The Master Puppeteer: Chapters 8–11

February thawed into March, and March after a show of fickleness warmed into April.

For the others at the Hanaza, the bandit’s message was a source of excited speculation.

An assistant magistrate came on horseback accompanied by two underassistants, each of whom had brought five of his own assistants, which indicated how seriously the matter was being regarded by the daimyo.

Jiro was carefully sweeping the courtyard for the third time when the assistant magistrate, his men following behind like proud ducklings after a pompous mother, marched into the courtyard.

The master puppeteer sounded more like a poor relative at a New Year’s feast. His obsequious voice went on. “You, sir, are an unusual man, being able, in this way, to put the good of the city first. I suppose a lesser man would be tempted—thinking only of his honor—or even of the reward.”

“Oh, I see,” Yoshida said. “Of course, you’re right. He’d never come here. Not even Saburo is that brazen. He’s not stupid, after all.”

Kinshi and Jiro stood in the wings and looked over the audience of police and paupers.

It was as though a fisherman had thrown out his net without looking and hauled in a catch of stinging nettles along with a few shiny carp and a fat octopus or two.

And when Fusamu danced her manic dance and the “body” of Joman was carried to safety, they jumped to their feet and stamped the floor. “Banzai!” they screamed.

He designed a series of tests in order to discover the identity of his would-be betrayer. But not even the wily Joman suspected that his own wife was prepared to turn him in to the authorities.

In the darkness the soldiers crept up to surround the house. They had seen the signal. Everyone but the hapless Joman had seen it.

Suddenly she heard a voice from inside the house—it was Joman singing an old ballad about the fickleness of women and the shortness and uncertainty of human life.

"Throw out the hull which once housed such poisonous fruit that it may be eaten by the crows. Then get you to the temple to pray that your hands which are contaminated with evil may be cleansed.”

“Too much has been construed.”

Yoshida turned to Jiro, his head bent forward, his voice ingratiating. “You, boy, go bring some wine for the gentlemen here—and some kimonos for them to wear until their clothes arrive.”

Yoshida's cruelty was as much of an act as his subservience in his dealings with the police had been.

Yoshida met Jiro's staring with a contemptuous glare and marched into the east-wing dressing rooms, yelling to see Okada.

Only the fact that half the city owed him money, an obligation which, of course, had to be repaid before the next New Year’s, prevented his being completely bereft of fortune.

All Kinshi’s self-confidence oozed away when confronted with some unfathomable action of his father’s.

There were others in the courtyard, but everyone was careful not to watch the boys’ surreptitious entrance.

That was Kinshi’s role, and he had usurped it.

Now bent over this irksome task, the voice of Isako seemed to be constantly in his ear, screaming at him to be careful—No! too late—See what you did!—Stupid boy!—You'll ruin everything.

Yoshida swirled around, stamping his high clogs on the wooden floor. “You sentimental little fool! What do you suppose would happen if I gave rice tonight to a mob of hoodlums who banged upon my door? Where would be the end of it? The whole city—the whole country is hungry."

"Yoshida! May you spend eternity as foot manipulator for the devil!” The curse was greeted with a chorus of raucous laughter.

"I'll ask my mother to make you some rice gruel. That might help settle your belly.”

“No,” said Jiro, his stomach churning more than before. “Perhaps I should try some of the gruel.”

Somehow he must get some food and money to his mother. If she were desperate enough to join the night rovers, she was not likely to stay home and meekly starve just because he told her to.

Jiro jumped up and ran to the door while the boys behind him raised a chorus of chatter to try to cover the telltale noise.

“Torture by Koto” was as painstakingly and beautifully executed for ten—half of whom were watching the other half rather than the stage—as it would have been for a hundred.

Jiro was determined not to sleep, but his body, still tired from the vigil two nights before, betrayed him.

From his position on the floor Jiro quickly assessed the tone as somewhere on the middle of Yoshida's range of anger.

He could feel the pattern of the woven matting digging into his forehead, as he fished around in his limited experience for some kind of polite reply to make to that sardonic remark, and since he came up with nothing, he kept his mouth shut.

Actual samurai belonged to a higher social caste and were not found in theatrical troupes or business establishments.

The sword alone could fetch him a reward of one thousand ryo. It would be incontrovertible proof of Yoshida's guilt.

He pictured himself walking out the gate of the Hanaza and presenting himself to the assistant magistrate at the constabulary. “I know the true identity of Saburo."

Minoru stopped eating long enough to wipe his nose on his sleeve—the hot soup always affected him—but even then, he did not look up to acknowledge that Jiro had joined them but fell doggedly to his bowl once more.

The closet door opened. Kinshi’s head came out. “Would you four magpies shut up and let me sleep? I’ve got to go on stage before long.” He slammed the door back in place.

In one day he had overcome two temptations—one of greed and the other of ambition. He was feeling almost smug when he returned to the boys’ dressing room after his turn under the rod.

In a few minutes Kinshi joined them, gingerly patting his rear. “Ah, the ignominy,” he chanted in perfect imitation of Okada, “to be so foully set upon and yet to have no means of revenge.”

In a few minutes Kinshi joined them, gingerly patting his rear. “Ah, the ignominy,” he chanted in perfect imitation of Okada, “to be so foully set upon and yet to have no means of revenge.”