by David Peace
‘But the king shall rejoice in God,’ said Organtino now, opening his eyes now, getting off his knees now, getting to his feet now, holding the cross of his rosary out into the dark, out towards the man, out towards Ryūnosuke. ‘Everyone that sweareth by him shall glory …’
The man smiled sadly at Ryūnosuke, slowly shook his head again and said, ‘Never listens, so never learns. I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t know why …’
But in the twilight, now on the path, Padre Organtino was before them now, his cross in the face of Ryūnosuke now, as the priest thundered, ‘BUT THE MOUTH OF THEM THAT SPEAK LIES SHALL BE STOPPED!’
And then the cross was gone, and now the path was gone, and only the twilight remained, but now the twilight of the Garden of Boulders of the Shunkōin Temple, Ryūnosuke sitting on the polished dark steps of the veranda, Ryūnosuke sitting beside the Western man –
Looking out over the garden, the man made a spyglass of his hands, then the man raised the glass to his eye and said, ‘Farewell to Nanbanji – for the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more – goodbye to Organtino; the good Padre prefers to stroll along the shore, under a broad umbrella carried by a negro boy, plotting and talking with the captains and the traders, waiting for the Black Ships and their cannons, the Silver Birds and their bombs, waiting to have his revenge, the revenge of the big-nosed, red-haired Southern Barbarians, making burnt-out prairies of this land, leaving nothing, nothing but shadows, shadows on the stones …’
‘Who are you,’ asked Ryūnosuke.
‘I am Nemo,’ said the man, with a wink. ‘That’s Latin, you know …’
‘For “no man”,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘I know.’
‘Yes,’ said the man, with a smile, ‘you know many things, you’ve read many things. But have you read this story, I wonder, do you know this tale, one last little story for you, a Zen tale, seeing as we are sitting in this temple here, the story of Nanquan Puyuan and the cat? Once, Nanquan – or Nansen Fūgan, if you prefer – saw the monks of the eastern and western halls arguing over a cat – Does the cat have the nature of the Buddha or not? In the future, will the cat become a Buddha? – endlessly fighting over this cat. And so Nansen seized the cat by the scruff of its neck, held it up before the squabbling monks and said, If any one of you can say one true word about this cat, then you can save the cat. Of course, none of the monks could say a thing, and so Nansen cut the cat in two and threw it at their feet. Later that evening, Jōshū returns to the temple, and Nansen tells him what happened. Jōshū listens, then takes off his sandals, puts them on his head, and walks away, as Nansen says, If you’d been there, you could have saved the cat.’
‘I know the story,’ said Ryūnosuke.
‘Of course,’ said the man, with a smile again. ‘But now I think it’s time you, too, walked away, for you really should be going. Your friend has just finished his classes for the day, and will soon be awaiting you in Kane-yo. You have a long journey in a short time, and so don’t be late again …’
‘But …’ Ryūnosuke started to say. ‘How …’
‘Fear not,’ said the man, ‘for we will meet again, Ryūnosuke. As I said, you will always find me in the garden …’
Ryūnosuke turned away from the Garden of Boulders, stood up, then looked down at the Western man and said, ‘I pray not.’
‘Pray all you want,’ laughed the man, ‘but always remember, Ryūnosuke: desine fata deum flecti sperare precando …’
*
The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. They are corrupt, they have done abominable works, there is none that doeth good.
The LORD looked down from heaven upon the children of men, to see if there were any that did understand, and seek God.
They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy: there is none that doeth good, no, not one.
Have all the workers of iniquity no knowledge? who eat up my people as they eat bread, and call not upon the LORD.
There were they in great fear: for God is in the generation of the righteous.
Ye have shamed the counsel of the poor, because the LORD is his refuge.
Oh that the salvation of Israel were come out of Zion! when the LORD bringeth back the captivity of his people, Jacob shall rejoice, and Israel shall be glad.
*
It had rained and rained since Ryūnosuke arrived in Nagasaki, so he had stayed in his room at the Hana-ya Ryokan in Gotōmachi, trying to write, but failing to write, trying then to read, but failing even to read; as the rain fell, the stench of the toilets rose and filled the second floor of the ryokan, engulfing his room in a greasy, stinking cloud of urine and excrement. Now he regretted not staying someplace more refined, somewhere such as the Midori-ya or Ueno-ya. But then, on the third day, the clouds rolled away and the sun shone again, Ryūnosuke released again, at last …
There were merchants out selling biwa fruit on the streets, a taste of summer on its way, azalea blooming red in gardens glimpsed, a scent of summer already here, even Nagasaki fighting kites practising their battles across the warm, blue skies as Ryūnosuke wandered through the streets of Manzai-machi, meandering across Tokiwa Bridge, over the Nakashima River, making his way to Sōfukuji Temple again, through the Ryūgumon Gate, the gate of the Dragon Palace, and into the grounds of the temple, this temple he loved most, loved most of all the temples in Nagasaki, with its elegant, faded vermilion walls and upturned roofs in the Chinese style.
Here in the courtyard of the Sōfukuji Temple, high above the city, Ryūnosuke sat to rest a while, the bashō plants full, but the place deserted; Ryūnosuke was grateful for the tranquillity, savouring the calm and the silence, yet feeling mournful and somehow sad such a beautiful, tasteful place could be so deserted, only hoping it could survive, not fall into neglect and ruin while Shintō shrines such as Yasaka, the former Gion-jinja, prospered, always bustling and crowded with parties of schoolchildren and soldiers.
From here, Ryūnosuke wandered and meandered on, down the steps and up the slopes, morning into the afternoon, through the temples of Daikōji and Daionji, making his way towards the Kōfukuji Temple in Teramachi …
Along the streets of Teramachi were cluttered antique and junk shops, and Ryūnosuke struggled to tell the treasures from the rubbish, for it seemed the flotsam of the world had washed up here, piled up in these little stores. But now Ryūnosuke paused before one particular shop; its windows were half shuttered, so it was a challenge to see inside, and this, along with the name of the shop – Shōhin, or Small Pieces – aroused his curiosity. Tentatively, Ryūnosuke pushed open the door and stepped into the dark interior.
Inside the little shop, the only light came from the street, falling through the half-open shutters and door in long-fingered shadows, dancing across the tall cabinets lined up along the walls and the one large table standing in the middle of the room. Ryūnosuke kept the door ajar, both for light and for breeze, for the air in the shop felt close and humid, and glanced quickly around the room, at the antiques and curios displayed in the cabinets and laid out on the table, looking for a counter, searching for the owner. But Ryūnosuke could see no shopkeeper, nor even a cash register, and he began to feel uncomfortable, as though intruding into a private room, and suffocated by its clawing warmth and lack of fresh air. The sound of the shawm of a street vendor was echoing down the street outside, and he turned to leave, back to the door, when he thought he heard, suddenly heard a whisper –
Why the long face, such a very sad face? Are you feeling unwell …?
Ryūnosuke turned back, looking around the empty shop –
It’s nothing, I’m fine. Maybe just a headache from the heat …
Still the shop was deserted, yet still he heard voices –
Well, it is unusually close today for the time of year …
It’s no headache! He’s lovesick, he’s lovesick …
Ryūnosuke walked towards the sound of the voices, the sound of
the voices coming from the large table, the objects on the table –
Be quiet! Be silent! I’m not lovesick at all …
His eyes wide, Ryūnosuke stared down at a sketch of a Dutchman in Dejima, drawn in the style of Shiba Kōkan, angrily gesticulating at a stuffed parrot perched among flowers made of leather and cloth, while inked on an old teacup a trader from the Dutch East India Company laughed –
Go on then, if he’s lovesick, then who has he fallen for?
He’s lovesick for her, he’s lovesick for her …
The parrot was squawking away, its head and its beak pointing towards a painted plate on which Ryūnosuke could see a woman holding a fan –
Not her, really? She’s as conceited as she is beautiful …
The Dutchman now turned to glare at the trader –
How dare you be so insulting and rude!
The parrot was squawking and laughing now –
If you love her so much, then marry her! Marry her! Marry her!
Marry him? Impossible! Frankly, I detest my fellow Dutch!
The woman on the plate now raised her fan, glanced furtively up at Ryūnosuke, smiled and then haughtily turned her head away as the Dutchman in the sketch began to cry, holding his heart, before pointing at a long, antique Tanegashima Japanese matchlock lying on the table –
Hopeless, I know. I may as well shoot myself in the heart …
No, no! Please don’t commit such a rash act! No!
On the table, before the gun, a small metal Bateren priest, engraved in the Koftgari fashion and inlaid with gold, was beseeching the Dutchman –
For the gates of Paradise are forever locked to suicides …
Then what on earth am I to do, asked the Dutchman. You forbid me to die, yet I’m driven insane with unrequited love; what then should I do, Padre?
Pray, my son! Pray to our Holy Mother for her succour …
Forlorn, the Dutchman looked around the landscape of his sketch, this little island of Dejima, that little island prison, and shook his head –
This is Japan, Padre; Mary will not hear me here …
And then, in that small, dark and curious shop on Teramachi, Ryūnosuke heard the tiniest, the most beautiful and haunting voice he had ever heard say –
I hear you, my child. For I am here, and here for you …
As though in a dream, a dream within a dream, Ryūnosuke walked towards one of the cabinets along the wall and stared through its glass doors at a worn, white statue of the Buddhist deity Kannon, the Goddess of Mercy, about a foot in height and carved from ivory, her folds all blackened by dirt, a child in her hands on her lap, the head of the child long lost, the stump of its shoulders stained with dust, with a cross around her own neck, the cross of a Catholic rosary, her eyes staring up at him, smiling –
I am here, Ryūnosuke, I am here for you …
Slowly, Ryūnosuke opened the glass double doors, reached inside, picked up the Maria Kannon and lifted her out of the cabinet, into the cradle of his arms, her eyes staring up at him, smiling up at him –
Thank you, Ryūnosuke, my love …
Quickly, Ryūnosuke glanced around the shop again, looking for the owner, the proprietor of the place, walking towards the back of the store, searching for a counter or a door to the back or the upstairs of the building; Ryūnosuke could find nothing, could see no one, but, pinned on the back wall of the shop, there was a handwritten notice: Once these small pieces were lost, now these small pieces are found –
Ryūnosuke wrapped the flaps of his jacket around the statue and walked out of the shop, through the door, onto the street, again the sound of the shawm of a vendor, calling and echoing through the twilight of Teramachi as he turned to close the door behind him with one last, quick peek back inside the little shōhin shop –
From within the shadows at the back of the store, a small old woman was staring out at him, puffing on a long, thin pipe, her hair held up in a bun by a comb, watching him. Now she took the mouth of the pipe from her lips, tapped its black barrel on the edge of the table, looked back up at him, smiled and said, ‘Conk!’
Half in the doorway, half out on the street, Ryūnosuke looked away from the woman and stared down at the Maria Kannon – Mary staring up at him, Mary smiling up at him – and on the base of the stand on which she stood Ryūnosuke now read the inscription carved in Latin at her feet –
DESINE FATA DEUM FLECTI SPERARE PRECANDO.
*
Under a full May moon, on the Bridge of Hesitation, I am breaking apart a Castella cake from Fukusaya, stuffing great chunks of Castella into my mouth, longing and yearning, under this full May moon, on this Bridge of Hesitation, longing for a path to follow, a different path, yearning for wings, oh had I the wings, under the moon, on the bridge, the tranquil breezes from up the hill, the golden fruits there on the hill, longing and yearning, under the moon but off the bridge, beneath the willows, the weeping willows, through the lights of Maruyama-chō, her veiled lanterns shining red, longing and yearning, the currents raging, the torrents rising, taking me up the hill, walking me up the hill, to the horror of my soul, the horror of my soul, longing and yearning, without courage, without faith, no hand from the gods or a God, going up the hill again, walking up the hill again, longing and yearning, carrying me up the hill, walking me up the hill, on a promise of wonder, from longing by yearning, up the hill, to wonderland.
*
High up on the hill, up above Maruyama-chō, above the lanterns, above the rooftops, through the gate, past the well, through the garden, past the chestnut tree, in the grounds of the former residence of the mistress of Takashima Shūhan, at a geisha house named Tatsumi, in the second-floor room named Useirō, the Tower of the Voice of the Rain, sat on a cushion in the window, his notebook in his lap, Ryūnosuke had been doodling and sketching, doodles of thin, black, reptilian figures, sketches of the mythical Kappa; now he looked up and out of the window, watching the lights from the house fall through the night, over the barley and the bamboo of the garden, listening as sudden drops of an early summer rain fell on the pantile roof, on the stones of the path and the leaves of the plants below, imagining this house and its garden as they once must have been, the place now lost, the time now gone, the sound of the raindrops now gone, too, lost in the noise from the rest of his party; gathered around the large table on the mats in the centre of the room, Kanbara, Nagami and Watanabe chatting and drinking with the geisha of the house, Dateyakko, Kikuchiyo and Terugiku, everyone joking and laughing, the faces of the men shining red, their cheeks ruddy with drink, playing and singing, standing to dance, then falling to sleep …
Now Terugiku, the geisha of this house to whom Ryūnosuke had grown quite close, very close, in fact – indeed, his only reason to come back here tonight, on this night, his last night in Nagasaki – now Terugiku sat down beside Ryūnosuke, stared down at the doodles and the sketches he had drawn, looked back up, then asked, ‘Are you bored of this place, Ah-san?’
‘Not any more,’ said Ryūnosuke, looking back at Terugiku –
Her kimono of a chijimi weave and her obi of a hatan weave were very different from the geisha of Tokyo, and though her hair was drawn up into a ginkgo-leaf bun and her make-up pale, the features of her face were also uncommonly strong for her trade, her brows and her nose pronounced, and her dark eyes and downturned lips gave her a melancholy air, even when she smiled, even as she asked, ‘Do you believe Kappa really exist, Ah-san?’
‘Do you believe we really exist,’ he replied, ‘you and me?’
Terugiku gently squeezed his arm, smiled and said, ‘Of course …’
‘Then, of course, I believe Kappa exist, too.’
She touched his arm again and said, ‘You’ve touched a Kappa?’
‘No,’ laughed Ryūnosuke, ‘they are much too quick for me. But you know, there are so many tales of Kappa, from down the ages, from all over Japan, so one must conclude these tales are based on truth …’
Terugiku gently squee
zed his arm again, smiled again, and said, ‘Well, I suppose, by the nature of your trade, you must believe the words you read.’
‘No,’ laughed Ryūnosuke again, ‘not at all. Though I suppose, by the nature of your trade, you must doubt every word you hear …’
Her arm still on his arm, Terugiku looked up at Ryūnosuke, slightly shook her head and quietly said, ‘Not every word, Ah-san.’
Ryūnosuke glanced away from Terugiku, glanced back at the room, saw his muddy-faced companions passed out on the cushions on the mats, their glasses now empty, the geisha now gone, saw the peeling flakes on the gold-plate screens of the room, again filling him with a sad nostalgia for the place as it must have been once, the place now lost, the time now gone, just the dusty face of an old clock staring back at him across the silent room –
‘It can’t be only eleven,’ he said. ‘It must be much later?’
‘Yes,’ said Terugiku, ‘it’s much, much later now. But the hands of that clock always stop at exactly two minutes past eleven, no matter how many times we wind it, no matter who comes to repair it, that stubborn old clock always sticks and stops at two minutes past eleven, no matter what.’
‘One plus one plus two equals four,’ said Ryūnosuke.
Terugiku gently touched her hand to his cheek as she softly said, ‘Not everything in this world is an ill omen, Ah-san …’
‘I know,’ said Ryūnosuke, holding her hand to his cheek with his own. ‘But I also know I really should be going now.’
‘Now,’ asked Terugiku, ‘really …?’
Ryūnosuke took her hand from his cheek, squeezed it gently, then placed it in her lap and nodded.
‘But what about your friends,’ asked Terugiku. ‘Should I wake them, so you can say goodbye?’
