The Case of the Sharaku Murders (21 page)

“1776? Wasn't that—”

“The year he met Kisanji? Correct.”

Saeko appeared convinced. “I don't think there's any doubt,” she said. “The Akita clan must have been backing Tsutaya financially.”

“So you agree?”

“Like you said, from the point of view of the big publishing houses, Tsutaya was just some two-bit publisher of whorehouse guidebooks; not a respectable line of work, no matter how profitable it was. It would have taken more than money to turn his little shop into a publishing empire. I don't think he could have done it without some influential backer.”

“Right,” said Ryohei. “The Akita clan's patronage would have meant money
and
prestige.”

Saeko nodded vigorously.

Ryohei went on: “If Tanuma had held onto power, the Akita clan's position would have remained secure and Tsutaya's business would have continued to thrive. But when Tanuma resigned in 1786, things became difficult for Tsutaya. Fortunately, the solid foundation he had built over the previous decade got him through the next few years. But then he was slapped with his first fine.”

“His
first
?
”

“Kyoden's arrest in 1791 was the fourth time Tsutaya had a run in with the authorities. The first was for something Kisanji wrote.”

“Really? Kisanji too?”

“In 1788, he wrote a book called
Sifting Through the Arts of War and Peace
which poked fun at Matsudaira Sadanobu's Kansei Reforms. The upshot was Kisanji was banned from writing fiction.”

“That's harsh.”

“And in 1789, two more books Tsutaya published were banned, both of them political satires.”

“Then in 1791, Kyoden cost Tsutaya half his fortune, right?” said Saeko. “Following on the heels of the freewheeling Tanuma years, when his business took off, I can imagine Matsudaira's draconian reforms weren't much fun for Tsutaya. But I guess both Tsutaya and the government went a bit too far.”

“Yeah. By that time, Tsutaya was getting slapped with fines almost every year. But Kyoden hadn't even criticized the government. You have to feel kind of sorry for Tsutaya—Matsudaira seems to have been punishing him for his ties to Tanuma, finding fault anywhere he could just to run him out of business. That would explain why Tsutaya was singled out for punishment while other publishers were left alone.”

“He must have felt he'd get into hot water no matter what he did.”

“In 1788, Tsutaya's output took a nose dive. He managed to keep things afloat by rereleasing some old favorites, but the number of new titles he brought out fell by more than half of what it had been. It wasn't until 1793 that he got back on his feet again—the same year Sadanobu fell from grace. The following year Sharaku made his appearance… When you look at it this way, it can't have been a coincidence Sharaku came along when he did. You might even say Sharaku was a kind of victory dance by Tsutaya and Tanuma's other supporters who had suffered under the Kansei Reforms. Tsutaya couldn't have done it all on his own. He must have had help from many quarters—from Kisanji and Kyoden, for one, whose works were banned by the government; from Kokan, for another, who ran afoul of Sadanobu; and, finally, from the late Shozan's vassals.”

“But why?”

“Pride, plain and simple. Tsutaya's comeback essentially undid much of what the Kansei Reforms had tried to accomplish. Sharaku was their way of thumbing their nose at Sadanobu for everything he'd done to them.”

“But what was the point? Sadanobu had already left office by that time.”

“Sadanobu's resignation was different from Tanuma's. He was still a daimyo. Plus, even though he retired from the shogun's senior council, most of those who took over after he left were his cronies. He merely resigned his leadership role in the face of mounting criticism over the government's draconian policies. His influence over politics remained undiminished.”

“In that case, weren't they taking a big risk?”

“Like I said, it comes down to pride. It was the only way left for the Tanuma crowd to flex their muscles.”

“But why did they chose Sharaku? Why not come out and criticize Matsudaira openly?”

“If they had attacked Matsudaira head on they'd have been crushed. No, they needed to make Tsutaya a force to be reckoned with again without running afoul of the law. The others probably provided the money and the manpower and left the rest to Tsutaya. Thus Sharaku was born. The idea was to take a complete nobody, lavish money on him, and turn him into the most celebrated artist in all of Edo. If Tsutaya pulled it off, his fame would be unrivalled—that would show Sadanobu! But the plan would only work if he used someone who wasn't already famous. Tsutaya had to prove his influence alone had made Sharaku what he was.”

Ryohei paused to catch his breath.

“I see,” said Saeko. “So that's why it had to be an unknown artist.” She seemed deep in thought.

“Anyone could have sold Utamaro's work. Tsutaya could hardly have claimed that a personal success. He needed an artist no other publisher would have touched with a ten-foot pole. In that sense, Shoei was perfect: he was knocking around at Kokan's house, still bitter over the way his master had been bumped off (incidentally, there must be some story behind why he left the clan after Shozan's death—perhaps he was drummed out because he'd belonged to Shozan's clique); he wasn't an ukiyo-e-style painter, but as one can clearly see from Sato's catalogue, he had tremendous talent; and he was unknown as a woodblock printmaker. Given all this it's not surprising Tsutaya chose him.”

“But Tsutaya had to keep Sharaku's identity a secret—”

“Or Sadanobu would have known the Tanuma crowd was behind it!” said Ryohei, finishing Saeko's sentence.

The two laughed and congratulated themselves with a handshake.

“All the pieces of the puzzle are in place, aren't they?” said Saeko. “We know what Tsutaya's connection was to Shoei and why he kept Sharaku's identity a secret; we have proof he painted; we know the reason he suddenly abandoned Edo in 1795 and returned to Odate, and… let's see… Oh, how about his name? Why ‘Toshusai Sharaku'?”

“We know that too.”

“Huh? We do?”

“
Toshu
is obvious, right? ‘The Lands of the East'—or as we would say today, Tohoku. In Genpaku's
New Anatomy
Naotake signs himself ‘Odano Naotake of Akita in the East.' In other words,
Toshu
refers to Akita. As for
Sharaku
,
the standard reading of that is ‘one who likes to sketch'—sketching from life was the basic tenet of the Akita School.”

“One from Tohoku who likes to sketch…”

Saeko repeated the words quietly to herself.

After saying goodnight to Saeko, Ryohei returned to his room and opened a can of beer. He wasn't in the habit of having a nightcap, but for some reason he felt like drinking tonight.

What should he say to Yosuke and Professor Nishijima when he returned to Tokyo? As he pondered this, Ryohei's cheeks began to feel flushed. He sat down in a chair by the window and opened it a crack. A gust of cold air blew into the room.

I've solved the mystery everyone thought was unsolvable. I know who Sharaku was
…

Slowly, without his even being aware of it, a smile rose to Ryohei's face.

As he gazed out into the darkness, the town of Kakunodate, where Sharaku once lived, quietly settled down for the night.

6

Farewell

N
ovember
4
      AS THEIR RESEARCH was at an end, Saeko headed back to Sendai.

Ryohei remained behind in Morioka after seeing her off at the train station. Now he made his way to Kato's antique shop near Iwate Park. He had already made up his mind about Sharaku's true identity, but he had promised to call on the art dealer before returning to Tokyo and he did not want to go back on his word. As he sauntered through the streets, Ryohei's mind was already back in Tokyo.

“Ah, I wasn't expecting you so early.”

Kato looked up with a smile as Ryohei entered the shop. Though it was almost noon, it seemed Kato had just opened up for the day and he still looked sleepy.

“Had a bit too much to drink last night,” he explained, filling a teapot with hot water. “It was already late when I returned to Morioka and then I had to go straight out, so by the time I got back here to the shop it was three in the morning… Before I forget, I've got something to show you.” Placing a steaming cup of tea in front of Ryohei, Kato disappeared into a room at the back of the shop.

It was a relatively large shop—a good 350 square feet. In the middle was a row of five neatly aligned display cases stuffed with all manner of old pots and swords. The surrounding walls were hung with many scrolls and ukiyo-e prints, so there was hardly space in between.

“I found a lot of Western-style paintings in Akita,” said Kato, returning with a thick stack of photocopies and taking a seat across from Ryohei. “Most of these are from a dealer in Yokote.”

Flipping through the pages Kato handed him, Ryohei was astonished. Each sheet had five or six paintings on it, all were part of some sort of album, over thirty pages in all. Ryohei recognized a number of the paintings by Naotake from various books he had seen.

“All of these paintings passed through the dealer's hands?” he asked.

“So it seems,” replied Kato. “He said this is everything he's sold from before the war right up to the present, he deals a lot with museums.”

“I'm surprised he was willing to show you all this.”

“Well, he's a good friend of mine,” Kato said. “Of course, I didn't actually make the copies myself. A girl in the shop did it for me. You'll notice the prices and such have been removed.”

Beneath many of the pictures were thick black lines made by a magic marker. Presumably that was what Kato was referring to.

“I'm afraid I've put you to a lot of trouble,” Ryohei said apologetically.

“Don't mention it. The owner loves me—when I told him I was interested in learning something about the Akita School, he was very eager to help,” Kato replied nonchalantly.

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Ryohei, his eyes growing wide.

“What is it? Did you find something?”

“Yes. There are two paintings on this page right next to each other that look a lot like Shoei's work.”

“Look like?”

“The signature reads, ‘Tashiro Unmu.'” Ryohei reached into his bag and pulled out his copy of Sato's painting catalogue, which he opened and placed alongside Kato's album.

“Ah, this is the one.”

Ryohei removed a page from each set of photocopies and handed them to Kato.

“Hmm, they
are
similar,” mumbled Kato as he glanced back and forth, comparing the two photocopies. “If you cut off the part with Shoei's signature it's an exact match—see, this is the same.”

“What is it?”

“Do you see this little bird perched on the branch of this pine tree right above Shoei's signature?”

“Yes…”

“Look at this other painting. There's something protruding up here in the corner, right at the edge—the tip of the bird's tail.”

There certainly
was
something protruding into the painting at the top left-hand edge, where the painting was cut off.

“No one would paint a painting like this. It's obviously been tampered with—Shoei's signature has been removed,” declared Kato.

Ryohei was dumbfounded. “When do you suppose this painting came on the market?” he asked once he had collected himself.

“Let's see. I suppose I could call up the dealer and find out.” Kato reached for the telephone and began dialing a number. “Well, well… if it isn't just as I predicted,” he said with a smug look on his face.

You wouldn't be so nonchalant about it if you knew that Shoei was Sharaku
,
thought Ryohei, feeling slightly annoyed.

“Hi, it's me,” said Kato. “It was nice seeing you yesterday… Yes, thanks—you were a great help… Actually, that's why I'm calling. I wanted to ask you about a couple of those paintings…”

Kato took the photocopies from Ryohei.

“Let's see… There's no page number or anything, but it's the page with a painting of a small fish in the upper left—it's by Naotake. Sure, I'll wait… He's going to take a look now,” Kato said to Ryohei, covering the receiver with his hand.

“Are you there? Yes, that's the one. Now, below it are two paintings by someone called Unmu. Would you happen to know when you sold those?”

Ryohei could feel his heart begin to beat faster.

“1937–38? Right before the war then… Oh, nothing special. It's just that I have a customer who's been doing some research on Unmu, that's all.”

Kato grinned and looked at Ryohei.

“He happened to stop by this morning and we got to talking about your album. I was just wondering where those paintings might have ended up… Well, if you don't mind. Hold on a second… He says he wants to talk to you about it,” Kato said, handing the receiver to Ryohei. Then he whispered, “Just pretend you know something about Unmu.”

Ryohei repeated the question Kato had asked earlier.

“Well, I don't know where they are now,” the voice on the other end replied. “These were paintings my father sold. The one above it by Naotake went to a museum in Akita in
'
37, so those other two must have sold just after that.”

“Do you think they might have been sold to a museum too?”

“If they were, I'd have a record of it—sales like that are good for drumming up business.” The man gave a gruff laugh. Ryohei thought he sounded about fifty.

“In the run-up to the war we used to get a lot of other dealers coming in here—the two paintings you're asking about were probably sold around that time. Wait, there might be something written on the back…”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Ryohei could hear the sound of something being peeled away.

“Just as I thought,” the man said, picking up the receiver again. “It was 1937. No record of who bought it though.”

“I see,” Ryohei said disappointedly.

“My father often used to jot things down on the backs of his photographs and I thought that just maybe… We bought both paintings from a dealer in Odate. He's no longer alive though.”

Why am I not surprised?
thought Ryohei.

“By the way, do you know if Unmu had any connection to Nagatoro?” asked the man suddenly.

“Nagatoro?” asked Ryohei.

“It's a little village near Kakunodate. It seems the man my father bought these paintings from also offered to sell him a third by Unmu—a landscape scene painted in Nagatoro. My father noted here that he didn't buy it.”

Ryohei replied that he had never heard of Nagatoro.

“Unmu was born and raised in Akita city,” the man went on. “So it
is
a bit strange he painted such a picture. Still, I suppose he happened to pass through the village on one of his visits to Kakunodate to see Naotake…”

Ryohei made a vague reply. In reality he knew very little about Unmu. He was beginning to get worried their little deception would be found out and that it would reflect badly on Kato. Ryohei made a sign with his eyes and the dealer quickly took the phone from him, thanked the man on the other end and rang off.

Ryohei explained that the man had started asking him about Unmu and he hadn't known what to say.

“I suppose that third painting purported to be by Unmu was in fact also by Shoei,” mused Kato.

Ryohei nodded.

“He must have had a relative or something in Nagatoro. I doubt he'd have made a special trip there just to paint a picture.”

“True. If it was painted near Kakunodate it's safe to assume it was by Shoei.”

“Well, in that case, the painting traveled around quite a bit. 1937… that was just before the war. I wouldn't be surprised if it was destroyed in the bombings.”

Ryohei nodded with disappointment.

November 6

TOKYO WAS SLIGHTLY WARMER than when Ryohei had left. He noticed the subtle change in the weather returning from chilly Tohoku.

Ryohei got off the train in Shinjuku and began walking through the underground passageway toward Kinokuniya Books. On the ground floor of the building next to the bookstore was a café where he had arranged to meet Yosuke.

The large café was nearly full. Ryohei looked around for his friend.

“Over here!” called Yosuke, spotting Ryohei and waving.

“The Shinkansen is great, isn't it? You can leave Morioka in the morning and still get to Tokyo before lunch,” said Ryohei, glancing at his watch.

“I hear your trip was quite a success. Saeko sounded very excited.”

“Yes, I've got enough information to write an article now.”

Ryohei spread his research materials out on the table and began going over everything. Yosuke listened attentively, asking questions from time to time.

An hour passed.

“Well, that settles it—you've got enough evidence to convince anyone,” said Yosuke as he lit a cigarette, his skeptical expression finally softening. “The connection between the Akita clan and Tsutaya is fascinating—that's a real breakthrough. What I found out pales in comparison.”

“You found something too?”

“I was trying to link Tsutaya and Shoei in a completely different way.”

“And did you?”

“Uh-huh. Ever heard of Hezutsu Tosaku?”

“The kyoka poet?”

“That's the one—very popular, though he was ultimately overshadowed by Ota Nampo and Karakomoro Kisshu, who like him were pupils of Uchiyama Gatei. Tosaku was the oldest of the three. They launched the first comic poetry competitions in Edo together in 1770, setting the stage for the kyoka boom of the 1780s. Nampo—widely regarded as the most brilliant of the three—shot to fame, but he couldn't have done it without Tosaku. In 1669, at the age of just nineteen, Nampo had published his first kyoka collection,
The Collected Works of Master Groggy
,
under the penname ‘Shokusanjin.' Tosaku got none other than Hiraga Gennai to write the introduction.”

“No kidding!”

“Tosaku and Gennai were close friends. At Tosaku's behest, Gennai introduced Nampo to Suharaya Ichibei, the publisher who had handled most of Gennai's own books, and he agreed to publish
Master Groggy
.
Without Gennai's introduction and backing, a complete unknown like Nampo who was still a teenager could never have published a book.”

“True.”

“From that point on, Nampo became Gennai's protégé, in a manner of speaking. It's said that when Gennai was working on a play, he'd ask Nampo to write the tricky historical parts. That's how much he trusted him.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Nampo even modeled his
nom de plume
,
‘Furin-sanjin,' on Gennai's, which was—”

“Furai-sanjin!” exclaimed Ryohei, remembering the correct answer.

“Correct. Anyway, even though Nampo was more popular than Tosaku as a poet, Tosaku's friendship with Gennai gave him greater cachet. You might say he was the kingmaker of the kyoka world. Plus Tosaku seems to have been close to Tsuchiyama Sojiro, an important figure in Tanuma's administration, which meant he wielded a lot of financial clout.”

“Wasn't Tsuchiyama the finance minister indicted for corruption and put to death in 1787 during the Tanuma purges?” asked Ryohei.

“That's him. He was beheaded for embezzling three thousand ryo from the shogun's coffers; in fact he probably took much more than that. He was famous for his extravagance—once he supposedly spent twelve hundred ryo, or over fifty million yen in today's money, to buy a geisha's freedom. On most nights of the week, Nampo, Kisshu, Akera Kanko and the other famous kyoka poets could be found in the Yoshiwara living it up on Tsuchiyama's dime. It's largely thanks to Tsuchiyama that kyoka became all the rage in the pleasure quarters.”

“I see… and Hoseido Kisanji?”