Read Flask of the Drunken Master Online
Authors: Susan Spann
“We haven’t seen anything new,” Father Mateo protested as he helped return Chikao’s corpse to its former position.
“We confirmed the killer’s rage,” Hiro said, “which means the motive probably wasn’t debt.”
“That eliminates Yoshiko as a suspect,” Father Mateo said.
“Not completely,” Hiro said, “but, if Yoshiko killed Chikao, it was not because he owed her money.”
* * *
As Mina walked the men to the door, she asked, “Did your examination reveal anything of interest?”
“Nothing useful,” Hiro lied.
“We apologize for troubling you.” Father Mateo hesitated.
Hiro recognized the earnest, hopeful look on the Jesuit’s face—the expression of a man who yearned to talk about his god.
Mina noticed the priest’s expression too. “I see you have something more to say. Please say it.”
“Would you allow me to return and speak with you before you become a nun?” Father Mateo asked. “I would like to hear more about your faith and tell you about mine.”
“I will consider it.” Mina opened the door that led to the street.
Hiro admired her subtle denial. He also doubted that Father Mateo understood her words were a rejection.
“Will you open the Lucky Monkey tonight?” Father Mateo asked.
Mina shook her head. “The shop is closed, at least until after my husband’s funeral. People do not drink sake under a roof that shelters the dead.”
* * *
Hiro and Father Mateo left the alley and walked east toward the Kamo River. As they turned north onto the road that followed the river, Hiro appreciated the late-summer afternoon. The sun felt warm on his head and shoulders. Familiar smells from the river filled the air.
“Do not use my faith as a diversionary tactic.” Father Mateo’s angry voice interrupted Hiro’s reverie.
“What?” It took the shinobi a moment to process the comment.
“You wanted me to tell Chikao’s wife I would pray for her husband, as if my efforts could change the fate of the unsaved dead.”
“I didn’t do it,” Hiro said.
“Only because the circumstances made your plan unnecessary.” Father Mateo’s voice held a warning edge the shinobi had never heard. “If Mina hadn’t offered us tea, you would have done it, regardless of my opinions on the matter.”
“Is your god so weak that a lie can hurt him?” Hiro asked.
“It isn’t God I need to protect,” Father Mateo said. “A blasphemous lie is a mortal sin. I worry about your soul.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow at the priest. “Well, I suppose that one of us should.”
Anger shone in Father Mateo’s eyes, though he sounded calm. “I do not require you to share my faith, but if you wish to continue in my company, I expect you to refrain from shaming God—or me—in public in the future.”
The genuine anger in Father Mateo’s tone left Hiro speechless. The shinobi had lied about Father Mateo’s religion before, on several occasions. The priest had done it too. Hiro had trouble understanding what made this incident different.
“Lies cause no shame,” Hiro said at last. “I tell them every day. You do, too, when you introduce me as ‘translator Matsui Hiro.’ You know that isn’t my real name or function.”
“Your situation is different,” Father Mateo said. “Telling the truth would endanger your mission and, probably, your life. I have exactly the opposite problem. Lying about my faith endangers my soul, my honor, and also my work in Kyoto.
“You fail if you tell the truth. I fail without it.”
“You have lied about your faith before,” Hiro said, “and more than once.”
“I have, perhaps, embellished a few noncritical points of doctrine,” the Jesuit said, “but I have never denied my God or the foundational tenets of my faith. On matters of any significance I always tell the truth.”
Hiro had the uncomfortable feeling that followed mistakes in judgment. Perhaps this Christian god was not so simple after all. Unquestionably, the priest was more complex than he had seemed. Three years into the friendship, Hiro still didn’t know the Jesuit perfectly.
“You’ve said your god despises lies,” the shinobi said. “You’ve never actually claimed he requires the truth.”
“I have said it many times.” Father Mateo paused in the road. “You haven’t heard, because you stop listening when I speak of God.”
Pressure rose in Hiro’s chest at the pain in Father Mateo’s voice—a pain as sudden and as deep as the Jesuit’s previous anger. But now, Hiro understood exactly what he’d done.
Sharing gods and religious customs wasn’t a requisite for friendship, but a friend should not ignore the rules by which companions lived. Father Mateo never ignored Hiro’s lessons on Japanese etiquette. The priest didn’t always agree, but he always listened.
Hiro should have returned that favor.
He had not.
Hiro wished he could disappear, or at least go back in time and correct the error. Unfortunately, neither was an option.
The
ryu
had ordered Hiro to protect the Jesuit at any cost. Right now, that cost was admitting his own mistake.
Hiro turned to face the priest.
Father Mateo stiffened, expecting an argument.
Hiro bowed as deeply as possible, then straightened and bowed a second time. “I humbly apologize,” he said. “You are correct, and I am wrong. I dishonor myself, and you, by disrespecting beliefs I do not share. Please forgive me for this error. I cannot share your faith, but I won’t disparage it again.”
Father Mateo blinked, surprised. “You truly mean that.”
Hiro straightened. “Yes, I do.”
“Then I accept your apology,” Father Mateo said with a bow.
Once forgiveness was asked and given, samurai considered a matter permanently resolved. Hiro had noticed, however, that Western etiquette differed from Japanese rules on many points. He waited to see if the priest would say anything more.
The two men stared at each other. Neither spoke.
Finally, Father Mateo asked, “Are apologies always this awkward in Japan?”
Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Only when made to a foreigner.”
Father Mateo laughed. “I thought as much.”
* * *
Hiro and Father Mateo returned to the Jesuit’s home on Marutamachi Road. The priest went into his private room, but Hiro changed into trousers and a practice tunic and headed into the yard.
The grassy lawn south of Father Mateo’s beloved koi pond offered a pleasant exercise ground, and the wooden wall surrounding the yard prevented prying eyes. Hiro knelt and meditated, quieting his thoughts and listening to every tiny sound. A bird sang in a nearby tree. Leaves ruffled in the breeze. One of the Jesuit’s koi sucked at the surface of the water.
The door that led to the priest’s room rustled open.
Hiro opened his eyes. Father Mateo stood on the veranda, wearing
hakama
and a surcoat.
The shinobi stood up, surprised. He often offered to teach the Jesuit self-defense, but the priest had never shown any real interest.
“Have you decided to learn to fight?” Hiro asked.
Father Mateo smiled. “A man who lives by the sword will die by the sword.”
“Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but not as quickly as a man who cannot use one.”
Father Mateo raised his scar-covered hands. The injuries had not yet healed completely.
Hiro considered it lucky they healed at all.
“I couldn’t fight if I wanted to,” Father Mateo said. “Even writing hurts more than I’d like to admit. But physical exercise helps recovery, and I’ve healed enough to try, if you’re willing to teach me defense instead of fighting.”
Hiro decided not to mention that, often, they were the same.
He walked the priest through some basic
katas
—exercises so familiar that Hiro no longer remembered when he learned them. With time and practice, the forms became ingrained in the muscles. The body performed them essentially without thought.
After a while, Father Mateo straightened and wiped his forehead. “I thought I was in good condition, but you haven’t broken a sweat.”
“I did not suffer a serious injury several weeks ago,” Hiro said.
“You know I can tell when you’re humoring me.” Father Mateo smiled.
Hiro smirked. “Only when I let you.”
After they finished with
katas
, Hiro went to the bathhouse while the Jesuit prepared for his evening prayers. Despite his interest in Japanese culture, Father Mateo did not bathe as often as native Japanese.
The samurai guarding the bridge gave Hiro a searching look but didn’t demand identification. Either the towel in Hiro’s hand made his business obvious, or some of Hisahide’s guards could exercise discretion after all.
* * *
When Hiro returned to the house, he found the Jesuit reading in the common room
.
Father Mateo’s leather-bound Bible lay open to a page with a missing corner.
“The letter to the Romans?” Hiro asked.
Father Mateo looked up with a startled smile. “When did you start reading the Bible?”
Hiro smiled awkwardly at the priest’s misplaced delight. “I haven’t. I just recognized the page that Gato chewed.”
Gato, Hiro’s tortoiseshell cat, bounded in from the kitchen at the sound of her master’s voice. Halfway across the room she angled sideways and arched her back. The hair on her tail puffed out on end. She fixed her eyes on Hiro and bounced to the side, inviting play.
The shinobi leaned forward and clapped his hands.
Gato leaped in the air, spun around, and raced from the room, paws pattering the tatami like rain on a rooftop.
Father Mateo laughed but stopped and stared at Hiro’s gray kimono. “You don’t usually dress so formally in the evening. You have plans?”
“Yes.” Hiro nodded. “I’m going to Ginjiro’s.”
“Is that appropriate?” Father Mateo asked, “With Ginjiro in prison?”
“Patronizing the brewery helps Ginjiro,” Hiro said, “though, as it happens, I’m not drinking. I have business there tonight.”
“The man Tomiko mentioned,” Father Mateo said. “An Iga contact?”
Hiro smiled but said nothing.
The Jesuit took the smile as affirmation. “Please send my regards to your family.” The priest looked down at his Bible. As he read, his hand crept up to rub the jagged scar that traced a crimson line from his jaw to the base of his neck.
“Does that hurt?” Hiro bent to examine the scar.
Father Mateo looked up, surprised. “No. But it itches.”
“That means it’s healing,” Hiro said.
“Now that you mention it, my hands ache more than I think they should.” Father Mateo looked at his hands as if hoping the words would dull the pain. “I think the bones have mended, but they hurt in the evening, after the sun goes down. I wouldn’t complain, but you asked…”
“The pain is normal,” Hiro said. “Your hands will ache for several months and probably every winter for several years.”
If not forever,
he added silently.
Father Mateo nodded. “I thought they might.”
“Injuries to the hands heal slowly, and hurt, because the hands are unusually sensitive.” Hiro glanced toward his room. “Would you like me to give you something to dull the pain?”
Father Mateo shook his head and rubbed the back of his hand. “If you say the pain is normal, I can bear it.”
* * *
Hiro walked west on Marutamachi Road until he reached the Kamo River. There, he nodded to the samurai on guard. Once again, the guard made no attempt to arrest the shinobi’s progress. Either he recognized Hiro’s face or the guards had received new orders to stop harassing samurai without cause.
Hiro suspected the former. Matsunaga Hisahide didn’t care who he offended.
The shinobi turned south on the road that followed the eastern bank of the river. At Sanj
ō
Road he took a left and headed into a residential ward.
Well-groomed gardens surrounded the houses, which sat on larger lots than those on the western side of the river. A short distance down the road, on the left-hand side of the street, stone dogs guarded a two-story building. The house had a raised foundation and steep peaked roof. Long eaves overhung the wide veranda, and gravel paths led to wooden gates on either side of the building. Fences shielded the yards beyond from public view.
An expensive, hand-painted sign on the veranda read
SAKURA TEAHOUSE
.
The Sakura looked no different than it had a year before, when Hiro and Father Mateo solved the murder of Akechi Hideyoshi, a samurai who died in one of the private rooms. As he approached the door, Hiro wondered whether Mayuri, the teahouse owner, would respond to his questions about Yoshiko.
Knowing Mayuri, she might not even let him in.
Hiro knocked and waited to speak with the house’s servant, but when the wooden door swung open, it was Mayuri who stood in the entrance.
The retired entertainer’s flawless hair and makeup complemented her green kimono embroidered with lotus flowers. On another woman, the colors and patterns might suggest a struggle to retain her fading youth. On Mayuri, the years fell away of their own accord.
Hiro disliked entertainers, but understood why men once found Mayuri’s company worth their silver. Despite her age, she remained a compelling woman.
Mayuri’s painted face adopted a frozen smile. “Good evening, Matsui-
san
. I don’t remember your name on this evening’s list of guests.”
Only a person trained to read faces would notice the concern that flickered through Mayuri’s eyes before she spoke. Unfortunately for Mayuri, Hiro was that kind of person.
He said nothing, hoping discomfort would make her talk.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mayuri asked.
“I hoped to speak with you privately,” Hiro said.
Mayuri’s smile faded. “Does this relate to last year’s business?”
“It relates to an Akechi,” Hiro said, “though not the one who brought me here last summer.”
“I understand.” Mayuri nodded. “Follow me.”
She led him through the entry and into the room where entertainers waited for their guests. The teahouse smelled of lotuses and other strange perfumes, as if haunted by the ghosts of forgotten blooms. Shoji along the walls led into private rooms on either side. Murmuring voices and the wavering notes of a shamisen told Hiro some of the evening guests had arrived already.