He had done well that day, selling his Japanese style bento lunches and snacks to all kinds of folk as he made his journey around Ayutthaya’s island stronghold, the paragon of Siamese civilization. It seemed Moor and Malay, Chinese and Portuguese, Dutch and Cochin all relished his wife’s cooking. Even a silk-clad seneschal of the highest Siamese nobility had sent a servant down to the water’s edge to purchase six lunches! Soon after, a group of gaily clad rich young Siamese women waved to him as he passed by their waterfront gardens. They each bought a bento, opening their banana leaf wrappings right then and there to see what the day’s treat may be, in this case grilled catfish. “Tell your wife we should like shrimp tomorrow if she can manage it!” they told him in the musical tones of their language. He managed to answer that he would do so, his tongue tripping as he blushed at the attention of such fair and noble women.
As he mumbled his shy thanks and paddled quickly away, Yoriaki thought that such as these were lovely indeed, but to him his wife Momo was still the best. She was as pretty as the peach she was named for. He had to admit to himself that part of the reason he had become a Christian was to get close to the Nihonmachi Christian’s daughters, who were mostly pure blood Japanese. Certainly the Siamese, Mon and Lao girls that most of the samurai and merchant class married were beautiful, with their large smokey eyes and slender figures, but to Yoriaki they couldn’t match the pure radiance of a Yamato no deshiko, a perfect flower of Japanese womanhood such as Momo. Upon their marriage he had left behind the warrior life to become the simple man he was today, and was much happier for it.
Yoriaki knew that Ayutthaya was one of the few places in the world where people from Asia and Europe mixed so freely. That was certainly a large part of the kingdom’s financial success. He had been lucky to end up here, considering that when he left Japan he had no idea where he was going, content to board any ship that promised to sail far from his homeland. Yoriaki smiled to himself but his mood fell as he sighted the spire of the Portuguese Dominican church down the river’s west side. It was a modest piece of architecture compared to the fantastic designs of the Siamese temples, but with a quiet beauty of its own in the rosy light.
Through the course of Yoriaki’s daily travels, he had learned to speak and understand the basics of the many languages found in the cosmopolitan realm of Ayutthaya. Everyone said that he had a gift for tongues. As he sold his delicacies he heard many things and lately not many of them had been good. On the last Sabbath after attending holy mass Yoriaki, who had become nearly fluent in Portuguese since embracing the Christian faith, had overheard several of the good fathers discussing rumors from the Siamese court in hushed tones. They feared the new king, Prasat Thong. He had formerly been the regent or Kalahom appointed by the boy’s father, good king Song Tham on his death bed to look after his son and successor, fifteen-year-old King Cetthathirat. There was no doubt the scheming Kalahom was responsible for that boy’s untimely death and had certainly gone on to murder Cetthathirat’s younger brother and successor as well, poor little King Athittayawong, who had been just a boy of ten. Although all feared to say it aloud, Prasat Thong was an ursurper with blood all over his hands. To make matters worse, he had managed to remove the only possible obstacle to his plans, Yamada Nagamasa, who to everyone’s horror seemed fooled by the usurper’s lies and had allowed himself to be sent to the south, safely out of Prasat Thong’s way. Upon hearing such discouraging words from the fathers, Yoriaki slipped away home then, feeling ashamed that his people’s revered leader in this distant land had been tricked by the Kalahom, no, “king.”
Yamada Nagamasa, trained as a samurai for a war that would never come, had left Japan to become a man of great influence in Ayutthaya. He’d been a favorite of the old King Song Tham and well loved by the court for his skill and courage in battle. A successful merchant with a knack for trade, he had also become the leader of Nihonmachi. Their “Japanese Town” on the eastern shore of the Menam, just south of the city, produced the highly respected Japanese Royal Guard, a force rightfully feared by the kingdom’s many foes. Nagamasa had been the Guard’s commander and Yoriaki had served under him for two years after his arrival here as so many ronin did, masterless samurai seeking glory no longer possible in Japan. They had fought the Burmese together and brought great honor to themselves in the eyes of all those who made Ayutthaya their home. Now those days were gone and Ayutthaya was left without its hero.
Yoriaki now let his boat drift along slowly with the various flotsam and jetsam that spotted the busy river, his thoughts darkening with the waning light. How could a man as great as Nagamasa not see what even a simple ex- samurai turned food vendor could? It was widely suspected that the new king, well practiced in sycophancy, had appealed to the ego of the otherwise noble Nagamasa, offering him rulership of Ligor province far down the east coast almost to the lands of the Malays, the chance to be the first Japanese to hold such a position outside of Japan! It was surely a trick of that creeping cobra Prasat Thong but it had been too tempting for him to resist and the people of Ayutthaya and particularly Nihonmachi, watched him leave with heavy hearts. “Who?” they asked, “Who would protect us now?” While the new leader of their enclave was a good enough man he was no Nagamasa. Yoriaki had heard unsettling rumors that the Japanese welcome in their adopted kingdom wasn’t nearly as warm as it once was.
A whistle from the west shore rousted Yoriaki from his brooding. The dock bosses in the Dutch area just north of Nihonmachi were calling to him-he had almost forgotten them and would have drifted right by! Replacing his somber expression with the wide smile that sold his wares so well, Yoriaki paddled over to the float beneath the pier they waited on, his small craft dwarfed by the big Dutch merchant ships tied nearby.
“Have you anything left for us today, Yo-san?” one of the Dutchmen asked, a plump fellow called Blom whom Yoriaki had grown quite fond of. He was jesting, of course. Yoriaki had been selling to these gentlemen for several years now and always made sure he had a few of the leaf-wrapped bento meals tucked away for them at the end of the day.
“Yes, yes, here you are, my friend!” He had learned enough of the Dutch tongue to banter with these fellows, who were a jovial bunch. As he passed out the meals (Blom bought two) and collected the lumpy metal Pot Duang coins that the Europeans referred to as “bullet money,” Blom’s usually smiling face took on a thoughtful cast. The beginning of a frown formed beneath his rosy cheeks and plump nose.
“Yo-san, have you heard the news?”
“I hear much news, being as how I float all over the place like a leaf riding the stream.” Yoriaki tried to sound lighthearted but his dark eyes met Blom’s bright ones with fierce interest. This was the most serious he had ever seen the man, so the news could not be good. A knot was already tying itself in Yoriaki’s stomach as he waited for Blom to go on.
“I think you haven’t heard this news yet. Look down the river toward your home.” Blom raised his heavily fleshed arm to point toward Nihonmachi lying about half a mile downriver from them. Yoriaki turned to see a very large ship docked there, one of the great red seal junks that traded between Japan and the rest of Asia. His eyes widened to see that it belonged to Nagamasa!
“Yes, you see. They must not have heard that your former leader is now a king in the southlands and came straight here thinking to find him. I fear they have made a mistake.” Blom’s sea-blue eyes narrowed and he leaned down close to Yoriaki. “Something is up. Our employers have been conferring in their offices all afternoon, ever since that thing got here. They have doubled the watch for tonight. I like you, Yo-san, you are a good fellow. Have your eyes and ears open tonight and keep that pretty little peach of yours close by. There is contention over who owns that cargo and I fear there may be blood shed over it this night.” With that he clapped Yoriaki companionably on the arm, then gave his little boat a gentle push back out into the current before he could be questioned further.
“Thank you, Herr Blom, I will do so. You have my thanks! Go with God!” Yoriaki called back to him. With his usual friendly wave the Dutchman and his comrades headed home to eat their meal. It was nearly dark now, but the Nihonmachi docks were aglow with lanterns where the brightly painted ship with its cargo of goods from far off Japan was berthed. From the dock behind the ship’s massive bulk he heard the raucous sounds of loud argument in both the Siamese and Japanese languages. There was definitely a fight brewing; the choice of words was less than polite. Yoriaki quickly paddled farther out into the river than he usually would so as not to be noticed by the growing crowd on shore. In the distance the Islamic calls for prayer from the Moorish and Malay enclaves began, their eerie wail skirling above the cries of angry men. This drove him to paddle faster and faster, sweat growing cold on his back despite the humid warmth.
Any semblance of good humor left to him from a successful day at work was long gone now, replaced by a rapidly growing worry. Yoriaki paddled as fast as he could, passing up his usual place under the docks, tying his boat instead to an old tree growing out over the river at a stretch of grassy shore. The spot was not far from his house in the town’s quiet, mostly residential southern section. He and Momo sometimes enjoyed picnics together in its cool greeness. Yoriaki left his paddles and the few leftover bento behind in the boat. No one would bother them
