At the Owari Theater, Sano and his party dismounted; stableboys took charge of their horses. Police officers loitered outside the dingy wooden building, ready to quell the riots that often occurred when men quarreled over their favorite actors. Entering the theater, Sano found a play in progress. On a raised stage lit by skylights and decorated with a painted backdrop of a forest scene, an actor in peasant garb sang a soulful duet with an onnagata-female impersonator-dressed as a courtesan. Musicians played an off-key accompaniment. Men filled the seats along the walls and compartments in front of the stage. Raucous cheers burst from the audience. Smoke from tobacco pipes fouled the air.
As the actors sang, a samurai in the audience rose. “Ebisuya-san!” he called. “Here’s a token of my love for you!”
He drew his dagger, hacked off his little finger, and hurled it at the onnagata. He tried to leap onto the stage, but the police hauled him away. No one seemed much bothered by the incident, which was not uncommon in Kobiki-cho. The performance continued without pause. Afterward, the audience straggled out of the theater. Sano led his watchdogs and detectives to an elderly man who stood below the stage.
“Are you the proprietor?” Sano asked him.
“Yes, master.” The man had shoulders drawn up to his ears; white tufts of hair circled his bald pate. He yelled at the actors lounging and smoking on the stage: “Don’t just stand there-change the set for the next performance!”
The actors, who apparently doubled as stagehands, moved the backdrop. Ebisuya, the female impersonator, clenched his tobacco pipe between his rouged lips as he worked. The proprietor said to Sano, “What can I do for you?” He spoke courteously, but his expression was sour.
Sano introduced himself. “I’m investigating the affairs of the actor Koheiji. I want your help.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any actor by that name.”
“Yes, he does,” Ebisuya told Sano. He’d dropped his ladylike falsetto voice, and his deep, male tone contrasted bizarrely with his female costume. He jerked his chin toward the proprietor. “His memory’s gone to rot. Koheiji worked here before he moved to the Nakamura-za and switched from girl roles to samurai roles.”
Sano was interested to learn that Koheiji had once been an onnagata. Did he still impersonate women, perhaps in private if not onstage? The torn sleeve at the murder scene had come from a kimono belonging to Okitsu, but who had worn it the night Makino died?
“My memory is just fine,” the proprietor said angrily. Pointing at Ebisuya, he said, “You watch your mouth, or I’ll throw your lazy behind out in the street.”
Ebisuya shot Sano a glance that said his employer was daft, but he wanted to keep his job.
“I know who you’re talking about now,” the proprietor said to Sano. “I must have hired Koheiji ten or eleven years ago. I gave him his start in the theater, but he moved on to bigger and better things. What’s he done wrong?”
“Why do you think he’s done anything wrong?” Sano said.
“The shogun’s detective wouldn’t come asking about him otherwise.” Senile he might be, but the proprietor knew the ways of the world. “And all these actors are troublemakers.”
“Koheiji is a suspect in a murder,” Ibe cut in, impatient.
Another blank stare came from the proprietor. “Who was murdered?”
“His patron. Senior Elder Makino.” Ibe spoke in the emphatic, disdainful tone reserved for addressing idiots.
“Oh,” the proprietor said.
“Did Koheiji meet Senior Elder Makino here?” Sano said.
The proprietor’s expression turned vague. “Maybe. If not here, then in one of the teahouses. That’s the usual thing.”
Sano began to doubt that the man had a true recollection of who Koheiji was, let alone anything else about him. What he said about Koheiji probably applied to many actors.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Ibe said in exasperation.
Lord Matsudaira’s men voiced their agreement that Sano should end the interview. On stage, Ebisuya adjusted a new backdrop. He caught Sano’s eye and tilted his head toward the back door.
“We can go now,” Sano said, earning nods of approval from the Matsudaira contingent and a suspicious look from Ibe.
Outside the theater, Sano told his detectives, “Go talk to people around the district and find out what they know about Koheiji.” The detectives split up and headed down the street; Ibe’s and Lord Matsudaira’s men dogged their heels. Sano said to Ibe, “Please excuse me a moment.”
As if intending to use the privy, he strode down the alley between the theater and the neighboring teahouse. A young boy stood pressed against the wall, his kimono raised above his waist. A groaning, panting samurai thrust himself against the boy’s naked buttocks. Sano squeezed past the pair and turned the corner. Behind the theater were reeking privies in open wooden stalls. Near them slouched the onnagata. At first Sano didn’t recognize him-he’d removed his wig, female garb, and makeup. Ebisuya now sported black robes and cropped hair. Smoke rose from the pipe dangling in his fingers.
“You have something to tell me about Koheiji?” Sano said.
“I’ll help you if you help me,” Ebisuya said.
He was in his thirties-getting too old to have much hope of stardom. He held out his hand for money, and Sano saw scars on his arm-from self-inflicted cuts, meant to convince patrons of his love for them. Probably he, like many actors, had thereby sought to coax men into ransoming him from his contract with the theater that owned actors the way that brothels owned courtesan s. He was also getting too old to attract patrons much longer. His features were pretty but hard with the desperation that drove him to bargain with a Tokugawa official.
“Talk,” Sano said. “If your information is worthwhile, I’ll pay.”
Nodding sullenly, Ebisuya withdrew his hand. “I don’t like to tell tales on a fellow actor,” he said, “but I owe Koheiji a bad turn. I was an apprentice at the Owari when he was hired. Before he came, I had the best roles. Afterward, Koheiji played the lead parts that should have been mine.” Ebisuya’s eyes flashed resentment at his rival’s good luck. “He’s not more talented than I am-just better at sucking up to people.”
“People like Senior Elder Makino?”
“Him among others. Koheiji was a favorite with audiences, and not just for his performances onstage. He wanted to hook a patron who would buy his way into leading roles at a top theater.”
So Koheiji engaged in manly love in the past, thought Sano. Perhaps he’d lied when he said he hadn’t had sexual relations with Senior Elder Makino. If so, he could also have lied when he’d claimed he hadn’t been with Makino the night of the murder.
“He knew how to please men, even though he prefers women,” Ebisuya continued. “He gave his clients good sumata.”
In sumata-the “secret thigh technique”-one man thrust his organ between another’s thighs, simulating anal intercourse. Thus had Koheiji satisfied his clients with minimal discomfort to himself.
“Did his sumata win him the patronage of Senior Elder Makino?” Sano said.
Ebisuya gave Sano a look that scorned the idea. “Senior Elder Makino didn’t practice manly love. That’s not why he paid the Nakamura-za to hire Koheiji and make him a star.”
“Then why did he?”
“Koheiji found a way to attract men who didn’t want sex with him.” The onnagata’s tone conveyed reluctant admiration for his clever rival. “Makino was one of them. He liked the special performances that Koheiji put on after the theaters closed at night.”