“Certainly. Please enter!” The old man flung the inner door wide and preceded him. He hobbled to a bench against the wall next to the entrance and sat down, inviting Tora to join him. “I shall be happy to answer the gentleman’s questions,” he offered.

Tora stopped just inside the room, his jaw sagging with surprise. He had expected to walk into a small reception area where the girls displayed themselves to the customers. In fact he was in a huge training hall. And he saw now that the tumbling young women wore loincloths and that they practiced with young men in similar undress. The agile youngsters were working out on the mats, bouncing, rolling, jumping over and under each other, the men tossing the women into the air and catching them. Their movements were so skillful and continuous that there seemed to be nothing but bobbing breasts and twisting buttocks in sight. Tora slowly backed toward the bench and sank down, his fascinated gaze on the acrobats. After a while, he managed to separate the flying bodies into three young men and two young women and realized his mistake. This was no brothel, but a training hall for acrobats and entertainers.

There were others in the room, more conservatively dressed. In one corner, an old man sat cross-legged on the floor, beating a small drum, while two very pretty young women in silk dresses swayed in elegant dance steps. In another corner, two men were engaged in a mock sword fight, accompanying their lunges and feints with hideous shouts. Tora shook his head at such unmilitary behavior, and then looked toward the back of the room. A wrestling bout seemed in progress, though his view of the contestants was blocked by some onlookers. Then he got his next surprise. A large chair, like an abbot’s, had been placed on a raised dais and on it sat the fat woman from the restaurant, all glossy black silk and red ribbons.

Tora gasped, “Who the devil’s that?”

“Miss Plumblossom. Giving some pointers to the wrestlers. Very fond of wrestling, is our Miss Plumblossom. Never misses a contest, though she’s an acrobat herself, of course.”

Tora was trying to digest that piece of information when Miss Plumblossom suddenly leaned forward and cried, “Open your hands, Master Denchichi! No punching! Ah! Very good, Master Genba! Haven’t seen that particular hold for years.”

At first Tora thought he had misheard, but just then the onlookers started applauding and he could see the wrestlers. And there stood Genba, stripped to his loincloth and grinning inanely at Miss Plumblossom, while his opponent picked himself up off the floor.

TWELVE

The Prisoner

Tamako rarely entered her husband’s room while he was at work, and Akitada glanced up in surprise from the family accounts when he heard her voice. She hovered at the door, after saying softly, “Forgive me for interrupting you, but there is a small matter on which I would like your advice.”

Seimei rose from his papers, bowed to both of them, and left the room. Akitada looked after him unhappily. Their relationship had been strained since he had discovered that Seimei had concealed his parentage from him all these years. Seimei was aware of his coolness and bore it with a sad resignation, but Akitada chafed under the bitter resentment bottled up inside himself. He wished he could talk about it with Tamako, but with her fondness for Seimei she would urge him to put the matter from his mind. Easier said than done!

He watched her sit down across from him. She looked very elegant in the dark blue silk robe which showed only the narrowest band of her white silk undergown at the wrists and neck. When she had adjusted her trailing skirts and raised her eyes to his, he gave her a smile of affection. “The gown suits you,” he said softly. “Even better than the one I took off you last night.” He watched the rosy blush rise from her neck to her face, wondering why she did not smile. He caressed her face with his eyes, urging it into joy. Her eyes were clear and steady, like shining jewels set into the translucent skin, but the soft, pink lower lip trembled. He cocked his head. “I think,” he murmured, “you must be growing more beautiful with every year.”

That finally produced a fleeting smile. “What nonsense you talk,” she said, but reached across his desk to touch his hand affectionately. “This is not about us. It concerns your sister.”

“Ah.” Which one, Akiko or Yoshiko? Akiko had been on his mind almost constantly since he had spoken with her stepson. But he knew that Tamako meant Yoshiko. “Is something wrong?”

Tamako nodded, looking at her hands, which lay neatly folded in her lap. “I am afraid it will sound as though I am spying on your sister, which I am not,” she said with a sigh. “Even though I am worried about her, I do not keep a watch over her. Still, living in the same house, we can hardly avoid meeting. I noticed that your sister left the house every day at the same time, always between the hours of the monkey and the rooster. She left before sunset and returned after dark, just before the evening rice. And she carried a basket each time.”

Akitada sat up. The day he had returned from the painter Noami, Yoshiko had come home just before he did, and she had held a basket. An empty basket, though she had claimed to have been to the market. “Have you asked her about it?”

“How could I? She never volunteered an explanation and it is none of my business. She is a grown woman, and this is her home. But today, just a little while ago, the same thing happened again. Only this time, she rushed past me without a greeting and ran to her room. I wondered if she was ill and followed. I stood outside her door and heard her weeping. Oh, Akitada, she was weeping dreadfully hard. I was afraid to intrude, but what if she needs help? What should I do?”

Akitada got to his feet and started toward the door.

“Wait, Akitada,” cried Tamako, getting up also. “Don’t rush in! You may make things worse. This is clearly a private matter. Perhaps, if anyone is going to burst in on her grief, it had better be me.”

She was right, he thought, suddenly fearful. Something had happened, wherever she had been. Or it might be some female ailment. Or—heaven forbid—rape. The thought of some man doing violence to Yoshiko made him clench his hands. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “Go to her, then. Only come back and let me know.”

Tamako nodded and left.

Akitada sat back down and stared sightlessly at his accounts. His troubles seemed to be multiplying when they should have been at an end. He was finally free of a lifetime of blaming himself for the dislike shown to him by the woman he had believed to be his mother. His father no longer was the unfeeling authoritarian of his memory. He had come back to his home, truly his now, and was taking care of his own family as his father had done, at the desk his father had used. His career for once seemed secure. Yet peace and contentment escaped him. Happiness was slippery as an eel. Just when you thought you had a solid grip on it, it twisted this way and that, and was gone again. Oh, Yoshiko!

Seimei, his other point of discontent, came back in. “A visitor, sir,” he announced with a bow. Seimei had become very formal lately.

The visitor turned out to be Kobe, and his arrival at this moment was anything but welcome. The superintendent strode in stiffly, nodding instead of bowing, and announced abruptly, “I must speak with you privately.”

Akitada glanced at Seimei, who asked, “Shall I bring wine or tea before the gentlemen begin?”

“Nothing for me.” Kobe stood waiting impatiently for Seimei to leave the room. When the door had closed behind Akitada’s secretary, he waited, then walked quietly to the door and jerked it open. The corridor was empty. He grunted and slammed the door shut again with such force that the panels shuddered. Akitada watched with rising anger as Kobe returned and sat down stiffly across from him.