Then he found reason to be glad of Tsunehiko’s company.
Backing out of the teahouse, Tsunehiko said, “Oh, I know where that is. Follow me, I know a shortcut.”
He bounced off down Naka-no-cho, leading Sano around a corner and along a street where high walls hid the back gardens of the brothels from view. They plunged into a maze of narrow alleys lined with closed doors, barred windows, and overflowing wooden trash containers. Stray dogs rooted through the maladorous debris. Sano was relieved when they emerged into the clean brightness of a wide street.
“Here we are,” Tsunehiko announced proudly. “See?”
All up and down Gallery Street, open storefronts displayed racks and walls covered with colorful woodblock prints. Browsers strolled past, many of them samurai defying the laws that prohibited them from possessing these supposedly immoral works of art. Hawkers stood outside the galleries, chanting prices and extolling the quality of their merchandise. Inside, the proprietors haggled with their customers in strident tones. Sano studied the signs above the galleries. The Okubata Fine Arts Company lay halfway down the block. Now to get rid of Tsunehiko so that he could conduct the interview in private…
To his delight, Tsunehiko’s flightiness came to his aid. The secretary immediately wandered into one of the other shops and began pawing through a stack of pictures. Smiling, Sano headed down the street alone.
He’d no sooner reached the shop than the hawker accosted him, crying, “Good day, sir! Looking for fine prints at the best prices? Well, you’ve come to the right place!”
He was a man of quite astonishing ugliness. His most prominent feature, a large purplish-red birthmark, spilled across his upper lip, over his mouth, and down his chin. Hair sprouted from his nostrils. Smallpox scars pitted his skin. Protuberant eyes gave him the appearance of an insect, perhaps a mantis. This resemblance was strengthened by his stooped shoulders and by the way he rubbed his bony hands together as he hovered close to Sano.
“Come in, come in,” he urged, plucking at Sano’s sleeve.
Sano stepped up onto the raised wooden floor of the shop and passed under the curtain that partially shielded it from the street. The shop was small, a single room with racks of prints crowding its floor and walls, which were hidden by more prints. It was also deserted.
“Now what can I show you?” the ugly man asked. Evidently he was both hawker and proprietor. “Some nice landscape scenes?”
He pointed to a set of pictures mounted on the walclass="underline" Mount Fuji during each of the four seasons. Sano could see why the shop had no customers. The prints were poorly drawn, with garish colors slightly out of register so that each picture was a blurred multiple image. He wondered how the shop managed to stay in business.
“Are you Okubata?” he asked the man.
“Yes, yes, that’s me. But everyone calls me Cherry Eater.” With a self-deprecating laugh, the proprietor touched his birthmark.
Sano thought the name had a second, lewder meaning, as the man’s sly glance seemed to suggest.
Cherry Eater pulled a print from the nearest rack. “Perhaps you prefer classical art, sir?”
Sano winced when he saw the print, a crude copy of the ancient painting He-gassen, “Fart Battle.” In it, two samurai on horseback blew farts at each other from bared buttocks. The artist had rendered the farts as huge, colored clouds of fumes.
“A fine tribute to your heroic ancestors,” Cherry Eater suggested.
“No, thank you.” Sano, nettled by the implied insult, eyed the proprietor for signs of irony or deliberate malice, but met with only a polite, bland gaze. “Actually, I’ve come to talk to you about your employee, Noriyoshi.”
Before he could introduce himself, Cherry Eater exclaimed, “Ahhh! Why didn’t you say so?” With a knowing nod, he ushered Sano to a display rack at the rear of the shop. “Sadly the great artist Noriyoshi has departed from this world. But I have here his most recent work. His best work, I might add. You like it? Yes?“
Looking at the prints, Sano immediately understood how the Okubata Fine Arts Company made its money: by selling shunga- erotic art-to a select clientele. The other prints were nothing but window dressing. Noriyoshi’s work showed amorous couples in every possible position and setting: In a bedchamber, with the man on top of the woman; in a garden, with the spread-legged woman seated in the fork of a tree and a standing man thrusting into her. Some pictures included third parties, such as maids assisting the couples, or voyeurs peeping through windows at them. Noriyoshi had depicted costumes, surroundings, and genitalia in great detail. A large print showed a reclining samurai, his swords on the floor next to him, his robes parted to expose a huge erection. With one hand he fondled the crotch of the nude maiden lying beside him; with the other, he drew her hand toward his organ. The caption read:
Indeed, indeed
With all their hearts
Sharing love’s bed:
Caressing her Jeweled Gateway and taking
The girl’s hand, causing her to grasp his Jade Shaft: what girl’s face will not
Blush, her breath come faster?
All the prints were technically superior to the works at the front of the shop. The colors were clear and harmonious, the drawing masterful. In addition, they had a sensuous grace not usually found in common shunga. Sano felt himself growing aroused against his will.
“Perhaps Noriyoshi’s pictures can assist you in your romantic endeavors,” Cherry Eater said helpfully.
This jab at his sexual prowess, whether or not intentional, jolted Sano out of his reverie. The proprietor was either a very subtle wag, or too thoughtless to realize how his remarks might affect his customers. Turning away from the prints, Sano said sharply, “That’s none of your business. And I’m not here to buy.”
When he introduced himself, he watched with some satisfaction as Cherry Eater’s face blanched so that the birthmark stood out like a fiery rash. The proprietor’s eyes flew toward the pictures. The absence of round red censors’ seals clearly identified them as contraband, their sale or possession illegal.
“I’m not concerned about your merchandise, either,” Sano hastened to add. “I’d like you to answer some questions about Noriyoshi.”
Color flooded back into Cherry Eater’s face. “If I can, sir. Ask me anything at all.” He grinned, expansive in his relief.
To put the man at ease and avoid provoking his suspicion, Sano began with an innocuous question. “How long did Noriyoshi work for you?”
“Oh, not long enough.”
Despite Cherry Eater’s innocent smile, Sano began to understand that the proprietor’s jabs and wisecracks were indeed intentional, delivered in an apparent earnestness that would fool most people. Annoyed, he frowned a warning.
Mischief lit Cherry Eater’s eyes as he counted on his fingers. “Noriyoshi was with me six… seven years.”
Long enough for them to know each other well, Sano thought. “What kind of man was he?”
“Much like any other. He had two eyes, a nose… ”
Sano’s annoyance grew. He glared at Cherry Eater, touching his sword to underscore the threat.
Cherry Eater’s insectile eyes goggled; his smile vanished. Obviously realizing that he’d gone too far, he amended quickly, “Oh, Noriyoshi was a very capable artist. Very prolific. His work sold well. I’ll miss him.”
Sano said patiently, “No, I mean what was he like as a person? Friendly? Popular?”
Cherry Eater grinned. “Oh, not very popular. But he did have many friends, I would say.” He gestured toward the street. “All over the quarter.”
“Tell me their names.” Except for having to accommodate the proprietor’s irritating nature, this was going better than Sano had expected.
Cherry Eater mentioned several, all men who worked as artists or in Yoshiwara’s teahouses or restaurants.
Sano committed each name to memory. “No women?” he asked.