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Excerpt from The Tokaido Road With her legs folded demurely under her and the toes of one white-clad foot overlapping the other, Cat sat back on her ankles. The cool, tight weave of the thick tatami mat gave slightly under the pressure of her toes and knees. Cat leaned forward almost imperceptibly to study her guest. At first she had thought, with relief, that he had passed out from drinking too much of Old Jug Face's watered sake. That would have been fortuitous. He was one of those guests in whom unconsciousness was the most desirable trait. Cat had planned to leave him there, but that was when she had assumed he would waken the next morning with nausea writhing like a tangle of squid in his stomach and the rueful realization that he would have to pay a great deal for the privilege of feeling so bad. The heavy robe of wadded yellow cotton was bunched up under him, revealing bowed, hairy legs sprawled carelessly. Saliva oozed in a froth from his half-opened lips and dangled in a thin rope from his chin. His wiry black topknot was askew. His eyes were open. Cat laid two pale, slender fingers on his neck. Nothing. Not a flutter of a heartbeat. The customer had left his homely body, never to return. The next occupants would be small, white, and legless. Already a hardy fly, an emigre from the privy, was circling solicitously. Cat felt panic rising from the seat of her soul, behind her navel. She drew several deep breaths. She needed to be calm. She needed to think. Soon the watchman would strike midnight, the hour of the Rat, on his wooden clappers. At midnight Centipede would close the small door in the Great Gate. He would lock the corpse into the pleasure district and into Cat's company until cock's crow. Cat was sure the guest had been murdered. The murder weapon, or what was left of it, lay on the lacquered tray that also served as a table. The blowfish had been cleaned carelessly for a deadly purpose. Only a single slice of fugu, blowfish, remained. It was paper thin and transparent enough for Cat to see the deep blue waves painted on the porcelain platter under it. Unless cleaned correctly, a speck of the poison in the fish's liver could kill a person. As the numbness spread through his body, the guest had been able to think clearly, but unable to talk. He probably had known he was dying when he'd lost control of his arms and legs and then his lungs and sphincter. With a chopstick Cat poked the last slice of fugu. Not often did death arrive in such a lovely package. The filmy slices of pale flesh had been artistically arranged in the form of a flying crane. It was the sort of ironic gesture that Lord Kira would make. The crane was the symbol of longevity. Cat knew the fish had been meant for her. Kira, Cat thought. He won't be content until he's killed me.
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Lucia at the grave site of the 47 ronin in 1970.
Research
is an odd exercise because you just never know what you'll find.
Isn't it strange that the guidebooks never mention this extremely manly
shrine? There's at least one for women, too.
