by Jina Bacarr
“Your daughter is very beautiful,” the empress said, rocking her in her arms. I sigh now remembering the delightful scene with pink-violet flowers falling around us like fairy dust, though the magic would soon disappear.
“’Tis an honor for me to present her to you, Your Majesty, and also Lady Nami,” I said, smiling at Nami, who bowed low, but she would not cross the threshold between serving the empress and carrying on in the casual manner I affected in the presence of the young ruler.
“I have been informed you are leaving soon for England,” the empress said, her eyes curious.
“Yes, but I intend to return to Japan to be with Lord Shintaro and my daughter.” I didn’t have to make excuses to Her Majesty for the circumstances of my child’s birth, since the native language didn’t possess a word for illegitimate child. Such a concept was unknown to them, since the son of a concubine had the same opportunity to inherit a title as did the offspring of a wife.
“Your child will not accompany you?” she asked, surprised.
“No, she will stay here with Lord Shintaro and Lady Nami,” I said, encouraging the samurai woman to take the baby from the empress, who looked distressed at my words. I caught a flicker of worry on the young ruler’s face, which disturbed me, but I didn’t know why.
“I have heard you fought side by side with Lord Shintaro and defeated the raiders,” she said, stroking my baby’s cheek with her elegant fingers, a sigh escaping her lips. She meant the assassins who tried to destroy us, though as Shintaro predicted, he couldn’t prove who had sent them.
“’Tis true, Your Majesty,” I said, then started to tell her about Akira and how he had sacrificed his life to save mine, but she continued her thought with such urgency, as if it had struck a discordant note and upset the harmony between us and she wished to say it and be done with it. A most unusual gesture.
“And that you showed great courage as samurai,” she said.
I bowed low, warmed by her words. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“I fear you must be brave again, Lady Carlton,” she said with a determined smile and a parting look at my little daughter. “Very brave.”
And with that strange warning she left, our meeting concluded.
“I request that Your Majesty accept my sword and all that it commands.”
At three-thirty in the afternoon on that twenty-eighth day of July 1875, I heard Lord Shintaro utter those words in the native language to His Majesty, the emperor of Japan, the samurai kneeling before him, his forehead touching the white straw matting. Earlier I had observed my samurai walk through sliding paper doors into the audience hall, devoid of furniture save for the raised flooring holding a tentlike structure fashioned from the most vibrant persimmon-colored silk and decorated with hand-painted white chrysanthemums, the imperial flower. Wearing formal western clothes, the emperor sat in his royal chair placed inside for his comfort. I made note of the wall-to-wall backdrop behind the tent depicting graceful but imperfect trees in green and gold, their scraggly branches a riotous display of ancient lineage that I believe was meant to add an aura of wisdom around the young emperor, who was often beleaguered by his lofty position. I imagine more so on this day when his loyal samurai leader took it upon himself to end his exile.
Shintaro.
His face stern, his eyes seeing no one but the emperor.
I detected the muscle twitching at the side of his face, his mouth set in a hard line, his fingers caressing his sword for the last time with a reverence illuminated by the knowledge that its brutal power, its strength, its spirit would now find peace. The sword is the soul of the samurai. How well I understood that, as if it were a blessed prayer carved upon his heart. Had I not begged him to keep Akira’s swords in a sacred place as a way of honoring his memory?
Raising his head from the mat, Shintaro looked up and proffered his sword to the young emperor. I shall never forget that moment, seeing my samurai responsible, determined, his dignity intact. I think that pricked the tender skin of the men who watched him, British and native, some determined to prove he was a rebel and not worthy of a seat on the council. They were wrong. Shintaro was a warrior and a gentleman, a dichotomy of contrasts indeed. It was a day of contrasts, Shintaro in red and indigo-blue, me in pink-and-white voile, my samurai arriving at the palace on a white horse as would a samurai of Old Edo, me arriving in a grand traveling carriage pulled by two horses, a perky, rose-pink veiled hat upon my head with trailing veils dotted with white lace flowing down my back. Walking over the wooden bridge leading to the palace with my baby in my arms, Mr. Fawkes and Nami beside me, the memory of that young girl with her long train colliding with the handsome samurai outside the old palace gate came back to me so vividly.
So filled with sexual energy and hunger she was, so different than I am now. A mother. And a woman in love.
Mr. Fawkes stood next to me in the back of the hall, resplendent in his swallowtail black coat, clean and pressed, his white-gloved hands pulling out his gold watch and checking the time. It was he who told me the hour, as if he wished it to be done with, a gesture which disturbed me since that was so unlike the reserved Englishman. He had cause for nervousness, I found out, a rumor circulating among those in the British Legation in their knee-length black frock coats and white gloves lined up on either side of the royal matting.
Eager to have a good look at you, he commented dryly. I smiled widely at these gentlemen when they turned around to stare at me. Mr. Fawkes kept the exact nature of the rumor from me, hoping to spare me grief if it was unfounded. Still, I wondered, did the whispered talk have anything to do with the empress’s ominous warning? I didn’t speak of it, for this was the anxious moment when my samurai acknowledged his allegiance to his emperor and the disbanding of his samurai.
The young emperor rose from his chair and emerged from the tent. A shiver went through me, though the air was heavy, the heat stifling.
Would the emperor accept his sword?
20
If I may be truthful and express myself in a plain style, I harbored a secret fear of the outcome of my own destiny after this meeting with the emperor. In my heart, I couldn’t bear to see my samurai divorce Nami, a dutiful woman as close to me as my own kin, yet I couldn’t deny I wished to remain with him. No discussion of plans for us to be together had been broached and, with the understanding that the Oriental mind approaches such matters with much deliberation, I was content to remain at my lord’s side without the benefit of any formal standing in his household. Scandalous? Yes, but nothing else mattered to me. I cannot believe how naive I was, reminding me of a story the Irish tell about a fair maiden who had a fancy for living in towers where she indulged in her romantic dreams. That maiden was me, for I had been living in a dream about to end.
“I have broken the samurai code of honor by failing to protect my men from the assassin’s sword,” Shintaro said.
“They followed me without question, including the young warrior Akira, whose soul was entwined with mine.” He lowered his head but kept his wide shoulders, his back straight. When I think about that moment, it seems I detected more than a slight pause before he said, “I am prepared to do my duty.”
“Do you know what you are saying, Lord Shintaro?” The emperor stood stiffly. Was that a waver in his voice?
“Yes, Your Majesty, to apologize for my error and to prove my sincerity that no more blood will be shed…I request the right to regain my honor and commit seppuku.”
Seppuku. I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. His words tore through my mind, bringing everything I loved, needed and wanted to an end. What a fool I was! If I hadn’t been so filled with my own selfish desires, I would have seen the pain my samurai faced, knowing he had but one choice that would bring peace.
Ritual suicide.
Again he proffered his sword and I could see the hesitation etched on the young emperor’s face. Would he accept it? No one moved. I don’t know how long we stood there until finally the emperor took the sword from Shintaro an
d bowed slightly, then he turned and went back inside the tent, leaving all who watched in stunned silence. Deafening. Not even a hushed whisper through a thin paper door could be heard.
“We must go, your ladyship,” Mr. Fawkes said, taking my arm and reminding me to make three low bows before backing out the opposite door from where we came. I had never heard him speak in such sepulchral tones, sweat pouring down his ruddy cheeks, his gloved hand damp with perspiration. I felt my own desperation rise in response. The empress had tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen, my mind not grasping the notion that honor came before anything, even life. When I heard my samurai proclaim it was his duty to end his life, I felt as if I were biting into a poisoned fruit, its spicy pulp seducing my tongue with its vivid promise, while its repugnant aftertaste killed my soul. What occurred next was my reaction to what I considered a senseless act, one that caused me considerable pain and forced me to push aside my idealism, whatever the cost. I wanted Shintaro to live and I had every intention of fighting for what I wanted.
“I have shamed the code of the warrior,” said Shintaro. He sounded angry, very angry. “I cannot disgrace my ancestors.”
“You had nothing to do with Akira and the others being killed,” I protested. “I led the assassins to you. I should die, not you.”
He ignored me, his obsession with duty blinding him to anything else. “You must take our daughter where it’s safe.” He explained that his Tokio house would be confiscated because he had no son to inherit the property. “I will do what I must to regain my honor and show loyalty to the emperor.”
“What about us, Shintaro?” I asked him, attempting to keep my voice from betraying the hurt seething inside me. My ego rebelling against a code that recognized honor, but not love.
“Us?” he said, cocking his head to one side, as if not understanding the concept.
“Yes, us. You and me.” We spoke in English, a samurai and a lady standing on the enclosed wooden bridge crossing between the main palace and the royal apartments. Our heated conversation drew the irresistible curiosity of the royal consorts scurrying back and forth across the bridge. “Do I mean nothing to you? And what about your daughter?”
“If you are truly samurai,” Shintaro said in an even voice, holding me by the shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh, “it is your obligation to respect my wishes and not to interfere.”
“I see. If I go against your wishes and try to stop you, I am not samurai. If I do nothing, you go to your death.” I couldn’t stop the emotion welling up in me. I breathed deeply, the air heavy with the scent of camellia oil from the coiffed hair of the royal consorts and their perfumed flowing ceremonial robes. “Either way, I have already lost you.”
“It is the way of the warrior, Katie,” he said, using my given name, something he’d never done before, always calling me “my lady” or by my title.
“I find no comfort in your words, Shintaro, my spirit wandering, hungry to understand why you must die, not for some vile act, but because of what you believe.”
“It is an honorable death,” he insisted, “a gift from the gods.”
“As is our daughter, Shintaro, a gift from those same gods. Every time I look at her, I see you.”
“I believed I could never love a woman,” he said honestly, “that a samurai must live his life in service to his God, the emperor. Then your presence enlightened my world and I would do anything to keep you safe, even if it means my own death.”
I fell silent, pressing my lips together, taking deep breaths, fighting to keep from trembling. “When?” I asked, wondering why my voice was so calm, why I was asking this insane question, because I didn’t accept it, I didn’t.
He said simply, “At dawn.”
I remember him best in that moment, the late-afternoon sunlight striking his face on one side, leaving the other in the shadows, where he would soon leave me and our child. I didn’t protest when he pulled me to him and lifted the veil covering my face. My anger dissipated into passion when he looked at me, his dark eyes narrowing then opening, begging me to understand. His hands went around my waist, strong and firm, his mouth soft and tender on mine. A kiss. The forbidden, a taboo practiced by the courtesan, a woman draped in silken mystery. I was that woman, from that first time he had made love to me in Yoshiwara to our sensual trysts as a ménage celebrating the tea ceremony.
I closed my eyes, ignoring the royal consorts flitting past us like curious hummingbirds, for all I could think of was, this was the last time I would taste the bitter with the sweet.
I paced back and forth on the covered wooden bridge long after my samurai had gone, the hour growing late, the brilliant scarlet, fawn and lavender of the royal consorts’ gowns flashing in the corner of my eye. All I could think about was Shintaro. I would miss the rich tones of his voice commanding me to strip off my kimono, his dark, brooding eyes surveying my nude body then submitting his approval with a provocative grunt, his elegant gestures wielding his sword with effortlessness, the thought-provoking beauty of his poems, the erotic imaginings of his mind, his curiosity at finding my pubic hair light-colored and wiry, the heart-warming surprise at his discovery of embracing the love of a woman, seeing him nod in approval when our child nursed at my breast. I would do whatever the gods asked of me to hear him poetize again about virginal blossoms and rushing winds. He was a true samurai and for that reason he must not die.
To prove I was samurai, he had begged me not to interfere, but I didn’t care if he tossed me out on my wretched Irish arse, I told Mr. Fawkes when he bade me leave with him.
I had to do something, but what? I could see the Englishman was worried about me and such a dear friend he was, breaking the news to Nami. Dear, sweet Nami. Did she know beforehand? I asked him. He nodded. Of course she did, I chastised myself for my lack of sense. She is samurai but she never said a word. What a brave woman she is, her spirit not weighed down with the impatient longing for something she can’t have.
And I? A fever burned in me, making me a constant source of irritation to those who knew me, questioning, testing, turning clever phrases and seeking out the impermissible in a world that frowned on female independence. The world of the samurai above all. I couldn’t allow Shintaro to commit an act that made no sense, an act brought about not by his own volition but by me. Was there no escape possible? Were we all vessels moved about by the whims of the gods, their passions fueled by a single act of honor or shame? I revolted against it. No one wanted him to die, including the impressionable young emperor who had looked horrified when Shintaro presented his sword to him, as if he couldn’t accept losing his faithful samurai.
Looking at me, you would have thought I had gone mad and, by the blessed saints, had turned heretic. My heart racing, my cheeks flushed, I spun around on my heel, hoping it wasn’t too late, beseeching the fates to smile on my lunacy as they had once before when I followed my heart, for I had an idea. It was against the odds in a culture that celebrated an appreciation of beauty for those things transitory, including life itself, and that death was glorious, but I was determined to try.
Smiling at the beautiful royal consort scurrying past me in a flurry of silk and perfume, I asked Mr. Fawkes to wait for me, then I followed her, knowing she would lead me to the one person who could help me.
“What you ask, Lady Carlton, would be most difficult…” the empress said, her words trailing off, so much left unsaid, a polite way of saying no. I had to convince her to help me save Shintaro.
“I come to Your Majesty not for myself, but for my child,” I said, walking beside her through the long corridor lined with glass cases of gosho dolls. “Lord Shintaro’s child.”
“Yes, I understand, your child…”
The empress nodded, then pointed out her favorite doll in the case, a chubby-cheeked little boy riding on the back of a turtle, his tiny eyes laughing, his oyster-shell-white face smiling at us. A defining moment of innocent sweetness caught in an enchanted frolic. The dolls were given to
visiting dignities as gifts when the emperor lived in Kioto, the empress explained, their name derived from the expression meaning “from the Imperial Palace.”
What am I meandering about a childlike doll when my lord Shintaro was to be denied the joy of seeing his child again? Understand, I have always been intrigued with the ambiguities played out in the native culture, and never was it done with such elegance and savoir faire as on this humid summer night. A rare scene indeed, dear lady reader, and one you’ll not hear about from an overbloated member of the British Legation, for no record exists of this Irish lass and the diminutive empress with her long black hair hanging loosely around her shoulders strolling about the royal apartments like two clever women planning a coup d’état. For that’s what it was, this idea of releasing a samurai from performing the act of ritual suicide. I suffered bitterly that night, tormented by the fact that this entire episode was fostered by my brashness. I gave thanks to the gods the empress didn’t have me tossed out on my ear when I barged into the royal apartments unannounced, begging for an audience with her.
“It was my fault the assassins raided the hiding place where Shintaro sought peace after his first child was murdered,” I said, then added, “He is willing to lay down his life to protect me.”
I studied the empress’s face carefully, trying to discern a blink of her eye, a tremble of her lip, anything to see if I had reached her soul, if only for a moment. I continued, “He has shown himself to be a true samurai by coming here today to relinquish his sword.”
“Your words have great merit, Lady Carlton.”
She is smiling. But is her smile merely to placate me?
“Don’t let him die as samurai, Your Majesty,” I pleaded. “Let him live as a man who will serve his emperor well in the new Japan, his child a bridge between both our cultures.”
Standing pensively, her graceful hands pushing her long shiny hair off her brow, she opened the glass case and removed the little doll riding the turtle. She held it up to the gaslight, turning it this way and that, as if trying to make up her mind about something.
