Nagaoka handling the bugaku mask during his last visit. He had been planning to sell it below its value. In retrospect, he should have wondered then what would cause a shrewd antiquarian to sell a rare object at a loss. “Go on!” he told the servant. “When were the other things sold, his personal things?”
“After the visit of his wife’s father, I suppose. He lost his spirit. I guess it finally sank in that she was gone. And when that police officer came again to tell my master to stop visiting his brother in jail, that was the final straw. The very next day, people came and carried away the rest of the furniture, and when they were done, my master sat right there, on his cushion, looking around the empty room like a dying man. The next morning he left.”
“How long has he been gone?”
The servant pondered. Using his fingers to count off the days, he said, “Seven days, maybe.”
Seven days! What could have happened to Nagaoka? Had Kobe threatened him and sent him into a panic? Nagaoka had not seemed the kind of man who would leave a servant to look after a house without money for food.
The servant suggested, “Maybe he really killed himself.”
Akitada rejected that explanation. Having systematically sold all his things and taken whatever money he received for them, he was surely not planning to commit suicide. Unless … Perhaps he had left his affairs in the hands of another before ending his life.
“Does he have any family or friends whom he might visit?”
“Only his brother in jail.”
The other possibility was, of course, that Nagaoka, afraid of a murder charge, had made his escape, leaving his brother to his fate. Akitada did not want to believe this.
“When your master left here, was he carrying anything? A box, or bundle of clothes? Was he dressed for a long journey? Boots for riding? A warm robe?”
“He carried a bag, the kind you’d strap to a saddle. And boots on his feet and his best quilted robe.” The servant squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “I think I saw the handle of a short sword in his sash, too.” Opening his eyes in wonder, he cried, “So the old b------ he went off on a trip after all! How about that?”
“Where would he have gone? Does he have property in the country?”
“Just his brother’s place. At Fushimi. He’d hardly be going to see his father-in-law.” He guffawed.
Akitada raised his brows. “And why not?”
“They had a quarrel right after the funeral. You never heard such shouting! The master all but threw him out, and the old man left shaking his fist at him.”
“Really?” Akitada was intrigued. “Where does his father-in-law live?”
“He’s got a farm someplace near the brother’s. Gives himself airs like a gentleman but wears a patched robe and straw boots.”
“Hmm.” The servant seemed to have run out of useful information, and Akitada turned to leave. “Very well. I shall check
your story. If you have lied to me, I’ll have you arrested. Meanwhile, you had better straighten up the place in case your master returns.”
Greatly relieved, the servant promised to get started immediately, but Akitada had a strong premonition that Nagaoka would not return to this empty shell of a house.
SIXTEEN
Yin and Yang
“It’s too late now,” grumbled Tora, when he and Genba returned to the stable from the game of football and Genba suggested he go to see Gold. “No telling what she’ll think of me for standing her up. She hated the idea of going to the pleasure quarter to meet me.”
“Well, why don’t you go and explain? Buy her something pretty and apologize.”
Tora brightened a little. He never lacked confidence when it came to women. “You going, too?” he asked tentatively. Their peace was still recent, and bad feelings might linger.
Genba shook his head. “No. I think I’ll exercise the horses.” He slapped the rump of Akitada’s gray, who snorted playfully and danced about on his rope.
Tora hesitated. “I’m sorry for what I said about, you know, the lady.”
“I know.” Genba busied himself with one of the saddles.
“She was really good with the bamboo staves. No fear at all.”
“I know.”
“D’you suppose she wrestles, too?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I didn’t like getting beaten by a female. Would you wrestle with her?”
Genba placed the saddle on the back of the gray and pulled the leather straps tight. Then he leaned on it to look at Tora. “After what she did to you? No.” He grinned slowly.
Tora returned the grin. “Well, remember what you told me. Don’t be discouraged. There are lots of ways to get close to a woman. Tell her you’re afraid of hurting a delicate creature in a real bout. Then show her other uses for holds and clinches.”
Genba smiled a little sadly. “She doesn’t like me. She likes you.”
“That’s because you haven’t sweet-talked her. Tell her how pretty she is, and how bright her eyes are, and how sweet her voice sounds.”
Genba made a face. “She’s an intelligent woman, not a silly young girl. We talk about important things.”
“That’s where you make your mistake. Women like it when you talk about their beauty and make soulful eyes at them. It’s their nature. A woman who doesn’t like pretty speeches is as rare as a square egg. You want me to stay and teach you some good lines?”
“No, thanks. I’ll do my own courting. Go on and find your girl.”
Relieved that all seemed to be well between him and Genba, Tora walked into the city in a more cheerful mood. The sun was already high; it was time for the midday rice. Gold would hardly be at the training hall except at night, and then only on their practice nights. He remembered that she stayed at the Golden Phoenix Inn, but his first stop was the Willow Quarter, on the off chance that she might still be waiting.
In broad daylight the quarter looked shabby and deserted. A few elderly maids swept doorways and porters delivered supplies to the restaurants and wineshops. The house he was looking for was in a backstreet and quite small, squeezed between two more substantial neighbors. It had a tiny entrance courtyard behind a wicker gate. A morning glory vine grew here in summer, but now the wooden posts were bare. Tora opened the gate and quickly walked the few stepping-stones to the door. A small bell with a wooden clapper hung there and he rang it vigorously. When there was no immediate answer, he pushed the door open and stepped into the small, dirt-floored entry, shouting, “Ho! Mitsuko?”
“Yes? Who’s there?” came a soft voice from the back.
“Tora. Can I come in?”
“Tora?” The voice was filled with sudden pleasure. “Yes. I’ll be right there.”
Tora grinned and took off his boots. After a moment, a middle-aged woman, very small like her house, and dressed in a plain blue cotton robe, came hurrying down the dim corridor. She moved with the peculiar half-sliding, half-swaying gait of the trained woman of pleasure and had, in fact, once been a famous courtesan. She was still beautiful in all but her face, which was severely disfigured by smallpox.