Shinju by Laura Joh Rowland Page B

Sano could see three identical cubicles. In each, an artist knelt at a sloping desk. One was cutting lines in a block of wood with a metal gouge. A second inked a finished block and pressed it against asheet of white paper. The other was adding color to a finished print.
    Cherry Eater stopped before the closed door of a fourth cubicle. “Noriyoshi’s,” he said, sliding it open.
    Sano entered, stepping around the two pairs of wooden sandals on the veranda. His head grazed the low ceiling. Like the others, the room was very small; the desk against one wall took up much of the floor and left just enough space for a man to sleep. Frayed, sawdust-strewn mats covered the floor. Beside the desk a wooden toolbox lay open, revealing a collection of knives, picks, and gouges. A fresh block of wood sat on the desk. Next to it was an ink sketch, and a pot of crusty, dried wheat paste with a brush stuck in it. Noriyoshi had evidently been preparing to transfer the drawing to the woodblock for carving. Sano did a double take when he looked at the sketch. It was a
shunga
piece, in the same style as those in the shop, but featuring two men.
    â€œA special edition for a special client, heh, heh.” Cherry Eater hovered at Sano’s elbow, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Samurai often have an interest in such things, no?”
    Sano ignored the hint. Although he had never practiced manly love, nor wanted to, he shared the prevailing opinion of this and other sexual matters: whatever people do in private is all right as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else. Besides, he was tired of the art dealer’s innuendos and didn’t much care what Cherry Eater thought of him or his class. He turned to a battered wooden cabinet that stood against the wall opposite the desk.
    The mended garments, worn bedding, chipped crockery, and collection of inks, brushes, charcoal sticks, and sketches he found inside told him nothing he didn’t already know: that Noriyoshi had been an artist of some talent and limited income. Sano was finishing a cursory inspection of some cotton kimonos when his hand touched something hard. He pulled out a small drawstring pouch. Its weight surprised him—until he opened it and saw the gold
koban
inside. There must have been at least thirty of the shiny ovalcoins, enough to keep a large family in comfort for a year. Surely too much for a poor artist to possess, or to earn by legitimate means.
    â€œDo you know where this came from?” Sano asked Cherry Eater.
    With amazing swiftness, Cherry Eater’s hand flicked out and snatched the pouch. He tucked it into his coat, saying, “It’s mine. Noriyoshi sometimes collected payments for me.”
    Sano looked from the proprietor’s innocent face to his feet. Frustration mounted as he watched them shift: Cherry Eater was lying again. Sano resisted the impulse to beat the truth out of the man. His better instincts told him to have patience and seek another path to knowledge. If he didn’t find it, he could always come back to the shop.
    â€œThank you for your kind cooperation,” he said. “May I have a word with your employees now?” Maybe they could tell him more about Noriyoshi’s activities.
    A short time later, Sano walked back through the passage to the shopfront more frustrated than ever. The three artists, all at least twenty years younger than Noriyoshi, had not known their colleague well. They’d only worked there for a year since coming to Edo from the provinces, they said; he hadn’t spent much time with them, and they didn’t know where he went or with whom he associated during his leisure hours. Sano questioned each man alone, and he thought they were telling the truth. If Noriyoshi’s friends proved as close-mouthed as Cherry Eater, he would have to canvass the whole quarter in search of someone who could and would give him more information. Maybe Tsunehiko could help,