The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn (18 page)

The waddling
figure of Lord Shakuheki now
appeared.
He discovered Nanaho’s
body and took the jeweled cross from her kimono, raising it high in
triumph. But Genji rushed forward to confront
him.

The actor playing Lord Shakuheki
drew his own sword and slashed him across the face. As Tomomi
directed, the blow struck Genji across the right cheek. Seikei
pressed his hand to his cheek, smearing a concealed oilskin packet
of red paint across his face.

And now . . . the line he had
rehearsed so many times: “I swear that I will see you disgraced,”
shouted Seikei, and leaped through a window, escaping the fate of
the others.

The cast agreed that the play was
a thrilling one, though some pointed out to Tomomi that the last
line was puzzling. It left the audience wanting another
scene.

“There is one more scene,” said
Tomomi, “but Yukio and I will rehearse it together.”

“Will you appear in
it?”

“Yes. He and I are the only
characters.”

“Then Nanaho will return to Lord
Shakuheki as a ghost? What does she say?”

But Tomomi only shook his head
mysteriously. “It will be a surprise,” he said. “You will learn it
tonight, when we perform the play for the shogun.”

Of course, everyone wanted to know
the secret now, but Tomomi refused to let the others watch. “Get
something to eat,” he said. “Then pack the costumes and props. We
will leave for the performance at sundown.”

Seikei followed the others out of
the room. Though

he too was curious about the last
scene, his head was buzzing with everything he had learned. If only
there were some way to find Judge Ooka! Tomomi’s motive for
stealing the jewel was now clear. And the jewel itself might not be
resting at the shrine of Amaterasu—Tomomi might have put a false
one there, knowing that Seikei would tell the judge.

Suddenly a voice interrupted
Seikei’s thoughts. “What did you think of it?”

It was Kazuo, grinning
broadly.

“The play?” replied Seikei. “The
play is a crazy—”

“No, I mean my performance,” said
Kazuo. “Do you think the shogun will like it?”

Seikei shook his
head ruefully. “Kazuo,” he said, “don’t you remember the night when
Tomomi said that
he
was Genji, the son of Takezaki Kita?”

The night he took your sword away?
That didn’t mean anything.” Kazuo chuckled. “Tomomi was just
writing the play in his head. He always pretends he’s one of the
characters. He never stops acting, even when he’s off stage. It’s
one of the things that makes the teahouse girls fall in love with
him.”

“But the play is true,” Seikei
insisted. “And tonight we’re going to perform it for Lord Hakuseki.
He’s the real Lord Shakuheki. It’s obvious. Don’t you see? This is
part of Tomomi’s revenge.”

“Oh, no. You’re wrong,” said Kazuo
confidently. “Nobody would be that foolish. If that were true, the
lord would probably kill us all.”

Seikei nodded grimly. That was
exactly what would happen. His only hope was that Judge Ooka had
guessed correctly where the path would lead. He sighed. Not even
the judge could know that. But Seikei was pledged to follow it to
the very end.

22: The Performance

Seikei had not been able to eat. He
was too nervous about what might happen at the performance of the
play. All afternoon, he had drunk cups of tea, trying to calm his
stomach. The tea had only caused him to become more resltess. His
mind returned over and over to the story of Tomomi, the wandering
actor, the samurai, the thief.

Each time Seikei had thought he
had solved the puzzle, Tomomi did something that caused a new
mystery. When Seikei discovered that Tomomi had taken the jewel,
Tomomi surprised him by leaving it at the shrine of Amaterasu. Then
Seikei found that Tomomi was indeed the samurai he claimed to be.
He had a samurai’s sword, and knew the skills it took to use it.
But then why did he follow the life of a kabuki actor?

Seikei kept thinking nervously
about the real sword that he had discovered in Tomomi’s trunk. For
a brief moment, Seikei had held it on stage during the rehearsal,
but his role had not required him to draw it from the scabbard. It
remained hidden, like the secrets that Tomomi had yet to
reveal.

At sunset, the troupe gathered
their trunks and set out for Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki. In the
streets, the celebration of the bon festival was still going on,
but Seikei paid no attention to the merrymaking. He said a silent
prayer to his own ancestors, but sensed that they were far away in
Osaka and could not find him here.

At the checkpoint to the inner
city, Tomomi showed a paper and the guard waved them through. The
troupe made their way through the winding streets, finally arriving
at Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki, where the banner with his mon flew over
the gate. But the guards there would not let them through, even
after Tomomi showed his paper.

Seikei felt a sudden surge of
hope. Perhaps they would be unable to enter, and have to return to
the inn. But no. It was only that lowly kabuki actors could not
pass through the main gate, which was reserved for nobles and
samurai. Instead, they had to proceed around the wall to a lesser
gate meant for tradespeople and merchants.

At the side gate, a servant was
waiting, and let them inside. As Seikei filed through with the
others, he realized that this was a perfect way to smuggle a sword
inside the yashiki. No one bothered to look inside the trunks the
troupe carried. No one thought them worthy of a second
glance.

Inside they passed through a
splendid garden. Even in the twilight, Seikei could see that it was
planted with gorgeous flowers and trees that were pruned neatly
into shapes that dazzled the eye. It was a breathtaking sight, one
that must have required dozens of gardeners to maintain. But after
a second, Seikei thought of the simple rock garden at Judge Ooka’s
house. The judge’s garden invited the viewer to look within
himself. The one in Lord Hakuseki’s yashiki forced people to
contemplate the greatness of the man who owned it. And of course, a
truly great man would never do that.

The servant led the troupe into a
great hall. “Here is where the lord entertains his guests,” said
the servant. “Prepare swiftly, for they arrive soon.”

As Seikei looked around, he saw
that there was no place for an audience to watch the play. “Where
will the daimyo’s guests sit?” he asked.

Tomomi pointed to tall bamboo
screens that sat around the walls of the hall. “Behind those,” he
said. “The daimyo and his guests are too high in rank to let actors
look upon them. It would wound the shogun’s dignity to reveal that
he was watching our performance.”

“But how can they see us through
the screens?”

“Go and look.”

Seikei slipped behind one of the
tall screens. Though it was dark here, he could feel comfortable
cushions resting on the floor. When he turned, he could see the
actors lighting lanterns on the stage. The slits between the strips
of bamboo in the screen were wide enough to see through.

He was disappointed. He was
curious to see what the shogun looked like, but even more he wanted
to know if Judge Ooka had followed the correct path and come to
attend the performance. It was a slim hope, but his only
one.

The traveling troupe was
accustomed to set up their performances in the courtyards of
shrines, in Buddhist monastery halls, even in an empty field if
that was the only place for an audience to gather. A kabuki
performance depends on the ability of the actors to create a scene
in the imagination of the audience, so there is little scenery. A
hiding place, a rock from which lovers can leap, or a wall with a
doorway or window—like the one Seikei would use to escape—are all
that is necessary. Colored lanterns, the musicians, and the actors’
skill do the rest. It did not take long to prepare for the
performance.

Still, Seikei sensed some
nervousness among the actors as they dressed for their roles. This
would be the most important performance of their lives.

Kazuo helped him put on makeup and
found a kimono that indicated Seikei’s status as the son of a
daimyo. As usual, Tomomi had gone behind his own screen to conceal
his preparations. Nobody would see him until it was time for him to
go on stage. “It’s a great night for us,” Kazuo whispered.
“Everybody is hoping we’ll get a big present from the daimyo if the
shogun is pleased.”

Seikei didn’t have the heart to
warn Kazuo that he would consider them lucky to escape with their
lives. “How will we be able to tell what they think of the
performance?” he asked. “We can’t even see them.”

“We did this kind of thing,
performing in front of screens, once before at a monastery,” Kazuo
replied. “Watch the screens. If the people really like what they
see, the slits will open wider.”

There was no time to ask how that
was possible. They had barely finished dressing when the daimyo’s
servant appeared. “The guests are seating themselves,” he said. “Do
not make them wait.”

The musicians
took their places at the side of the stage. Looking at each other,
they nodded.
Clack! Clack!
went the wooden clappers, and the play was
on.

Seikei was among those in the
first scene. He carried a string of beads with a cross on the end
in a procession that let the audience know that the family were
Kirishitans. Tomomi had scheduled dances and songs to enliven this
part. One member of the troupe performed magic tricks. The audience
accepted all this as part of the Kirishitan religion.

The troupe’s magician was
particularly good tonight, using all of his best illusions. Seikei
was close enough to see that he hid some kind of powder in his hand
before thrusting a sword into a lantern. Suddenly flames ran down
the blade of the sword, and the actor waved it about the stage.
Acrobats responded by turning backflips as if to escape from
him.

Seikei had been too nervous to
look toward the bamboo screens. But when he heard crackling sounds,
he glanced out in the direction of the audience. Some of the
onlookers had thrust folding fans between the strips of bamboo. By
unfolding the fans, they opened the slits wider. Seikei caught a
glimpse of an eye staring at him before he turned back to his stage
business.

The music rang out faster, with
the dancers following suit, their brightly colored robes streaming
behind them. Seikei realized that Kazuo was right: the troupe was
displaying all the skills they could summon, and truly the
performance was splendid. Then, when the stage was filled with
color and movement, a graceful figure appeared, clad in blue
silk.

The dancers stopped in position,
as if they had suddenly turned to stone. All eyes went to Tomomi,
playing his own mother. She broke into a song that gradually rose
above the music. Dancing across the stage, she glided past the
other actors like a leaf blown by the wind.

Tomomi surpassed the simple
illusion that he was a woman: he became a goddess come to earth.
Seikei heard the crackling of the screens all around the stage as
the audience sought to get a better look. Seikei himself could not
take his eyes off Tomomi.

She sang of the two men who loved
her. One offered her his purity of heart and devotion to honor. The
other offered her wealth and luxury. She made the only choice that
a samurai woman could.

Behind him, Seikei heard a muffled
cry. Lord Hakuseki had recognized the plot of the play. Seikei
stiffened, waiting for a more violent reaction. But nothing
happened as Tomomi finished the song, telling of the birth of her
son. Now she danced to where Seikei stood. As she placed her arms
around him, the stage went dark.

Quickly, the actors rose and
reassembled for the next scene, a banquet at which their neighbor
Lord Shakuheki was the guest of honor. Yukio, playing the daimyo,
seemed more ridiculous than ever in contrast to the grace and
beauty of Tomomi’s performance. Seikei heard chuckles behind the
screens that concealed the audience.

But behind one screen there was an
ominous silence.

Seikei, seated at the edge of the
stage for the banquet, cautiously looked at the silent screen.
There was no fan holding open the slits; a large hand, with shining
gold rings on two fingers, pressed down on the bamboo strips.
Seikei had seen those rings before— they belonged to Lord
Hakuseki.

As the play continued, it was
clear that most of the audience were enjoying themselves. Like the
actors, they assumed that the play was a tragedy in which the
Takezaki family had doomed themselves by following the banned
Kirishitan religion. The music and dances that accompanied the
action were sometimes so entertaining that some behind the bamboo
screens applauded.

The troupe played the battle scene
for all the thrills they could draw from it. By now, the slits in
the bamboo screens were open all around the hall, and Seikei heard
the onlookers exclaim with pleasure at each bloody death. Kazuo
must have been proud at the gasps that greeted his severed head
bouncing across the stage.