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
