CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

A FLOCK OF SPARROWS

The performance of Shichisaburo’s company at Kambara’s temple was open-air. The “theater” was defined by large straw mats hung from bamboo palings. From the wings of the temple’s outdoor stage, Shichisaburo looked out over the house, or rather the yard.

Kabuki audiences were always boisterous, and Shichisaburo had the small bruises faded to a purplish yellow on his calves to prove it. The bruises had been inflicted by overwrought fans in the pit, the place-for-packing-them-in. They had reached up and pinched his legs when as the villainous character Lord Kudo he had strayed too near the edge of the stage.

Even so, this audience made Shichisaburo uneasy. The people sitting on temporarily roofed platforms along the two sides were decorous enough. They were in the expensive seats, after all. But the ten-mon ticket holders, the farmers and servants and merchants’ clerks, were crowded into the three center sections—the place-for-packing-them-in, the great beyond, and at the very rear, the deaf gallery. They sat on the ground on bundles of grass or on rented thick, rigid straw cushions that looked like half a tatami. They seemed to be in even more of a ferment than usual.

Most of the farmers had never seen a kabuki performance before. Their hamlets were too far from Edo or Kyoto or saka for them to travel to the theaters there. In any case government decrees forbade their attendance.

The government held that kabuki would waste the farmers’ time and fill their heads with extravagant appetites. They would start using hair oils and tying their topknots with paper cords instead of straw. They would demand umbrellas and barbers, public baths and pawnshops, all of which would surely mean the downfall of the nation. But as with most of the admonitions posted on the government’s bulletin boards, this one was being honored more and more in the breach.

People shouted their orders to the purveyors of boxed lunches and tea and sake as they hawked their wares through the tightly packed crowd. With mouths full of vinegared rice and raw fish, the fans gossiped and discussed the performance and called out encouragement to Dragonfly on stage.

Shichisaburo noticed that the vendors were selling a lot of sake and shochu, a potent brew of sweet potatoes. The farmers were drinking especially heavily.

“A big crowd.” The stage manager peered around the huge, stiffened sleeves of the outer robe Shichisaburo wore for the role of Lord Kud. “We’ll have difficulty clearing away the corpses from the last scene.”

“How many cockroaches?” Shichisaburo asked.

“Only twenty or so of the abbot’s relatives. Most are paying customers.” The stage manager bowed and hurried off to chastise a writer who thought his ideas should take precedence over the leading actor’s. He shook his head at the general state of moral decay that could produce such a preposterous notion.

Shichisaburo had other worries, however.

The Danjuros of the pit will go out on their ears today, he thought.

When young swells of the lower classes got drunk they imitated aragoto, the “rough stuff” acting method of their idol, Ichikawa Danjuro. Brawls sometimes erupted, and the police had to drag the combatants away by their topknots.

Because Danjuro had fallen ill ten days ago, Shichisaburo had been obliged to take over some of his roles and adopt his acting style. Shichisaburo suspected Danjuro had feigned illness long after he was better so he could stay behind in Edo and continue his clandestine affair with a young guardsman.

Shichisaburo knew that ignorance was what made a man resent his fate, but he wasn’t happy to be playing the villain. The “soft stuff” style of the romantic heroes was more to his liking. The swooping blue-and-black-and-purple lines of the “rough stuff” makeup Shichisaburo had painted onto a white powder base were designed to throw his pug nose and well-padded cheekbones, forehead, and chin into high relief. They had transformed his pudgy face into the hideous mask of the evil Lord Kud. Lord Kud’s scowl mirrored Shichisaburo’s mood.

Even with four or five men to hold up the train of his layered robes and the enormous square, shieldlike sleeves, Shichisaburo’s costume weighed him down. He gestured, and an attendant slid a tall stool under him so he could sit back on it and still appear to be standing. It was a device used often on stage to give the actors relief during long scenes.

Normally Shichisaburo would have been napping in the small dressing room curtained off for him, but he couldn’t relax today. He had to see Lady Asano in her first appearance in this dance interlude between acts of The Revenge of the Soga Brothers.

Even though the temperature of the air was brisk, moisture formed where the thin copper base of his huge wig and horned headdress rimmed his painted forehead. He made another subtle gesture, and a hand and towel shot forward to dab delicately at his brow.

Shichisaburo had good reason to perspire. He was taking a tremendous risk inviting Lady Asano to stay on. At the very least he would be reprimanded for allowing a woman to work in his company. And if he were caught harboring a fugitive, his theater would be closed permanently and he himself banished to a place where his acting talents would not be appreciated.

But Shichisaburo enjoyed the intoxication of risk. And he couldn’t just give Lady Asano the money she needed and turn her out as she had suggested. Under Shichisaburo’s fierce makeup was a bland, world-weary visage that in turn belied a tenderness of heart. He couldn’t bear to think of Cat braving the perils of the Tkaid with only that foolish young peasant woman for whom she had developed such an irrational attachment. Besides, Shichisaburo was so short-handed that he was desperate for reliable help.

He needn’t have feared that Cat would betray him by a misstep. Dragonfly had been right. She was a master of bewilderment and a very fast learner. She had had only a few hours’ rehearsal before this performance, but with confidence and grace she now made her debut by way of the musicians’ and stage hands’ small “coward’s door.”

As a kurogo, a “black man,” she was to assist the actors and make sure props were where they should be. She was perfectly obvious to the theatergoers, of course, but she was as invisible as a shadow. She was swathed in the kurogo’s black costume from the top of her head to the toes of her tabi. Her face was covered by a black veil. Because black was the color of nonexistence, Cat didn’t exist.

Cat’s heart was pounding as she ducked through the low door at the rear of the stage. She walked behind the three singers seated in a row and behind the flute and samisen players and the three drummers, all of whom were absorbed in their music. Beyond them stretched the stage. It wasn’t a large stage, but to Cat it looked vast and empty and lofty. Even though Dragonfly was dancing at the other end of it, Cat felt as if, far below, every eye in that sea of heads were watching her. With heart pounding, she crouched in her assigned place near the backdrop and waited for her cue.

Dragonfly was acting the part of a shy waiting maid who had been ordered to rehearse the lion dance. Left alone with the lion mask on a stand, she danced hesitantly at first. As the mask began to exert its power, however, her eyes were drawn more and more often to it.

Finally she went to the stand, knelt, and took the lion head in her hands. Tentatively she clapped the hinged jaws a few times. Then, holding it out in front of her, she began to dance with it in time to the flute and samisen and the chanting of the singers.

Slowly the lion head took control of the young woman. Dragonfly’s tremulous movements became stronger, more powerful. He tried desperately to rid himself of the heavy mask, but he couldn’t. It began leading him around the stage.

Just as the mask had bewitched the waiting maid, so Dragonfly bewitched Cat. She was so mesmerized by his lithe, strenuous performance, she almost missed her cue. When it came she picked up the long flexible rod from which dangled a butterfly of bright red silk stretched over a frame of bamboo slivers. Cat took a deep breath and stood up slowly. Holding the butterfly out in front of the mask, she began her own dance in simple counterpoint to Dragonfly’s elaborate one.

Hanshiro was in the audience, and he was as drawn into Cat’s spell as she was into Dragonfly’s. He stood with arms crossed at the rear of the deaf gallery, near the main entrance, the “rat gate” under the drum turret. He had taken his long-sword from the rolled mat and stuck it back into his sash. His umbrella and his iron fan were at hand.

He had already identified seven men who were probably Kira’s retainers scattered through the crowd. An informer at the temple must have discovered Cat’s presence and alerted them. Hanshiro knew there were informers. One of them had identified Cat’s job on stage for him.

One of Kira’s men wore a towel sling supporting his broken arm. He had ended up in the bottom of the ravine behind the pilgrims’ inn in Mishima after Cat had disabled him. Hanshiro assumed he had been brought along to identify Lady Asano when they captured her.

In spite of the certainty of trouble, Hanshiro concentrated on the small, lissome figure in black. As he watched Cat dance with the rod, he thought it fitting that she should be the butterfly enraging the lion. It was a part she was playing well in the interlude that was life.

The beat of the drums became louder and faster and more insistent. The samisen sounded alarmed. The mask reared and swooped in Dragonfly’s hands as the lion chased the butterfly on the end of Cat’s rod. The wooden blocks rattled, increasing in speed with the swelling music and the drums’ tempo until the tension seemed unendurable. Then, as the clappers gave a resounding crash, Dragonfly turned his back to the audience. Cat crouched unobtrusively again.

Two other black-clad kurogo moved up next to Dragonfly. Each one pulled a thread in the shoulder seams of his robe. The pale purple silk with its drifts of clouds and flights of magpies dropped open. One of the assistants unfastened the wide sash, which also fell away.

Underneath was a dragon’s bloodred robe emblazoned with huge gold flames and silver lightning bolts. Another assistant slipped off Dragonfly’s wig while two more replaced it with the lion’s wild white mane, the train of which dragged on the stage floor. A kurogo held a mirror while Dragonfly, still on stage and in a matter of moments, repainted his makeup.

When he turned back around he had become a ferocious lion spirit. The crowd went wild.

“You’re as good as your father!” they shouted. “We’ve been waiting for this!”

Cat hardly heard them. She and Dragonfly moved as though connected by a taut, invisible cord. Time and again Cat whisked the butterfly out from under the lion’s nose. She teased him with it until Dragonfly was whipping his long white mane about his head in a frenzy.

“Sun!” The crowd was delighted. “Light of my life!”

When Dragonfly chased Cat into the wings the audience applauded wildly. People in the pit threw flowers onto the stage. They called out Dragonfly’s clan name, family name, and art name. The elite in the box seats extemporized poems to his genius.

One by one, Kira’s retainers, using the uproar as cover, closed in from the sides. They reminded Hanshiro of a line from an old poem, “A flock of sparrows raises quarreling voices …” He followed casually at a distance. The men were obviously planning to catch Cat backstage.

Cat didn’t stay backstage long, though. She was to assist for the last act of the Soga brothers’ famous epic. Kasane, now dressed as a boy herself to avoid the theater’s ban on women, quickly handed Cat a towel. Cat lifted her black veil and wiped her sweaty face with it. Her heat was pounding with exertion and excitement.

“Did you see your pilgrim?” Cat whispered.

“Yes!” Kasane’s eyes sparkled. “He’s sitting near the front. He sent another poem.” She put a hand to her waist where the letter was hidden under the sash of her jacket.

“I’ll help you read it when the performance is over.” Cat ducked back through the “coward’s door” and crouched at the rear of the stage again while the turmoil died down.

Now that she had finished the most difficult part of her duties, she could look out over the crowd and see individuals instead of a noisy blur. The first individual she saw was Hanshiro.

“Burei-mono!” she muttered. “Impudent clod!”

Once she discovered Hanshiro she wasn’t surprised to see his cronies, Kira’s retainers, flanking the stage. Their robes were tucked up, and their sleeves were tied back for action. The pairs of swords projecting from their sashes marked them as samurai. Various affectations, such as the patterns on their jackets, the knots in their sashes, and the way they wore their headbands, identified them as residents of Edo.

Cat also recognized the man with the broken arm, and she was sure that more of Kira’s lackeys were stationed behind the theater to cut off her retreat. In the middle of it all sat Kasane’s pilgrim, enrapt and oblivious.

“Daikon! Radish!” A roar of disapproval met Shichisaburo’s entrance. During the first two acts the pit had formed a strong dislike for the villainous Lord Kud.

Shichisaburo gamely declaimed his lines, although he was drowned out by cheers when the gallant Soga brothers appeared. The cheers turned to more shouts of “Radish!” and “Turnip!” when Kud motioned imperiously for his guard to arrest the brothers.

“This play is no good!” A hulking farmer stood up in the third row. “Those two brave young men can’t fight against so many. I, Buhei, am strong.” He pushed up the sleeves of his coat to show the corded muscles of his arms. “I’ll help them.”

“Yes, help them!” the farmers shouted. Their fury at Kud’s villainy spread to the rest of the fans in the pit, many of whom were primed by sake for a diversion anyway.

“Help them!” The cry was taken up as far back as the deaf gallery, where people weren’t even sure what was going on.

Someone threw a heavy straw cushion at Shichisaburo, who ducked. The cushion landed with a smack on the wooden floor of the stage. The kurogo tried to fend off the mats that followed, but the musicians crowded through the “coward’s door.”

Shichisaburo hiked up his skirts and fled for the wings in a hail of mats, wooden lunch boxes, soft persimmons, and chopsticks.

Women started screaming. The farmers stormed the stage. The pilgrim, fearing for Kasane’s safety, began laying about him with his staff, and a brawl broke out in the pit.

In his haste to escape, one of the musicians knocked a round box off a stand just inside the wings. Shichisaburo’s wooden head fell out of it and bounced across the stage. Buhei reached it first and held it up triumphantly by the topknot. The people in the deaf gallery cheered and surged forward.

Cat saw Kira’s men shoving through the crowd. They would reach the wings before she could. Hanshiro was close behind them.

The last singer was at the nearby “coward’s door” pushing the man ahead of him into the one ahead of him. Cat grabbed him by the back of the sash and whirled him away. He collided with the first of Kira’s men climbing onto the stage. They tumbled over the edge and into the farmers.

As Cat ducked through the low door, she scooped up a chopstick. When the samurai who was following her cleared the low lintel and raised his head, she swung the pointed end upward. She gave it the full force of her arm, stabbing it through the back of his chin. As the chopstick drove into his palate, it impaled his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He dropped to his knees in the doorway and made squealing noises in his throat as he clawed at the short, protruding butt of the stick.

Cat couldn’t see Hanshiro using his fan and umbrella to dispatch her enemies in the melee on stage. “‘A flock of sparrows,’” he chanted to himself as he sent another man sprawling, “‘raises quarreling voices for a place to sleep.’”

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Nameless, who attacked Hanshiro with the stout stick on which he had carried his lanterns. Hanshiro was surprised to see Nameless, but he wasn’t surprised to find him a challenging adversary, even for one so young. The two of them were fencing with umbrella and stick when the police entered the rat gate and people began scattering through the matting along the sides.

“What’s happening, younger brother?” Backstage, Kasane was wide-eyed with fear.

“Ruffians!” Dragonfly ran shrieking toward them. “Save me from the uncultured beasts.” When he clutched at Cat she felt the weight of a packet of coins drop into her sleeve. “Follow my son,” Dragonfly whispered.

He started screaming hysterically again, and he kept on screaming. He was screaming when he brought a stool down hard on the first of Kira’s men to find his way through the dark maze of backstage corridors, piled with scenery, curtains, and props.

The boy slid open a closet door under a stairway and pulled away the pile of bedding stored there. He had washed off his makeup, but he still wore his red maid’s robes, geta, and wig. Cat and Kasane crawled into the closet as Dragonfly’s son’s head disappeared through a trapdoor in the floor and down a ladder.

Kasane scrambled after him. Cat followed and closed the door over her, leaving them in darkness. She could smell the dust of centuries in the passageway. It must have been built for escape when bands of warrior-priests and monks from rival temples attacked and counterattacked in the ancient wars. Cat heard a rat’s squeak and the skitter of small toenails across the plastered wall. She jumped when she felt the boy’s gentle touch on her arm.

“Exchange clothes with me,” he whispered. From overhead came shouts and the heavy tread of running feet.

Feeling slow and clumsy in the dark, confined space, Cat stripped off her black head covering, the veil, her black jacket, trousers, and tabi. Going by feel, she handed them to the boy and received his robes and geta and wig in return.

“Continue along this passage.” As he whispered he put on the kurogo’s costume. Kasane buttoned the tabi for him while he tied the sash. “It will bring you out in a chapel to Jiz-sama in the cedar grove. There’s a small door in the wall there.”

“What will happen to all of you?” Cat asked.

“Shichisaburo-san will talk us out of this. He has before.” The boy didn’t have to say that without Cat and Kasane there to incriminate them, the official inquiry would go much better.

He started up the ladder again. “Father says to tell you to be careful of Satta Pass,” he whispered over his shoulder. “It’s dangerous. But the view is the most beautiful in the world.”

Cat and Kasane saw his slender form black against the wedge of light when he opened the door. Then he closed it, leaving them in total darkness again.