“Not even enough to eat on,” Raiden complained. “Why did those doshin have to go and break up my match?”
Had he forgotten that he’d attacked a helpless man and started a riot? Confused and wary, Sano nevertheless decided to take advantage of the situation.
“Let me buy you a meal,” he said. Raiden might be more amenable to answering questions-and less likely to erupt again- if plied with food and drink.
Raiden’s pout dissolved into a sunny smile. “All right,” he agreed with an alacrity that told Sano he was used to accepting handouts from strangers. Probably he lived on them. That he performed on the street meant he had no daimyo sponsor or other source of steady income.
Sano waited while Raiden donned his kimono, along with the shoes, cloak, and swords that had been lying in a heap outside the ring. Then the two of them walked down the street to the noodle restaurant.
The place was little more than a roadside food stall. Its sliding doors stood wide open; only a short blue curtain hanging from the eaves protected it from the outdoors. Inside, along the left wall, a strip of earth floor led through the small dining room to the kitchen, where two women toiled amid steam and smoke over a charcoal stove. Their huge cauldrons sent forth the enticing odor of broth made with garlic, soy sauce, miso, and scallions. An old man dressed in a blue cotton kimono and headband stood behind the counter that partially divided the dining room from the kitchen. A few lucky diners knelt on the raised plank floor in front of the counter with their bowls and chopsticks, but the rest sat on the floor’s edge, with their feet either in the kitchen corridor or the street. Sano and Raiden went inside and approached the counter.
“Two house specials.” Raiden, who, from the bows and nods he got from the proprietor and customers, seemed to be a regular, gave their order. “And plenty of sake.”
The special turned out to be kitsune udon, “fox noodles,” named for the mischievous fox spirit whom everyone blamed for their troubles. The thick white noodles bathed in rich brown broth and topped with a crusty golden square of fried tofu were the spirit’s favorite food. Sano noticed that Raiden’s bowl was twice as large as his own, and the bottle of sake enormous. He handed over his money, thinking that detective work was getting expensive. The Nius’ funeral gift, the trips to Yoshiwara, the theater ticket, and now feeding a wrestler added up to as much as he’d formerly made in a week of tutoring.
With some difficulty, Sano and Raiden cleared a space for themselves on the edge of the floor. Sano found himself jammed between the counter and Raiden’s massive bulk. But at least the heat from the kitchen and from the sweaty wrestler kept him warm.
Raiden shoveled noodles and tofu from bowl to mouth with his chopsticks, pausing between bites to deliver bits of monologue.
“It’s a shame that a great wrestler like me has to fight for zeni in the street, don’t you think?” Slurp, gulp. “Living hand to mouth like a common beggar! Well, let me tell you, stranger, it wasn’t always this way for Raiden.”
Sano couldn’t help staring at Raiden’s hands. They seemed oddly jointless, like the hands of people in wood-block prints. The fingertips, which ended in tiny, spatulate nails, bent almost all the way back with each movement. Sano wondered how such weak-looking hands could have the strength necessary for sumo. Or for killing two people and carrying their bodies to the river?
Raiden paused to fill his cup with sake and drain it with one swallow. “Two springs ago, I was the top wrestler in Lord Torū’s stable. I had fine living quarters in his estate, ten apprentices to serve me, and all the women I wanted. The best food, and as much of it as I could eat. 1 fought the best men and defeated them all. The shogun himself praised my skill.”
Surely an exaggeration. If Raiden had been a top wrestler, Sano would have heard of him, but he hadn’t. And Lord Torū was one of the lesser daimyo. His wealth amounted to a fraction of the Nius‘, hardly enough to maintain a luxurious sumo stable. Besides, the shogun’s interests tended toward Confucianism and the arts, not popular sport.
“A great life, don’t you think?” Raiden said, downing another cup of sake. A certain wistfulness in his voice told Sano that the wrestler was bragging just as much to bolster his ego as to impress. Sano could pity him, even as he remembered Raiden assaulting the merchant.
Raiden emptied his bowl and signaled the proprietor to bring him another. Sano reached in his cash pouch for more money. “But Lord Torū dismissed me because I picked up the master-of-arms and threw him against the wall. Unfair, don’t you think? After all, I didn’t really hurt the man. He lived. And I didn’t mean to do it. Ever since I hurt my head in a match a while back, there’s been a demon living inside it, making me do awful things.” He touched his temple and added sadly, “That’s how I got my name: ‘Thunder and Lightning. ’ I strike anywhere, anytime, and when I do, everybody had better get out of the way.”
Raiden, apparently a man used to dominating the conversation, showed no interest in Sano. Other than his habitual “don’t you think?” he asked no questions. Sano ate in silence and let him ramble on. Identifying himself would only inhibit the careless flow of confidences, and Raiden was telling him plenty without the least urging. Already he’d learned that the wrestler was short on funds and had a consistently volatile temper. Both these qualities would make him dangerous prey for a blackmailer like Noriyoshi.
Now Raiden launched a tirade about the hardships of his life: poor food, greedy landlord, disrespect from other wrestlers. Sano decided it was time to guide the conversation to a more relevant subject.
“Did you hear about the artist who committed shinjū?” he asked. “Noriyoshi, I think his name was.”
Raiden stopped eating long enough to give Sano a wary glance. “Maybe,” he said casually. He sucked a noodle into his mouth and wiped his lips on his sleeve. But a sudden jerk of his body at the mention of Noriyoshi had already belied his nonchalance.
“You knew him?” Sano prodded.
“Maybe.” Raiden’s tone remained casual, but he began to chew with a savage intensity.
“You didn’t like him?”
Raiden said nothing. Sano waited. He didn’t think the garrulous wrestler could remain quiet for long. And he was right. Raiden hurled his empty bowl out the door and shouted, “I hated the miserable scum!”
His body tensed, and his flaccid hands balled into fists. His face darkened the way it had just before he’d attacked the merchant.
Sano saw the other diners staring at them. A few got up and ran out of the restaurant. Surreptiously moving his hand to his sword, he said, “Easy now, it’s all right,” in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Even after such a brief acquaintance, he could recognize the signs of an impending rampage. Could he stop the wrestler before he hurt someone?
Then, to Sano’s amazement, the tension left Raiden’s body, and his face went blank. He blinked, shaking his head as if to clear it, and gaped at Sano without apparent recognition.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a fuzzy voice. “Were we talking? Did you just ask me something?” He looked down. “Where’s my bowl?”
Sano allowed himself to relax tentatively, relieved that Raiden’s dangerous mood had passed. “We were talking about Noriyoshi,” he said, hoping the name wouldn’t provoke another outburst. “Why did you hate him?”
Raiden frowned in bewilderment. “Did I hate him? Oh, yes, I guess I did. Because he got me thrown out of Lord Torū’s stable. The master-of-arms wouldn’t have told Lord Torū that I broke discipline and almost killed him. He didn’t want to lose face. But Noriyoshi was there that day, delivering some paintings. He saw the whole thing. Told me that if I didn’t pay him a thousand zeni a week, he would tell Lord Torū. I didn’t have the money. He talked; Lord Torū dismissed me. Terrible, don’t you think?”