“Good day.” Bowing politely, Sano turned and walked down the lane, retrieved his horse, and rode away. Then, once beyond the curve and out of sight from the house, he resecured his mount and doubled back through the forest, heading for the rear of Madam Shimizu’s residence.
He scaled the steep hill, staying within the cover of the trees, until he came to the road behind the villa. The rear of the uppermost, largest building had few windows, all shuttered, and no balcony. High walls extended from it, enclosing the two lower wings and the garden. Sano could see no doors, but there must be others besides the front entrance, through which the residents could escape during a fire or earthquake.
Sano looked around and saw neither the servant nor the guards. Skidding down the hill, he waded through the thick grass around the villa. As he examined the head-high, stone-faced earthen wall around the garden, he heard from within it a woman’s high, quavery voice, singing a slow, melancholy tune:
“The green woods fade to brown, alas
Frost withers the peony and the rose- ”
Sano smiled. The singer must be Madam Shimizu. Quietly Sano tried the heavy, weathered plank gate. It was locked. But the wall was covered with a network of vines; some had woody stems as thick as his wrist. Using these as a ladder, he climbed the wall. Cautiously he peered over the top.
He formed a quick impression of an overgrown garden, bordered on left and right by the verandas of the upper and lower buildings, and on the far end by a covered walkway connecting the two wings. Then he spotted a pavilion at the garden’s center.
Almost hidden by the vines that climbed the pavilion’s lattice wall and up its thatched roof knelt a woman. Sano could discern no more than her bowed head and blue kimono, but her plaintive song continued:
“Summer’s birds are flown,
Love has gone-
My heart dies, too.”
Sano took a hasty look behind him, then pulled himself atop the wall. He jumped, landing in an ivy-choked flower bed. Eagerly he started toward the pavilion. Then he halted as a door in the covered walkway banged open.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
The rōnin guards ran toward him drawing their swords. Sano’s was already in his hand. He thought he could take these men without serious difficulty, but he wanted no more bloodshed. And if Madam Shimizu was terrified because she’d already witnessed one killing, then more wouldn’t improve her willingness or ability to answer his questions. Keeping his eyes on the rōnin, he addressed the woman in the pavilion.
“Madam Shimizu, I’m Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s sōsakan,” he called. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”
Scuffles and whimpers came from the pavilion.
Swords raised, the guards circled Sano. The elder glared fiercely; the younger looked nervous.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Madam Shimizu?” Sano called. “You’re afraid; you’re hiding from someone. I can help you-but only if you call off your guards.”
Still no answer. Then the younger rōnin retreated a step. “He’s the shogun’s man-we can’t kill him! I don’t care how much she’s paying us to protect her. I don’t want to go to jail, or have my head cut off!”
“Shut up!” his brother shouted. “Do you want to go back to begging in the streets?” To Sano, he said, “Get out, or I cut you.”
He lunged at Sano-then fell back as the woman’s voice spoke softly but clearly:
“Stop… It’s all right. He can stay.”
The guards shrugged, and went back into the house. Relieved, Sano sheathed his sword and looked toward the pavilion.
She stood in its arched entryway, a short, plump woman dressed in a vivid aqua kimono printed with butterflies. Sano’s initial impression of youth and beauty quickly faded as he walked toward her. Her hair, though looped up at the sides and hanging long at the back in the style of a young lady, was an unnaturally dark, lusterless black: dyed. The heavy white face powder and bright rouge didn’t hide the pouches under her eyes, or the slackness of her cheeks and jowls. Her bright, girlish clothes only emphasized her thick waist, double chin, and the empty space in the upper row of her blackened teeth. Sano’s lingering distrust of Aoi melted away in a flood of gratitude as he stared, amazed to find the mystery witness just as she’d described: a fat, aging woman clinging desperately to youth.
“Sōsakan-sama.” Madam Shimizu bowed, then peered coyly at him from beneath lowered eyelids; but her smile was strained, her tone weary and resigned. “I’ve been expecting you… I’m glad you’re here at last.”
“I went to Zōjō Temple because my husband no longer loves me,” Madam Shimizu said.
Obviously distraught, she hadn’t invited Sano into the house. Instead she wandered aimlessly around the garden, leaving him to follow.
“For the past ten years, he’s never once looked at me… or spoken to me with affection.” Her speech was filled with long pauses and trailing endings, perhaps in deliberate imitation of highborn samurai women. Now her voice dropped to a whisper. “And no matter how much I beg, he won’t share my bed… ”
Sano, embarrassed by this intimate confession, nevertheless recognized her urgent need to tell her troubles to someone, anyone. By simply listening, he would learn more than through formal interrogation. Considerately, he turned his gaze from her sad, ravaged face to the garden.
Like her, it must have once been lovely. A huge cherry tree blossomed beside a pond; elaborate stone lanterns and benches graced a bower of luxuriant plant life. But this paradise had fallen into neglect. Withered vines clung to the buildings. Dead branches stuck out from the cherry tree like black bones. Rotting leaves, fallen blossoms, and green scum covered the pond. Shrubs were unpruned, lanterns and benches coated with moss and lichen, flower beds and lawn choked with weeds. If Mimaki and O-tama’s garden was a monument to love, this served as mute testimony to its loss.
Madam Shimizu’s thoughts seemed to follow his. “Do you see this garden?” Her soft voice quivered with pain. “My husband once employed gardeners to keep it beautiful. When we were young… before I bore our seven children… we spent many happy hours here.
“ ‘I can’t bear to be apart from you,’ he would tell me. He praised my beauty, and made love to me… there.” Madam Shimizu pointed to a spot beneath the cherry tree. Her plump hand was smooth and soft-looking, as if it had never done a day’s work. “But now I’m old and ugly… My health is poor; I suffer from congestion. My husband never comes here anymore.” Sano saw tears tracing rivulets through the thick makeup on her cheeks. “He’s brought two young concubines into our house in Edo, and often visits the courtesans in Yoshiwara, too.
“Ours was a marriage of love… that’s rare, you know, in this world where marriages are arranged for the sake of money and family considerations. One doesn’t expect to find love, and so it hurts all the more to lose it.”
“I know,” Sano said, wishing he could cut her story short. With his own romance threatened, he didn’t want to hear about lost love. If he should lose Aoi… For the sake of the investigation, he let Madam Shimizu talk.
“In summer, we would take our pleasure boat out on the river to watch the fireworks. It’s a big boat, with a comfortable cabin… We would drink wine and delight in each other’s company.” Madam Shimizu dabbed her face with her sleeve; it came away stained with powder and rouge. “But no more. The boat has been docked for ten seasons. I decided to become a nun because I could no longer bear living without my dearest one’s love… ”
With relief, Sano turned the conversation to the night of the priest’s murder. “So you went to Zōjō Temple and asked for sanctuary. What happened there?”