Patient X

by David Peace

  ‘Incredible,’ exclaimed Akutagawa. ‘It sounds most exquisite.’

  ‘Exquisite indeed,’ said Nagami. ‘Yet, according to my friend, there was a strange legend associated with this particular black robed Mary.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Akutagawa. ‘In what way strange?’

  Nagami lit his pipe, then said, ‘Well, according to my friend, and he is not a man prone to telling supernatural tales, the power of this particular black robed Mary worked in reverse, changing good fortune to bad.’

  ‘So it was cursed,’ said Akutagawa, putting down the white porcelain Mary and picking up a cigarette. ‘Please do tell …’

  Nagami smiled, then said, ‘Well, I am no raconteur, and would feel somewhat embarrassed before a storyteller such as yourself …’

  ‘Please,’ said Akutagawa. ‘You have already whetted my interest.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Nagami, ‘and if it will not bore you, according to my friend, before the black robed Mary came into the possession of his family, it had belonged to a wealthy family called Inugami who lived in Tochigi.

  ‘For the Inugami family, the black robed Mary was no mere collector’s piece; they worshipped her as a protective deity. But one autumn – in fact, the autumn following the summer in which the Black Ships of Commodore Perry had first appeared at Uraga, and so it must have been the autumn of the sixth year of Kaei, 1853 – the youngest of the family, who was but eight years old, and its only son, and who was named Mosaku, contracted a severe case of measles. Having lost both their parents in a smallpox epidemic a few years earlier, this boy and his elder sister Oei had been raised by their grandmother, who was already over seventy years old. Naturally, the grandmother was most distressed by the boy’s condition, which did not improve at all, despite the best efforts of the family doctor. And within a week, the boy’s condition had become so critical that it seemed he might not survive for many more days and would surely pass away.

  ‘Late one night, when Oei was asleep, her grandmother suddenly came to her room, and woke and dressed her. Still half asleep, Oei was taken by her grandmother down the hallway and out of the house. They walked to a dark earthen storehouse in the garden. In the storehouse was a small shrine made of white wood. The old woman opened the shrine door with a key. Inside the shrine, reflected in dim candlelight, Oei saw the black image of a Maria Kannon standing behind a heavy brocade veil. Overwhelmed by the ominous atmosphere of the dark and silent earthen room, Oei clutched the sleeve of her grandmother and began to sob. But the old woman ignored her tears, knelt before the image of the black robed Mary, crossed her forehead and her chest, and began to pray intently in words unknown to Oei.

  ‘After a while, the old woman stopped her prayers. She picked up Oei, soothed her and had her kneel beside her, then began to make a vow to the black image in a language Oei understood: “Our Holy Virgin Mary, please listen to my prayers. This girl and her younger brother, Mosaku, are the only ones upon whom I can rely in this transient life. My granddaughter, Oei, is still too young to take a husband to look after my family. If something happens to my grandson, my family, the Inugami, will have no male heir. Please protect the life of Mosaku so that no misfortune will fall on him. But if my faith is not strong enough for such a wish, then at least let him live until my own life ends. As I am old, it won’t be long before I give up my soul to the Heavenly Lord. But may Oei have become old enough to marry by then. So please render us your mercy, please stay the sword of the Angel of Death, let it not touch my grandson before my eyes are closed for ever.”

  ‘Thus, her head bowed, the old woman earnestly prayed. And as her grandmother finished the last words of her prayer, Oei timidly looked up at the black image and now felt it smiling slightly. With a small cry, Oei again clutched at the sleeves of her grandmother in fear. But the old woman seemed quite satisfied, and stroked Oei’s back and said, “Let us go now. I am sure Our Holy Virgin Mary has heard this wretched woman’s prayer.”

  ‘The following day, as if the vow of the old woman had been fulfilled, the boy’s condition improved; his fever went down and he finally awoke from his coma. Seeing this, the grandmother was filled with an indescribable joy; Oei would never forgot her tearful, joyous face that day.

  ‘Now, as her grandson calmly slept, the exhausted old woman lay down herself in the next room and finally closed her eyes to rest. Beside her, Oei quietly played with marbles, occasionally glancing up at her peaceful grandmother. But then, about an hour later, the old maid who was attending to the boy quietly opened the sliding door and asked, “Miss Oei, will you please wake your grandmother for a moment now?”

  ‘Oei went over to her grandmother and gently shook her shoulders a few times, calling to her, “Wake up, Grandma, wake up.” But the old woman did not move, would not be stirred from her sleep. Concerned, the maid returned to the room, looked at the grandmother, and in a shocked and tearful voice cried, “Oh, Madam Inugami, Madam Inugami!”

  ‘But the old woman remained still, slight purple shadows beneath her closed eyes. Now Oei heard another maid hastily open the door and, as she looked down at the old woman, in a trembling voice the maid said, “Madam, your grandson …”

  ‘Oei knew something terrible must be happening to her little brother. But her grandmother’s eyes were still closed, would not open, the two maids tearfully crying by her pillow, wailing now.

  ‘And sure enough, a few moments later, Oei’s young brother took his last breath; it seemed the black robed Mary had fulfilled the prayer of the grandmother by preventing the grandson from dying, as long as she lived.’

  Nagami stopped speaking now, struck a match and relit his pipe, then looked across the table at his guest.

  Akutagawa was staring intently at the white porcelain Maria Kannon on the table before him. Now he turned away to look up at Nagami. ‘And what became of the granddaughter, Oei?’

  ‘She was adopted into the family of a distant relative,’ said Nagami. ‘And so according to my friend, her branch of the Inugami family was thus ended. Furthermore, it is said that the only son of the adopted family, and to whom Oei was betrothed, later died in the Battle of Utsunomiya Castle.’

  ‘And so how, then, did the family of your friend come upon the black robed Mary,’ asked Akutagawa, ‘and hear its legend?’

  ‘That was my question, too,’ said Nagami. ‘Tashiro-kun, my friend, told me that his father, who was a noted collector of antiques and relics, bought the statue from a curiosity shop close to the Futarayama Shrine while on business in Utsunomiya. However, the proprietor of the shop would only sell the statue to him after first ascertaining that Tashiro’s father was not a follower of the “Mary Faith”, as the shopkeeper said, while warning him of its curse and the story associated with this particular black robed Mary.’

  ‘It is a most fascinating, mysterious and sad tale,’ said Akutagawa. ‘Thank you for sharing it with me. And I confess, I am most envious you saw the statue for yourself, held it in your hand and looked upon its face.’

  ‘I did indeed,’ said Nagami. ‘And I must say, beautiful though she was, this Mary wore a most disdainful, almost scornful smile.’

  Akutagawa nodded. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Her expression certainly added to the veracity of the tale,’ said Nagami. ‘At least to my mind. And I am also reminded now of one final detail which might be of interest to you: on the base of the stand on which this black robed Mary stood, there was an inscription in Latin which I still recall –

  ‘DESINE FATA DEUM FLECTI SPERARE PRECANDO.’

  There was a tearful look upon the face of Akutagawa now as he whispered, ‘Do not expect your prayer will change what God has already ordained.’

  *

  How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? For ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

  How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? How long shalt mine enemy be exalted over me?

  Consider and hear me, O LORD my God
: lighten my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;

  Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.

  But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.

  I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.

  *

  At his desk in his study, upstairs in the wood-framed ‘Latin Seminary’, in the grounds of the Ōura Catholic Church, Father Léon Gracy opened his eyes and stared out of the window at the sky above, then the bay below, and he sighed. He did not like this place like he used to like this place, did not love this place like he used to love this place. He knew it was still God’s place, on God’s earth still; he knew he had been sent here to do God’s work, had come here to spread God’s word. To bring education, to give instruction; to train Japanese priests to spread God’s word. His words of love, His words of peace, His words of mercy, His words of forgiveness. He had joined the Société des Missions Étrangères de Paris to spread those words, His words; he had prayed to be sent here to do this work, His work. And God had heard his prayers, and God had answered his prayers. More than twenty years ago now, he first arrived in Japan. He had studied Japanese in Kagoshima, he had ministered in Ōita, then he had come here to Nagasaki, to this church and its seminary, and later become the headmaster of this seminary. Doing God’s work, spreading God’s word – His words of love and words of peace, His words of mercy and of forgiveness – in God’s places, on God’s earth.

  But all God’s places across God’s earth had changed, they had fallen; fallen so very, very far. It was said – but by whom and to whom, who knew – that there were more believers at the end of the war than at its beginning, both in and out of uniform. Thanks to Dieu et patrie, thanks to la foi patriotique: if not a Holy War, if not a Holy Crusade, then a Just War, a Just Crusade, they said, fighting to halt the age-old Teutonic barbarism, fighting to end all wars, so they said. But for three years, those three years he had been conscripted, those three years he had served, he had seen only Catastrophe, only the suicide of civilised Europe; Catholic killing Catholic, Christian killing Christian, believer killing believer, man killing man, over and over, again and again, killing and killing; all the horror he had seen, all the horror he had witnessed, he could not forget, he could not forgive.

  At his desk in his study, Father Léon Gracy turned again to stare again, as he always turned to stare again, at the framed portrait of Father Bernard-Thadée Petitjean, a man he had never met, but a man he felt he had once known, the man who had been his inspiration as a child, the man who had been his motivation in joining the Société des Missions Étrangères. In different times, in a different world. Now Father Léon Gracy turned to stare at the other portrait on his desk: a man in a different uniform, a man he had met, a man he had known, a man he had loved; a young man who had been cut down in that uniform, slaughtered and killed in the blood and the mud of Verdun, a brother priest Philippe, but just one brother of so many, many brothers, so many, many dead; cut down, slaughtered and killed, forever lost, while he lived and breathed here, here in this place, God’s place on God’s earth; God’s earth that had eaten, had swallowed and taken so many –

  How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? For ever?

  With tears in his eyes, with sorrow in his heart, Father Léon Gracy looked up at the wall, at the cross on the wall –

  How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

  Our Lord, Father Philippe and Father Petitjean: every day, every hour, this trinity watched over him, smiled down at him, but every day, every hour, he knew he failed them, every day, every hour, he failed and betrayed them; unable to forget, unable to forgive, his eyes dark, he slept –

  The sleep of death; in the sleep of death …

  Unable to forgive, unable to love.

  With his eyes red, his shoulders low, Father Léon Gracy rose from his desk and left his study, and with a melancholy gait, his robes trailing in the dust, he walked from the seminary out to the church and up its steps.

  Inside, the building was as dark and as empty as ever, the glass and the cross dull and hidden. Only for Masses on Sundays or on holy days was the building ever lit and full, but most of the parishioners and attendees were Europeans or Americans, prominent businessmen or government officials; the only Japanese who ever came were the wives of these men.

  Father Léon Gracy walked down the aisle towards the altar and the cross, and there, sat in a pew on the right, before the tomb of Father Petitjean and the statue of the Holy Mother and Child, he saw a young Japanese man, dressed in a Western suit, seemingly lost in thought.

  ‘Konnichi-wa,’ said Father Léon Gracy.

  The young man turned to Father Gracy, bowed his head slightly, smiled and said, ‘Good afternoon, Father.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Father Gracy. ‘I do not wish to disturb you, however if there is anything I can help you with, I will be here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied the young man. ‘Actually, and please forgive my ignorance as I am a visitor from Tokyo, but is this the place where the hidden, underground Christians first revealed themselves to Father Petitjean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Gracy. ‘According to the letter he wrote the next day, Father Petitjean came across a group of twelve or fifteen Japanese men, women and children standing outside the church – this was very soon after it had been erected in 1865 – and when he opened the door to the church, they followed him inside. He came to this spot, or one very near, and then, when he began to pray the Our Father, an elderly lady named Isaberina Yuri Sugimoto, placing her hand upon her heart, said to Father Petitjean in a whisper, The heart of all those present is the same as yours …’

  ‘The Miracle of Ōura,’ said the young man.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Father Gracy. ‘After some two hundred and fifty years of isolation, it truly was a miracle.’

  ‘But forgive me,’ said the young man again, ‘for in this miracle were not the seeds of a tragedy already sown? When one reads of the persecutions and deaths that followed, what we call the kuzure, or the Fourth Collapse? Sincerely, Father, should these Christians not have stayed hidden?’

  Father Gracy stared down upon this young Japanese man in his Western suit, seated in the pew, and smiled and said, ‘May I sit with you a while?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young man. ‘Please …’

  Father Gracy sat down beside the young man, before the tomb of Father Petitjean and the statue of the Holy Mother and Child, and said, ‘Indeed, what you say is true. The Urakami Yonban Kuzure was most severe. Many of the once hidden Christians were tortured, and almost three and a half thousand were sent into exile and forced labour, and it is said at least six hundred of them died. Indeed, it was a tragedy. But that very tragedy, those persecutions and exiles, so shocked the world that the Meiji government was forced to repeal the ban on religious freedom, a ban that had stood for over two and a half centuries. May I ask, have you been to Urakami?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the young man. ‘I hope to go tomorrow.’

  Father Gracy smiled again. ‘That’s good, that’s good. For when you visit the magnificent new church at Urakami, one of the grandest churches in the whole of East Asia, I hope you will see, I hope you will feel the persecution the Urakami Christians endured, the suffering they bore, was not in vain.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the young man, his eyes fixed upon the statue of the Holy Mother and Child, and then started to say, ‘But …’

  ‘Please,’ said Father Gracy. ‘Please, do go on …’

  ‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘I have read that some of the so-called Hidden Christians are still not yet reconciled to the Church; that the beliefs and practices they had followed during their long time underground had become heretical, that they had veered from the doctrine of the established Church in Rome, and they are still now reluctant to renounce these beliefs.’

  ‘For some,’ said Father Gracy, ‘there has bee
n a schism, yes.’

  ‘I am very interested in the history and stories of the Christian faith in my country,’ said the young man. ‘And I have read and collected many such stories and tales. But then I am often left feeling that the entire history of the Christian faith in Japan is one of a series of misunderstandings …’

  ‘Misunderstandings,’ asked Father Gracy. ‘In what way?’

  ‘A misunderstanding of God, the very meaning of God.’

  Father Gracy glanced at the young man beside him in the pew, then turned his face back, back towards the tomb of Father Petitjean, as he asked, ‘Which particular stories and tales are you thinking of …?’

  ‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘and only if you have the time, there is one story which might serve to illustrate my point.’

  ‘I have the time,’ said Father Gracy. ‘And I, too, am interested in the stories of our faith in Japan, and have read and am familiar with a great many of them. Which story do you have in mind?’

  ‘The Faith of Genta,’ said the young man.

  Father Gracy, his eyes still fixed upon the tomb of Father Petitjean, shook his head and said, ‘I don’t know this story. Please …’

  ‘Well, this happened in a time of persecution,’ began the young man. ‘And happened near to here. One day, on the banks of the Urakami River, close to its mouth by the bay and the sea, an old woman found a baby boy, abandoned in a bamboo basket, hidden in the tall reeds. The old woman was a servant in the house of the head of the village of Urakami, a man named Saburōji, and she took the baby in its basket back to her master’s house. Her master and his wife had many children of their own, and so had no need for an extra mouth to feed, an extra mouth whose hands could not yet work for its food. Yet the old woman had been a good and faithful servant, tending to the master since he was himself a child, then welcoming his wife, helping to raise their children as though they were her own, for the old woman had never married, and so had no children of her own. And so, seeing the old woman taking pity on this baby in its basket, the master and his wife took pity on their servant, letting the woman keep the baby boy to care for as her own. With tears of joy, the old woman thanked the master and his wife, named the baby boy Genta, and she raised the baby into boyhood …