Death on an Autumn River (8 page)

“Who owns all the warehouses?” he asked a porter, who stood waiting beside his cart.

“The ones with the flags belong to the emperor,” he said in a broad dialect.  “It’s part of the palace storehouses.  The others are mostly Master Watamaro’s or belong to temples.”

“Watamaro?  He must be a rich man if he owns so much.”

The man rolled his eyes.  “He’s very rich.  Richer than the emperor maybe, but a lot more generous to the poor.”

Akitada was taken aback by the comparison but let it go.  It was past the time of the midday rice and his stomach growled.  Turning his back on the harbor, he took one of the narrow streets beside the customs house. It led into town and was crowded with signs and paper lanterns belonging to small wine shops and eating places.  They were much smaller and more modest than the crab restaurant Nakahara had taken him to, but Akitada was ravenous.  He chose a restaurant that seemed busier than the rest, perhaps because of the delectable smell of fried fish and a sign that promised “delicacies to make the gods smile”.

Inside, he found a wooden platform extending toward the back where a fat cook dipped into a large cauldron for golden nuggets of fish.  Nobody seemed to mind the heat.  A number of guests sat near the open doors singly or in small groups.  They looked like small tradesmen and travellers.  He threaded his way past them and found an open space where a slight breeze from the doorway made the heat seem less oppressive.  It was too warm for comfort, and the smells coming from the cauldron made him slightly nauseous .

A waitress came with wine and recited a selection of seafood.  Akitada turned down the wine with a shudder and asked for something simple, soup for example.  The waitress frowned but said they had noodle soup with fish and vegetables.  Good enough. 

She left and returned with a large bowl of soup.  Akitada paid a modest sum and tasted the broth.  It was good and settled his delicate stomach wonderfully.  He wolfed down the rest, using his fingers to catch the slippery noodles and chunks of fish. 

The cook had watched him, and when Akitada put down the empty bowl, he caught the man’s eyes and gave him a nod, holding up a finger for another serving.  The cook’s sweating red face broke into a wide smile.  The next bowl arrived with particularly large and tasty bits of fish.

At that moment, a group of men got up to leave, and Akitada’s gaze fell on a strange-looking creature who huddled in a dark corner some ten feet away.  He was about fifty, thin to emaciation, and poorly dressed.  When he turned his head, Akitada almost recoiled.  He was horribly disfigured.  One of his eyes looked upward, showing the white of the eyeball, and a scar carved a jagged cicatrice across his face, having taken part of his nose.  The wound had been deep and when it healed, it had caused his thin-lipped mouth to twist downwards in a permanent sneer.

The ugly man was also staring, but his eyes were on Akitada’s bowl of noodle soup.  He licked his lips, then caught Akitada’s glance and looked away quickly.  Akitada saw the man’s threadbare, patched gown and felt pity. 

After a moment, the other man glanced back and read Akitada’s expression.  The scar on his face darkened.  He inclined his head and got up to leave.

On an impulse, Akitada called out, “Could you spare me a moment of your time?”

The other man, even thinner than before now that he was upright, glanced over his shoulder to see if someone else was meant, then approached slowly.  “Were you addressing me, sir?”

The formal words did not match his appearance.  Akitada adjusted his own tone. “Yes.  If you would have the goodness to join me, I need some information.  Perhaps you would allow me to order you some wine?”

The scarred man bowed, then knelt.  He hesitated.  The scar flamed red again, and he said, “No wine, thank you.  But I could join you in a bowl of noodles.” 

“You would do me an honor.” Akitada gestured to the waitress.

The ugly man bowed again.  “Thank you.  My name is Saburo.  I’m at your service, sir.”

 Close up, the face was even more frightful.  The scar was puckered and pitted.  Normally nearly white against the dark tan, it seemed to change colors with the man’s moods.  Akitada wondered how he had become so disfigured.  The eye, of course, he might have been born with, though more small scars suggested an accident of some sort.  Such disfigurements were not uncommon among the poor, but they frightened small children and made adults look away. 

Life was often unfair.

Akitada smiled at his guest.  “My name is Sugawara.  I’m not from here, and you look like a local man who knows his way around this part of town.”

Saburo’s soup arrived, set down so carelessly by the waitress that some of the broth splashed on Saburo’s patched robe.

Akitada paid and snapped, “Next time watch what you’re doing.”  The waitress slunk off with an apology.

Saburo brushed at the stain. “They would rather not serve me here.  I make the guests uncomfortable.”

“Nonsense.”

Saburo gave Akitada a lopsided grin and raised the bowl to his mouth.  He took a small bite, chewed, then set the soup back down.  “I’m not from here either,” he said, “but I’ve stayed long enough.  Please feel free to ask me whatever you please.”

By now Akitada had such trouble putting the man’s appearance together with his educated speech and courteous manner, that his first question was, “What happened to you?”

Saburo lowered his head and studied the food in his bowl.

Ashamed, Akitada said quickly, “Forgive me.  I had no right to ask.”  He recalled the old waiter in Eguchi.  He, too, had been shockingly reduced to poverty and abuse.

The ugly man’s face contorted into a grimace.  “There is nothing to forgive.  I made a mistake and bad things happened.  They say when the gods want to send disaster, they first give a man some good luck to confuse him and blind him to what is to come.  I was too sure of myself.”

It was no answer, but Akitada accepted it.  The man’s bitterness did not astonish him.  He must have fallen far indeed from his good luck.  He gestured at the half-filled bowl, and said, “Please eat or this good soup will get cold.  Meanwhile I’ll explain.  I came to Naniwa yesterday on business for my ministry.  My young clerk disappeared this morning.  Apparently he came here for a visit.  He is rather young, and he told another clerk that he could manage on his own.  I’m worried about him and need to find him quickly.  What is your advice? Where should I look?  Whom should I ask?  He takes an interest in ships and sailors, but I had no luck in the harbor.” 

Saburo had been eating and listening.  Now he put down his bowl again.  It was empty.  “Why do you need to find him quickly?”

Akitada prevaricated.  “Well, he’s away from his home in the capital for the first time and very inexperienced.  I lost him once before in Eguchi.  There he just got drunk and spent all his money.”

The other man nodded.  “Frustrating.  But it’s only afternoon.  Why the urgency?”

Akitada could not tell this stranger the truth about his assignment and his fears that Sadenari would talk too much.  He said lamely, “He may run into serious trouble in a port city.  And it will soon be night.”

Saburo cocked his head and regarded him thoughtfully.  “Or he may return on his own.  In fact he may be back in Naniwa already.  But if you don’t think so, I could try to find him or ask questions for you.  I know the dives where sailors spend their money, and as you say, a young gentleman may indeed encounter trouble there.  Will you trust me to do that for you?”

It was a reasonable proposition, but Akitada could not avail himself of the offer — even in the unlikely event that it was free.  In truth, the ugly man did not inspire trust.  He had made an impulsive mistake.  With a little laugh, he said, “Thank you, but I think you must be right.  I expect the young rascal’s gone back already and I’d better do the same.  Thank you for your offer, Saburo.”  Reaching into his sash, he extracted a small piece of silver and laid it down between them.  Then he got up.

Saburo was not looking at him.  “I’m in your debt, sir,” he said softly and bowed.

And then, when Akitada was already a few steps away, he added, “Be careful!”

Akitada had no intention of returning to Naniwa without making another effort at finding Sadenari himself.  Even if the rascal had returned from this excursion, Akitada might at least learn how much of their purpose he had given away and to whom.

He left the restaurant quickly and explored the side streets close to the harbor.  Narrow and dirty, they were apparently inhabited by the rough men who worked as porters or did menial labor.  His appearance marked him as an alien presence there, and women and children stared as he passed.  When he stopped to ask about Sadenari, they just shook their heads.  Either Sadenari had not passed this way, or they had no intention of telling him anything.

Eventually even these poor quarters deteriorated.  More men were about, but they wore ragged clothing and their eyes were hard and hungry. 

Be careful!

The ugly man’s warning was ridiculous, of course.  It was still daylight, and he was physically fit.  Besides, they lived in a law-abiding nation, and he had seen many policemen around the harbor.

Still, he was not getting any information and retreated toward the harbor again.  The sun was sinking, and it was time to take a boat back.  By now he wished Sadenari to the devil and hoped he got at least a good drubbing for his foolish excursion.

Just as he was about to approach one of the boatmen, he saw a tall fellow with a tattoo on his leg who looked like a seafaring man.  He paused, wondering if there was any point in asking his question one more time, when the other man spoke to him. “Are you lost, sir?”

Akitada gave him a grateful smile.  “No, I’m not lost, but I’ve been looking for someone.  A young clerk who was visiting the port.  He’s tall and may have been asking about pirates.  It’s a fixed idea of his.”

“Oh, that one.”  The seafaring man laughed.  “We sent him to the sailors’ hostel.  The men are full of stories.  He may still be there.  Would you like me to show you the way?”

Finally!  Akitada felt vindicated in his conviction that he could find Sadenari on his own.  “I don’t want to trouble you,” he said.

“No trouble.  I’m going that way.”

Chatting about local attractions and young men’s enthusiasms, they walked together into the warren of streets and alleys that made up the slums of Naniwa.  As before, hot, hungry eyes followed them, and Akitada was glad to be with this tall, strong companion.  He had begun to think that he should have brought his sword with him. A slattern of a woman exposed her breasts and called out an invitation.  The man with him ignored her.  At the corner of a narrow street, little more than an alleyway, he stopped.  “I have to leave here,” he said, “but the hostel’s at the end of this street.”  He pointed.  “It’s the large building you can see over the rooftops.”

Akitada thanked him and walked down the narrow, winding road.  He did not much like his surroundings, but sailors needed cheap accommodations.  The few houses on either side looked empty and shuttered.  No doubt, their inhabitants worked elsewhere during the day.  In the silence, he could hear the echo of his footfall.

Or perhaps someone else was walking the same way.  He stopped and turned, but he saw no one.  The sun had set, and the narrow street lay in deep shadow.

He reached remnants of a tall fence and thick shrubberies, but a footpath turned the corner to the hostel. It was a mere track between leaning fences and tall weeds.  Uncertain, Akitada stopped again, and this time he heard the steps clearly.

He hurried forward.  The hostel was just ahead; he could reach it before his shadow caught up with him.

He was wrong. 

The footpath led to a dead end.  Between him and the hostel rose a high wall.  He stood in a mere patch of weedy dirt that was being used for cast-off utensils and waste.

And he knew in an instant that he was in trouble.  The helpful man had lied to him and sent him down a blind alley and he was about to find out what trap he had walked into.

He was looking down the path, when two burly men suddenly appeared on either side of him.  Akitada dashed toward the wall.  He saw they had knives — knives with long and sharp blades.  Being unarmed, Akitada had no hope of fighting them.

There was also no point in shouting for help.  In this area, it would do no good at all.  He tried reasoning with them.

“Come, you don’t want trouble, do you?” he said.  “I’m an official from the capital.  Attacking me will bring down the wrath of the government on your entire neighborhood.”

They were big, and the one with the pock-marked face was also heavy and muscular.  The other was thinner but moved like a practiced fighter.  Their faces were dirty and covered with stubble, and their greasy hair hung loose.  They were probably Akitada’s age or a bit younger, but such men lived and fought rough every day of their lives.

And they had knives.

And they were not reasonable men.

They kept coming, slowly, a step at a time.  Warily, but with a predatory gleam in their eyes.  Enjoying themselves.

Akitada pulled all his money from his sash and threw it on the dusty ground in front of them.  “There, take it!”