I. Parker - The Crane Pavillion

Akitada rose and staggered. “Thank you for your information. Perhaps another time. This is not a good day.”

The fat man stumbled up and bowed, wringing his hands with disappointment and making other enticing suggestions as he followed Akitada out.

An icy gust of wind hit Akitada as he emerged from the ageya . There was less rain mixed in with the cold air, but he was already drenched, his robe heavy with moisture, and he shivered. But his tiredness was worse. He worried if he was getting sick. He was so sleepy and his head felt so fuzzy by now that his surroundings had become a confusing blur. He limped out of the quarter, bumping into people and staggering once. No doubt they thought him just another drunk.

Outside the quarter, the street was dark and empty. An occasional man or woman hurried homeward with a lantern, its light making wet walls and shrubs glisten. Akitada turned north in search of the Rokujo Palace. The Palace was a minor imperial residence that took its name from Rokujo Avenue, or Sixth Avenue. It occupied large grounds and was frequently inhabited by imperial women. That a courtesan had moved into the neighborhood must raise some eyebrows when people became aware of it. Otherwise, the locale was so far removed from the willow quarter and its activities that a man like Kanemoto would find it a perfect place to hide his demanding mistress. It was also another long walk.

When Akitada reached Rokujo Avenue after having had to rest several times, he saw that the palace took up two city blocks but was hidden behind high walls, a two-story gate, and tree-covered grounds inside. The trees tossed in the wind, and their wet leaves covered the street.

The other houses on Rokujo Avenue were substantial and probably belonged to high-ranking officials or important families. These would not be within the reach of a gangster, no matter high rich or powerful. The side streets were another matter. Here there were tidy houses in small gardens, belonging perhaps to minor officials or military officers. And here he would be more likely to find Kanemoto and the woman called the Phoenix.

His feet slow and his mind dulled by exhaustion, he hardly knew where to start. Fortunately, his search was brief. He encountered a servant who was hurrying homeward with a barrel of sake on his shoulder. On Akitada’s question about new neighbors, he pointed to a house at the end of the street.

Like the others, this house hid behind a tall fence. Its gate was closed, and Akitada could see only the roof of a building beyond. But someone was home, for light shimmered in the wet branches of a tree. Akitada pulled a rope, and somewhere inside a small bell sounded.

Through the latticed window of the gate, Akitada could see a garden path of stones laid into moss. It curved around a bush and disappeared. Suddenly, a small figure skipped around the bush, a young girl, exquisitely dressed in many-colored silks, her wooden sandals clacking on the stones. She was holding a large piece of oiled paper over her head with both hands and her long hair was flying behind her. She was smiling at him.

For a moment, Akitada was transported to an elegant restaurant in Hakata and a small girl like this one waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs to give him a note from a beautiful woman. That woman had subsequently died because he had not accepted her invitation.

This young girl, like the other one, was a courtesan-in-training and served a ruling choja . He knew he had found the right house, and was about to meet the woman who had witnessed a murder. It had been surprisingly easy in the end.

As he thought this, the gate opened, and the smiling girl peered up at him.

“Please take me to your mistress,” he said, smiling back at her.

“You are expected, sir?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said firmly, then felt guilty for lying to a child. It was ridiculous, because this young girl was learning things that were much worse than telling a lie.

She bowed and stepped aside as he walked in. Suddenly exhaustion seized him again and he could barely walk. The long day and night and the many miles he had traveled had taken their toll. His old injury caused a shooting pain in his left knee every time he put weight on it. Gritting his teeth, he limped after the small girl, aware that he made a very poor figure as a prospective lover.

He hardly saw where he was going until they reached the main room, a spacious affair with tatami mats on the floor, green shades across shutters in the back, and an inordinate number of clothes racks covered with silks in all colors. Three women were busy unpacking the many trunks that stood open and revealed more luxurious clothing. Akitada took in the scene at a quick glance. Two of the women were maids by their ordinary clothing, but the third was the one he had come to find.

Chiyo, or the Phoenix as she was being called in the willow quarter, resembled the bird of paradise in her multi-colored silks, but there the comparison ended for Akitada. He saw a tall woman of above average weight-though he guessed at the latter because her face was round. Her elaborate clothing hid much of her body. He supposed that many men would find her attractive, even seductive. Her height and bearing were impressive, her features even, and she had long, glossy hair, now tied in back with a red silk ribbon. But he did not think her graceful enough, nor her figure particularly pleasing.

She looked at him with an expression that was part irritation and part curiosity. He wondered if she would turn away a nobleman simply because he was wet and his visit was inconvenient. Before he could speak, she said, “What gives me the pleasure, sir?” and made him a slight bow.

Well, she had some manners in any case. Still, if Saburo’s tale had been accurate, she was the mistress of a notorious gangster, had witnessed a murder, and had used her knowledge to extort this house and payment of her debts from the murderer. The little girl’s readiness to admit him also suggested that she was not faithful to Kanemoto.

He said, “You are the courtesan Chiyo, known as the Phoenix?”

She smiled. “I am a private person now.”

“I believe you know a man called Kanemoto. Is he here?”

The smile disappeared. “Nobody is here but a few women.” She gestured at her scattered belongings. “We have just arrived. I think you must have come to the wrong house.”

Akitada realized he was too tired to think straight. “Do you mind if I rest for a moment?”

At her gesture, one of the maids brought him a silk cushion. She said, “Please rest, sir. Perhaps a cup of wine?” Without waiting for his answer, she clapped her hands. “Quick, Kimi and Keiko. Wine and snacks.” The maids left, and Akitada sank down on the cushion with a slight groan. She came to kneel across from him.

“You are exhausted, sir. You are not ill, I hope?” she said, eyeing him searchingly from rather fine eyes.

“No, not ill. Just tired. Thank you. I shall be all right in a moment. Perhaps water would be better than wine.” He had had too much wine already.

She rose smoothly and went to fetch it. He sat, and rested, emptying his mind. Somewhere a gate closed, and Akitada fell into a brief doze.

A moment later, he awoke. The Phoenix was back, pouring him a cup of water from a pitcher as one of the maids set out a tray with small rice cakes, nuts, and a flask of wine.

He drank thirstily and held out the cup for more water. She refilled it. Slowly, he came to his senses again. It was most pleasant, sitting here in a warm, dry house surrounded by young women. A delightful scent emanated from Phoenix, who had moved a little closer. The maids returned to their unpacking.