“I see.” Hirata recalled that concubines retired after that age, to marry, become palace officials, or return to their families. So Ichiteru was eight years older than he. Suddenly the chaste young girls he’d considered as prospective brides seemed dull, unattractive. “Well, ah,” he said, groping for the line of inquiry he’d begun.
A maid passed Lady Ichiteru a plate of dried cherries. She took one, then said to Hirata, “Will you partake of refreshment?”
“Yes, thank you.” Grateful for the distraction, he popped a cherry; in his mouth.
Ichiteru pursed her lips and opened them. Slowly she inserted the fruit, pushing it in with her fingertip. Hirata gulped, swallowing his cherry whole. He’d often seen women eat this way, careful not to touch food to their lips and smear the rouge. But on Lady Ichiteru, it looked so erotic. Her long, smooth fingers seemed made for holding, stroking, and inserting into bodily orifices…
Shamed by his thoughts, Hirata said, “There were reports that you and Lady Harume didn’t get along.”
“ Edo Castle is full of gossips who have nothing better to do than malign other people,” she murmured. Face averted, she daintily extracted the cherry pit from her mouth.
On its own volition, Hirata’s hand reached out. Ichiteru dropped the seed into his palm. It was warm and moist with her saliva. He gazed at her in helpless lust until the loud, insistent clacking of wooden clappers sounded. He looked up to see that the audience now filled the theater; the play was about to start. A man dressed in black walked in front of the stage and announced, “The Satsuma-za welcomes you to the premier performance of Tragedy at Shimonoseki, which is based upon a true story of recent events.” He recited the names of the chanter, puppeteers, and musicians, then shouted, “Tōzai-hear ye!”
From behind the curtain came melancholy samisen music. A painted backdrop showing a garden appeared above the curtain. The chanter’s disembodied voice uttered a series of wails, then intoned, “In the fifth month of Genroku year two, in the provincial city of Shimonoseki, the beautiful, blind Okiku awaits the return of her husband, a samurai who is in Edo attending his lord. Her sister Ofuji comforts her.”
The audience cheered as two female puppets with painted wooden heads, long black hair, and bright silk kimonos made their entrance. One had a sad, pretty face; her eyes were closed to indicate Okiku’s blindness. While she simulated weeping, the chanter’s voice altered to a high, feminine pitch: “Oh, how I miss my dear Jimbei. He’s been gone so long; I shall perish of loneliness.”
Her sister Ofuji was plain, with a frown slanting her brows. “You’re lucky to have such a fine man,” the chanter said in a lower tone. “Pity me, with no husband at all.” Then he informed the audience, “In her blindness, Okiku does not see that Ofuji is in love with Jimbei, or that her sister envies her good fortune and wishes her ill.”
Okiku sang a sad love song, accompanied by samisen, flute, and drum. The audience stirred in expectancy; a loud buzz of conversation arose: silence during performances was not a habit of Edo theatergoers. Hirata, still clutching Lady Ichiteru’s cherry pit, forced his thoughts back to the investigation.
“Did you know that Lady Harume was going to tattoo herself?” he asked.
“… I was not on such intimate terms with Harume that she would confide in me.” From behind her fan, Ichiteru favored Hirata with a glance that slid over him like a warm breath. “I have heard shocking rumors… Tell me, if I may be so bold to ask… Where on Harume’s person was the tattoo?”
Hirata gulped. “It was on her, uh,” he faltered. Did she really not know the location of the tattoo? Was she innocent? “It was, uh-”
The faintest amusement curved Lady Ichiteru’s lips.
“Above her crotch,” Hirata blurted. Shame washed over him like a tide of boiling water. Had Ichiteru deliberately manipulated him into using the crude term? She was so provocative, yet so elegant. How would he ever finish this interview? Wretchedly, Hirata stared at the stage.
Okiku’s song had ended. Now a sly, handsome samurai puppet sidled onto the stage. “Jimbei’s younger brother Bannojo is secretly in love with Okiku and wants her for himself,” the chanter narrated. Bannojo beckoned to Ofuji. Unobserved by the blind Okiku, the pair conspired. Jealous Ofuji agreed to let the covetous Bannojo into the house that night. The music turned discordant. Murmurs of anticipation swept the audience. Hirata grasped at the shreds of his professional demeanor. “Had you been in Lady Harume’s room prior to her death?” he asked.
“It would degrade one to enter the chamber of a vulgar peasant. One just…” insinuation filmed Ichiteru’s covert glance “… doesn’t.”
If she hadn’t gone into Harume’s room, did that mean she couldn’t have poisoned the ink? Despite his police training, Hirata was unable to think clearly or follow the logic of the interrogation, because Lady Ichiteru’s remark had pierced the heart of his insecurity. He felt vulgar in her presence; it seemed she was rejecting him, as she had Harume, as unworthy of her regard. Humiliation edged his desire.
Onstage, a new backdrop appeared: a bedchamber, with a crescent moon in the window to indicate night. Beautiful Okiku lay asleep while Ofuji let Bannojo into the room. Warning cries came from the audience.
Okiku stirred and sat up. “Who’s there?” The chanter made her voice high, frightened.
“It is I, Jimbei, home from Edo,” the chanter answered for Bannojo. Then he explained, “His voice is so like his brother’s, and her longing for her husband so great, that she believes his lie.”
The couple sang a joyous duet. Then they tugged each other’s sashes loose. Garments fell away, revealing her large breasts, his upright organ. This was the advantage of puppet theater: scenes too explicit for live actors could be shown. Bawdy cheers filled the courtyard as Okiku and Bannojo embraced. Hirata, already too aroused, could hardly bear it. His manhood fully erect now, he feared that Lady Ichiteru and everyone else would notice his condition. Trying to sound businesslike, he said, “Have you ever seen a square, black lacquer bottle of ink with Lady Harume’s name written in gold on the stopper?”
An involuntary gulp caught in his throat. While Ofuji watched from outside the door, Bannojo mounted Okiku. Amid sinuous music, the chanter’s moans, and the audience’s raucous exclamations, the puppets simulated the sexual act. Hirata squirmed, but Ichiteru viewed the drama with tranquil detachment.
“When one sees a fancy container of ink… one naturally assumes that it is for writing letters…” Another veiled glance. “Perhaps letters of… love.”
The last word, spoken on a whisper, sent a shiver through Hirata. Lady Ichiteru raised her hand to her temple, as if to brush away a stray hair. Without looking at him, she lowered her hand, letting the wide sleeve of her kimono fall across Hirata’s lap. His loins throbbed at the sudden pressure of its heavy fabric; he gasped. Had she done it by accident, or deliberately? How should he respond?
He tried to concentrate on the continuing drama onstage, where morning had come, bringing the unexpected arrival of Okiku’s husband, Jimbei. Ofuji triumphantly informed him that his wife and brother had betrayed him. Jimbei, the stern, noble samurai, confronted his wife. Okiku tried to explain the cruel trick played upon her, but honor demanded revenge. Jimbei stabbed his wife through the chest. Ofuji begged him to marry her, swearing eternal love for him, but Jimbei stormed off in search of his duplicitous brother.
Under cover of her sleeve, Lady Ichiteru’s hand moved onto Hirata’s thigh. She began to massage it. Hirata felt her touch as if against his naked flesh, warm and smooth. Breathing hard, he hoped the audience was too engrossed in the play to see. Lady Ichiteru’s impassive expression didn’t change. But now he knew that her provocation was intentional. She had maneuvered their whole encounter to this point.