Patient X

by David Peace

  Nanbanji had been the great Christian Temple of Kyoto, founded by the Jesuit Father Gnecchi-Soldo Organtino in 1576, with the blessing and support of Oda Nobunaga. The Great Bell had been cast in Portugal and arrived at Nanbanji in 1577. But ten years later, the Nanbanji Temple was destroyed under the orders of Toyotomi Hideyoshi, during the first great persecution of Christians. Still now, no one could be sure where the Nanbanji Temple had once stood. During the destruction and the persecution, the bell had been lost, too. But early in the nineteenth century, the bell had been found and then brought here, here to the Shunkōin Temple; now all that remained of the great Christian Temple of Nanbanji was its bell, this bell.

  Ryūnosuke stood before the bell, staring at the bell, transfixed by the bell. On its surface, there were engraved three Jesuit seals. The three seals contained the Christogram IHS, of which there were three possible readings and interpretations: the first three letters of the Greek name of Jesus; the initials of the Latin phrase Iesus Hominum Salvatore, Jesus, Saviour of Man; or the Latin phrase In hoc signo vinces, in this sign I shall conquer. Above the Christogram was the cross and under the Christogram were three nails, and engraved on the side of the bell was the year 1577.

  Ryūnosuke reached out across the centuries, over the ocean of history, and touched the surface of the bell, his fingers warm and its metal cold, but in his ears and in his mind, Ryūnosuke could hear the ringing of the bell, sounding across the grounds of the Christian Temple of Nanbanji, calling the faithful to prayer, across the old capital of Kyoto, in his ears and in his mind, and in his heart, echoing in his heart, the chambers of his heart.

  ‘The Bell of Nanbanji is not the only Christian relic housed here,’ said the monk. ‘In the garden there stands a kirishitan-dōrō, a stone lantern, its leg in the shape of a cross and in which has been chiselled an image of their Holy Mother, the Virgin Mary …’

  Ryūnosuke followed the monk along polished dark corridors, past painted gold screens, and out into the main garden of the Shunkōin Temple, the Garden of Boulders, the Sazareishi-no-niwa …

  Here at its edge, here in the shade, here Ryūnosuke stood before the stone lantern, staring again, transfixed again …

  ‘No one knows for sure’, said the monk, ‘how this stone lantern, this Hidden Icon, came to be here …’

  Again, Ryūnosuke reached out across the centuries, over the ocean of history, and touched the surface of the lantern, then bending down, squatting down, he ran his fingers gently over the stone image of the Holy Mother, Her arms raised, folded and crossed before Her breasts and over Her heart, his fingers warm and the stone warm, warm to his touch, warm from Her touch, Her touch in his heart, in the chambers of his heart.

  ‘If you would like,’ said the monk, ‘please do rest in the shade of the room which looks out upon our garden.’

  Ryūnosuke thanked the monk, and for all his kindness in showing him the Great Bell of Nanbanji and the Stone Lantern of the Holy Mother, and then the monk left Ryūnosuke sitting on the polished dark wooden steps in the shade of the veranda, staring out at the Garden of Boulders …

  On the steps, in the shade and in the silence, his eyes closing then opening again, how long he stayed sat there he did not know, nor could he tell what time of day it was, what day or even year it was. But in the shade and in the silence, now Ryūnosuke sensed a shadow over him, falling behind him now, a shadow in the shade, a shade within a shade, and Ryūnosuke turned, and Ryūnosuke saw –

  A Western man, well-built and tall, sockless and barefoot in a three-piece suit, his long hair oiled and slicked back, nose large and face puffed, he smiled down at Ryūnosuke and said in accented English, ‘I must say, I do say, I rather like this garden, this Garden of Boulders. And you …?’

  Ryūnosuke looked up at the man, this Western man, and with a brief nod of his head then said, ‘I agree, it is very attractive.’

  ‘Attractive’, echoed the man, ‘because, quintessentially, Japanese.’

  Ryūnosuke smiled slightly. ‘Perhaps, but there must be many attractive gardens in the west that are not Japanese.’

  ‘Sadly, that is no longer true,’ said the man. ‘It is already closing time in the Gardens of the West, their grounds overgrown and their gates locked. And I’m afraid if you do not take care, soon here, too, your gardens will close …’

  ‘Really,’ said Ryūnosuke, looking from the man back out at the garden, not knowing what else he could or would like to say.

  Now, with the palm of his hand, the man gently touched Ryūnosuke on his back as he sat down beside him on the dark polished steps of the veranda and softly said, ‘But I’m sorry to paint such a gloomy picture and to disturb you, as you sit here before such a beautiful sight.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘In fact, your enthusiasm for this garden only refreshes my tired eyes and their gaze.’

  ‘And so what do you see’, asked the man, ‘with your fresh eyes?’

  Ryūnosuke now regretted his last remark, surveying the scene before him, struggling to think of anything astute to say, anything but ‘Harmony.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the man. ‘Harmony, and forgive me if you are already aware of its design and history, but the theme of this Buddhist temple garden is the Ise Shrine, Ise Jingū in Mie Prefecture, which, as you know, is the chief shrine of all the Shintō shrines in Japan. Yet this Buddhist garden has a forest to Amaterasu-ōmikami, the sun goddess, and a tiny shrine to Toyouke-no-ōmikami, the goddess of agriculture. You know, it was once common to see Buddhist and Shintō objects enshrined at the same place because, until your Meiji Restoration – or revolution, whichever you prefer – it was a popular belief in Japan that the native Shintō deities were actually various forms of the Buddha that existed to help and save people. Hence, you sense the harmony of this garden, for we feel the attraction of its syncretism.’

  Looking out over the main garden of the Shunkōin Temple, over the Garden of Boulders, Ryūnosuke said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘And yet you felt it still,’ said the Western man. ‘In your heart, your Japanese heart.’

  Ryūnosuke smiled, then said, ‘Well, in truth, this Japanese heart came here in search of just one thing: the Bell of Nanbanji.’

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said the man – an echo of the words Mokichi Saitō had said to Ryūnosuke that afternoon, three years ago, in his office at the Nagasaki Prefectural Hospital – but this Western man, he said these words with sadness not disdain, and now went on, ‘Ah, yes, yes, Nanbanji …

  ‘What a place it was – on this side of the Kamo River, on its western bank, between Sanjō and Shijō, close to where the Rokkaku-dō still stands – an enormous place, enclosed by walls of wood, with two gates to the south, the main temple was laid out in the shape of the cross, and its bell tower with its cross on its roof could be seen for miles and miles, and the ringing of the Great Bell, sounding the hours, calling the faithful, could be heard all across the old capital of Kyoto, in all our ears and in all our hearts, echoing in our hearts, in the chambers of our hearts. Listen … Listen, Ryūnosuke …’ In the shade, on the steps, Ryūnosuke abruptly turned to look at this man, this stranger who had just said his name, who knew his name, who was looking at him, was smiling at him, a finger to his lips, another to his ear, and now to his eye as he whispered, ‘Listen, Ryūnosuke, and look …’

  The finger of the man now moved from his eye, pointing out towards the garden, Ryūnosuke following the path of the finger of the man out over the Garden of Boulders, watching it lifting, his finger lifting, lifting a veil –

  ‘Look and see, all these exotic Western plants – rose and olive, laurel and cinnamon – growing here among the native pine and cypress trees, and see and smell the mysterious aromas, the sweet perfumes, the faint scent of the roses just beginning to bloom, for we are in the springtime still, the springtime now and the springtime then, yet somehow no longer Japan, yet somehow still in Japan; do you know where we are, Ryūnosuke? Do you recognise
this place? The ringing of that bell, sounding and echoing …’

  His eyes wide, his mouth agape, Ryūnosuke could smell the scents of the roses, could hear the ringing of the bell as he whispered, ‘Nanbanji …’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the man. ‘This is the garden of the Great Temple of the Southern Barbarians, and now – look, look! – who do we see here, we find here?’

  And now he looked and now he saw the silhouette of a man, walking with a melancholy gait down a path of red sand, the dark skirts of his long robe trailing in the pink dust, and Ryūnosuke said, ‘Padre Organtino!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the man again, taking Ryūnosuke by his elbow and his arm, lifting Ryūnosuke up from the steps, saying, ‘Come on …’

  Arm in arm, the man led Ryūnosuke briskly down the red path, over its pink sand, quietly following the figure of Padre Organtino, step by step, closer and closer, until they could hear the priest mumbling, hear the priest muttering – how much he missed Rome, how he longed for Lisbon, the taste of almonds, the music of the rabeca lute, the heavenly voices of the Magnificat – then again and again, now over and over, chanting and reciting the name of Deus, Deus, Deus, his eyes on his feet, his eyes on the path, then on the dark moss beside the path, now on the pale petals upon the moss, the petals stopping him dead in his tracks, seemingly blocking his path and filling him with fear, the priest startled, looking up at the trees of the garden, and there, among the gloomy shadows of the dwarf palms, there Organtino saw a single weeping cherry tree, its branches hanging bowed and low, its ghostly, spectral blossoms spread and splayed, haunting the garden –

  ‘God save me! Lord protect me,’ cried the priest, falling to his knees, crossing himself again and again, calling over and over to ‘Deus …’

  On the path, beside him, Ryūnosuke’s Western companion had one hand over his mouth, quelling his laughter, his other hand holding his ribs, his shoulders shaking, his whole being consumed by mirth at the sight of this foreign priest on his knees beneath the falling blossoms of the weeping cherry, making the sign of the cross, crying out at Christ –

  ‘How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord …’

  Suddenly, the man stopped laughing. He looked at Ryūnosuke, shook his head, rolled his eyes and hissed, ‘Jesuits! They want the world, but when the world doesn’t want them, they fall to their knees in tears and blame Christ! Incredible, would you not agree? They blame the one who should not be blamed; the only man – and believe me, Ryūnosuke, I have met many – the only one among the many who was truly blameless …’

  Beneath the blossoms, on his knees, Organtino must have heard the laughter and the whispers in the shadows behind him, for now the priest span round, rising to his feet, pointing into the dark at the man and Ryūnosuke, wagging his finger and shouting, ‘You! You again!’

  The man looked at Ryūnosuke, shrugged his shoulders, and then, with the most innocent smile one can imagine, asked, ‘Does he mean me?’

  ‘Who else would I mean,’ spat Organtino, coming closer to the man. ‘Of course I mean you! How on earth did you find me?’

  ‘Find you,’ laughed the man. ‘I rather think you found me. As I told you before, many times before, you will find me in the garden, if you want me.’

  ‘I do not want you,’ yelled the priest. ‘Get away! Get ye hence!’

  The man turned to Ryūnosuke again, shook his head again and said, ‘You see what I mean? Jesuits! Telling me to go away, to go hence, when it is they, it is you …’ – the man turning to Organtino now, turning on Organtino now – ‘it is you, you who are the uninvited, unwelcome guest here, Padre …’

  ‘God save me, Lord protect me,’ whispered Organtino again, crossing himself again, then looking back into the dark, to the shadows and the man, saying, ‘This is God’s place on God’s earth, and I have been sent here to do God’s work, I have come here to spread God’s word …’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said the man, walking around behind the priest, turning back to whisper in his ear, ‘I’ve heard it all before, many times before, so save your breath, Padre, and save your time and go back to your palaces in Rome, back to your burnings in Lisbon or wherever, because this time, in this place, you will be defeated, and you will lose.’

  Padre Organtino clutched the cross around his neck, shook his head and said, ‘The Lord God is omnipotent and so there is no one, no place or no thing that can triumph over Him, so the Lord God will be victorious …’

  ‘Well,’ said the man, glancing up from the ear of the priest, winking at Ryūnosuke, ‘naturally, I would beg to disagree. And once again, and as always, reality, history, fact – all would seem to agree with me …

  ‘And so listen carefully, Padre, and you might even learn something for once, because you and your God are far from the first to come to this land. Greater men than you, bringing wiser words than you, have come from far away to here and yet floundered in this place: Confucius and Mencius, to name but two. Yet is this now China, or still yet Japan?

  ‘And the Chinese, they did not come empty-handed, no! They brought silk from the state of Wu, they brought jewels from the state of Ch’in. And they also brought their wonderful written words, their exquisite Chinese characters. You talk, as you always talk, about “spreading God’s word”, Padre, so then here’s a telling tale for you …

  ‘As I say, the Chinese visitors arrived with their written characters, and the native Japanese smiled, bowed politely and took their written characters. Thank you very much, they said, we will use your written characters, but – and here’s the rub, the rub for you, Padre, and the genius of the people, the people of this land – they took the Chinese written characters, but they retained their own native sound. For example, when the Japanese historians write that the big-nosed, red-haired Southern Barbarians arrived here by boat, they use the Chinese character shū for boat, but when they read their work aloud, they still say “fune”, the original sound of their native word. Ingenious, is it not?’

  Twilight was now engulfing the garden of Nanbanji, and Padre Organtino now again fell to his knees, kneeling down on the red path, clutching the cross of his rosary, mumbling and muttering, ‘O God, thou art my God; early will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is …’

  The man in the shadows ignored the words of the priest kneeling in the pink sand, simply, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, leaning into his ear and saying, ‘You are probably ignorant and unaware of them, never heard of them, but one only has to look to the magnificent works of Kūkai, Dōfū, Sari and Kōsei, the great calligraphers of this land who first imitated the Chinese style but then created and developed their own style, their kana style …’

  ‘To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary. Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee …’

  ‘Of course,’ went on the man at the ear of Organtino, ‘it is true not only of characters and writing, but also ideas and thought. Think about the harsh Tao of Lao-tze, how it was softened on these shores, and then, of course, there is the telling fate of that sorry little Prince Siddhartha …’

  ‘Thus will I bless thee while I live,’ said Organtino, his voice rising now, his grip on the cross of his rosary tightening now, ‘I will lift up my hands in thy name. My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips: when I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches …’

  The man glanced up again at Ryūnosuke, shook his head again, sighed and then, back in the ear of Organtino, said, ‘You are not listening to me, I know; it’s not in your nature, I know. Still, you would do well to heed my words, Padre, to listen and to save if not yourself, then save those poor natives who will die because of you – your ignorance, your persistence and delusions – die because of you, and die in vain, believing not in your God, but mistaking your God for theirs …’

  ‘Because tho
u hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice,’ called out Organtino. ‘My soul followeth hard after thee: thy right hand upholdeth me …’

  ‘Yes, yes, babble on, Padre, babble on. But do you not think for one moment that the reason the natives of this land are so happy to worship the Great Sun Buddha is only because they believe that God to be simply their own Great Sun Goddess, Ōhirume? You know, Padre, I have walked in many gardens; I have walked under the flowers of the Sara tree with the great priests of this land, with Shinran and Nichiren, and I can tell you, Padre, when I looked into their hearts, when I gazed upon the image they worshipped there, I found no dark-skinned gaijin-Buddha there, no! No, I found only the pale and gentle, noble image of their own Prince Shōtoku shining there, in their hearts, in the chambers of their hearts …’

  ‘But those that seek my soul to destroy it,’ shouted Organtino, closing his eyes, ‘they shall go into the lowest parts of the earth …’

  ‘Fool,’ sighed the man, ‘always talking of destroying, of destruction if not conversion, crusading and conquering, with all your trials and your burnings, clutching the poor, poor figure of Jesus on his cross, the Blameless One, the only Blameless One, donning your regal robes in the name of a man who would never be a king – even though he could have been, oh yes, he could have been, believe me, Padre – building palaces in the name of a pauper who shunned possessions – that old Jew Karl will come closer to the truth than thee, Padre – for you are blind to the wonders of the lands you come to uninvited, deaf to the wisdom of the natives you would seek to subjugate …’

  ‘THEY SHALL FALL BY THE SWORD,’ screamed Organtino, ‘THEY SHALL BE A PORTION FOR FOXES …’

  ‘There you go again,’ sighed the man, a sad smile playing on his lips, ‘with your swords and your portions for foxes. But if you would only open your eyes, if you would only get off your knees, Padre, and walk about you, look about you, looking and listening, then you would see and hear and know that the history and tradition of this land, of this place is one of learning and adapting, of recreating and transforming …’