The Nicholas Linnear Novels (21 page)

“In most of those cases, the offender’s entire family is destroyed—the women and all the children so that his family line, his most prized possession, would be stripped from him. Not this time, however.”

“Why?” Nicholas asked. “What happened?”

Itami shrugged and smiled wanly. “Karma. My karma which forms the backbone of my life. I rebel against it; it makes me ache, and at night I cry. I am ashamed to say that. I am a
bushi,
a samurai woman, even in this day and age. Some things time cannot alter. My blood seethes with ten thousand battles; my soul resonates to the sweep of the
katana
, its blade, its fearful shades of steel.”

She stood up, the parasol blossomed like an enormous flower. “One day you shall understand this. And remember. It is difficult now at the
ryu.
Do not interrupt me. I know. But you must never give it up. Do you hear me? Never.” She turned away from him, the soft pastels of the parasol blotting out the smoldering passion in her black eyes. “Come,” he heard her say. “It is time we returned to the world.”

“This is
Ai Uchi
,” said Muromachi. He was holding a
bokken
in his hands. Seven students, Nicholas’ group, stood in a precise semicircle around him. “Here at the Itto
ryu
, it is the first teaching; the first of hundreds. At
Uchi
means cut the opponent just as he cuts you. It is the timing you will learn here, the one that is basic to kenjutsu. One which you will never forget.
Ai Uchi
is lack of anger. It means to treat an opponent as if he were an honored guest. It means to abandon your life or to throw away fear.
Ai Uchi
is the first technique and it is the last. Remember that. It is the Zen circle.”

This was the lesson Nicholas had first been taught upon arriving at the
ryu
seven years ago. He did not fully understand it yet he never forgot it. And in the time that followed, as he practiced with a cold fury the thousand cuts of the
katana
under Muromachi’s tutelage; as he learned the moral teaching of kenjutsu; as the knowledge piled itself upon him with dizzying rapidity, he was ever to think of that first lesson and, in pondering it, feel a calmness, stepping into the eye of the storm each time that storm threatened to overwhelm him.

And he repeated the thousand cuts over and over, feeling as if his arms and his legs were wearing grooves into the air until, at last, his reward manifested itself, when his sword became no sword, his intention became no intention and he knew that the first lesson given to him by Muromachi so long ago was, in fact, the highest knowledge.

Still, he was not satisfied. He was thinking of this late one afternoon after practice when he felt a presence in the room. He looked up but saw no one. The room was deserted and yet he could not get it out of his mind that someone was there. He stood up and was about to call out when he thought it might again be several of the boys lying in wait for him and he kept quiet, not wanting to give them any degree of satisfaction.

He began to move around the room in the dusk. The far side of the empty
dōjō
was streaked with dusty sunlight as red as blood, washed in the industrial haze lying low, its tendrils creeping up Fuji’s majestic slopes. Rapidly, his assessment changed. While he was quite certain now that someone was there with him, it also came to him that this person meant him no harm. How he had come to this conclusion he could not have said; it was, rather, a purely automatic response.

Light spilled into the corner of the
dōjō
, touching the edge of the clear-lacquered wooden railing, a fat slice of the raised platform behind it, leaving in dense shadow the corner beam. He was watching this pattern of light and shade when a voice said, “Good evening, Nicholas.”

The corner shadow had come to life, a figure stepping out of its concealing pocket, into the light. It was Kansatsu.

He was a thin, slight man, his stiff bristly hair already white. He had eyes that never appeared to move yet took in everything at once.

He made absolutely no sound as he came down off the platform to stand in front of Nicholas who, bare to the waist, felt totally tongue-tied. Kansatsu had barely said three words to him since he had come to the
ryu.
Now they were here, together, and Nicholas understood enough to know that the meeting was not accidental.

He saw Kansatsu eyeing him, then the man stepped forward, his outstretched forefinger touching the purple and blue bruise just beneath Nicholas’ sternum on the left side.

“These are very bad times for Japan,” Kansatsu said. “Very sad times.” He looked up. “The war was joined because of economics and our imperialism dictated that we expand beyond our islands.” He sighed. “But the war was ill-advised for all that, for it stemmed from greed, not honor. The new Japanese adds the gloss of
bushido
to his actions, I am afraid, rather than allowing his actions to evolve from it.” His eyes were sad. “And now we pay the price. We are overrun by Americans, our new Constitution is American and the entire thrust of the new Japan is to serve the American interests. So strange, so strange for Japan to serve such a master.” He shrugged. “But, you see, no matter what happens to Japan,
bushido
will never completely perish. We begin to wear Western business suits, our women wear their hair in the American manner; we adopt the Western ways. These things do not matter. The Japanese is like the willow, bending in the wind so that it should not break. These are merely outward manifestations of our desire now for parity in the world. So, too, do the Americans unwittingly serve our purpose, for, with their money, we shall rise more powerful than ever. Yet we must ever look to our tradition, for only
bushido
makes us strong.

“You wish to become one of us,” he said abruptly. “But this”—he pointed to the bruise that had been inflicted by Saigō—“tells me that you have not been entirely successful.”

“Success will come in time,” Nicholas said. “I am learning not to be impatient.”

Kansatsu nodded. “Good. Very good. Yet one must take the necessary steps.” He put his fingertips together in front of him, began to walk slowly across the
dōjō
with Nicholas beside him. “I think it is time that you begin to work with other
sensei.
I do not want you to give up your very valuable work with Muromachi; rather I want to add to your current schedule.

“Tomorrow you will begin to work with me,” he said, leading Nicholas across the darkened room, “in
haragei
.”

Nicholas would always separate his relationship with Satsugai into two distinct sections. The specific point of demarcation was the
zaibatsu
party he attended with his parents. It was, of course, quite possible that this changing perception was strictly a function of his own growing up. On the other hand, he had tended to believe that it was just as much a matter of what transpired there that night.

Satsugai was not a large man, either in terms of height or of bulk. Yet for all that he was nevertheless quite remarkable. He was massive through chest and belly, with squat legs and arms that appeared to be far too short for his body. His head seemed to be cemented onto his shoulders without the benefit of an intervening neck. His head was a perfect oval covered on top by jet black hair cut
en brosse
which, to Nicholas at least, added to his military bearing. His face was flat but not in a typically Japanese manner. His eyes, for instance, were distinctly almond-shaped and as glossily black as hard chips of obsidian but they slanted upward at their outer corners and this oddity, combined with his flat high cheekbones and the deep yellow colors of his skin, bespoke his Mongol heritage. Nicholas could think of him, without much difficulty at all, as some reincarnation of Genghis Khan. This was not so outlandish as it at first might seem for, recalling his history, Nicholas brought to mind the Mongol invasions of Japan in 1274 and 1281. Fukuoka, in the south, was their chief target because of its nearness to the Asian shore. Satsugai, Nicholas knew, had been born in the Fukuoka district and though he was, in all ways, purely Japanese—tradition-minded, wholly reactionary—who could say that his ancestors had not been among those most feared of mounted nomads?

One might think that, in giving all these particulars of his physical appearance, one might thus be able to define the man. Not so, however. Satsugai was, quite clearly, an individual who was born to lead. Being a native of a land dedicated to the idea of duty to the group—family elders, the
daimyo
and, ultimately, the shōgun who represented the concept of Japan more forcefully and in a much more real sense than did the Emperor for a span of some two hundred and fifty years—he was nevertheless forever a man apart. Outwardly, quite naturally, this was not so, for he was totally dedicated to Japan,
his
Japan, and to this end he belonged to many groups, not merely one of the
zaibatsu
conglomerates. Yet it became manifestly clear to Nicholas on the night of the party that, inwardly, Satsugai believed himself superior to others. This, curiously enough, was at least part of the basis for his ability in leadership. The Japanese were born followers; they had been bred to follow with blind obedience the dictates of the shōgun even unto death. Was it so surprising then that Satsugai should find a wide following of fanatic supporters? It was a subtle pillow upon which he slept—had Caesar done otherwise?—but nonetheless it was a prime motivational factor in his life.

Always Itami was by his side. Near him, too, was Saigō as if he were bathing in the energy of a companion sun. However, that night there was a fourth person with them and, from the first moment he saw her, she captivated Nicholas. He leaned over, asked his mother who the girl might be.

“That is Satsugai’s niece. From the south,” Cheong said. “She has come for a brief visit.” By her tone of voice Nicholas could tell that, as far as Cheong was concerned, the visit could not be brief enough. He meant to ask her why it was she disliked the girl but already Satsugai had her in tow and was introducing her to Cheong and the Colonel.

She was slim and tall—willowy, a Westerner might call her. Her dark hair was very long; her eyes seemed enormous, liquid and feral. Her skin was like porcelain, possessing an inner glow quite impossible to duplicate via cosmetics. Nicholas thought she was quite stunning. Her name, so Satsugai informed him when he introduced her separately to Nicholas, was Yukio Jokoin.

She had come with Saigō. He made this plain by keeping within her shadow for most of the evening. Though Nicholas tried, he could not tell whether she wanted this attention or not.

For most of the evening he stewed inside himself, debating whether to ask her to dance. He knew that he wanted to do it; he just did not know what waves his action might cause. Not that he was intimidated by Saigō’s close princely protection of her, rather he was burdened by the secrecy of the father, whose relationship with the Colonel was stormy at best.

There was no one’s counsel he could seek but his own and, in the end, he decided that he was worrying about something that had significance only for him.

Accordingly, he approached them. It was Yukio herself who provided the opening, for she immediately began to ask him questions about Tokyo, which she had not visited in some time; his immediate impression was that she was fairly well confined to Kyoto and its environs.

Saigō, as might be anticipated, took a rather dim view of his interference and was about to voice his displeasure when his father called for him and, reluctantly, he excused himself.

As he led her onto the dance floor, Nicholas had time to admire her kimono. It was dove-gray with platinum-colored threads running through it. It was embroidered with the design of a midnight-blue wheel-and-spoke pattern typical of the standard of a
daimyo
in feudal times.

She seemed weightless as they danced to the slow music and, holding her close, he felt the heat from her body, the subtle shifting of her flesh beneath the thin kimono.

“We two are both too young to remember the war,” she said, her voice husky. “Yet we are so much affected by it. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

“Not really.” He was breathing in the musk of her skin and it seemed to him as if her very sweat were perfumed. “Isn’t history continuous? Incidents don’t happen in a vacuum but cause ripples spreading outward, interacting with other ripples, changing their courses and, in turn, being themselves changed.”

“My, what philosophy.” And he thought that she might be mocking him until she laughed and said, “But I like that theory. Do you know why? No? Because it means that what we do here will affect our histories.”

“What, you mean us?”

“Yes. The two of us. A duo. White and black. Yin and yang.”

Now while she spoke she had contrived, without Nicholas’ being in the least aware, to slide closer to him. Abruptly, as they swayed to the music he found her left leg between his. She pushed discreetly forward and he felt the hot contact with her thigh and then, incredibly, her pubic mound. She continued talking, staring up into his eyes, while she rubbed herself lightly back and forth against him. It was as if they were joined by a hardening fulcrum. Nicholas scarcely dared to breathe lest some precipitous move of his dislodge them from this position. It was an astoundingly intimate gesture, coming as it did in the midst of six hundred or so people, lavishly dressed, still disdainful of new ways or liberal viewpoints. Its highly clandestine nature thrilled him especially when, turning her around, his gaze fell upon Saigō staring at them from the edge of the dance floor, still engaged in a discussion from which his father would not release him. It was the only time Nicholas would think kindly of the man.

They danced for what seemed like endless moments but when, at length, they parted—with not one word exchanged about the intimacy—he was unaware that he would not see her again for nearly four years.

On Sundays the Colonel slept late. This luxury he permitted himself perhaps because, on a day when he did not work, he was delighted to smash routine to smithereens; though he awoke six mornings a week at precisely six o’clock, he rolled out of bed whenever he wished on that first day of the week.