by Shusaku Endo
“Wait just a minute.” The man stopped along the slope, and as he relieved himself he said, “The Kuros don’t like being found out, so we’ve gotta keep that in mind.”
The zigzagging slope was edged on either side by fields and rice paddies. Arable land was so scarce in Nagasaki that plots were cultivated up onto the hills and even up the mountain slopes.
They spotted a large thatched farmhouse surrounded by fields.
“That’s it.” The man stopped and lowered his voice. “That’s a house where some Kuros live.”
Petitjean took a deep breath and peered at the gray, melancholy house. His heart began to pound like a drum as he realized that he might have finally located what he had been looking for from the day he met that Chinese man in Naha.
“Kirishitans are in there?” He asked in halting Japanese, his voice quivering. He continued forward along the path between the fields and approached the farmhouse.
He could hear the faint voices of a large number of people inside. A large group of men had assembled in the house and were talking about something in low voices.
“What are they doing?”
“Dunno.” The man shrugged. “I don’t know much about what the Kirishitans do. Maybe they’re having some kind of chat.”
“A chat?”
“Look, Mr. Foreigner, I kept my promise. Can you just give me the money?” The man thrust out his hand and gave another avaricious grin, displaying his few remaining teeth.
“No, no.” Petitjean shook his head. “I’ll give that to you later.”
“What do you mean, ‘later’?”
“You’ll get it once I find out whether this is really them.”
Petitjean listened intently through the paper sliding doors. A bright candle glimmered within, and the men inside the room occasionally sighed or stirred. Among them, one high voice was giving some sort of instructions to the others.
Are they praying? He wondered as he listened to their voices. There was a certain rhythm to the voice giving direction, like the leader of a choir. Then it sounded like pages were being turned and some object being tossed about.
He looked behind him and saw the man who had brought him here peering anxiously toward him from some distance away.
“Come over here.”
“No! I’m no Kirishitan. Just hurry and give me what you promised.”
When Petitjean tossed a single coin, the man clambered like a dog and scooped it up, then fled like a dog. No doubt he feared being associated with the Kirishitans.
Petitjean stood in place until the voices stopped. If he were suddenly to show himself in his priestly garb, he wondered how these Kirishitans would respond. Would they be happy to see him?
The voices broke off. He could almost sense the flickering of the heavy candle’s flame.
“Who’s there?”
Had they seen his shadow against the paper doors?
“Do you think it’s the boss from the Fukuda Shop?”
“He wouldn’t be coming tonight.”
After this exchange, the paper door was jerked open.
“Ah!” A tattooed man with a band of white cotton cloth wrapped around his abdomen cried out in surprise. The priest saw all the men sitting in the room hurriedly conceal wooden talismans that were set in front of them.
“Wait, you’re—” He recognized the face of one of the men who leaped to his feet. It was one of the two toughs who had been beating the man at Shianbashi earlier today.
“Hey, it’s a Southern Barbarian! Why would one of them be coming here?” one man cried hysterically.
“A Southern Barbarian?” A rough-looking fellow emerged from the back of the group. “Say, this is the foreigner we ran into at Shianbashi today, isn’t it?”
Then someone said, “So you know him, Tatsu?”
“Naw, he’s no friend of mine. Around noon today, there was a guy who was trying to sell stuff at Maruyama without a license, and we were smacking him around at Shianbashi when this foreigner here got in the middle of it. That’s all I know about him.”
Then this fellow called Tatsu said to Petitjean, “Mr. Foreigner, what brings you to our little gambling den? You a dice player?” The man coiled his fingers and pretended to be shaking dice. The men in the room burst out laughing.
Petitjean wasn’t sure what the man was saying, but he opened his eyes wide and asked, “Then you men aren’t Kirishitans?”
“Kirishitans? You trying to pick a fight with us, Mr. Foreigner?”
Seeing the outraged faces of the men, Petitjean realized that he had been hoodwinked by the man who had brought him to a place totally unrelated to his search.
“You’re not going to find any Kirishitans in Nagasaki, no matter where you look,” Tatsu asserted. “We Japanese have been warned in no uncertain terms that we can’t believe in that sect. You’d better leave, Mr. Foreigner.” Then he looked around at his colleagues. “Damned intruder! It’s a bad omen.” With one hand he slammed the paper door shut with a bang.
Left standing outside alone, Petitjean turned around, but the man who led him here had disappeared into the night. Simply put, Petitjean had been conned out of his money.
That night he returned to Ōura with bloody feet—he had stumbled across stones on his return up the slope—only to run into Father Furet, who in his concern over Petitjean’s whereabouts had set out with Okane’s husband to find him.
“Bernard.” Father Furet placed a sympathetic hand on his brother’s shoulder and tried to console him. “I know just how you feel. But this senseless obstinacy isn’t healthy for you. Let me just come right out and say it: There’s not a single Christian left here in Japan. It’s been more than two hundred years since the ban was imposed. They all either died or succumbed to the beastly persecution. How could they possibly have passed on their faith to their descendants? You must give this up.”
The words “give up” sank bitterly and despondently into Petitjean’s heart. But he was, in fact, utterly weary of the quest. Father Furet was right. It was hopeless to try to find any Christian believers here in Japan …
Winter gradually made its way toward spring. The hue of the clouds floating above Mount Inasa softened and took on a pinkish tint. The clouds reminded Petitjean of the flocks of sheep that were raised in the countryside of his faraway homeland.
Though spring was at hand, Petitjean’s heart was weighed down in gloom. The young priest was deeply discouraged by the realization that the people he had been searching for in Japan did not exist.
In contrast to the despondent Petitjean, Father Furet was in fine spirits. Thanks to the diligent labors of the workmen, construction on the church was progressing remarkably well.
The building was neither strictly Gothic nor completely Rococo but, rather, a mix of the two styles, and naturally it showed every sign of becoming the most unusual and modern building not only in Nagasaki but in all of Japan. The foreign residents in Nagasaki were of one voice in acclaiming it a “charming little church.” Apparently to these Europeans, who were accustomed to seeing majestic cathedrals all around them, the church seemed tiny and enchanting, as attractive as the young ladies of Nagasaki. But the Japanese in Nagasaki surely regarded it as a magnificent structure, on the scale of a grand palace.
Spectators thronged nonstop around the building. Some, hearing rumors about the church, had reportedly come from as far as Sotome to see it.3
“This church,” Father Furet triumphantly informed the Japanese, “is not a person’s house. It is the house of God.”
He was amused that whenever he said this, the Japanese spectators, whose mouths had dropped open, retreated back a few steps and with worried looks muttered, “Really?”
Of course, because they were prohibited from having any association with Christianity, none of these Japanese spectators would make even the slightest move to go inside the nearly completed building.
Father Furet lamented that fact. He wished he could show these Japanese the statues of
Jesus and the Blessed Mother inside and explain to them just what manner of house of God was here. Were he to give even the slightest indication of doing so, however, the eyes of the officers from the magistrate’s office would flash with anger. No doubt he would receive complaints from an official named Itō Seizaemon, who came to the site every other day, claiming it was just his “normal rounds.”
While Father Furet was absorbed in the completion of the chapel, Petitjean continued his afternoon strolls of Nagasaki. He no longer had any expectation of encountering hidden Christians, but he was convinced that having the people on the street remember his face would serve him in good stead when the time came that he was allowed to proselytize.
One day he came upon something truly unusual. Some boys had set up two poles, and they were gluing tiny shards of glass to a string stretched between them.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
One boy jabbered, “Making ikanoyoma!” animatedly.
Petitjean had made it a practice whenever he didn’t understand something in the Nagasaki dialect to ask what it meant, even if it came from the mouth of a child.
“Ika? What’s that?”
The boy gaped at him as though he were an idiot and said, “Ika is an ika, of course. It means ‘squid,’ but it’s a kite! When you stick a paper tail on it, it looks like a squid, you know?” Kites in Nagasaki at this time were called either ika, squid, or hata, flags.
“And what is a yoma?”
“It’s this string.” It gradually dawned on him: these children were busily gluing a mixture of glass shavings and rice kernels to the string of a kite.
“Ah, yes!” Petitjean remembered that Okane’s husband had told him that Nagasaki was famous for kite flying. Each spring the citizens held a heathen festival honoring Kompira, the guardian god of seafaring. It was a highly animated celebration, with pilgrims gathering from near and far, jostling like waves on the ocean, and each local participated in what they called the Clash of the Kites.
The Clash of the Kites was a competition in which participants attempted to get the string of their kite tangled with the string of an opponent’s kite and cut the enemy’s string. Both adults and children took this contest seriously. Undoubtedly these boys were gluing glass shards to their kite strings in preparation for the Clash.
“Is it OK if I watch you for a while?” Petitjean always had ready some candy made from potatoes for just such an occasion. The potato candies, called tankiri, were a gift to help him make friends with the children.
Thanks to the tankiri that Petitjean gave them, the boys were more than happy to let this Southern Barbarian watch as they industriously glued the glass shavings to the string that they had wound around the poles, which were held up by a horizontal bar.
Soon, however, a man appeared from an alley and eyed Petitjean suspiciously.
“Mr. Foreigner, would you like to buy one of these ika?” he inquired.
“Are you selling them?”
“Oh, yes. We make ’em so we can sell ’em. This one here is called an agoika—she’ll cut a lot better than your regular kite.” He proudly pointed out to Petitjean a kite with a scarlet triangle drawn on it. “What do you say, Mr. Foreigner? Why don’t you try competing with one of these kites?”
Petitjean smiled. “What, me? I don’t think I could.”
“It’s not that hard, Mr. Foreigner…. I’ll teach you.” He explained that Chinese from Dōza4 and Dutch from Dejima participated in the Clash of the Kites. People flocked to the festival this one day from as far away as Shimabara and Isahaya.
Aha. So I could use this to make my presence known not just in Nagasaki but in some of the surrounding villages as well. There’s a chance I might find “them” among those who gather here.
The dream that he had abandoned was revived.
“All right, I’ll join the fray!”
That evening when he described the events of the day to Father Furet, his comrade looked uncommonly sullen.
“Bernard, you can’t go on forever chasing dreams like a little child. There is much important work awaiting you at this Ōura Church that’s about to be completed. In place of me …” He paused. “Actually, a letter came today from our Society in Paris. I … I have to go back to France for a time.”
“Can that be true?”
“Why would I lie to you? And so you simply must abandon your dream of finding the descendants of Christians here in Nagasaki.”
“But you will be returning to Nagasaki, yes?”
“Of course I will. I can’t just forsake this church I’ve built.”
Despite the scolding he received from Father Furet, Petitjean’s objectives remained unchanged. In such matters he was as stubborn as a mule.
The following day, he began learning from the kite man, whose name was Sakichi, how to get a kite up into the sky, how to maneuver it in close to the enemy’s kite, and how to cut their strings.
“Now, watch closely.”
Open fields were numerous in Nagasaki. Sakichi took Petitjean to one of these fields, had him take hold of the kite, and then put his own grimy hand on top of the priest’s and began his instruction.
“OK. First I’ve got to teach you how to get the kite up in the air.” As Sakichi nimbly played out or pulled in the string, the kite floated like a living creature into the sky and finally began to circle slowly overhead.
The fingers that worked the string seemed like those of an artist deftly strumming a musical instrument. Petitjean for a time lost himself in his enjoyment of the duet between Sakichi and his kite.
“See, Mr. Foreigner? The kite’s a living thing. If you work in harmony with her, you can move her around freely. If you wind the string on top of your finger like this, you can bring ’er right up next to your enemy’s kite.”
Once you’re lined up with the enemy, you don’t challenge them right away. You have to watch for the right opportunity and then “go in for the kill,” Sakichi taught him. In the language of Nagasaki, “going in for the kill” meant to intertwine your kite with your opponent’s.
This was not the time to yank on your string. Instead, you let it out. In the local parlance, you “give her string.” If the enemy is a worthy opponent, he will let out his string, too. It’s in that moment that the contest begins.
That afternoon, like a laborer being taught skills by his boss, Petitjean was corrected and admonished by Sakichi and coached how to take in and let out his string.
It was a while before he noticed that a group of about ten adults and children had gathered in the open field and were grinning as they watched Petitjean’s clumsy handling of the kite.
“OK, that’s enough,” Sakichi nodded, wiping away the sweat. “Mr. Foreigner, we’ll have another practice here tomorrow. At this next Kompira Festival, you’ve got to beat out that hairy barbarian from Dejima.”
Petitjean was stumped by this strange comment, so Sakichi explained. Every year on the tenth day of the third month, in every corner of town kite-flying competitions are held in conjunction with the Kompira Festival. The locations are not limited to Mount Kompira. Any open field will do. There were even some who climbed up on the roof of their own house, sent up their kites, and did battle with their neighbors.
But three years ago, a young Dutchman challenged the Japanese of Nagasaki to a battle of the kites from the roof of a Dutch trading house in Dejima.
“He’s just a silly Dutchman!” Men from surrounding roofs who were seeking out opponents laughed scornfully at him and took him up on his challenge, but he was unexpectedly skillful.
Every single Japanese contender was vanquished, and their kites with severed strings plummeted helplessly into the bay or onto the streets of the town.
The following year on the day of the Clash, the young, blue-eyed man again climbed up onto the roof of the Dutch trading house. With great show he set his kite, emblazoned with foreign writing, high into the sky. The kite danced haughtily overhead, as though mocking the people of N
agasaki. Again that year, no kite could best his. All were trounced the following year as well.
“So, Mr. Foreigner, you’ve got to slaughter that Dutchman!” Sakichi grinned, hoping to incite Petitjean to action. He seemed to enjoy the thought that he and the other Japanese could watch these foreigners battle one another.
“I doubt I have any chance,” Petitjean protested, but inwardly he wondered whether this contest might not be a good thing. The Japanese used different labels for the Dutch and the French, though both groups were foreigners. The Dutch were called Northern Barbarians, and the French were Southern Barbarians. Petitjean was well aware that over the long years of national isolation in Japan, the Protestant Dutch had incessantly filled the ears of Japan’s rulers with slander against the Catholic nations.
Now he would have the chance to fight a decisive battle with his kite against the Dutch. He supposed that when Father Furet heard the news he would become seriously angry, but young Petitjean, spurred on by Sakichi’s encouragement, wanted to try his hand at the contest.
“So, do you think people would talk if I were to engage the Dutchman?”
“Mr. Foreigner, it would be the chief topic of conversation for everyone in Nagasaki!” Sakichi nodded, his excitement evident on his face.
“And people would come from nearby villages to watch?”
“You bet they would!”
Then perhaps some of them would come to watch as well. They would discover that the foreigner flying that kite was none other than a Kirishitan padre. And were that to happen …
“I’ll do it!” Petitjean grinned at Sakichi.
1. The Nambanji (formally known among the Catholic population as the “Church of the Twenty-six Japanese Martyrs,” in everyday parlance called the “Ōura Church”) was completed in 1864.
2. Ōhato is a post station on the harbor, located just across the canal from Dejima.
