The Hell Screen

Genba jerked. “Huh? Oh!” He blushed scarlet. “See the young lady over there? She’s the most stu

Tora sca

Genba stared at him. “What do you mean?” he asked, frowning. “She’s the most handsome female I ever laid eyes on. Look at that rosy skin, the pretty mouth, and that fine body! And she eats most elegantly. Daintily, like a lady! Which is more than you can say about her companions. I never could understand what you see in those bony little bits you seem to prefer.”

Tora gaped. “Have you lost your mind?” he asked. “That’s some whore grown too fat to get customers, so now she runs the house, taking out her girls for their evening rice. Leave her alone! She’d make short work of an i

Genba got up, his face like thunder. “Good night!” he growled.

“Where are you going?” Tora cried, pointing to the uneaten food. “We aren’t finished, and we haven’t even started asking questions.”

“You can do your own investigating,” Genba said over his shoulder, and headed for the table of the women. Tora looked after him in stu

Harada was snoring softly. Tora caught the cook’s eye. “What will you do about him?” he asked.

The cook gave the drunken man a glance. “Him? Nothing. He can stay. He’s not a bad sort, comes to town on business for his master, takes care of whatever it is, then comes here to drink away whatever money he brought with him. As he spends it here, I feel obliged to look out for him. In the morning I’ll put him on the road home.”

Tora took a sip of his wine. “I’m told you see quite a few actors here when they’re in town,” he said to the cook.

“Sure. Some are back already. Getting ready to put on shows for the winter festivals and the driving out of the evil spirits at the end of the year.”

“Ever hear of a troupe called Uemon’s Players?”

“Uemon? Sure. Everybody knows of him. Mind you, he’s getting old, but his people are good. They even get asked to perform for the good people.” He sca

“Would you know where I might find this Uemon?”

The cook hesitated, looking Tora over. “Why are you looking for him?”

Tora said, “Personal interest, you might say.” He stroked his mustache and winked. “There’s a very pretty girl in that troupe.”

The cook suddenly became distant. “If you’re after one of Uemon’s girls, you can forget it. He’s a respectable man and his people are strictly class. Better go talk to one of the aunties in the quarter.”

Tora smirked. “Come, now! Maybe he doesn’t know everything the youngsters get up to. I happen to know better. You ever meet any of them?”

The cook gri

Tora cursed himself for having missed his chance. Now he would have to follow them. “Well, where do they live when they’re in town?”

“You’re pretty persistent, aren’t you?” said the cook, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re lying. Maybe you’re a rapist or the slasher. Maybe you’re a constable. Come to think, there’s something official-looking about you. Anyway, I can’t help you.”

Won’t is more likely, Tora thought. He wanted to deny being either a rapist or a constable, but knew it was too late to come up with another convincing tale. Places like the Abode of the River Fairies, though not precisely hangouts for criminals, were sensitive about protecting their clientele. He sighed and looked around for Genba, but the table where he had sat was now empty. Genba had left him stuck with the bill for their meal and Harada’s.

Outside, night had fallen with the abruptness of the season. Tora pulled up his collar and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Genba. The wind still blew from the dark mountains and whistled through the alleys which led away from the river. The lanterns in front of the businesses swayed and bobbed with every gust. Their feeble lights were reflected in the dark, slow-moving waters of the Kamo and resembled madly dancing fireflies. A few customers hurried past, their collars raised around their ears and their arms buried in their deep sleeves.

Tora shrugged resignedly. He had little choice but to try his luck in some of the other eateries and wineshops.

An hour later, half-frozen and discouraged, he entered a ramshackle dive near the end of the quarter, and here his luck changed. The host of this dubious establishment was Tora’s age, but unlike Tora incredibly ill-kempt. His long hair and beard were matted with dirt, and he wore nothing but a pair of stained cotton pants, held precariously in place by a knotted rope tied below his hairy paunch, and a dingy cotton shirt which was too small for him and hung open in front. He looked more like a street ruffian than a legitimate i

When Tora heard the first string of colorful curses, his face lit up. He joined the three barefooted laborers who were leaning on the counter and cried, “By the bare ass of a monkey! A man from Tsukuba!”

His host eyed Tora’s neat blue robe. “Yeah?” he said. “And who are you, then?”

“Why, you filthy piece of ox dung, you pail of cat’s piss, you dog’s turd, you stinking pile of bear’s vomit! Are you too stupid to recognize your neighbors?”

The host’s dirty face relaxed. “Well, fry my balls!” he grunted. “You do sound like it. What village?”

“Ohori.”