Despite Tomiko’s warning, Hiro and Father Mateo walked right past the narrow alley on Shijō Road. When they reached the Kamo River, they retraced their steps until they found the unnamed alley, little more than a gap between an ancient apothecary and a brothel too low-class to afford a space in nearby Pontocho.
“I never would have looked for a brewery here,” Father Mateo said.
As they entered the alley, daylight dropped to twilight, blocked by the buildings’ eaves and faded laundry hanging overhead. Mildew and rotting garbage perfumed the air.
Father Mateo coughed and raised a hand to his mouth.
Hiro stifled the almost overwhelming urge to follow suit. The odors burned his sensitive nose and set his eyes to watering. Only the lowest sort of drunk would patronize a dismal place like this.
A pair of sake barrels stood outside the narrow entrance to a building that shared a wall with the apothecary’s shop. A faded indigo noren hung in the entrance. Blocky characters on the barrels and the noren read LUCKY MONKEY, but the door beyond the noren was closed and locked.
“That’s strange,” Hiro said.
“Hardly surprising,” Father Mateo answered. “It’s early yet.”
“Yes,” Hiro said, “but a hanging noren indicates the shop is open.”
Trailing fragments of spiderweb dangled from the noren’s edges, capturing dust and dirt instead of flies.
“Then again,” Hiro said, “this one may never come down at all.”
He reached between the panels and knocked hard on the wooden door.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t disturb them,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro glanced over his shoulder at the priest. “Mourning rituals can’t begin until they wash and dress the corpse. I’m sure that hasn’t happened yet.”
Father Mateo ran a hand through his hair. “I may not share this family’s faith, but I do respect their grief. Imposing on their sorrow—”
“—seemed a good enough idea when we left Ginjiro’s half an hour ago.” Hiro finished the Jesuit’s thought with different words. “If we do not interrupt them now, the magistrate may execute Ginjiro prematurely.”
Hiro turned and knocked again.
Footsteps approached from the other side. The door swung open, revealing a barrel-chested youth with greasy hair and wrinkled trousers. He wore no shirt, his feet were bare, and he smelled like yesterday’s sweat and stale sake.
Hiro recognized the man as Kaoru, Chikao’s son.
“What do you want?” The young man frowned at Hiro with no sign of recognition. He squinted at Father Mateo and added, “You’re not Japanese.”
The Jesuit started to bow, but a look from Hiro turned the gesture into an awkward nod. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest, from Portugal.”
Kaoru drew the door open farther. He stepped back as if inviting them to enter. “Mother said she sent for priests. She hasn’t returned from the temple, but you can wait inside if you want to.”
Father Mateo opened his mouth, but Hiro shook his head and stepped inside. Wise men didn’t explain mistakes until the host had missed his chance to slam the door.
Father Mateo followed without comment.
Kaoru led the visitors through the entry and into a twelve-mat room. Medium-grade tatami covered the floor. Cheap wooden backrests along the walls and a counter along the left side of the room identified the space as the Lucky Monkey’s drinking room.
Decorative scrolls adorned the walls, but their uneven strokes betrayed a novice hand. The monochromatic ink bled away from the images in jagged lines, like unwanted vines growing wild into a wall.
Three large barrels stood in a corner behind the wooden counter, and a line of lacquered sake flasks stood like soldiers on the countertop. In places, the lacquer had worn away, revealing a black undercoat beneath. The choice of lacquered wooden flasks, instead of expensive stoneware, came as no surprise in a place like this.
The smell of last night’s grease in the air diminished Kaoru’s personal odor slightly. The lack of adequate ventilation, combined with a low, slatted ceiling, gave the room an oppressive feel. Hiro resolved to leave as soon as possible.
Kaoru walked to a sliding door on the far side of the room. He paused. “My father lies through here.”
Hiro shook his head. “We are not the priests your mother summoned.”
“Then who are you?” Kaoru asked.
“We have business with your mother,” Hiro said.
“Who are you?” Kaoru repeated. “Why have you disturbed a house of mourning?”
Hiro gestured to the Jesuit. “Father Mateo introduced himself already. I am his translator, Matsui Hiro.” After a pause just long enough to allow the youth to absorb the information, Hiro added, “The Jesuit carries the rank of samurai.”
Kaoru should have bowed. He didn’t.
“May I ask your name?” Father Mateo asked in a quiet voice.
Hiro recognized the Jesuit’s attempt to ease the tension.
“I am Kaoru,” the young man said.
“We hoped your mother would grant us a favor,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro considered the overture ill-advised. He didn’t know Kaoru well, but the young man’s appearance and reputation didn’t suggest a helpful nature. The Jesuit should have waited for the widow.
Kaoru squinted at Father Mateo and then at Hiro. “I can’t understand the foreigner. He needs to speak Japanese.”
“I am speaking Japanese,” Father Mateo said.
Kaoru raised a hand to his forehead. “I have a headache. What is he trying to say?”
Hiro didn’t expect most people to bow and scrape because of his samurai status, but Kaoru’s arrogance went too far in the other direction. This came as no surprise. Kaoru had acted just as rudely the few times Hiro saw him at Ginjiro’s.
It was time to make Chikao’s son behave.
Hiro straightened his shoulders and laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I know you, Kaoru, though clearly you do not remember me.”
Kaoru rubbed his eyes and squinted, lips apart and breathing through his mouth. At last he said, “Ginjiro’s. I saw you there.”
Hiro nodded. Since they had never spoken, he had not expected Kaoru to remember.
“What are you doing here?” Kaoru demanded. “I said I would pay the bill.”
Before Hiro could follow up on this revealing comment, Father Mateo said, “We haven’t come about your debt, but if you grant our favor I am sure Ginjiro will show leniency.”
“I don’t need a murderer’s leniency,” Kaoru snapped.
“But Ginjiro and his family do need yours,” the Jesuit said.
Kaoru looked at Hiro. “What did he say? I don’t understand his foreign talk.”
Hiro’s frustration rose. “You understood him fine just now.”
“I didn’t.” Kaoru rubbed his temple. “I cannot understand a word he says.”
Hiro stifled a sigh and repeated Father Mateo’s words. Arguments only wasted precious time.
Kaoru considered the offer. “Ginjiro will cancel my debt if I agree to your request?”
“I said he would show leniency,” Father Mateo said, “I cannot promise cancellation.”
Kaoru looked at Hiro until the shinobi translated the words.
“What help do you need?” Kaoru asked.
Father Mateo continued, with Hiro “translating” each sentence as he finished.
“Ginjiro didn’t kill your father. We need the time to prove it. We wish you to ask the magistrate to delay Ginjiro’s trial so that we can find your father’s real killer.”
“You are mistaken.” Kaoru scowled. “Ginjiro is guilty. Ren told me so when he brought the news—not that I needed his opinion. Just last night, Ginjiro made a threat to kill my father.”
Kaoru stared at Hiro as if trying to force a memory through the fog of his sake headache. “That’s why I know you.” He pointed at Hiro. “You were there. You heard the threat!”