He described the swords Spaniards used as “pointed clubs.” As you know, his katana was sharp like a razor. He told me you were good with one. We swam together, shaved together, we talked about women and nature and about you and my mother. I did not bother him anymore about religion. I said my prayers in silence, shivering under my blanket, looking up at the stars. He said no more to me about his river gods or what he had once called the Spirit of the Earth. He taught me Japanese expressions, curses, the words samurai use to describe erotic parts of the body. He asked me my opinion of the king, the Count-Duke Olivares, the paintings of Diego Velásquez, about life at court. I knew very little about any of those things, but no one had ever asked me what I thought about anything. He actually listened to me. His questions were real. They were not excuses for him to then expound upon his own views. The closest he came to that was when he declared—it was our final night together—that with few exceptions, he thought that misery was other people. He seduced me. He knew what he was doing. And it worked. We came to love each other. A burden lifted from my soul, one I had carried all the years of my still young life, without knowing it was there.
When we reached Rosario’s house, he was unhappy about your absence, and yet pleased, proud I would say, that you were doing as you wished. Then Kurt Vanderhooven arrived and you were sent for, and by the time you got there with Francisco, the die I fear had been cast. He never once reprimanded me for having told Hermenegildo the tale of what had happened to you both in Santa Fe, in North America. On the night before you arrived, he had a long talk with Kurt behind closed doors. And now we know why.
His shooting bow from Okayama, and the “le Titien”-inspired red leather quiver with its remaining royal arrows, hang in my bedroom here. Whenever I manage to lure a lady to my abode, she inevitably inquires about their provenance, what they are or represent, and just as inevitably I respond, “C’est une longue histoire.”
I trust you are pleasantly settled in Venice. It is my fervent hope we might find a way to see each other, here or there, before year’s end.
Your devoted “frère,”
Patricio
– XXXIX –
Soldiers came with a warrant to the Casa de Pilatos, looking for Father. The staff pleaded ignorance as to his whereabouts. Narciso’s nephew fled the house on horseback, riding to Sanlúcar with the news. Then a letter arrived at Rosario’s, brought by another messenger. It was from Uncle Carlos. He explained that what he had feared might happen had happened, and that he had broken his “friendship” with Hermenegildo because of it. He apologized and offered whatever services he could, and said he was on his way to Madrid to see if he might find a way to intercede on Father’s behalf. He also made it clear that, after a violent argument with Hermenegildo, my name had been omitted from the official complaint filed by Francisco de la Mora. It was the one gesture the Granadino made, against the will of his harridan wife, to keep members of Carlos’ family out of it. Father was being accused of escaping confinement in the American settlement of Santa Fe, and of murdering eight soldiers in service to the king of Spain. The warrant was for his arrest, detention, and subsequent public execution.
“You must both come with me,” Kurt said to us. “I will take you anywhere: Italy, France, England, back to Amsterdam.”
Kurt was slimmer and stronger than I remembered him. The broken nose, his sea captain’s uniform, his blond hair pulled back and mixed with gray, his piercing blue eyes. To speak the truth, I confess that I was in favor of his suggestion. Despite my great inheritance and the portion of my mother’s blood flowing through me, I had not been in Spain all that long, and the idea of leaving it accompanied by Kurt Vanderhooven whetted my appetite. But Father was adamant.
“No. Thank you, but no,” he said. “I have traveled too far, sacrificed too much, and beaten too many formidable odds to bring my daughter back here and settle her. To flee would be an act of cowardice. I shall appeal to the king instead. He does not know me, and is certainly under no obligation to receive me, but I will write a letter and enclose the letter I conserve from his father, and I will send Patrick to try and deliver it. Surely Carlos can help with that.”
He confessed to me later that even as he spoke these words, he recalled how he himself had tried to deliver the letter from the Dutchman to the emperor in Kyoto, without any luck at all. Fifteen-year-old Patrick left with Narciso’s nephew early the following morning, heading straight for Madrid. Kurt made plans to leave us as well—given his nationality, he was still an enemy of Spain in those days. But he invited us to dine with him on his ship the night before he set sail. Father declined but encouraged me to go anyway.
It was the same ship we sailed from New Amsterdam to Europe. It was as clean and gleaming as ever. Its many furled sails were white as snow. As I made my way on board in the late afternoon light, I noticed the low stucco house across the way, where Father and I had first gone, where the talkative Dolores lived with her hens and geraniums. I handed Kurt the rewritten letter for Mizuki. I asked after his wife and family in Amsterdam. He told me of his recent travels.
He served me freshly killed lamb, rice, and wine from Bordeaux, and afterward I let him lead me to his stateroom, where he undressed me in the dark. He removed everything save for the strand of pearls and my bracelets. He kissed me, slowly, and lay me down upon his bed, and then undressed himself. Moonlight entered through the open window, and the ship swayed and creaked against the pilings of the wharf. His passion defiled me, yet his tenderness protected me. It was a revelation. I had found my man. Later, when I returned to Rosario’s, I decided against washing myself with Yokiko’s solution.
On the following day Father and I said goodbye to Rosario and Francisco. Father thought it best that we go to La Moratalla. Rosario wanted to come with us, but Father discouraged it. She cried and he held her. Francisco, whose eye was still black and blue, stared at them, and then at me. Caitríona and Carlota were to accompany us as far as Carmona. But after we reached the finca there and rested for a night, Caitríona insisted on staying with us. I was glad to have her company. We reached La Moratalla that evening. The aroma of budding orange and lemon blossoms filled the cold, damp air and blended with the stoic scent of boxwood.
The staff was surprised, but pleased to see us. Candles and fires were lit. The thought of troops arriving there to arrest Father seemed unlikely and absurd. Carlota slept with me. Caitríona slept with Father. I pined, in a pleasant way, for Kurt, and wondered if Father and Rosario had parted ways. The enormous house and its vast grounds where I was born felt welcoming and safe. I slept as always with the window open. Carlota was curled under the sheets against me deep in slumber, smelling of lavender soap. Just before I myself drifted off, I heard Caitríona in the chamber above us, moaning with pleasure.
***
Patrick arrived in Madrid three days after leaving Sanlúcar. He found Uncle Carlos and showed him Father’s letters, and the next day they brought them to the audience Carlos had arranged with the Count-Duke Olivares. The count-duke stated he knew nothing about the matter, and sent word to the general in charge of crimes against the military. As the two men waited, they exchanged pleasantries as if little were at stake. The count-duke asked about Sevilla, and complained that he had not been able to visit his hometown for some years owing to his great responsibilities. He then took notice of Patrick, his correct clothing, his Asian features, the crucifix he wore around his neck, and he asked him many questions and took a liking to him. The general came to the chamber and confirmed the validity of the warrant that had been issued for Father’s arrest. Then, as luck would have it and to everyone’s surprise, the king himself entered the room, a fortunate coincidence that in the end altered nothing.
He had been looking for Olivares to discuss another matter, but upon finding such a queer quartet huddled there, and overhearing the general pronounce the phrase “warrant for his arrest,” he took an interest. By all accounts, he listened to everyone present intensely, i
ncluding my young brother. Patrick thought him ungainly and awkward physically, but very kingly nonetheless, and it was Patrick who made mention of the letters which the king immediately asked for. He read the first one carefully, and then unfolded the old sheet of parchment his own father had written and emblazoned with his seal, the one that spoke of Philip the Third’s great admiration for Father, ordering that he be treated as a personal friend of the king wherever he went.
As Philip the Fourth was reading, the count-duke spoke of the matter at hand. He cited the heinous influence of Hermenegildo, and went on to detail my brother’s somewhat complicated origins. Patrick feared the king might not be listening, so absorbed did he seem by Father’s correspondence. But upon finishing it he folded both letters, slipped them into his velvet tunic, and said, “We shall pardon the samurai, effective immediately. Draw up a document to that effect for signature within the hour.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the general said and bowed, turned on his heels, and left in a hurry.
“Count-Duke,” the king went on. “Invite the gentleman from Japan to see us here in the palace. It is high time we meet this fellow my father was so fond of. And have him bring your niece, Carlos, so that we might all make her acquaintance.”
Then he turned to my brother.
“There is no doubt your parentage is unusual, young man, but so is that of some of my friends and relatives. The important thing is that you have been raised within the bosom of the Church, that you have received the sacraments, that you have been raised to be a proper gentleman. You have shown character and courage in coming here as you did. It speaks well of both your fathers, and we are personally indebted to you for bringing these letters into our hands.”
Patrick said he was beside himself with joy. Then the king spoke once again to the tall and bulky Olivares. “This vile governor, Francisco de la Mora—have him detained instead. We have already had news of his scandalous conduct. Out of deference to his family we chose to ignore it, but not after this. The man represented the crown in New Spain. He was charged with the task of administering the true faith to the native population, to win them over to our way of life. But he disgraced himself, and the crown, by entering into unfair commerce with them for his own benefit, corrupting them, taxing and imprisoning them. It is an abomination.”
Wine was called for, and the count-duke was all a-fluster what with the unexpected proceedings. While they waited for the general to return with the pardon for the king to sign, my Uncle Carlos felt the need to try and explain the evil actions of his former companion, but the king was not receptive.
“Granada is a city of vipers,” the king said, “and this Hermenegildo is a Van der Wyden, a descendant of some of the Germans who helped Queen Isabel drive the Moors back where they came from. They were granted titles and properties in Granada for their service. But those that stayed, like this man’s family, were soon infected with the city’s nasty vapors, its general proclivity for envy, suspicion, and its darkness of spirit. Perhaps it is something in the water, a curse placed upon the Acequia de Aynadamar by Boabdil’s furious mother before they fled.”
The general returned. The king signed the pardon. It was duly stamped and sealed. The invitation to court, drawn up by Olivares himself, was included in the packet.
“Now gather some strong men and swift steeds, go find this man, and deliver these documents to him. Leave tonight in case other troops stationed in Andalusia are already en route to him.”
“I should like to go with them, Your Majesty,” my brother said.
“Go then, young man. Go and show them the way.”
“I will accompany you,” Uncle Carlos said. I shall always treasure him for this gesture, regardless of all the bad business we had before.
***
It took them three days to reach us.
– XL –
On the very next morning after we arrived at La Moratalla, soldiers rode through the gates. They were the same ones who had come calling at the Casa de Pilatos. From my balcony, I watched Narciso confronting them. Then Caitríona appeared and stood at his side with Carlota. It was at that moment when Father came into my room. He was wearing his finest kimono and kami-shimo. His long and short swords were in his sash. “Come with me,” was all he said.
We made our escape by way of the kitchen. I assumed we would go to the stables, grab two horses, and leave, but instead he led me out into the formal gardens, walking at so fierce a pace I had to run to keep up with him. On we went until we neared the untouched forest, the wild part of the estate. We crossed the narrow wooden bridge over the little stream and headed up through the ferns and pine trees. I realized then that he was taking me to my mother’s grave.
I remember thinking, even with all that was happening back at the house, how beautiful the morning was, how clean and sweet it was, how vivid the colors. The undergrowth was still damp with dew. Spring was close at hand. And I remember how good it felt, despite the danger, to be alone with Father again. That it was just the two of us, the way it had been when we left Japan together.
We arrived at the grave and stood in front of it in silence. The trees and the shrubs were still. The river below was quiet. The sun had just reached the meadow and was shining upon the upper half of the Roman columns. Father had not been there since day she was buried. He looked at the grave, at the Biwa tree that had grown from the seeds he’d planted. He held my hand and spoke to me in Japanese.
“I have to leave you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I have to go. I must disappear.”
“All right,” I said, gripped with fear. “But we shall go together.”
“No,” he said. “Not this time.”
I started to cry.
“Patrick and Carlos will get to the king,” I said. “The king will understand. At the very least, he will abide by the wishes of his father.”
He squeezed my hand, the way he’d done all my life.
“I have thought it through,” he said. “The king is young. He owes me nothing. He will not countermand an order issued by his own military, to help someone who killed Spanish soldiers. Regardless of the circumstances. His honor is at stake. I understand it.”
“You do not know that,” I said.
“I cannot risk it,” he answered.
“Then you must take me with you,” I said, desperate. “You cannot leave me.”
“We have come so far, Masako,” he said, speaking gently. “I have succeeded in bringing you here. I have succeeded in bringing the three of us together again this morning. I cannot ask more from this life. This is where you belong, and now I must return to where I belong. Once I am gone, this next part of your life can truly begin. It is the natural way of things.”
I knew him. I knew him better than anyone. I knew the way he sounded when his mind was made. For a long time, this was what I most had feared. I could hardly see through my tears. He turned from me and went to his knees and bowed before my mother’s tombstone. He did it in that formal, elegant, samurai manner.
“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded.
“This moment always had to come,” he said, still looking at the grave. “Better it come now, of my own choosing.”
“I cannot bear it,” I said. “Where are you going?”
He rose and looked at me.
“Home,” he said.
And then he kissed me, something he rarely did.
“How?” I asked him.
“With Kurt,” he said. “He is waiting for me. Narciso has left me a horse down by the river.”
“Kurt,” I said.
“Kurt is a true friend,” he said. “He will take me back to Japan. Then, I suspect, you shall be seeing him again sometime next year.”
“But you are wanted there too,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “But I have powerful friends there. And I have always followed the warrior’s way. Now it is time for me to retire to a monastery. I am a samurai and it is what I am m
eant to do. Just as you are meant to stay here, where your mother is from.”
I shook my head and felt my body trembling. “I cannot bear it.”
Then he put his hands on my shoulders.
“Of course you can bear it,” he said, gazing directly into my eyes. “You are my daughter. And you shall bear it with pride. You must look after yourself, and look after your brother, and apologize to him for me. And you must live the life you wish.”
Then he drew his sword, the sword given to him when he was thirteen in Sendai by Date Masamune.
“Give your long sword to your brother,” he said. “This is yours now.”
He held it out in front of him with both hands. I took it from him in the same manner, raised it above my head and then lowered it, the way I had seen it done all through my childhood. The way he wished for me to take it from him. But I could not stop crying.
“You may need it,” I said.
“No,” he said with a smile. “I have all the weapons I require.”
He stepped away and looked once more at the grave before returning his gaze to me, as if to fix me clear in his memory.
Then, before I knew it, the man I love more than anyone in this world strode across what remained of the clearing and began to descend. I followed him and stood by the shrubs and watched him make his way down to the river. Through my tears I watched him untether the horse. I saw him mount and ride off. He never looked back.
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