I found Ozawa’s street and turned onto it, slowing as I came to his house. Unlike the other houses I’d seen, it was built partly of brick — unpretentious, but denoting a certain level of importance and success. Two stories, with just a little bit of land in front and to either side; surrounded by a short metal fence; a concrete parking space behind a sliding gate to one side. The parking space was currently occupied by a shiny Toyota sedan. McGraw’s file claimed the household possessed only one car, and that Ozawa himself was provided a driver by virtue of his position as LDP sōmukaicho. I took this to mean the wife was home. Ozawa probably was not — a guy like that would rarely be home before dinner, and in fact probably not until well after, when his business socializing was done.
I drove on, feeling discouraged. The house itself seemed to offer few possibilities. I imagined I could get inside while the wife was out, but what then? And what if I was mistaken and the wife was home, or there was a parent or in-law around for that matter? These days, it’s less common for Japanese extended families to all live under the same roof, but back then it was the norm. I pictured myself intercepting Ozawa as he got in or out of his chauffeured car. Sure, I could do it, but it would be about the least natural-looking outcome imaginable.
I circled the block and came to a large building with an elaborate, authentic Japanese roof, several dozen bicycles lined up before it at the curb. A Buddhist temple? I wondered how long it had been there — from the style and grandeur of those graceful, tiled curves, probably since at least the turn of the century. The word for “roof” in Japanese is yane—literally “house root,” implying the importance of the roof as the basis for everything else. Whoever had designed this structure had taken that philosophy seriously, and I felt an odd sense of respect for and even connection with the architect, unknown to me and probably long since gone.
I came closer. A blue noren curtain with the name Daikoku-yu was stretched across the entrance, the three kanji meaning Great Black Hot Waters, and there were several dozen shoes placed in cubbies inside a small vestibule. Interesting. Whatever purpose it might have served originally, the place was obviously now a sentō—a public bath. Though they’ve been gradually disappearing since the war, back then the sentō—literally, “hot water for a penny”—served a vital function, fostering both a sense of community and good hygiene, and Tokyo still had several thousand, ranging from tiny no-frills neighborhood places to grand ones like this.
I thought about Ozawa’s house again. It was impressive, but it looked fifty years old at least. Newer places were being built with their own baths, but there was a decent chance the Ozawa residence wouldn’t have one. If that were the case, I imagined Ozawa would visit the neighborhood sentō regularly, perhaps every night. Or even if the home had its own bath, it would be a shame to live so close to a sentō as spectacular as this one and not make use of it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that of course Ozawa would be a frequent visitor. Japanese politicians always mixed with their constituents. They had to show their humble origins, demonstrate they were of the shomin, the common folk. And though Ozawa’s house was better than average, a guy in his position easily could have afforded more. That he chose to scale back was another reason to expect I might find him at the sentō. After all, it wouldn’t do to be living aloof in that better-than-average home and to never engage in a little old-school hadaka-no-tsukiai—naked bonding — with the hoi polloi. My gut told me the sentō was the opportunity I needed, either the place itself or somewhere between it and his house. I just had to find the right way.
I parked Thanatos and wandered the neighborhood on foot. There were two routes Ozawa might use — one along the neighborhood’s little shōtengai, or shopping street; the other something of a shortcut along several much narrower roads. No way to know which he’d prefer, or whether he would consistently use one or the other. And even if I could know, neither potential route offered a way I could loiter inconspicuously. I decided to try the sentō itself.
I walked inside, placing my shoes in one of the cubbies at the entrance. The interior was old but well kept: sturdy-looking pillars ascending to a lovely, carved wooden ceiling; leather couches for anyone who wanted to relax before or after a bath; good lighting and immaculate lacquered floors. I walked over to the mama-san, who was seated behind a desk between the women’s entrance to one side and the men’s to the other, and along with the entrance fee paid for soap, shampoo, a towel, and a washcloth. No question the place would be popular in the neighborhood, but the fact that they were selling toiletries and renting towels suggested they also attracted visitors from farther away — maybe because of the grand old structure itself; maybe because in addition to the sentō, they offered an onsen or rotenburo, natural spring or outdoor bath. Certainly the mama-san evinced no surprise at the sight of an unfamiliar face — another good sign.
I walked into the men’s changing area, undressed, and put my clothes and bag in a locker secured with a charmingly inadequate lock. Then I went through the sliding-glass doors and into the men’s bathing area. Instantly I was enveloped by steam and heat and the floral smell of soap. High on one wall was the requisite mural of Mount Fuji, practically a national law. There was a lot of light — not just from fixtures, but from a pair of large windows along the high ceiling and a skylight overhead. About twenty men of all ages were seated on short stools before the spigots lining the walls, some shaving, some scrubbing, some dowsing themselves with hot water from wooden buckets. One man was helping a little boy into the tub, and for a moment I was struck by a memory of my own father, introducing me to the neighborhood sentō when I was no longer young enough to be bathed in the kitchen sink. I remembered that day clearly, the steam and the soap and the sight of all those unselfconsciously naked people. It had felt like a rite of passage, and my parents had been sure to mark it as such, with my mother fussing afterward about how grown-up I was now, and even my ordinarily distant father, perhaps pressed by some memories of his own, smiling with uncharacteristic sentiment, and for the second time that day I sagged under the paradoxical weight of memories of people and things that no longer were.
I shook off the feeling and walked to the back, where the tubs were located. There were four of them, forming an L along two walls: the main tub, with a cold plunge pool next to it, comprising the long end of the L; and two mineral baths, with signs advertising their benefits for muscle aches and a variety of skin conditions, forming the short end. The main bath was at the base of the L, between the cold pool and the mineral tubs, and was easily twice the size of the other three combined.
I went through another sliding door and found myself in an enclosed outdoor garden with another tub at the center, this one done in natural stone in keeping with the setting. A ronteburo, unusual for a sentō, and, as I’d suspected, probably part of the appeal for people from outside the neighborhood. For the moment, the ronteburo was empty, but overall, the place was pretty crowded. So while a steady flow of strangers would allow me to spend some time here to reconnoiter, the same crowds would pose a significant challenge when it came time to act. But one thing at a time.