My uncle had not expected this, and given the state he was in, with most of his anger gone by then, he was affected by it. The fire crackled in the hearth. Patrick claims my uncle remained quiet and pensive for a few moments, and then said the following.
“When my sister and I were young, children really, we were close. Adolescence was difficult for the both of us. It drove us apart. It drove me into a seminary against my will, and her into marriage with an individual best forgotten. I survived the seminary, but she came to an early death. From what I can tell, her only period of happiness as an adult was thanks to you. And yet I have treated you badly.”
“Life is mysterious,” Father said, speaking very gently. “It is often brutal and short. None of us asked to be brought into this world. But once here, each of us must do the best we can.”
“Talk with Patrick,” my uncle said. “See what he prefers. Or no, better yet, just take him with you, for a time, as you say. It should not be his decision. He should not have to feel like he has to choose between us.”
“Thank you,” was all Father replied.
It was then that he saw, hanging on the wall, so close to the window that for a moment Patrick feared he had been discovered, the red leather quiver with its royal arrows.
“The quiver there,” Father said. “It’s mine. It was a gift from the former king. I left it at La Moratalla.”
“I took it, I’m afraid,” Carlos said, “for safekeeping, and for good luck. Take it with you, of course.”
Father walked over to it and lifted it off its peg. He smelled the leather. He later told me that holding it, slinging it over his shoulder, brought back many memories. Before they left the room to find Patrick, my uncle said something to Father about a matter that would have terrible repercussions.
“I must warn you,” he said. “My companion and host, Don Hermenegildo, is more conservative than I in many respects. He can be vindictive and intransigent in ways I only try to emulate. He has it in for you, for you and my niece, and he will all the more, when he learns how I have capitulated to your request. It was he, frankly, who insisted on Patrick enlisting in the army. The idea came to him, almost in revenge, after Patrick bragged to him about some exploit you apparently had in the Americas, in the settlement of Santa Fe that involved the slaying of some Spanish soldiers. Hermenegildo has looked into it, and discovered that the man who was the governor in charge then, a man of questionable character named Francisco de la Mora, has now returned to Spain. I shall try and steer Hermenegildo off it, but I can’t guarantee anything, as his wife is even more determined, and holds great sway over him.”
“How is it you have become so close to such a man?” Father asked.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” was all that my uncle replied.
All of this made a great impression on my brother. Father and Carlos sought him out and spoke with him, and Father spent the night at a posada so as to avoid having to speak with Hermenegildo and his wife. The next morning, Patrick said goodbye to my uncle and then insisted on showing Father the Alhambra before they set out west. Father had already seen it nineteen years earlier, but pretended he hadn’t.
– XXXVII –
While Father and Francisco were away—the one in Granada, the other off hunting—the house in Sanlúcar was inhabited exclusively by women. I was curious to see how Caitríona and Rosario would get along, and was surprised to see how well they did. And it was agreeable for a few days to spend time with Doña Inmaculada and little Carlota. But the concentration of so much femininity soon weighed on me. It reminded me in certain ways of the many days in Japan when I rarely saw anyone except women who were defined by bitterness and regrets. When Doña Inmaculada expressed a wish to return to Sevilla, I jumped at the chance to accompany her.
A few days later, Francisco appeared at the Casa de Pilatos and apologized for having left me so suddenly and in such a manner. I decided to reward him by inviting him to accompany me to La Moratalla, where I was needed to oversee some improvements. It was a place he had heard much about, but had never visited. I asked Narciso to harness his four best horses to the prized coach. As we left Sevilla, an early morning winter mist lay upon the fields. By noon the sun had cleared it, revealing acres of deep green grass and orange groves punctuated here and there with palm trees, and plumes of wispy smoke from farmers burning brush.
I thought of the story Father once told me of his first carriage ride with my mother from Medina-Sidonia to Sevilla. It was at the very beginning of their courtship, when she was still resisting him and even claimed to dislike him. They sat facing each other and now and then, with the roughness of the road, their knees touched. Both of them confessed, months later, that every time it happened, chills went up their spines, the sort of chills I felt when Kurt Vanderhooven touched my skin. I sat facing Francisco for just that reason.
But the road we traveled was smooth and the carriage large, and any chance of physical contact, accidental or otherwise, was made impossible by Francisco’s worsening mood. He began to ask me about my love life. The only person I mentioned was Lonan, telling him the very least I could. At first he listened with interest, but the further we went, and the more beautiful the countryside, the more disgruntled his demeanor became. He started to ask very pointed and inappropriate questions, and as I did not answer them, he began to fume with jealousy. None of my explanations, or attempts to put things in proper perspective, made any difference. Eventually I lost patience and said things designed to further wound his amour-propre. We entered a cavern of sullen silence, and what had started as a glorious day with a glorious destination was ruined. This was how things were when a rider caught up with us, a messenger from the Casa de Pilatos.
He delivered a letter from Father, from Sanlúcar. It asked me to return to Rosario’s house as fast as I could. Short and written in Japanese, it said there was good news, in that Kurt had arrived for a visit, but that there was bad news as well that he would tell me when I got there. I was relieved at being able to call off the journey to La Moratalla. Narciso wished to turn around and return to Sevilla, to head south from there along a well-traveled route. But Francisco, jumping out of the carriage and stalking about like a peacock, insisted we go through the mountains, taking a route he claimed to know from his hunting exploits.
Narciso was concerned that the carriage, more an antique than anything else by then, might not withstand that kind of journey. But we ceded to Francisco’s so-called superior knowledge of the area. It was also a way for me to appease him in some manner. Rather than sit facing him anymore, I sat next to him looking out the window, savoring the views and lost in thought about seeing Kurt again. The letter I had written for him to try to get to Mizuki was back in Sevilla, but I would write another.
The muddy but flat road through the river plains rose into hills where shepherds drove their sheep. By nightfall the hills had grown steeper, the road narrower and treacherous. When the first stars appeared, as Narciso peered into the woods searching for an appropriate place to rest for the night, we hit a large stone, and one of the wheels broke. The carriage lurched to the side. Narciso fell off. We came to a screeching halt. The shock from the sudden cessation of motion, and the whinnying cries of the horses, were only equaled by Narciso’s curses that he hurled into the darkness, some of them amazingly inventive and bizarre. One he kept coming back to as Francisco and I made our way out of the carriage was, “Me cago en dios!”
With the aid of a lantern we could see that the wheel was shattered beyond repair. Francisco blamed the aging conveyance. I blamed him. Narciso made a heroic effort not to blame anything on anyone, except God himself. We slept fitfully and at the first light of dawn I told Narciso to take a horse for himself and another to follow behind him, and return to Sevilla or to some town nearer by, to try and find help to make repairs. After Francisco insisted that he knew the way, I decided he and I would take the remaining horses and forge on through the mountains. We stripped our luggage of valuables and
I asked him for a spare pair of breeches that I changed into. He had never ridden without a saddle and had misgivings, but I assured him he would adjust to it, and off we went. The carriage was left behind in the morning mist, listing and glistening, an enormous jewel abandoned in the middle of nowhere.
Despite his being born within wedlock, being a recognized son of the seventh duke of Medina-Sidonia, being a young and handsome man favored with an inheritance and a title—El Conde de Bolonia—Francisco lived in a state of constant disappointment. It was of course the duke’s oldest son from a former union who inherited the grandest titles and properties. But even so, where someone like myself saw opportunities and challenges, Francisco only saw problems. He was that sort of person.
The ride was exhilarating but arduous that first day, climbing steep, bouldery slopes into the Grazalema forest. It was my turn to be annoyed with him, and his turn to do as little as possible to try and improve things between us. He never apologized. We only had food enough to get us through the day. Late in the afternoon I spotted a large hare. Using the only weapon I had, a Japanese knife I always carried with me, and employing the training I’d received and the practice I had acquired crossing North America, I was able to kill the hare from a distance of some twenty meters. I skinned it and gutted it and cooked it for our dinner. Francisco, who fancied himself an expert hunter, was more irritated than grateful. He referred to my knife throw as a “lucky toss.” He ate with relish and wanted to sleep with me that night, but I would not have it. This led to another argument and a cold night’s sleep.
I awakened to a sword pressed against my neck and the sound of Francisco being beaten with bare fists. Five slovenly brigands were upon us. In a position to take what they wished, they were assaulting Francisco merely for sport and were about to do the same to me before slaying the both of us. Then the oaf looming over me noticed I was a woman. His sword moved the collar of my coat and my strand of pearls was revealed. The announcement caused the other four to pause from raining their blows on poor Francisco. A communal lust rose up in a chorus of cheers, grunts, and vulgar remarks. Each of them shouted out in revolting attempts to outdo the others for the wittiest and most foul description of what they were going to do to me.
Seeing him distracted with the mirth he was responsible for, I drove my knife through the groin of the man standing over me, deep into his abdomen. As he keeled over screaming, I took his weapon from him. I rose and went at the other four, one by one, until all of them lay dead except for the leader, who was sprawled on the ground in agony. I tended to Francisco’s wounds. One of his eyes was shut from swelling. He was doubled over in pain, but nothing had been broken. I retrieved our goods, scattered their weapons, and drove their horses away. Taking a saddle from one of them, I put it on Francisco’s horse. Before we left, I put the dying man out of his misery.
Francisco and I spoke very little that day. We traveled well and did not stop to eat, and came down to the sea near the village of Barbate. The route he had chosen placed us a considerable distance from where I needed to go. But we rested there for two days, bathing and eating fresh tuna, so that he might regain his strength. Then we rode slowly up the coast to Sanlúcar. On our final night together, I slept with him as a gesture of farewell. He was rough with me, which I assume he thought was very manly, but quick as usual. I simply let it happen, knowing I would never lie with him again.
When we reached the house and related our adventures, I told our listeners that we had vanquished the brigands between us. Though Francisco was grateful for my lie, he never forgave me for it.
It felt good to be reunited with Father, with my brother, with Rosario, Caitríona, and little Carlota. Upon greeting Kurt, I realized that the waves of girlish flirtation I had aimed hither and thither since arriving in Spain had come to an end. They would be replaced with something else, something as solid and sturdy as his gaze. As he took my hand and kissed it, I was filled with desire, and I prayed the solution I washed myself with each time after having relations with Francisco, just as Yokiko had taught me, had kept me from conceiving.
Then Father took me aside and told me about the charges being brought against him.
– XXXVIII –
I received the following letter from Patrick four years later. The queen referred to in the first sentence, married to the King of France, was the sister of King Philip IV of Spain.
Dearest Soledad-Masako,
Thanks to Queen Anne, which is to say, thanks to you, I have set up house in a small but grand-looking residence near the western tip of the Ile St. Louis. The cumbersome derrière of Notre Dame dominates the view from all my balconies. My work at the embassy is taxing and often dull, but after the midday meal I am free to do as I please and the social life here is amusing.
It has occurred to me, what with the drama that ensued that fateful day, so soon after my arrival with Father in Sanlúcar, that I never had the opportunity to tell you about our journey—one which, given what has happened, I shall never forget.
Before departing Granada, I walked him through the romantic ruins of the Alhambra and the Generalife, two extraordinary buildings, one a massive fort—brutal on the outside, whimsical and delicate within—the other a magical summer palace, both built by the Berbers, who ruled Spain for eight centuries. The gardens were overgrown and families of Gypsies lived in many of the abandoned chambers. Everyone we came across that cold, bright morning was impressed and intimidated by Father’s appearance and demeanor, his robes and swords. He cut a rose from one of the thorny thickets, the remaining petals of which I believe he later gave to you.
Then we followed the narrow river Darro into town and I took him into the cathedral to visit the tomb of the Catholic kings. When I told him the tale of how it had been in the nearby village of Santa Fe where these kings had given their permission to Cristoforo Columbo in 1492 for his first voyage, just as they were preparing to besiege Granada and take it back from the Berbers, the irony was not lost on him. The town of Santa Fe the two of you had the misfortune of entering, in the New World that Columbo discovered, was named for the original, just a few kilometers from where Father and I stood that day.
We left the city and rode across a flat, grassy plain. At an inn near the village of Pinos Puente, we stopped for some slices of jamón de Rute, bread, oil, and a glass of wine. We rested for the night at a posada in the town of Loja. There, too, Father’s appearance caused a great stir. It occurred to me that perhaps he enjoyed it, being the center of attention, and oftentimes provoking suspicion and antipathy from local people unaccustomed to anything out of their ordinary. The air between us was still tense then, and I asked him about this before we went to sleep that night.
“Would it not be easier,” I asked him, “for you to at least dress like a Spaniard, here in Spain?”
“Easier for who?” he replied.
“For everyone,” I said. “Though I am mainly thinking of myself.”
“I embarrass you,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “You embarrass me. My sister no longer wears her Japanese gowns.”
“Your sister’s situation is distinct from mine. I am a samurai,” he said. “Regardless of where I happen to be.”
“That means nothing here,” I said. “It means nothing to these common people. It means nothing to me.”
This last sentence was boorish and unnecessary, but I was still trying to make myself difficult.
“It will someday,” was all he replied, before rolling over and pretending to sleep.
I then proceeded to say my prayers, out loud and at a stronger volume than usual, demonstrating thus my continuing allegiance to the Church and, I suppose, to my stepfather.
Then, at dawn, still lying on his back, without any preamble, he said the following while staring at the ceiling.
“I’ll tell you other reasons I continue to dress as I do,” he said. “I have recently seen the other samurai here in Spain, the ones who stayed behind. With few exceptions they h
ave done what you wish for me to do. But they are lost souls, neither samurai, nor Japanese, nor Spaniards. Their identity has been lost, and some of their dignity with it. I choose to remain a samurai. I am Japanese. This is who I am. You are what you are. The kings whose tomb you showed me in Granada, and the shogun of Japan, made the same mistake. By seeking to conserve the purity of their race through force, they are in dissonance with civilization, and with nature. Each of us is his own person, to be respected and understood.”
Given the hour, the fact that I was still half asleep, and the cogency of what he was saying, I had little will or inclination to challenge him.
“I’ll tell you another reason,” he continued, “a personal one. All of the success I have had in this country, with the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, with the former king, with your sister’s mother, was because I looked like, and behaved as, a samurai. If I had tried to be like them, to blend in, to dress like them or even worship like them, I would never have inspired any lasting interest.”
When he rose in the early morning light I saw his scars for the first time, two gashes about his left shoulder and an appalling series of them along his back. We saddled our horses after a breakfast of bread and Manteca and a strong tea.
“I shall never forget the trip I took, my first exploration of Andalusia,” he said. “I traveled through beautiful, untrammeled and uninhabited countryside, from Sanlúcar to Medina-Sidonia, to bring a gift to the duke. For three days I rode with a Spanish friend, hunting for food, bathing in streams, at peace with nature, grateful to be back on solid ground after so many months at sea, grateful to be free of my comrades. I would like for us to do something similar now.”
And so it began, five days of living in the wild. On the few occasions I had gone with my stepfather and Hermenegildo on hunting expeditions, there had been tents and servants, cooks and stable boys along. With Father, I never set foot in another village or saw a farm. We remained in the Sierra Morena. Sometimes we could see the Mediterranean shimmering below for hours at a time. Sometimes we rode through dense pine forests. Sometimes we crossed grassy plains and rushing rivers. Father hunted boar and deer, birds and fish. He treated the animals he killed with solemnity. There were no Spanish jokes, or dripping organs thrust at me as Hermenegildo used to do. Father taught me how to shoot an arrow more or less where I wished for it to go. He taught me the rudimentary moves connected with how to fight with his sword.
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