The Case of the Sharaku Murders (11 page)

Ryohei groaned.

“Call it gut instinct or whatever you want,” Saeko went on, “but if you ask me, there was no point embarking on this research trip unless you plan to prove all those other people wrong.”

“All right, you win. Bias is the ultimate sin in academia. I guess I was confusing that with what I'm doing. But you're right. Even without mentioning those other theories, I'd be denying them just by proposing my own,” Ryohei admitted meekly.

“ANY convincing theory of Sharaku's identity,” Ryohei mused out loud, “has to meet a number of basic conditions and answer some basic questions.” He began writing in his notebook:

1. The person in question was not producing any other significant work between May 1794 and February 1795.

2. There is evidence—or at least a reasonable probability—of a direct link to the publisher Tsutaya Juzaburo.

3. The person was an artist.

4. Why was a pseudonym necessary, and why did he choose the name Toshusai Sharaku?

5. Why are there no contemporary accounts, by Tsutaya or anyone else, of Sharaku's identity?

6. Why did Sharaku stop producing prints? Was he forced to?

7. Why did Tsutaya employ an unknown artist?

“I think that about covers it, though I could perhaps add a few other minor points.”

Ryohei showed the list to Saeko.

“Isn't number three pretty obvious—that he was an artist?” She looked at Ryohei dubiously.

“Actually, that's a sticking point with some of the other theories.”

“Really?”

“The Tsutaya hypothesis is a classic example. Except on that one point, Tsutaya Juzaburo seems to pass the test—with flying colors, in fact. He's a publisher of woodblock prints so he works closely with lots of artists and can pick and choose the best features of each. It would also explain why he had to use a pseudonym. If he'd used his own name no one would have taken his work seriously. So he created an artist out of thin air: Sharaku. It's quite a compelling theory. If there was any evidence Tsutaya actually had some artistic ability, it would be very convincing.”

“Hmm… It seems pretty audacious to choose someone who wasn't even an artist and claim he was Sharaku.”

“Actually, a number of prints signed by Tsutaya were published in a catalogue prior to the theory being proposed. But chances are they were by someone else; a ghostwriter, so to speak. Kyokutei Bakin—the bestselling author of
The Eight Dogs Chronicle
who for a time worked as Tsutaya's head clerk—wrote in his memoirs that his former boss was in the habit of publishing works by other artists under his own name even though he couldn't draw to save his life.”

“Why did he do that?”

“No one knows. Maybe he thought it made him seem more cultured.” Ryohei chuckled. “Anyway, if those works aren't really by him, the whole theory collapses. Still, a lot of people support it. It's convincing because it's logical.”

Saeko was listening attentively. Ryohei continued:

“Funnily enough, the person who proposed the Tsutaya hypothesis has completely disowned it, probably because there simply wasn't enough evidence.”

“What? You mean we're crossing that one off the list?” said Saeko, glaring at Ryohei like a child whose balloon had just been popped.

“Not at all. That's just one person's opinion. The Tsutaya Hypothesis is alive and well. In fact, it recently featured prominently in a NHK documentary.”

“How complicated,” said Saeko looking bewildered.

“Then again, seeing as the original proponent of the theory has abandoned it, I'm inclined to adopt a similar view,” concluded Ryohei, removing a cigarette from a pack of Mild Sevens and lighting it. “Let's see,” he went on, “we already discussed Okyo. Next up is Hokusai. This theory is currently very fashionable. When you take a larger-than-life character like Hokusai and combine him with a fascinating artist like Sharaku, it's too much for people to resist. Hokusai used over thirty different names over the course of his career, so it wouldn't be at all surprising if he'd signed his work ‘Sharaku' at one point. The only thing is, we don't have many actor portraits by him. Hokusai simply wasn't particularly interested in drawing actors—assuming he
wasn't
Sharaku, of course. Then again, as proponents of this theory point out, in terms of style, there's a distinct similarity between Hokusai and Sharaku. As for the other points—such as why Hokusai would have assumed the name Sharaku, and why would he have stopped using it in 1795—there's no plausible explanation. What's more, around the same time Hokusai was producing lots of other work under his own name. In short, although it's an intriguing theory the chances of the Hokusai hypothesis being the correct one are pretty low.”

Saeko nodded as Ryohei rattled off each point.

“Now, the Tani Buncho hypothesis has never gotten out of the realm of pure speculation. Buncho was one of the most popular painters of his time. He was also a samurai, a vassal of Matsudaira Sadanobu's—the man behind the Kansei Reforms—which addressed social and fiscal problems and imposed stricter censorship of the press—and a sort of a painter-in-residence to the powerful Tayasu clan, which Sadanobu headed, one of the three junior branches of the ruling Tokugawa family. If the shogun were to die without a male heir, a successor would be chosen from among the six senior and junior branches. In short, the Tayasu wielded immense power. Buncho's fame was extraordinary, thanks in no small part to his status as Sadanobu's official painter, for until 1793 Sadanobu was chief counselor to the shogun. Buncho had something like three hundred apprentices and his paintings supposedly sold for about five ryo each, a small fortune in those days. There's no plausible reason why someone like Buncho would have moonlighted as an ukiyo-e artists under a fake name, even assuming Tsutaya could afford to hire him. But if so, why hire an artist of Buncho's caliber if you're not going to put his name on the prints? Without it Tsutaya couldn't have hoped to turn a profit. The only intriguing part about this theory is that Buncho specialized in human portraits and he sometimes signed his work ‘Shasanro,' which bears a faint similarity to ‘Sharaku.' That's about it.”

Again Saeko nodded and waited for Ryohei to continue.

“Let's see, who's next—Iizuka Toyo? He was the official lacquerware painter to the daimyo of Awa province. This theory holds that Sharaku was one of his pupils, but again his connection to Tsutaya isn't clear. The basis for the theory is that the background scenery and kimono designs seen in Sharaku's prints are suggestive of the techniques used in lacquerware painting, but personally I don't see it. The scholar who proposed the Toyo hypothesis has switched to a different theory, so I think it's safe to disregard it. The same goes for the next one on the list: Torii Kiyomasa. Kiyomasa was Kiyonaga's son, so no doubt he was a talented painter, but only a handful of his woodblock prints survive—too few to serve as a basis for comparison, in any case. Then there's the question of why not use his own name; that part doesn't make sense. The Torii School was renowned for its actor portraits, so Kiyomasa had no reason to publish under a pseudonym. As Kiyonaga's son, his own name carried considerable cachet. Anyway, there's so little historical evidence on Kiyomasa that I don't expect any further developments in this theory.”

Saeko said nothing.

“You must be tired,” he said.

“Not really… shall we have some tea?” she suggested.

Ryohei suddenly felt thirsty.

“Let's see… we discussed the Sharaku workshop hypothesis the other day,” recalled Saeko.

“In that case, there are six more to go. That's quite a slog.”

“You know, Ryohei, you're kind of funny.”

“Huh? Where did that come from out of the blue?”

“I mean, you said each theory was convincing in its own way, but then as soon as you start talking you eliminate them one by one.”

“That's because I'm talking to you. If I were writing an academic paper I couldn't dismiss them so easily.”

“It must be hard being a scholar.” Saeko smiled gently to herself and reached out for the cup of black tea with lemon which the waitress had just brought over.

“Okay,” said Ryohei. “Next up is Toyokuni.”

“He's a nonstarter, right? If I remember correctly, I read somewhere that Toyokuni was Sharaku's main rival.”

“Correct. Just months before Sharaku appeared on the scene, Toyokuni released his debut work, a series called
Views of
Actors on Stage
.
The publisher was Izumiya Ichibei, one of Tsutaya's main business rivals. It's common knowledge among art historians that Tsutaya published Sharaku's works in order to compete with Izumiya. The idea that Toyokuni might have been playing two roles at the same time is pretty farfetched. Then again, the guy who came up with the theory is a mystery writer, so what do you expect?”

“Yeah,” agreed Saeko. “No matter how interesting art history is, it's not like writing fiction.”

“That's true. But to be perfectly honest, I'm somewhat taken with this particular theory. The more you look into it, the more interesting it gets. For example, Sharaku has a series of actor portraits in which each print is inscribed with the actor's
haimyo
.
Have you seen it?”

Saeko nodded. A
haimyo was a kind of penname that people in Edo times used when they composed haiku. Back then, haiku was all the rage among kabuki actors, and almost every actor had his own haimyo. For example, Baiko—meaning “plum happiness”—the given name of modern-day kabuki actor Onoe Baiko, started out as the haimyo of his great-great-great-great grandfather, Onoe Kikugoro, the founder of the Onoe acting dynasty.

“Now, one of the portraits in Sharaku's series is the actor Segawa Kikunojo,” Ryohei continued. “Interestingly, it contains a mistake. Kikunojo's haimyo was Roko, meaning ‘the way of contemplation.' But instead of ‘contemplation,' Sharaku wrote the Chinese character for ‘piety.'”

Ryohei wrote the two characters down in his notebook and showed it to Saeko.

“This is a big deal for art historians,” he went on. “Some people say Sharaku couldn't have known very much about kabuki. If he'd been well acquainted with the actors whose portraits he was drawing, he'd never have made such a rookie mistake. I guess you can't blame them for saying that.”

“Even though he did nothing
but
actor portraits?” asked Saeko incredulously.

“Okay. But here's the thing: Toyokuni also did a portrait of Segawa Kikunojo around the same time and…” Ryohei paused and gave Saeko a meaningful smile.

“Come on, stop teasing me—out with it!”

“Well, his print has the same mistake!”

“What does that mean?” asked Saeko, her eyes flashing.

“It's impossible two people made exactly the same mistake.”

“So, Sharaku and Toyokuni…”

“Were one and the same? Possibly. Or perhaps for a brief time Kikunojo really
did
write his haimyo with the character for ‘piety.'”

Ryohei grinned. Saeko sat gazing at him with rapt attention.

“If you ask me,” he went on, “I think that's probably what happened. But I had a shock when I discovered the exact same mistake on both prints because I couldn't believe Toyokuni and Sharaku were one and the same. Still, it's an interesting theory. If it inspires even one person to go and check out an exhibit or read a book on ukiyo-e, then it's a good thing.”

With obvious delight, Ryohei took a sip of tea before continuing:

“Now, Sakai Hoitsu was the younger brother of the fabulously wealthy Sakai Tadazane—lord of Himeji Castle—though he actually lived in Edo. He mastered every school of Japanese painting imaginable: Kano, Rimpa, ukiyo-e… Plus, he was a first-class poet who wrote both haiku and comic
kyoka
poetry. Since his brother was a daimyo, he never had to worry about money. He was easily one of the most—if not
the
most—cultured men of his era. The reason he's been linked to Sharaku is because of the latter's staggering output. Putting aside the question of whether Hoitsu could or couldn't have drawn them, it would have been a major undertaking for Tsutaya to publish so many prints in just ten months. What's more, according to historical accounts, Sharaku's works weren't that well received at the time. It's not surprising therefore that some people have suggested they weren't published to make a profit, in other words, that they were published at the artist's own expense. Now, a few prints is one thing, but over a hundred? It would have cost a small fortune. That's how Hoitsu's name was put on the list of suspects; he had both the artistic skill and the financial means—a rich man's vanity press, if you will. The theory goes that he had to change his name so as not to bring dishonor on his family by painting portraits of actors, who at that time were contemptuously referred to as “people of the wastes.” But if Hoitsu
was
Sharaku, I don't see why the prints should have been published in batches over the course of ten months. I mean, it wasn't fame he was after, he had plenty of that already. If the prints were a flop commercially surely he would have stopped after the first batch. Don't you think? After all, there was no incentive for him to continue because his name wasn't on them. On the other hand, if the prints were a big hit, he would have continued churning them out without stopping…”