Shogun

And after you’ve seen the highborn and the lowborn parting or lifting and standing or squatting, there’s not much left to be embarassed about.

“Is there, Anjin-san?”

“No.”

“Good,” she had said, very satisfied. “Soon you will like raw fish and fresh seaweed and then you’ll really be hatamoto.”

The maid poured water over her. Then, cleansed, Mariko stepped into the bath and lay down opposite him with a long-drawn sigh of ecstasy, the little crucifix dangling between her breasts.

“How do you do that?” he said.

“What?”

“Get in so quickly. It’s so hot.”

“I don’t know, Anjin-san, but I asked them to put more firewood on and to heat up the water. For you, Fujiko always makes sure it’s—we would call it tepid.”

“If this is tepid, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle!”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The water’s heat made them drowsy and they lolled a while, not saying a word.

Later she said, “What would you like to do this evening, Anjin-san?”

“If we were up in London we’d—” Blackthorne stopped. I won’t think about them, he told himself. Or London. That’s gone. That doesn’t exist. Only here exists.

“If?” She was watching him, aware of the change.

“We’d go to a theater and see a play,” he said, dominating himself. “Do you have plays here?”

“Oh, yes, Anjin-san. Plays are very popular with us. The Taiko liked to perform in them for the entertainment of his guests, even Lord Toranaga likes to. And of course there are many touring companies for the common people. But our plays are not quite like yours, so I believe. Here our actors and actresses wear masks. We call the plays ‘Noh.’ They’re part music, partially danced and mostly very sad, very tragic, historical plays. Some are comedies. Would we see a comedy, or perhaps a religious play?”

“No, we’d go to the Globe Theater and see something by a playwright called Shakespeare. I like him better than Ben Jonson or Marlowe. Perhaps we’d see The Taming of the Shrew or A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Romeo and Juliet. I took my wife to Romeo and Juliet and she liked it very much.” He explained the plots to her.

Mostly Mariko found them incomprehensible. “It would be unthinkable here for a girl to disobey her father like that. But so sad, neh? Sad for a young girl and sad for the boy. She was only thirteen? Do all your ladies marry so young?”

“No. Fifteen or sixteen’s usual. My wife was seventeen when we were married. How old were you?”

“Just fifteen, Anjin-san.” A shadow crossed her brow which he did not notice. “And after the play, what would we do?”

“I would take you to eat. We’d go to Stone’s Chop House in Fetter Lane, or the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. They are inns where the food’s special.”

“What would you eat?”

“I’d rather not remember,” he said with a lazy smile, turning his mind back to the present. “I can’t remember. Here is where we are and here is where we’ll eat, and I enjoy raw fish and karma is karma.” He sank deeper into the tub. “A great word ‘karma.’ And a great idea. Your help’s been enormous to me, Mariko-san.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of a little service to you.” Mariko relaxed into the warmth. “Fujiko has some special food for you tonight.”

“Oh?”

“She bought a—I think you call it a pheasant. It’s a large bird. One of the falconers caught it for her.”

“A pheasant? You really mean it? Honto?”

“Honto,” she replied. “Fujiko asked them to hunt for you. She asked me to tell you.”

“How is it being cooked?”

“One of the soldiers had seen the Portuguese preparing them and he told Fujiko-san. She asks you to be patient if it’s not cooked properly.”

“But how is she doing it—how’re the cooks doing it?” He corrected himself, for servants alone did the cooking and cleaning.

“She was told that first someone pulls out all the feathers, then—then takes out the entrails.” Mariko controlled her squeamishness. “Then the bird’s either cut into small pieces and fried with oil, or boiled with salt and spices.” Her nose wrinkled. “Sometimes they cover it with mud and put it into the coals of a fire and bake it. We have no ovens, Anjin-san. So it will be fried. I hope that’s all right.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he said, certain it would be inedible.

She laughed. “You’re so transparent, Anjin-san, sometimes.”

“You don’t understand how important food is!” In spite of himself he smiled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be interested in food. But I can’t control hunger.”

“You’ll soon be able to do that. You’ll even learn how to drink cha from an empty cup.”

“What?”

“This is not the place to explain that, Anjin-san, or the time. For that you must be very awake and very alert. A quiet sunset, or dawning, is necessary. I will show you how, one day, because of what you did. Oh, it is so good to lie here, isn’t it? A bath is truly the gift of God.”

He heard the servants outside the wall, stoking the fire. He bore the intensifying heat as long as he could, then emerged from the water, half helped by Suwo, and lay back gasping on the thick towel cloth. The old man’s fingers probed. Blackthorne could have cried out with pleasure. “That’s so good.”

“You’ve changed so much in the last few days, Anjin-san.”

“Have I?”

“Oh yes, since your rebirth—yes, very much.”

He tried to recall the first night but could remember little. Somehow he had made it back on his own legs. Fujiko and the servants had helped him to bed. After a dreamless sleep, he woke at dawn and went for a swim. Then, drying in the sun, he had thanked God for the strength and the clue that Mariko had given him. Later, walking home, he greeted the villagers, knowing secretly that they were freed of Yabu’s curse, as he was freed.

Then, when Mariko had arrived, he had sent for Mura.

“Mariko-san, please tell Mura this: ‘We have a problem, you and I. We will solve it together. I want to join the village school. To learn to speak with children.’?”

“They haven’t a school, Anjin-san.”

“None?”

“No. Mura says there’s a monastery a few ri to the west and the monks could teach you reading and writing if you wish. But this is a village, Anjin-san. The children here need to learn the ways of fish, the sea, making nets, planting and growing rice and crops. There’s little time for anything else, except reading and writing. And, too, parents and grandparents teach their own, as always.”

“Then how can I learn when you’ve gone?”

“Lord Toranaga will send the books.”

“I’ll need more than books.”

“Everything will be satisfactory, Anjin-san.”

“Yes. Perhaps. But tell the headman that whenever I make a mistake, everyone—everyone, even a child—is to correct me. At once. I order it.”

“He says thank you, Anjin-san.”

“Does anyone here speak Portuguese?”

“He says no.”

“Anyone nearby?”

“Iye, Anjin-san.”