by El Rickman
The Tale of an Ancient War
Blushing at sunset,
Blood of the earth -
Meltwater returns where belongs.
Prologue
His father taught him to treat misfortune with respect. He said it was both a punishment and heaven’s greatest gift. Osahito understood this as a boy of five, on his first visit to the Iwashimizu Shrine, dedicated to the stern god of war. This mighty kami named Hachiman surely understood more about life than any mortal in Japan. And who knew, perhaps his power stretched beyond the great country — west of the Sun? When his father died, Crown Prince Hiro was fourteen. Becoming Emperor, he often recalled his first encounter with the higher powers.
It turned out the descendants of the sun-like goddess Amaterasu died just like ordinary people — swiftly, suddenly, and ungracefully. His father, always brimming with vitality, fit for a deity, suddenly began complaining of the cold, then his legs gave way and his face turned blue. Emperor Ninko returned to the heavens at the blooming age of forty-six, and Osahito rightfully ascended the Chrysanthemum Throne. He obediently donned a robe the color of dried turmeric roots and a tall black cap, proceeded along the path of white gravel, climbed the wooden stairs to the Takamikura, and settled under the canopy, making a face at the golden phoenix crowning the solemn structure. He examined the Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi sword and the curved jade jewel — the symbols of imperial power — with curiosity.
"Probably with a similar sword, the legendary ruler Jimmu conquered the Japanese islands," Osahito thought, grieving that emperors no longer went to war. They were too exalted and sacred for worldly affairs, so the Tokugawa shogunate had decreed. The Heavenly Sovereign, the tenno, was left only to pray that no force would disturb the great harmony.
Emperor Komei grew up behind a high fence in the tiny palace compound of Gosho. This honorable isolation allowed the family to lead a ritualistic, almost monastic life and commune with the gods away from prying eyes. His upbringing taught him humility. Tutors made him study the Chinese Confucius's "Classic of Filial Piety," as if Japan lacked its own sages. Once, Osahito got his hands on Bushido — the code of warrior honor, which said nothing of prayers but much of the noble path of the brave and selfless. The young emperor became so engrossed in this forbidden reading that he forgot his humility and for a moment doubted his own divinity.
When the first year of his reign was ending, unmarred by the sorrows of the wider world, alarming news reached the palace. Warships from the West had arrived off the coast of Edo, and the smoke from their black stacks sowed a previously unknown fear in people's souls. Osahito's first act was to go to the shrine — to ask for deliverance from this great trouble. In case Amaterasu was slow to answer, he sent an order to the Shogun: throw all forces into defending the coast.
A few years later, the ships returned in greater numbers and aimed their cannons on the city. Temporal power split in two. Some urged to fight the gaijin to the last drop of blood, others — to surrender without a fight and open the country "for the greater good." For the first time in two and a half centuries, the final word rested with the Emperor. After much hesitation, officials handed him an ultimatum from the Emperor of the United States of America, referred to by the strange word "President."
That day in the Gosho compound began joyfully, carefree, with no hint of trouble. Sunlight bathed the pointed roofs of the palace buildings, playfully sparkling on the tiles. Not a single neatly trimmed tree in the garden broke the silence with its rustling. It seemed Amaterasu herself was sending peace and blessing to earth. A good sign — she had heard. But suddenly the wind picked up, the heavens frowned angrily, turned black, and, drawing hot air into their celestial chest, roared deafeningly. Thunder clapped, and the firmament responded with a hollow echo from its womb. The sacred land Osahito had sworn to protect could endure no more humility.
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Toxic smoke stung his eyes, and he could see nothing but vortices of hellish flame dancing around him. "Feed, feed, feed!" the flames shrieked, grinding the boards of shattered houses and collapsed roofs into splinters. This formless mush of sound and motion was punctuated by the bloody remnants of human bodies, fleeting fragments of lives. Dirty black and triumphant red were holding court over the Shogun's capital.
Emperor Komei bent over the body of a young woman in a lavish, torn kimono. A pattern of intertwined cherry and mimosa... "All-Conquering Spring." In some strange and unnatural pose, the poor thing was draped over what remained of her house's fragile wall, clutching a boy of about five in her embrace. The child's wide-open eyes held no fear, only bewilderment and burning curiosity. The Emperor wanted to cover them with his palm but fell, as if scythed down, face-first into the earth. "It comes!" a servant screamed, but the furious roar of the inferno drowned his voice. The mass of fire shifted, and black ash rained from the sky onto the Emperor's head. He took a deep breath, drawing in the ashes of the burnt city and the acrid smell of soot. And then he could breathe no more.
For the third year in a row, the "Heavenly" ruler of Japan woke up choking, drenched in cold sweat. His favorite concubine, Asako, kept towels by his bedside and had learned to change the sheets herself. With oils known only to her, she could soothe the most oppressive headaches, which had become Osahito's second constant companion. The earthquake in Edo, which tormented his nightmares, he considered a harbinger of fateful events.
How many children, women, and old people had the blind element killed in one fell swoop, snapping wooden houses like shell-less nuts? And how many more would perish when the streets were stained with the blood of an even blinder fratricidal war? All because the white barbarians had defiled the sacred land. Having secured the support of the bakufu government, they decided Japan would be theirs without a fight, and the naive emperor would, as always, pray, step aside, and stay silent. Not this time. Yes, he was in the minority, along with a handful of aristocrats and loyal samurai, but he knew his own strength and his own truth. Now, if there were gods, they must be warlike, Osahito told himself. The path of the observer gods was in the past.
Having stripped the Emperor of real power, the Tokugawa shogunate entrusted him with one important mission: to designate the era name. First, he chose "Ka'ei" or "Eternal Bliss," the most auspicious from the perspective of the religion of peace. But the era turned out to be a worldly, willful maiden, unwilling to follow any motto. At every step, it mocked and performed such acrobatic feats that it quickly became clear—one could expect anything from it except the coveted bliss. The "Black Ships" of the Americans inspired a new motto, akin to an anti-war mantra: "Ansei" or "Peaceful Rule." Back then, the Emperor believed the barbarians would leave willingly, seeing his resolve, but the era continued to mock his faith.
In these troubled times, the humble Shogun Tokugawa Ieyoshi passed away. A great righteous man! Even when misfortunes hailed down upon him, he exhaled the immutable "So be it!" and, under pain of death, never touched his sword. His minor son inherited these tendencies along with frail health. Exploiting this weakness of power, the resolute and unprincipled Tairo Ii Naosuke—head of the Council of Elders—seized control. Defying the Emperor's prohibition and under pressure from the American envoy, he signed five treaties of trade and "friendship" with the gaijin.
The USA were followed, without waiting for a special invitation, by France, Britain, Russia, and the Netherlands. These devilish papers, in the "Heavenly Sovereign's" opinion, ended two centuries of isolation at a stroke. Gloomy and unsociable port cities were opened. Now "pleasure quarters" sprouted there, and free trade flourished. The Era of the West was beginning in the Land of the Rising Sun. The fickle fate grinned smugly and performed yet another memorable stunt. The treaties were named the Ansei Treaties, just like the earthquakes of that peaceful era.
Part 1. The Tairo Thinks with His Head
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Tairo Ii Naosuke lowered himself onto one knee, then the other, and, tucking his thin legs beneath him, settled onto the rough tatami. His aching joints made his beloved tea ceremonies increasingly difficult, and today his body was falling apart, reacting to the dampness and the sharp change in weather. For the first time in two years, snow was falling in Edo. With trembling fingers, he took the round ceramic bowl, trying to grasp the uniqueness of the moment, but today Zen was more unreachable than ever.
The elegance of emptiness and the bliss of peace were disrupted by grim thoughts: "What enlightenment can there be when a whole nation considers you a traitor? How to explain to people that all of this is for their own good? That Japan, hopelessly behind the Western powers, lacking even a fleet and modern weapons, is doomed to destruction in a military conflict? One could buy time, but that would only prolong the agony of the dying... and inflame the anger of the gaijin, who for now only demand free trade. Let them amuse themselves in the port cities with their Christianity. We will remain intact, may Buddha and Amaterasu forgive me."
The tea was too hot, scalding his throat, and the Tairo's hand trembled, dropping the bowl. The sacred liquid left a dirty stain on the white tatami. A bad omen.
A frightened maiko — a very young future geisha — jumped up. The poor thing was probably flushed red beneath the thick layer of white powder. With quick movements, she began wiping the tatami — a rare occurrence mid-ceremony.
The owner of the tea house on the outskirts of Edo impassibly brewed a new portion of tea—he whisked the green matcha leaves with a wooden whisk and poured hot water. "The tengu is angered, already sending signs. 'Sei' or 'purity' — one of the four principles of cha-no-yu — is violated, and soon you can bid farewell to the other three. Farewell, tranquility, respect, and harmony."
"Do you remember, Tairo-sama, the legend of the poor monk from the Daigo quarter," he began, as if trying to make conversation. Saito — the loyal guardsman of the government head — sensed trouble, wrinkled his fleshy brow, snorted, and shot a malicious glance. But the Tairo gestured with his hand— "stay." He wanted to hear it out.
"Once, monks of a Kyoto temple engaged in idle pastimes instead of prayers, and one of them left and never returned. They searched for him in Kurasano, and Uji, and at the Seta crossing — all in vain. Finally, an acolyte went to the forest for firewood and noticed something white on a high mountain. When the monks climbed the mountain, they saw a white monastic robe on a tree, and beneath it — dismembered remains. Hands once joined in prayer lay separate from the torso, and lips that recited mantras had lost all color. Everyone understood at once that the tengu — the evil forest spirit and adversary of Buddha — had punished the proud one who broke the precept and lost benevolent protection. And such a shameful, wretched fate awaits everyone who indulges in pride and arrogance — they will not escape the Kurama mountains."
"I understand that you, and millions like you, have reason to hate me. But do not rush to judge people without having been in their place," said Ii Naosuke, slowly rising.
"Your hands are stained with the blood of people far better than you. Even the word of the Emperor means nothing to you. He refused the money the gaijin offered him, while you, for gold, have betrayed us all. And know that for your insolence, the samurai of Mito province plan to kill you."
"And why did you warn me if you hate me so? You surely think I will spare your life now? Tonight you will be delivered to Edo Castle, and you will tell everything you know. I will have to chop off a few more empty heads, but yours, perhaps, will remain on your shoulders."
With these words, the angered Tairo left the tea house with his retinue. He inhaled the cool air, closed his eyes, and turned his heated face to the snow. Large, soft flakes tickled his skin tenderly and immediately melted, streaming down his cheeks in droplets. "How wonderful! And such a rarity in these parts!" he thought, and for the first time, it seemed, regretted that a moment could not be stopped.
"Why did you let him go?" sobbed the pseudo-maiko — the daughter of an executed samurai — smearing the white powder on her face. A miniature razor slipped from her colorful sleeve onto the tatami. "I was supposed to do it."
"Calm down, foolish girl, many more sorrows await you. And God grant you never truly have to wear this costume. And with this one," he nodded disdainfully towards the exit, "others will deal better."
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There is no enmity more cruel than that between close people, once kindred to one another. Brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, lovers, spouses, or childhood friends, bound by deep feelings or a common goal, who suddenly find themselves on opposite sides of the barricades. There, the struggle is to the death! Fierce, blind, and frenzied. A man can forgive everything except the betrayal of a close one who turned away from him for some vain whim. Perhaps that is why the bloodiest wars are always civil wars. The head of the Japanese government, Ii Naosuke, was sure of both, tormented by bitter memories and no less bitter premonitions. And that day, he wasn't thinking about safety at all.
The heir to one of Japan's oldest families was cruelly betrayed even before his birth. The Hikone domain on Honshu island was the most profitable in the country, and the Ii clan that owned it was the largest of all the fudai daimyo. These "hereditary" princes or vassals of the shogun served him faithfully from generation to generation, but each generation had its little family secrets.
Naosuke was unlucky. For his father — a rich and powerful daimyo — he was the fourteenth son, born, to top it off, from a concubine. Having not the slightest chance of hereditary privileges, he was given to a Buddhist temple as an infant, where he spent his childhood, youth, and most of his adult life. Without the warmth of his father's house, brotherly support, or motherly affection, receiving only a meager allowance from his wealthy relatives. His brothers, however, were even less fortunate. They were adopted into other families or ascended to the heavens, not waiting for their dear father's demise. But the monk Naosuke waited. And he learned many—not the most benevolent—prayers. When the sole heir was recalled from the monastery, he was thirty-five. Emerging into freedom, he received what he could not have even dreamed of all those years—a family name, a domain, money, power… and a chance for revenge.
His clan had the right to hold positions in the shogunate and shape the state's destiny. He exercised this right very soon. When the West backed Japan into a corner, saying "your money or your life," the ailing and confused Shogun appointed the imperious Naosuke to the post of Tairo, the second-in-command in the government, which had remained vacant in less tense times. He had to do the dirtiest work. How could one not get stained? At first, he hesitated and waited for the Emperor's approval, but under the threat of European cannons, he moved to decisive action. He signed the treaty with the USA and other powers, and only then took a firm hand to the samurai opposition. He beheaded some, placed others under arrest — in short, he reached a point where blood was flowing throughout Japan, and it was hard to find a person who did not wish him dead. Thanks to the kind people — they constantly reminded him of it.
That morning, someone had again tossed a message into his estate. Ronin from the Mito domain were planning an attack today. "When will these vagabonds calm down? Loyalty to the Emperor! Loyalty to the sword! It is a crime to be loyal to one for whom your life means nothing. He is no better than any American devil."
An important day had come at Edo Castle — daimyo were gathering from all over the country. That meant a crowd of gawkers so thick one couldn't push through. The path from the Tairo's estate to the castle was no more than four hundred meters, and the snow was falling in a wall — so thick one could see nothing. Even if he had wanted to walk alone, not one of the potential assassins would have found him in this white haze. And with a retinue of sixty men, all the more so. After all, what better reason to test fate, which had always been so favorable to him? If Buddha is pleased and karma is pure, no demon can reach him.
The troubled arbiter of destinies went to a tea house on the other side of Edo, but found no peace there either. The old owner clearly knew something. Struggling with these thoughts, Naosuke tried to doze off in his palanquin. "Here are the Sakurada Gates, we've arrived. But what is that shouting, that commotion? Is Kasai Chuzaemon fighting off the onlookers?"
His best guardsman fell face down near the palanquin, and something sharp pierced the troubled Tairo's side. A moment later, he was pierced from the other side and dragged out onto the snow. Glancing at the sky, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, and then found himself somewhere very high. He looked down at the unusually white city, and instead of a body, a long sword protruded directly from his neck, which one of the attackers was triumphantly raising high. "And yet, a samurai's soul resides in his sword," Ii Naosuke managed to think. "What if?.." — his trembling thought broke off there.
Part 2. From Love to Hatred
Yokohama examined the new faces with curiosity. Round and high-cheekboned, haggard and ruddy, young, bearded, angry, and merry — they were astonishingly similar to each other. What force drove them from all corners of the earth to the uncharted Japanese islands? And what, for heaven's sake, force makes people leave their native lands, a warm hearth, and hot soup, everything dear and beloved to the heart, and drives them to the middle of nowhere? Ah, if only it were just about money… If we were always running towards something, and not away from something!
In those distant years, when Yokohama was a remote fishing village where instead of the formidable noise of a train one heard the gentle whisper of waves, it desperately failed to understand this wanderlust. It was concerned with other matters. People were rapidly growing poorer and starving more often, and the uninvited gaijin were to blame. On the one hand, "free trade" proved extremely profitable; the same could not be said for its other side. The exchange rate of the Japanese golden oban allowed newfound speculators to make capital out of thin air, while some died of suffocation. Raw silk, tea, and foodstuffs were bought up—along with gold—for a pittance, and inflation—always a ready lady—did not keep them waiting.
To earn a bowl of rice, peasants flocked to Yokohama, mastering new professions as bakers (oh, that divine smell!), bootblacks, and "jinrikisha" or, in European terms, "rickshaw" pullers. The strongest and most enduring hired themselves out as "living transport," hoping to survive in this trade for more than the average three years. Well, those who mastered the sword and couldn't stand being ridden preferred to kill the barbarians who flocked here for thrills. Besides greedy merchants and bored diplomats, these were adventurers from California, obsessed with the fever to "launder" even more gold, Portuguese cutthroats, pirates, runaway sailors, worthless drunks, and opium lovers who had essentially nothing to lose but their own shabby lives. Need it be said that all these people were filled with the deepest respect for Japanese customs?
Take the Miyozaki quarter, for instance. The soul-saving Miyozaki quarter! In the young port city, it grew in competition with residential houses and trading company buildings and was as needed by weary travelers as a roof over their heads. What a wonderful allegory for the friendship of East and West! "This place is designed for the pleasure of foreigners," read the inscription on the towels kindly presented to guests of the "pleasure quarter." Probably the same commercial genius created those dreadful gallery-windows where, behind glass or wooden bars, the "merchandise" was on display all day. Young birds sat in a row on rough mats, as if on a perch, tucking their slender legs beneath them, guessing which of the crowd of gawkers would choose to spend time with them. The gawkers stared at them as in a zoo, though no beasts were kept in cages here. Incidentally, love with foreigners was charged triple. The establishment's tariff was many times higher than in Edo, where gaijin were forbidden to go (they would never see the red lights of Yoshiwara!).
Americans and Englishmen, French and Dutch, Russians and Chinese, plus people of unidentified origin, sought a common language in the small settlement called Kannai. When the settlement grew and spread its domain to the Yamate hill, the British dubbed it "The Bluff." Initially, no more than two hundred people lived here, not sticking their noses beyond the high fence. Terrible rumors circulated about local customs. Ronin loyal to the Emperor declared open season on foreigners, and within a year, five people were killed on the streets of "greater" Yokohama. Merchants, officers, sailors, passersby... And how many shogunate officials fell by their hands! A great embarrassment occurred in Edo after a dinner party at the Prussian diplomatic mission. A young translator for the American envoy was hacked to pieces on his way home. Despite all this, there were those, with all due respect, daredevils who sought dangers for their own mortal heads. And they paid for it far more than in the liveliest pleasure quarters.
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There are people so different that their collision on some narrow path inevitably leads to the death of one of them. One can only marvel — how could this meeting even happen? Do the Moon and Sun ever converge? Does a snow blizzard foolishly charge at a bored camel in the Sahara Desert? In such cases, there is often no need to describe both; it is enough to look at one and then imagine his complete opposite. Who hasn't heard of samurai? Legends were told of their honor and valor, and their exploits evoked awe and trepidation in the hearts of their bitterest enemies. And it is unlikely that anyone in all of Japan would dispute that the distant southern domain of Satsuma could unhesitatingly be called the capital of good old samuraihood. In the black days of the Western invasion, it was here that the core of resistance was born, led by one of the participants of that fateful meeting.
It was hard to argue with family karma. The Shimazu clan was among the "tozama"—the unreliable daimyo. Long ago, during the civil wars, their ancestors fought against the legendary Tokugawa Ieyasu, who ultimately gained victory and power. Since then, his descendants became shoguns, and the daimyo — the domainal princes — their vassals. Tokugawa pardoned his former enemies for their unprecedented bravery and even granted them land, and they, in turn, swore allegiance to him. But a residue, as they say, remained and surfaced at the most inconvenient moment for the shogunate.
The bakufu government could not withstand the external threat. When the Emperor spoke up for the first time in two centuries, simply no one heard him. He had to speak louder, and now—in the language of force. Emperor Komei united an army of loyal daimyo and samurai around himself. The "unreliable" princes of Satsuma were the first to swear allegiance to him, and Shimazu Hisamitsu undertook to implement his reforms. The shogunate had to be cleansed of "pro-Western elements," and then—the foreign devils were to be driven away. And judging by the rumors, there was no time to delay. An assassination was being prepared against the audacious Emperor, and behind it was, apparently, the American envoy himself.
Shimazu arrived in Kyoto with an army of a thousand loyal warriors to place the Emperor under his personal protection, while he himself went to Edo—for negotiations with the shogunate. A couple of months later, he was returning along the Tokaido road, a prisoner of heavy thoughts, surrounded by a weary retinue. The shogunate had rejected most of the demands, and war — was now obviously — a matter of time. At that moment, four carefree horsemen rode laughing out of the gates of the foreign settlement in Yokohama. Their ringleader — a young English merchant named Charles Richardson—had made his fortune trading opium in China and now decided to have some fun in the new Japanese port.
The soldier of the trade front incessantly regaled his pretty companion with tales of his exploits in the war with the unresisting Chinese. While riding, he loved to take out his whip and lash passersby, who in fear bent their backs and threw themselves to the ground in a sign of deepest respect. With the Japanese, Richardson said, it would be the same. Had he not seen their frightened and admiring faces, ready to pay innkeepers for a chance to look at white people? And their obsequious gestures in the streets and trading shops? These fools would do anything to please a European, and their own lives were worth nothing here. Just the other day: a French acquaintance emptied his revolver into some poor wretch who demanded payment, and they brought him another pint of beer for it... And why this stupid pass system anyway? The riders negligently nodded to the samurai guarding the main gates and set off to meet their fate. It was preparing a very nasty trick for the merry Englishmen.
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How many roads in the world have been celebrated by poets and artists? And how many stations in your city are named after saints? In those years when Buddhist temples became havens for foreign diplomatic missions, holiness seemed to have left the Land of the Rising Sun forever. And only by an immense effort of will was it possible to preserve it. Charles Richardson was not one to help in this endeavor. The Kawasaki Shrine near Kanagawa attracted him with the exoticism of the unknown and the chance to cast off the shackles of the tight settlement. With his friends—fellow adventure-seekers—he ventured much farther from Yokohama than safety rules allowed. Having done part of the journey by boat, they took horses and via forest paths reached the great Tokaido—the country's main road. The Imperial highway, running along the ocean, connected Kyoto with the Shogun's seat in Edo and could well have become a symbol of the compromise policy of "kobu gattai," if it had the slightest chance of success.
The Tokaido was a living, dynamic encyclopedia of the Japanese people. Here one could meet a warrior and an artisan, a married couple and a wandering monk, a Chinese merchant and a noble feudal lord, a fortune-teller and a ruler of destinies. Pilgrims of all stripes traveled on foot past rivers, mountains, and gorges, hoping to find long-awaited rest at one of the fifty-three picturesque stations. But never before had they seen eccentrics like Richardson and his entourage. Dandies in riding costumes and top hats—as if straight from a London borough — vied to entertain a fair-haired lady who sat in the saddle no worse than a man. They chatted loudly in their coarse gaijin tongue, drowning out the noise of the crowd and looking contemptuously at the pedestrians.
Passersby, young and old, fell into reverent silence and slowed their pace as soon as something resembling a military detachment of a couple hundred men appeared on the horizon. Marching in even rows, it occupied the entire width of the great Tokaido. The locals acted up—as if on command, they moved to the sides, fell to their knees, and froze in a deep bow. Some fools whispered to the strangers that an important daimyo was passing and all travelers were obliged to dismount. Richardson merely smirked and spurred his horse forward—out of habit, learned in China.
If only he had known what kind of bird was before him! If he could have imagined for a moment the fierce hatred filling the hearts of Shimazu Hisamitsu and his retinue. The gaijin were pushing Japan into chaos and war, because of them the Emperor's life was in danger, because of them people were starving, because of them what ancestors had defended for centuries was crumbling. And by God, Richardson would have been better off testing his fate walking a tightrope over a volcano's crater than on this serene road celebrated by poets and artists.
These courteous horsemen merely intended to ram their way through the samurai column. The road to hell is paved with good intentions! When the geometry of the gray ranks was disrupted, the soldiers' faces lost their usual composure. Richardson noticed the black lacquered palanquin in the center when the column, unable to bear his insolence, halted abruptly. The palanquin's window opened for just a moment, but that was enough to dispense with ceremonies. Shimazu gave a signal equivalent to a death sentence. Three guards drew their swords and rushed at the self-assured gaijin. First, they cut off his arm, and then — when he fell from his horse into the dust and writhed in pain — they severed his head and hacked his body to pieces, wielding their blades with even more fury than necessary. Such an inglorious end awaited the opium trader, the scourge of the Chinese, and the brilliant connoisseur of Eastern customs. Much later, having gathered his remains from the roadside, they buried him in the foreign cemetery in hospitable Yokohama. It was growing at an astonishing rate back then.
Part 3. A Dream Fulfilled
So – when it’s fulfilled
I’d rather turn back that time,
When it was just a dream.
In his tender youth, from which only a few months had passed, he dreamed of only one thing — to see the serene Japanese islands that had captured his imagination at University College of London. Judging by the books and reports of Laurence Oliphant, in this fairy-tale country the sun always shone, and the sole concern of its inhabitants was to admire the blue sky from the window of a small wooden house in the company of languid, dark-eyed beauties. Now this phantom dream had come true, and he kept a revolver under his pillow. The climate here was indeed wonderful, and not a single foreigner in Yokohama had yet fallen victim to disease.
"Tell me, Felice, are you happy here?" The pun related to his name had been tiresome since childhood and haunted him even far from Italy. But the cold, gray eyes of the Englishman were no longer looking at the camera but directly at him — utterly motionless and with such profound despair that it was clear — the question was asked without malice.
"Of course, this poor agrarian country can offer neither the splendor of Venetian palazzi nor the charms of English technical progress, but believe me — a seasoned wanderer—one can find here something much greater than happiness."
"That's precisely why I plan to get married here!"
"To find something greater than love?"
"Exactly!" Ernest Satow, excessively thin and serious for his nineteen years, a translator at the British diplomatic mission in Yokohama, suddenly burst out laughing, throwing his head back like a five-year-old urchin. His service began with the news of the murder of a British citizen, which, it seemed, every newspaper from London to New York had written about.
"And I, it seems, will be married to my old workhorse for life. She and I have gone side by side halfway around the world... And hardly in search of happiness. Constantinople, India, the Crimean War, the Second Opium... Together we walked over the corpses of Chinese soldiers after the Anglo-French infantry stormed the Taku Forts. Together we photographed the sepoy rebels at the Sikandar Bagh palace in Lucknow... Before the bodies of two thousand wretches were dumped into the defensive moat. The Indian Rebellion—a pitiful and insane attempt to oppose the might of the British Empire. Every milestone passed, every captured building remains in history thanks to me. I feel like a pioneer, a Columbus, a conqueror of Everest, a cowboy who lassoed the Moon and pulled it to Earth... How can one trade that for boring domestic bliss?"
"What do you think, Felice, will we smell gunpowder here soon?"
"If the locals don't calm down and continue cutting down our kind with the current regularity, then war, I fear, is unavoidable. And given the split in their ruling elite, it might happen even without our participation. This, what's his name, Richardson... seems to have bumped into a very bigwig—the Prince of Satsuma. And England, of course, will not leave this incident unanswered."
"That arrogant cretin is to blame himself! He was warned about the rules. And what are we to do now? Bomb a whole city because of him? We can hardly expect reparations from Satsuma. Don't hold your breath... and even if we do get them, they won't hand over the murderers. They were doing their duty. These people hate us and would gladly cut down every one of us they meet on the road. And honestly, in their place, I would have done the same. No, Felice, this war won't end anytime soon. God grant it ever ends at all."
The diplomatic service had not yet forged him into a canonical British patriot. In his not-so-distant youth, Satow had been an ardent admirer of Napoleon — for which improper passion he earned the nickname "Emperor."
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Babylon the great, mother of harlots and of the earth's abominations! The polyglot society of Yokohama was divided into the masters of life and its "dregs" (in the apt expression of one English diplomat). But the line between them could hardly be seen even by the most attentive wit. At the Yokohama Club, champagne flowed like water (if, of course, you weren't Irish), and the newly rich could squander a pack or two of their profits, earned by not-too-hard and not-too-honest labor, at the races. The racetrack was set up beyond the swamp—not far from the foreign cemetery. And, pray tell, which of these revelers would suddenly get it into his head to learn Japanese? Such eccentrics could be counted on the fingers of one hand. For serious trade deals, they invented an ugly linguistic phenomenon—a serpentine tangle of dialects understandable only to the inhabitants of the settlement.
Ernest Satow belonged to the minority. By duty of his service at the British mission, the young translator racked his brains over characters, comprehending the diversity of Japanese speech in a state of book famine. He had left London without any textbooks (where would they have come from?), hoping for a passing familiarity with Chinese writing. The local shop on the corner of Benten-Dori and Honcho Itchome proved useless. They hadn't yet learned to print textbooks here. All hope was on the Reverend Dr. Brown — an American missionary who had settled in Kanagawa and was, fortunately, publishing his "Colloquial Japanese" at the time. Satow managed to snatch a few sheets fresh from the Shanghai press and even wrangle a couple of lessons a week.
The Englishman's first refuge in Yokohama was a single room in a shabby hotel. One wall adjoined a bowling alley, depriving him of any hope for quiet philological evenings. One day, this recluse realized it was useless to argue with fate and visited the gaming club. There he met Felice Beato, an Italian photographer and Oriental connoisseur, who raced towards the smell of war with the open maw of a Nile crocodile. That day, Beato set out to take a portrait of his new friend and then demonstrate his work with color—in his signature style.
"I swear, I've stolen the best artist from the London Illustrated! This is Charles Wirgman, and soon he and I will open the first commercial photo studio in this dump!" the portly Beato announced loudly, invading the sacred space of the bowling alley with the Englishman in tow. A lean gentleman with a restrained smile rose to meet them—obviously a native of the same country. "You took your time!"
"You never work quickly. And I always have something to do. Scored a couple of strikes, made some sketches about recent events... The boss needs them urgently. The London issue is 'hot.'"
"Let me guess, that Richardson fellow again? The papers won't calm down, demanding new fodder. Ernie and I were arguing whether there will be war or not? And I said your intuition is as good as your sketches. What do you think? What image of the future is forming in your head?"
"I think we should hire a couple of local ukiyo-e masters, decent fellows—and now out of work. Starving."
"Who needs those old-fashioned prints! Except maybe the crazy French. Heard one of them bought a collection of Hokusai for a couple of dollars and took it to Paris. But we can't do without colors, and those draftsmen know their stuff. But I, honestly, can't shoot pastorals anymore! We desperately need cannons!"
"I've never played bowling," Satow remarked. "But for such an occasion, I'm willing to try my luck. If I get a strike on the first try, you won't see your cannons for dust. How do you hold this thing?.." he asked, looking at the ball.
"Well, what could be nobler than youthful aspirations to save the world without lifting a finger? However, for the local whiskey, I'll let it pass. Bring it!" he waved to the waiter.
Satow swung and sent the ball towards where the pins should have been. But by an evil twist of fate, it hit the adjacent wall and bounced back towards the table, nearly knocking over the waiter with the blessed whiskey on his tray.
"What a strike! Bravo!" Beato roared with laughter, while Wirgman frowned and buried his long nose in his sketches. "Well, Ernie, you haven't saved us all from war. Now it's on your conscience."
"Well, now we at least know what to expect," the Englishman retorted, not the least bit embarrassed. "I predict a great future for you, Felice. And may all the cannonballs fly past your head."
Soon, the self-assured servant of two cultures left the noisy room and got a room at the diplomatic mission. As fate would have it, the dilapidated two-story building occupied the best spot on the Yokohama waterfront. Many years later, fate corrected this oversight, replacing it with the luxurious Grand Hotel.
Part 4. The Death of Euryalus
Those who have witnessed the death of thousands in an instant fear earthquakes far more than those who have never seen their destructive power. These fortunate souls can never understand the primal fear that grips a Japanese heart at the slightest creak of a wooden floorboard, a faint tremor in the wall, or the cheerful rattle of dishes on a shelf. They don't leap up, frantic, searching for an exit; they don't wake in a cold sweat from any stray noise, presaging the end of civilization.
First, the full glass trembled, and water from it dripped onto the sheet of paper on which Ernest Satow was carefully inscribing a poem by Bash; with a fine brush. The character meaning "peaceful day" blurred into a formless gray stain and halted a quarter of an inch from the character for "castle."
Here once a castle stood...
Let the spring, beating in the old well,
Be the first to tell me its tale.
A vibration ran through the walls, and the floor beneath his feet began to buck. The house of the British diplomatic mission in Yokohama was convulsing in an epileptic fit. It felt as if this trembling originated from somewhere deep within, seizing his entire body from fingertips to crown, gripping his throat, and turning into a wave of nausea. The translator felt unbearably sick in his study and hurried to lie down, hoping this bout of seasickness caused by an invisible storm would pass. The shaking lasted only a couple of minutes, but no one knew which one would be the last.
About eight years had passed since the terrible Ansei era earthquakes that wiped entire cities from the face of the earth. The land had split in two, spewing tongues of flame that destroyed all life for thousands of miles... And every survivor knew - the more time passed, the sooner it would happen again. But the foreigners had arrived later and remained in blissful ignorance. Ernest Satow, like any Englishman, American, or Frenchman, felt no fear in the face of the elements. Only a sense of deep and sincere regret that he had not experienced the unique emotions of a truly powerful cataclysm—like those written about in the "Journal of the Seismological Society."
"Satow! What are you lying down for? Well, I must say, this is a test for the weak of heart. Ho-ho! The whole ground floor rushed for the exit, I had to grab the fools by the scruff of their necks and bring them to their senses. Remember once and for all: shaking is an everyday matter here. It's time to get used to it, brother."
His superior, Colonel Neale, appeared in the doorway, as always without knocking. He was the charg; d'affaires in the absence of the ambassador, Sir Rutherford Alcock. An old soldier who had served in the Spanish Legion, in a fit of martial spirit, he composed the most radical letters to the Japanese government. But his skill with the pen, to his great sorrow, added neither flexibility of mind nor aptitude for conducting affairs, nor did it help him navigate the complex political situation. The Colonel had a sour and suspicious disposition, and his appearance matched his character: shorter than the average Englishman, thin strands of graying hair hung like icicles on his wrinkled forehead, but his mustache was magnificent! As were the snippets of opera with which he entertained his subordinates in a benevolent mood.
"Here's another stack of dispatches of the utmost importance and delicacy, all for the government. Deadline is tomorrow. No time for Dutch translations, so all hope rests on you. You can practice your calligraphy later..." He cast a disapproving glance at the character from Bash;'s poem. "All our troubles stem from the fact that the sacred cow has suddenly found its voice!"
"Who?"
"Who, who? The local Emperor. A foolish boy who can't see past his own nose. How old is he... a little older than you, and he wants to rule, to oppose everything! What were you doing at 15? Don't answer, you're blushing. And he climbed onto the throne! Instead of sitting quietly as a 'living Buddha' behind the palace fence, like his predecessors. He's taking on the West single-handedly! And he's set his two-sworded men loose; there's no controlling them. You're familiar with the Richardson affair, of course?"
"That unfortunate man hacked down by Satsuma samurai? It's all anyone talks about here."
"Yesterday we received a response to our demand for reparations. And what do you think? Instead of handing over the murderers and guaranteeing our safety, they've been ordered to close all ports 'by order of the Emperor'! And for us to go home! They've gone completely mad! We've been patient for a long time. The Shogunate provided our diplomatic mission with a building in Edo, as stipulated in the treaty—right next to a monastery! But after two bloody attacks, we, tails between our legs, fled to this damned Yokohama and hid behind a high fence! And this is Britain, which held India and China in fear! Is this the friendship we expected from these cavemen?"
"They won't relent; for them, it's a matter of honor."
"As if there's nothing else to do in the world... They'll die with a sword in one hand and a hoe in the other. Anyway, translate. All hope rests on the sane minds in the government. And we'll deal with this Emperor."
When the Colonel left, Satow read through the dispatches and understood that no translator in the world could help find a common language between people who did not want to find it. Japan was clearly not going to follow the path of India and China. The samurai, or "two-sworders" as they were called here, had quickly taken the arrogance out of the haughty traders who had gone where they shouldn't. They were cut down in broad daylight — on busy streets — and under cover of night — in their warm beds. If there were to be mountains of corpses here, they would be evenly matched on both sides, the Englishman told himself, and remembered the earthquake he had experienced. Thankfully, even the elements needed a respite. Man created disasters no worse than nature, but unlike her, he knew no measure. He was prepared to kill his own kind for years—without sleep or rest.
The desk was chaotically piled with papers, and Satow desperately didn't want to translate them. Not now, not today, perhaps tonight. Takaoka, his local Japanese teacher, had said war was inevitable, and the Shogunate was trying to buy time to prepare. So, nothing but endless delays could be expected. These rumors were spreading quickly through the native quarter. Satow went down to the bookshop on the corner of Benten-dori and was surprised to find the doors hastily boarded up, and the owner—who had become his friend—had vanished without a trace.
No trace remained of the carefree gaiety that had once reigned in Yokohama. It wasn't quite panic yet, but an all-consuming anxiety that pressed on the temples and constricted the chest. The air had become heavy and viscous, and a simple breath required immense effort. Over the city, usually bathed in sun, hung an iron-gray sky, and in the tomb-like silence, people were carting their belongings out of their houses. Some doors were already locked; others had carts loaded with belongings standing outside. They said the port of Uraga—not far from the entrance to Edo Bay—was in chaos. The locals were fleeing with all their movable property to Hodogaya, hoping to shelter there from bombardment by the allied squadron. Only the Yokohama merchants weren't moving. They feared that without a special invitation from Colonel Neale, they wouldn't be able to claim compensation for their losses.
Satow wasn't afraid of war. He had seen Edo, and that was enough. The Colonel had recently taken him to important negotiations with the Shogunate, which, however, had ended in failure. The city was angry, sharp-toothed—fitting for the center of this wild but beautiful country. "So this is the real Japan," the translator thought, riding along the very Tokaido where Richardson had been cut down, marveling at the beauty of the famous garden of the Lady Yashiki, where plums bloomed every spring. The white and pink buds emitted a faint fragrance and covered everything around with delicate, weightless petals. Amazingly, these blessed trees bloomed in February, seeing the first rays of sun, and fell to the frozen earth—hard as stone. And they had never heard the cannons. To think that such flowers still existed in the world.
According to the treaties, Edo was ready to welcome foreign diplomats with open arms. The British were provided with the Tozen-ji monastery, with living quarters in a long attached annex. None of the Englishmen had thought they were desecrating a holy site with their presence until one of the local guards slit the throats of a sentry and a corporal right at the door to Colonel Neale's bedroom in the middle of the night. After that, the mission, in his words, "pulled in its horns," gathered its archives, and relocated to the safer Yokohama, not abandoning hope of returning to Edo under more favorable circumstances. The USA, France, and Holland didn't try to be original—they had already experienced the local "hospitality."
There was a wonderful district in the city, Gotenyama — a favorite spot for all its inhabitants. In better times, they had picnics under the blooming cherries against the backdrop of the bay's blue waters. And at the dawn of the Shogunate, the head of state had met the great daimyo here, who gathered from all over the country every year. Now Gotenyama—another holy site — had been given to the foreign powers. Four new diplomatic buildings were being erected for them. The British mission house faced the sea on one side and was surrounded by a moat and a high fence for protection on the others. The rooms inside were luxurious—spacious and warm, unlike the flimsy monastery where cardboard walls let in drafts and the coal stove emitted unbearable fumes. Oak doors, lacquered floors, decor made of expensive Japanese paper... All to an English design, but paid for by the Shogun. This house never had time to be lived in. Two months later, it was burned down by samurai from the Choshu domain, supporters of the Emperor.
Satow mourned the fact that the move was being postponed again, and that Yokohama, so far from "real" Japan, would remain his haven for a long time. And yet, he felt a criminal solidarity with these people, who blindly and fiercely defended what was dear to them. What could he do with the nasty habit of seeking truth everywhere, even on the side of the enemy? And as long as the war with Japan hadn't started, he didn't deserve reproach. Before him lay a dispatch after which everything was supposed to change. Today, the Colonel had received a letter from Ogasawara—a minister of the Shogunate. It conveyed the Emperor's will regarding the "expulsion of the barbarians" and the closing of the ports. Colonel Neale, with a powerful squadron of ships backing him, did not restrain his feelings or mince words. And it had to be translated verbatim. Among other things, the reply stated:
"The intimation conveyed through Your Excellency is without parallel in the history of all nations, civilized and uncivilized. It is a virtual declaration of war by Japan herself upon the Treaty Powers, the consequences of which, if not immediately arrested, she will have to expiate by the severest and most deserved punishment." Signature: Edward St. John Neale, Yokohama, June 24, 1863.
God knows why, but when the document was finished and the last character dried on the paper, it became easier to breathe and his hands stopped shaking. If everything was decided, there was no room for anxiety. It was replaced by a cold, grave calm.
________________________________________
That evening, Satow changed his mind about writing a book about the war. He'd had such a wild dream during his years of fascination with Napoleon and his battles. But every line turned out to be a lie and a pretense, sheer buffoonery and props. The dead and wounded came out like cheap prints, and the burned Moscow smelled of a campfire in the forest, merry songs, and the scent of pines, lacking only the chirping of crickets for complete tranquility. Now Satow understood the reason for his failures. He had never seen war and death. He was a happy child of Peace, and all his young insides were filled with the joy of life. He could only write about what he felt in his heart. About carefree, idle happiness, the thirst for the unknown and the conquest of new horizons, the triumph of light, first love, and faith in God. About the riot of colors and free, peaceful feelings untouched by death. But now a new shade had appeared on this palette. A soul-piercing longing for the fact that all this could end. And that someday he would be able to write a truthful story about war.
For now, it was just a diary, and a date appeared in it—August 10, 1863. Ernest Satow's last peaceful day. Colonel Neale decided to send a squadron of seven steam ships to the shores of Satsuma to demand reparations from Prince Shimazu for Richardson's murder and to secure the handover of the guilty. A hopeless case, and everyone understood that. The casus belli was perfectly crafted. The only civilians in this lineup were the translators Satow and Robertson, and the mission doctor, Willis—a strapping man with a big heart and a unique capacity for compassion. On the eve of the expedition, he visited Satow, looked at his face, and suggested a drink.
"Beato wanted to make up with you. He regrets how it all turned out... Back then, in the bowling alley. Don't hold a grudge against him."
"Has that Mephistopheles with a camera already buried me?" Satow replied, trying to force a smirk. "That's the only way to get regrets from an Italian. Is Wirgman there? I won't go without him."
"Wirgman is here," the artist thrust his long nose and white shirtfront through the half-open door and looked his friend up and down contemptuously. He stood with one boot on, his hair disheveled, and the room was in a terrible mess—the shame of any Englishman.
"I should shave..."
"Your mustache and rosy cheeks have never looked so stunning," said Wirgman, bursting into the room and hastily throwing Satow's dusty frock coat over his shoulders. It was lying under a chair, next to an overturned glass. "There we go, Vive L'Empereur!" he proclaimed, completing the image with a cap with gold cord. Satow was very proud of it at the time.
"You still remember that London tall tale? About the emperor?"
"All of England remembers. And don't hope you'll ever be forgotten."
With these words, the translator was dragged down the stairs and taken under escort to a tavern where the repentant Beato had been waiting for a good hour. There was no sign of the owners or servants. They had fled the city too. A watchman with a distrustful face handed the company a second bottle of whiskey. The photographer had already finished one.
"And yet, a European's life in Japan is far more thrilling than bowling or even Russian roulette. A rather poor pleasure — for those who like to tickle their nerves," he said without getting up.
"I brought a revolver from London with a year's supply of bullets and powder—should last my lifetime." Satow didn't want to drink. Too many important questions troubled him.
"Here, everyone carries a revolver every time they decide to venture outside the settlement and sleeps with it under their pillow—to the great joy of Colt and Adams. But as you can see, it doesn't save everyone."
"And I no longer know whom to fear more—the two-sworders or the English. And I don't understand at all what's happening here. Who actually rules this country? We have a treaty with them, right?"
"A treaty that the Emperor never signed. The only person who has the authority to sign such treaties..."
"What does that mean?"
"It means our presence here is illegitimate. All the treaties are a sham, straw laid down for our cannons. The Emperor has spoken against it; the local lords — the daimyo — have sided with him. And only a handful of not-very-scrupulous Shogunate officials have agreed to play along with us, taking advantage of the fact that the Emperor has no army of his own. But his supporters have proven too sharp-toothed; they aren't afraid of cannons. No weapon has yet been invented that could frighten them. They will not change their decision or stop as long as the Emperor lives. As long as..."
"I would like to meet him. He must be a man of rare strength of will and courage."
"Impossible. He is doomed to rule from confinement. In a sense, a prisoner of his own power. And yet, there has never been a ruler in the world whose title rested on a more solid foundation than that of the ancient Emperors of Japan. In the civil war—which will begin sooner or later—the winner will be the one who has influence over him. And if anyone is interested in my humble opinion, that boy is foolish and shortsighted. Can one judge the world by looking at it through a keyhole?"
"Can't argue with that. It's useful for everyone to step out of their cocoon sometimes and look at the world more broadly. Then everything becomes obvious. Felice, I wanted to ask you... Actually, this is the main thing I wanted to ask. What do you feel when... well, when you walk over corpses? When hundreds of people die before your eyes and you photograph them, still warm, with distorted faces, torn bodies... on the ruins of palaces and temples. And you know that your country did all this?"
"Honestly?"
"I think you've drunk enough."
"You feel a vile, criminal, triumphant joy that you are not among these wretches. That you are not and never will be. Because your country turned out to be a little richer, a little stronger, and much more fortunate. Because the cannons are firing from behind your back."
"But they have cannons too... And what difference does it make to you if they kill a million people or a hundred, if you find yourself among them? If your house is destroyed by their shell?"
"I could never imagine London or Rome destroyed."
"Not even to photograph it?"
"No, please, not Rome. I very much hope you return, Ernest. That everyone returns. Or maybe none of this will happen at all. But if by chance... Just let me know when it's all over."
________________________________________
On one of the rainy and extremely windy days of August 1863, the Royal Navy of Great Britain went to war with the Japanese domain of Satsuma. It ended very quickly. It took less than three days to wipe out the coastal part of the city of Kagoshima — the capital of the samurai — along with its industrial center, mint, and five hundred residential houses. Fire and wind finished what the Armstrong guns could not.
A black sky — all in clouds of smoke, and against its background, a white city engulfed in phosphorescent flame — was the last thing Ernest Satow remembered then. His first memory of that day was a shell flying straight at him. Round and black, like a bowling ball. It didn't hit, whistled right over his head. Spared the novice, like fortune in a game of chance. The "Argus," one could say, was lucky. The gunboat, on which the rookie found himself, was hit only three times: first on the starboard side, rocking the ship to the waves, then in the mainmast — the shell went right through, but it held. The third time, a shot hit the hull at the waterline — three inches in — and fell into the water.
A fiery rain fell from the iron sky. The roar made his ears ache, and after a new explosion, all sounds died down, and the dance of death slowed its pace. The ship no longer shuddered violently, causing bouts of vomiting, but swayed gently from side to side.
"Someone has tossed us into a vile, cold jelly, and we are floundering in it, barely moving, ridiculous and utterly helpless like flies, and only the cannons are our salvation..." A coherent thought surfaced strangely in this delirium, but there was nowhere to write it down. Then everything disappeared, and Satow passed out.
From the darkness, Willis's voice sounded like a distant echo, then his face appeared, very close. It was good to have a doctor friend after all. "Ernest, are you alive? In one piece? Look at me. You got a good knock. Better to ride out this pitching away from the deck." He dragged him to the cabin, to the wounded. The battery was moving up the bay, unleashing blow after blow on the Japanese forts. The "Argus" was fourth in line—between the "Coquette" and the "Perseus."
The captain of the "Euryalus," the flagship, had been so eager for battle that morning that neither the threatening wind nor the soft-hearted Admiral Kuper—the squadron commander — could restrain him... Deep down, not one of the proud sons of Albion believed that tiny Satsuma with its couple of dozen guns would open fire on them. The task was essentially non-combat—to seize three steamers of English build, purchased by the authorities of the rebellious domain in case of war. In Kagoshima port, they were taken in tow and, without a second thought, began looting. The sailors carried off everything they could lay their hands on—from battle trophies and money to old floor mats. And they got so carried away that they barely heard the first salvo. At exactly noon, the Japanese attacked the ships from Tempo Mountain. As if on cue, all the batteries on the shore sprang to life. They had been waiting.
It was hard to describe the surprise of the British, caught off guard. The passage to the "Euryalus's" magazine was blocked by heavy boxes. And what was stored there was none other than dollars from the Shogunate—part of that very compensation for attacks on foreigners. It took two hours to break through the barricade. During this time, the "Euryalus" found itself in a hot spot—between Battery No. 7 and the target on which Japanese gunners practiced daily.
John Josling stood on the captain's bridge with his first mate, Wilmot, trying to make out the white palace of the Prince of Satsuma in the distance. It was the primary target, well within range of English artillery. Its range was four times greater than the "enemy's," but that didn't save the captain himself. One of the ill-fated shots took off two heads at once—his and First Mate Wilmot's. And two days later—after the swift victory over Kagoshima—they were buried at sea, along with eight others who died in this short war.
Admiral Kuper was crushed by grief no less than the ancient Odysseus. The latter had not spared the intruder who, rumor had it, wanted to kill him. He had struck first. And only when the imaginary danger had passed did he learn with horror that he had deprived his own son of life. The poor lad's name was Euryalus.
Part 5. Something Momijigari
"When they shot people at point-blank range, I could do nothing about it, but when they approached me and it became clear I was about to die, I felt no fear. Inside, I was as cold as a corpse and understood that I was partly already dead. Like a precipitous headland, the earth of which crumbled in wet clumps into the ocean… and the cliff grew even sharper. When you hear shots so close and loud, it seems they are hitting you. For no man is an island… but this I recall now, idly and profoundly, from preacher John Donne. Back then, it didn't even occur to me to pray."
That autumn day, Beato was photographing landscapes in the outskirts of Edo, and the sight of falling maple leaves cast him into a nostalgic melancholy. Satow had agreed to this outing, succumbing to persuasion, and had already regretted his soft-heartedness more than once. One on one, away from large company, the photographer was prone to unbridled repentance, and Satow had to play the role of his confessor. Why did he have to bring up those unfortunate Chinese... Now the sun blazed on the horizon with a bright flame, commanding all living things to fall silent and tremble motionless before the unearthly spectacle. But Felice Beato was deaf to nature's call. Neither the sunset-colored trees nor the tree-colored sunset could evoke compassion in him for his fellow man. He chattered like a madman. He recalled how he had been ambushed by Chinese partisans with an English detachment. Not long before the massacre at the Taku Forts. And only the arrival of reinforcements had saved his life.
"You see, even I am not just a heartless creature with a camera," — photographing corpses, I risk my own skin... Go, order me more sake and that tasteless fish, I'm done with work for today."
They had a picnic on the withered grass. The ground in the garden of the Lady Yashiki had turned blood-red from a scattering of pointed, miniature leaves. The flushed faces of the regulars of the famous tea house were in the same color scheme. The local gentlemen came here not for tea, but to drink warm rice beer in the company of pretty girls. At sunset, they loaded themselves into their palanquins and set off to their wives and children, carrying blissful smiles with them. The house and garden belonged to an inconsolable widow. Her husband had fallen victim to repression several years ago. Rumor had it, for involvement in the assassination of the head of government.
"The old woman almost devoured you with her eyes. Pestering her with questions again, you wretched spy?"
"She's forty. Wrinkles and gray hair often speak not of age, but of the number of sorrows endured. I asked if what is known about her husband is true," Satow replied when the elderly woman in a dark blue kimono withdrew along the stony path, bowed under the weight of an invisible burden. After the steamed fish, she had brought the guests biscuits and cherry decoction—a sign of special favor.
"And is it true?"
"He wasn't involved in the assassination, but he sheltered three of the killers in the tea house. During the raid, everyone was rounded up — and all were executed together. But he truly hated the slain Tairo, like most people living here — for letting foreigners into the country and betraying the Emperor. This Tairo, they say, didn't stand on ceremony with dissenters. Some he executed, others he sent under arrest... Blood flowed like a river. The old man — the owner of the tea house — took in the daughter of one of the executed samurai. He and his wife had no children of their own. Hey, you!.."
Having lost his role as narrator, Beato was snoring softly in a sitting position. At the loud exclamation, he stared at his interlocutor as if nothing had happened. Satow rolled his eyes in displeasure, lay on his back, and stared at the sky to study the emerging stars. He breathed in the autumn air, filled with a thousand new scents, and felt a sudden surge of happiness.
"A strange feeling hasn't left me all day. As if someone was watching me. It happens when you literally feel someone's intent gaze on your skin."
"Doesn't happen to me—my skin's too thick!" Beato laughed, slapping his round belly. He really was somewhat portly, and to hide the puffiness of his face, he wore a fashionable goatee. "But we've stayed out late. We really shouldn't attract any extra attention."
Packing up the portable photo studio and mounting their horses, they set off. The strange feeling didn't leave Satow, neither in the suburb of Shinagawa, nor further on the Tokaido, nor among the pines, nor on the open road. When — in almost complete darkness — they descended to the river to water the horses, it became impossible to fight it. The translator turned at a loud rustle and glanced at the hillside overgrown with crooked trees. The branches stirred slightly.
"Wait."
"Listen, don't leave me alone. Let's go together, it's safer."
"I'll be quick. Just a look."
Despite the protests, Satow dashed forward. He covered the hundred-foot distance in a couple of leaps. Further, he moved almost blindly — towards the sound of rustling branches, forgetting that fear even existed in the world. The thickets reluctantly parted before him, scratching his face and hands, but he continued to scramble up the slope. Finally, he tripped over a gnarled root sticking out of the ground and fell into a hollow strewn with pine needles — which he felt more with his whole body than saw. A minute later, before he could even get up, he barely made out a round face above him. A girl, Japanese, looking about eighteen.
"What's your name?" Satow asked.
"Kana. Daughter of the Lady Yashiki."
________________________________________
Probably no sage would dare argue that matters of blood are always the most tricky. Take, for example, unwanted children—who is responsible for them? "How can that be!" the prim reader will exclaim. "Where has it been seen that children are unwanted? Only in the poorest, most shameless families—you can expect anything from the hungry." But if only it were that simple. If only money and noble birth added even a modicum of love for their offspring to their fortunate possessors. If only that wealth and position were a guarantee of their bright future! How many sorrows—great and small—that would help avoid! In reality, the opposite is often true. And people of even the highest flight are far less far-sighted than their stern judges — you and I.
The Takeda clan traced its lineage back to Emperor Seiwa. It was one of the branches of the mighty Minamoto tree—the "princes of the blood," deprived at various times of the right to the throne. Now there was a family that had to fight its way through thorns! Through the efforts of the Shogunate, trembling over the imperial budget, the "surplus children" turned into simple aristocrats, and then altogether into samurai—obedient executors of military tasks. The Takeda particularly excelled in the art of war. The clan's founder, Minamoto no Yoshikiyo, settled in the mountainous province of Kai and passed down to his descendants the combat system of aiki-jujutsu, which he had inherited from his father. The Takeda's belligerence nearly led to their complete destruction when they invaded the domains of Tokugawa Ieyasu himself—the founder of the Shogunate. The defeat was crushing. Most of the clan's members committed ritual suicide—from the youngest to the oldest. The few who survived fled to Aizu province and merged with the top echelons of the local samurai. Thus a new branch grew on the family tree—the Aizu Takeda.
For centuries, the clan preached the secrets of their martial art and waged a behind-the-scenes struggle for power. Over time, their influence grew to such an extent that the Takeda became the decisive force in the conflicts between the Emperor and the Shogunate. Whomever they supported would win. This power schism was an unhealed wound on the body of the Japanese state, which had been exposed again in the light of recent events. And so it happened that one of these "princesses of the blood" found herself on an autumn night in the deserted outskirts of Edo, on one of the countless paths of a gloomy forest, where she was, by a happy chance, found by Ernest Satow—an English translator, captivated by the beauty of these places. In the light of the full moon, their embarrassed faces seemed even more languid and mysterious.
"I can't believe my eyes. A young lady? And alone? Is that possible in a country of such strict morals?" Satow asked, struggling to recall Japanese. For some reason, even the most basic words flew out of his head, and phrases came together with difficulty, like during a crucial final exam.
"And who were you expecting to see here? The yakuza?" replied the girl named Kana, daughter of an executed samurai. Satow would learn much later about the difficult fate of her clan; for now, two black diamonds studied him with their gaze. They looked without fear, but distrustfully.
"I thought it was a fawn lost in the woods, separated from its mother. I was about to shoot it. I have a revolver." Deep down, the translator wasn't surprised by this encounter and was even preparing an answer. In his previous, London life, girls had often pursued him—both in college and on holidays—but he didn't share their flattering opinion of himself.
"I don't believe you. More likely, I would have killed you. In fact, that's what I intended to do. I've been watching you since the first day. What are you looking for here? Don't tell me you're concerned with momijigari."
"Concerned with what?"
"The ritual of viewing the red maples. An ancient tradition of unity with nature—for connoisseurs of true beauty. We also have moon viewing and flower viewing, but Europeans will never comprehend that. You work for the English consulate, don't you?"
"You know that too... I serve in the English consulate. I suppose that sounds more familiar to a Japanese ear. Your father served too, didn't he?"
"My father is a poor old man, the master of a tea house, who left this world many years ago after a severe, incurable illness. I don't know what Lady Yashiki told you... that is, mother... But it's not true. And if you wish me well, you certainly won't believe a word she says."
"Alright, I agree not to believe. But only if you tell me about momiji..."
"Momijigari—just two characters. 'Hunting' for 'red leaves.' They are especially beautiful in Kyoto! I bet you haven't been to Kyoto. You couldn't find a better time for a first meeting... And if you really have a revolver, you might risk coming with me. But first, you must comprehend y;gen—the understanding of profound beauty."
"I like that idea very much."
They made their way along forest paths, unhurriedly, and reached a noisy mountain river where a frantic Felice Beato was waiting—in the company of two sleepy horses. At the sight of the girl, he changed his mind about going mad, instantly replaced anger with mercy, and almost threw himself at her feet. The stranger seemed to him unusually attractive for these parts.
"Ha! You're quite the charmer! And while I was here preparing for your funeral! My respects, Miss! If I had a hat, I'd take it off twice..."
"Miss Kana's horse is up there. I think we should see her home."
"No need. The main thing is, don't lose your own way."
And so, without saying goodbye, almost in the English manner, the nocturnal vision disappeared into the darkness—as suddenly as it had appeared. But Satow knew where to look for it in the light of day.
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In the end, he earned a vacation. His first vacation in several years of continuous work with the Anglo-Japanese and Japanese-British chancery. A whole month — exactly how long the journey to Kyoto and back took — managed to be wrested from Colonel Neale under the pretext of intensive language practice. Satow was eager to see the Emperor's palace, and perhaps — even a glimpse — of His Serene Highness himself. Even the sun, now and then, delights mere mortals.
By that time, his only Japanese teacher had become Kana, and his progress was unprecedented. They set off for the capital two weeks later, when Satow, true to his promise, had thoroughly studied that "y;gen" or "fourth dimension." The Japanese, it turned out, had four. Besides height, width, and length—there was also the hidden essence of things. Understanding "everything in everything" or — to be utterly abstruse — comprehending Buddhist emptiness or shunyata.
His companion—confound her—could talk for hours about her intricate philosophy. The Japanese, as followed from her stories, understood life far better than the most educated European. And all because since time immemorial, they had never been in a hurry, hadn't frittered themselves away on vain trifles like career ambitions or the notorious technological progress. And as soon as they finished with the internecine wars, they took firmly to comprehending the truth and uniting with nature. They even had not four seasons, but six—taking into account the cherry blossoms in spring and the viewing of autumn leaves, for which they were going "hunting" to the other end of the country. When they reached the seventy-two micro-seasons near Kawasaki, Satow was ready to give up both his longed-for vacation and his secret romantic intentions. His hand feebly reached for the revolver.
"How would you describe autumn?" Kana asked, dressed in an inconspicuous sand-colored kimono to attract as little attention as possible in the company of a foreigner. Riding along the Tokaido on horseback was a risky enough enterprise in itself.
"Well... Rain, fogs, wet leaves, grog, a burning fireplace. Mother's apple pie. Melancholy for no reason, loss of energy. Books. Lots of books. That's how it was before, now I don't know. Here, autumn is completely different. And so am I."
"You see, that's the difference between us. Even in such a simple phenomenon as a season, you try to discern yourself. It prevents you from comprehending the true essence. I asked, what is Autumn by its very nature? What does it do to the world? What do you see around you, not what's happening specifically to you."
"Then the picture will be less vivid—just rains and fogs."
"Or perhaps the opposite? Let me describe autumn to you without personal emotions, and you'll see how beautiful it is in itself." Satow took a deep breath and prepared to listen.
"At the end of summer, cold winds blow, thick fogs descend — this is autumn paving the way. And now the rice ripens in the fields and the water dries up, dew sparkles on the blades of grass. Wagtails sing their farewell song, and swallows fly south — in search of a better life. The heavenly thunder falls silent until spring. Insects hide in fear before the frosty breath of nature. Chrysanthemums delight the eye, snatching the last crumbs of warmth, and crickets come to the door with their heartfelt conversation. The first frost is seen, maples and ivy turn yellow. The north wind tears off leaves and steals the rainbow from the sky. And now the ice has bound the earth, but the camellia blooms — beauty triumphs over death. Do you feel it? It sounds, sings, breathes, lives — you just have to take a step back."
"Is this y;gen—a special state of spirit, incomprehensible to the mind?"
"Almost. Y;gen is the next step. When you are ready to look at everything impartially and see the true nature of things more clearly, you can try to comprehend their source. Shift your attention from a separate thing to the reality that gave birth to it, the basis of the entire world."
"Ah, I see, something like trying to discern God in nature. Our philosophers have broken many lances on that field."
"Our gods are not like yours; they are not absolute, although they are the highest spiritual entities. Only Emptiness is absolute, and life is ephemeral and fleeting, like everything it contains. That makes every moment all the more precious—it is unique and unrepeatable. Did you know there are no two identical leaves in nature? And just imagine, every autumn they die irrevocably..."
Kana combed her thick, coarse hair back and tied it into a tight bun at the nape, giving her a stern, even warlike appearance. For some reason, she looked about ten years older than her nineteen years, and only her rounded cheeks, contemptuous smirk, and self-satisfied gaze betrayed the difficult process of growing up. At some point, he understood what it was. Her black — like an abyss — eyes with a cold, threatening gleam. That's where the tough character, forged in the struggle for existence, was hidden. With her eyes alone — without changing her facial expression — she could both praise and mock, rebel and overthrow, and finally grant mercy to a vanquished opponent. Satow most often played the latter role. The samurai's daughter turned out to be a girl of outrageously strict morals. She didn't allow him to hold her hand, as Satow had verified numerous times — both in a boat off the coast of Kanagawa, and at dozens of post stations along the Tokaido where they stopped for the night, and on gloomy forest paths, and finally, under the noisy maples in the picturesque spot of Arashiyama — on the western outskirts of Kyoto.
The hilly slopes of Arashi were drowning in yellow, red, green, and orange leaves, and in an attempt to see them all the way to the top, one could break one's neck. This magnificence was reflected and multiplied in the slow, full-flowing Katsura River, approaching from all sides and filling the heart with unbridled delight. Having received another slap on the famous Togetsukyo Bridge—the "Moon Crossing"—Satow heard a short lecture from his tormentor:
"With strange men, a distance of one meter is proper. I've already broken all the rules."
"How are they 'strange,' may I ask! I've been trailing after you for almost a month!" To his surprise, Japanese conveyed the heart's indignation perfectly well.
"Girls without white powder on their faces shouldn't wander about like this with foreigners. People will think all sorts of things, and rumors spread quickly. I don't want to be left without a husband because of you."
"Are you married?"
"No, but I will be someday, if I don't disgrace myself beforehand."
"By the way, why is this bridge called the Moon Bridge?" he asked with genuine interest. Kana always had an answer to any question, except the really important ones.
"Legend says the name was invented by Emperor Kameyama many centuries ago. During a nighttime boat ride, it seemed to him that the moon was moving across the sky—from one shore to the other. And the bridge follows the arched shape. These lands once belonged to the Taira clan—mortal enemies of the Minamoto... and where is that enmity now? All overgrown with maples. And there on the mountain... But never mind. I'll tell you another time."
"If there's a will to fight, an enemy will always be found. And you talk about everything except yourself."
"Talking about oneself is a shameful, pathetic occupation. Besides, you already know everything."
"I'm interested in how you view all this. After all, your father gave his life so that barbarians like me would never appear here."
"I was lucky with my adoptive parents, that's all. My brothers and sisters weren't so lucky—they were killed, like my mother. And people like you are here anyway. How should I feel about that?"
"I suppose, with a great deal of irony."
"Of course. How long can one shed tears? How long can one sow death and destruction in a blind and fruitless striving to restore a lost harmony?"
And then Kana suddenly disappeared, assuring him it was only for a few days. She returned tired, sullen, and silent. She said it was better not to venture into the city center now. Forces loyal to the Emperor had rebelled and marched on the palace, demanding more decisive action. Another bloody massacre, more executions, and bitter rivers of meaningless tears. And again, all in vain. The Shogunate grew angry and rescinded the imperial edict on closing the ports — the "Gospel" of the samurai underground. That, apparently, was what those who had provoked this rebellion wanted. And now the struggle became even more desperate and fruitless.
Part 6. Food for the Gods
At the beginning of March 1864, the era of Colonel Neale came to an end. Sir Rutherford Alcock returned from England at the zenith of his fame and once again became her plenipotentiary representative in Japan. Nature had created him specifically for this service. A determined chin, thickets of sideburns, and an impenetrable, ironic gaze. The cold eyes of a surgeon looking down on death with contempt. He had begun his career with long work in English hospitals and, being ready for anything, had gone as consul to China — in the midst of the Opium War, and then as an "ambassador of friendship" to the Japanese court. After repelling a samurai attack on the embassy in Edo, he moved all affairs to Yokohama and, having placed this burden on Colonel Neale's shoulders, left for England to recuperate. Upon his return, he realized that things hadn't been so bad after all. Because they had gotten worse. Neale had foolishly tried to poke his nose into Edo again and paid for it with the victims of a new massacre. Strange that anything remained of the diplomatic mission at all. And now it had come to war — because you shouldn't entrust diplomats' work to soldiers.
The young translator Satow, however, pleased him from the first glance. Finally, a competent employee, even if just a boy. Knowledge of Japanese in this country truly worked wonders and opened all doors. Satow excelled at this and chattered with the locals as if in his native tongue, and they, it seemed, saw him as one of their own. Or, at the very least, as a foreigner the likes of which the earth had never borne. Even Saigo Takamori himself—a legend among samurai and a close associate of the Emperor—had honored him with his friendship. What a charmer! Upon this rosy equilibrist, Sir Alcock placed great hopes in negotiations with the Japanese government and the rebellious daimyo. Satsuma, thank God, had been pacified before his return. At least Neale had been good for something. The bombardment of Kagoshima had convinced those fools that it was pointless to resist England. Their arms were too short. Yes, they had to sacrifice a few brilliant officers, but everything in this life has its price.
Now it was the turn of the Choshu domain. The scoundrels controlled the narrow Shimonoseki Strait and intended to drive foreign ships from there. A week ago, the Americans had come under fire; yesterday—the French. Well, to hell with them, but now not a single ship could pass the "hornet's nest." Trade suffered greatly because of this, as the strait provided access to the Inland Sea—from Yokohama to Nagasaki.
In the middle of the spacious office, on a massive table in the old-fashioned "Regency" style, stood an ivory chess set. The work of netsuke masters and a gift from Shogunate officials in honor of his return. Alcock adored the fashionable puzzle, but had no one to play with, so he invited Satow, hoping under this pretext to have a confidential conversation. The main thing was that he wouldn't lose his temper and, in the heat of the moment, say something stupid, as happens with particularly sensitive individuals who don't know life.
After a timid knock on the door, a lanky young man with a long neck, neat mustache, and fine features entered the office. Handsome and, judging by his gaze, not stupid. Although he looked a little more intently than the norms of decency allowed.
"Mr. Satow! Please, please, don't be shy and don't make me stand on ceremony. Sit down, my dear. So, where do I want to begin. The negotiations with the representatives of Satsuma went above and beyond all praise, for which you undoubtedly deserve a bonus. Moreover, your salary will be doubled, and we will finally transfer you from the category of trainee to official translator. You have a great-great future in the service. And what a service! You'll grow up to be a London professor someday! You'll open up Japan, so to speak, to unenlightened Europe." Alcock chuckled good-naturedly, coughed, wheezed, and diluted his scholarly speech with cheerful quips, trying his utmost to create a relaxed atmosphere.
The translator sat down in a dark green armchair upholstered in velvet and almost sank into the soft cushions.
"Good thing he didn't pat my cheek," he thought to himself as the Colonel paternally clapped him on the shoulder. "The old fox is up to something... what price will he put on his familiarity?"
"Looking at your talent, I want to free you from all clerical work! Rather than wasting energy copying papers, direct it to study — you will have three — a whole three teachers. And of course, practice! That's the best teacher. And since I am most interested in your success, I will be sincerely, paternally glad if you report on them to me personally. And preferably in all details... You understand?"
Satow couldn't suppress a treacherous, smug smile. His damned intuition had been right again. Sir Rutherford, meanwhile, set up the pieces on the chessboard and made the first move.
"I understand. But I assume I can keep the conversations with street vendors to myself?" Without looking at the board, the translator also moved some piece.
"Well, why not?.. Vendors can be quite interesting under circumstances... That is..." the chief became amusingly, like an old man, agitated and broke into a sweat. Then, realizing the utter comicality of his position, he flared up. "Well, next you'll say I'm recruiting my own employee! The youth! You have no conscience! Do you serve your country or whom? Then serve! Here's the thing, my dear... Well, you understand, times are difficult now. Either we come to an agreement, or we'll have to fight. There's no going back. And without you, my dear, we won't find a common language with them."
"You overestimate my knowledge of the language, although my circle of acquaintances is indeed very wide and varied. I just wanted people to be a little more frank with me. I love honesty — it's a sign of respect. Serving my country is undoubtedly my main business, and for that, I wouldn't spare my life. But I will never do anything to the detriment of a people — of any country. Even for the sake of the motherland."
"God forbid! We diplomats think only of the people! All for their own good. Perhaps you'd like some tea? I have black, strong, not like that swampy slop that's impossible to drink. So, you see for yourself. If we don't convince these cutthroats to back down peacefully, we'll have to take extreme measures—like in Kagoshima. You remember Kagoshima, don't you? But that was just the beginning. Now we're talking about creating a coalition. The USA, France, and Holland are ready to join the fight tomorrow. And we all know perfectly well who will win. But I keep delaying, waiting, hoping for something... But what is there to wait for? If anyone can work a miracle, it's you."
Meanwhile, the ambassador made what he considered several brilliant chess moves, while Satow only defended. And he stared more and more at the wall than at the board. Imagine that—to dislike contests so much!
"For the first time in my life, I feel like a messiah," he said, "And the feeling, I must tell you, is not pleasant. Of course, I will try to convince them, if only because, in case of failure, I myself will be under the cannons. And I wouldn't like to repeat that experience often. But the question is different. If, for some utterly insane reasons, they agree to open the strait... surely that won't be enough? There will be new demands, new bastions... new frontiers that England will want to take, if not hindered... All the concessions they've made so far were only needed to buy time and stock up on weapons... And, in the end, to fight back. Will there be an end to this confrontation?" Satow made a couple more moves, and to the Colonel's surprise, the game ended in a draw. The translator was no less surprised—it was the first time he had ever played chess.
Sir Rutherford was clearly disappointed by his interlocutor's perceptiveness. No, for the diplomatic service, he was too uncompromising. A truth-teller, a seeker of truth, a fighter for justice, a defender of the weak and oppressed. An extremely dangerous, unreliable type.
"I like you, Ernest. And without looking too far ahead, I want to give you your first assignment. Translate Machiavelli's 'The Prince' into Japanese, so as not to judge those in power too harshly. And then go for a stroll to the village of Himeshima—it's not far from the Shimonoseki Strait."
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Smoke of the salt fires,
Burning on the shore at Shika,
Does not rise high.
The wind blows,
Spreads it low between the mountains.
There was much livestock here, and it was fat, while the people looked poor and hungry. The infertile island of Himeshima lived off the salt fires, whose smoke had from time immemorial brought considerable income to the Shogunate's treasury. Young girls in faded, once very bright clothes, with hands dry and rough like sand, were engaged in their usual work—extracting salt from seawater.
The village of Himeshima melted in the unseasonably hot midday hour, when the Japanese sun doesn't stand on ceremony but strikes with full force. Wading knee-deep into the water, barefoot, tanned nymphs in straw skirts over long dresses scooped water with flimsy wooden buckets and carried it to the shore—from dawn to dusk—bent under the weight of yokes. Others, more experienced, armed with wide, flat rakes, prepared a container with hot sand. The surface had to be perfectly level before the water from the buckets seeped through it, leaving salt crystals on the surface. When the sun finished this work, the tireless laborers removed and filtered the top layer, and boiled the solution over a slow fire of a wood-burning hearth. In windless weather, the smoke from it spread along the ground.
The sea—a symbol of life—and salt, its product, were revered here as sacred, as if they had absorbed all human sorrows, all the tears and sweat of countless generations gone into oblivion, and all the colorless—inexhaustible—blood of the earth. The ancient "agehama" method was favored by the government as very profitable. And all these sorrows, tears, and sweat flowed as taxes from different parts of the country where they had access to seawater, and every taxable peasant—healthy or sick, young or old—annually sent twenty-one kilograms of salt to Kyoto in the second decade of the eighth moon. Likewise, at the Ise Shrine, food for the gods—rice, water, and salt — was offered twice a day. All of them in their own way symbolized life and the process of purification.
"Perhaps the gods feed on our tears?" Haruko — "spring child," emaciated by the sun—once asked. She dreamed all day of bathing in a lake of unsalted water and drinking from a fresh, icy spring. In one hand, she held a kiseru pipe and blew smoke rings after the tormentor—the blazing red ball disappearing beyond the horizon. This time, the melancholic landscape was desecrated by two ships.
A passenger on one of them, Ernest Satow, tried to make out the shore in the twilight. He had seen something similar on a woodblock print surimono. By Utagawa Kuniyoshi, I believe. Exactly—girls in the sea and the famous Japanese salt gathering, a sacred mystery of unity with nature. Now it all appeared before him in real life — what luck! For this alone, it was worth going ashore. The French commandant L'A;nesse and the Dutch officer Ray had come here on a more important mission—to study the condition of the coastal batteries in the Shimonoseki Strait in case of a possible slaughter. Satow, along with his colleague John Ainslie, were appointed as translators for the British side. The corvette "Barrosa" under Captain Dowell and the gunboat "Cormorant" under Commander Buckle passed through the Bungo Channel and dropped anchor off the coast of the "salt" island at nightfall.
Preparing for a war for freedom of navigation, the coalition acted like gentlemen. The Shogunate was given a chance for a peaceful resolution of the Shimonoseki Strait issue. Within twenty days, it was to influence the rebellious daimyo of the Choshu domain—the master of these lands. Help came from an unexpected quarter. It turned out that five local samurai had secretly visited England to convince themselves of the military might of the foreign powers. Good old espionage—the salt of worldly power! Upon their return, two of the envoys appeared before the British consul. The conversation resembled a confession—they swore they had seen the light of truth, namely—the stubborn fact that it was better to be friends with the English than to fight them, for "you can't break a brick wall with your head." Ito and Shiji (as these Japanese were called) agreed to personally deliver an ultimatum to the prince calling for peace. The English took them aboard the "Barrosa" and landed them on the shores of Suo, awaiting good news. The Japanese teacher Nakazawa said there was a seven in ten chance they would be beheaded.
After a week's voyage, far from the motley and alien Yokohama, this unknown, calm shore seemed like home to Satow. He looked with nostalgic warmth at the squat, one-story minka—houses without solid walls with sliding doors—roofed with thick, sun-bleached thatch. The bustling figures flitting in the doorways reminded him of farmers from the fields of Cornwall. The locals examined the guests with such curiosity it could be mistaken for friendliness. Only the villainous-looking samurai escorted each return to the ship with stern gazes. They said these were part of a detachment sent here to guard the island from a possible attack. The feeling of danger was drowned only by hunger. The coveted beef and chicken couldn't be procured, even under the cunning pretext of one of the sailors being ill. They had to choke down fish again. It was sold in abundance, and they took money for it with great pleasure.
Before sunset, they weighed anchor and headed for the strait, reaching Cape Isaki on the "Cormorant." Halfway there, the main target appeared—the signal guns firing along the entire northern coast from Tefu to Saho. To mark the position of the batteries and the number of guns as accurately as possible, they cruised like a pendulum back and forth, remaining out of firing range. A week later, during a second sortie, the reconnaissance vessel risked going a little further and almost ran into a shell that fell about a mile from it. That same evening, the prince's envoys returned safe and sound. According to them, the rebellious daimyo was disposed towards friendship, but as a subordinate, he followed the Emperor's orders. And to influence His Highness's decision, a personal meeting was required. A trip to Kyoto took a mere three months, and for that period, the prince kindly asked the allies to postpone naval operations.
The thunderclap came after returning to Yokohama. The friendly daimyo delayed his response, and it finally became clear there would be none. The coalition was filled with resolve and persuaded the Shogunate of the necessity of military measures. In the midst of negotiations, other Japanese envoys returned from Europe and, as it turned out, not empty-handed. In that time, they had concluded a treaty with the French authorities, which crossed out the coalition's allied plans, and above all, the ambitions of Britain in the person of Sir Rutherford Alcock. Thank the spies, the information—the food for earthly gods—had leaked in time. By some immense effort of will, the ambassador managed to avert a catastrophe. Under his pressure, the Shogunate refused the ill-considered step, and the treacherous treaty was never ratified. And the allies, including France, signed a memorandum on the use of force against the Choshu domain that very day. Four days later, the squadrons put to sea and headed for the Shimonoseki Strait.
Part 7. In Still Waters Runs the Deep
The locals loved fish so much because they didn't know truly dangerous sharks. Only one denizen of the deep instilled fear in these brave souls—a giant catfish named Namazu. As legend had it, it was the cause of earthquakes and moved the tectonic plates, causing waves—large and small, to which the Japanese islands were so accustomed. And if some fishing junk was destined to perish at sea, it was only by the fault of a huge, turbulent wave, resembling a celestial paw, and not from the toothy and greedy shark's maw that surfaces unnoticed from under the water.
The battle squadron moved slowly and with the slightest noise towards the Inland Sea. In the Shimonoseki Strait, it was to engage the reckless defenders of these places and destroy the coastal batteries. The mirror-smooth water presented itself framed by azure hills shrouded in a humid, thick fog. The cold gleam of the dawn hour glimmered on the horizon, and the fate of the entire day smoldered in its infancy, ready to change at any human whim.
Never before had England and France been so friendly as in these fateful days. Their ships kept close together in strict battle order. In the center—eight "British" led by the "Euryalus"; on the left line—the French squadron and the American chartered steamer "Ta-Kiang"; and on the right—four Dutch vessels. They were conscious of their great power and confident of a swift victory. Who could doubt it after the success at Kagoshima? True, the "Euryalus" had lost its captain and first mate in that battle and had been literally "decapitated" twice, but the flagship remained the flagship, and Captain Alexander was now risking his own head.
Satow, appointed as Admiral Kuper's translator, boarded the "Euryalus" and, not having been assigned a personal cabin, fell asleep on a sofa. The night before, he had spent sleepless. Kana had suddenly taken ill just before his departure. Willis — the selfless doctor, devoted friend, and incidentally Satow's new neighbor — took on her treatment. Sir Alcock had provided particularly valuable employees with separate service housing. A two-story house nestled among wooden huts on a back street in Yokohama — between the foreign settlement and the native quarter. And now Kana was sleeping in Satow's room on the second floor — or rather, not sleeping, but delirious. The fever wasn't breaking, although Willis said there was no serious danger. "The effects of severe stress." What stress? Satow couldn't understand that.
The samurai's daughter knew neither pity nor sentiment. Her bottomless eyes were a still pool in which any devil would break his legs. By morning, she opened them and said in a weak voice: "I dreamed of a wide mirror in a lapis lazuli frame. I looked into it and saw your reflection. Then there was a loud explosion and the mirror cracked, and your face disappeared." Boarding the "Euryalus," he slept like the dead and saw no dreams.
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The mouth of the Shimonoseki Strait resembled a horizontal funnel, and the ships of the allied squadron were drawn into it one by one. It had to be admitted that the enemy learned quickly—and quickly stocked up on cannons. The coastal batteries maintained a respectful and ominous silence, preparing for battle. The English corvettes "Barrosa," "Tartar," and the gunboat "Leopard" sailed along the southern shore accompanied by two Dutch corvettes and one French. They took up position before Tanoura—a quiet and serene fishing village of a few dozen houses. Soon it was to see something quite unexpected.
The allied flagships dropped anchor further from the enemy batteries—two and a half thousand yards from the central cluster at Maeda-mura. Judging by the name, it was a kingdom of rice fields, which Satow had long dreamed of seeing in person. In peacetime, he would have been happy, but not now. Now he imagined crawling under fire along a narrow strip of land, with water and green shoots all around... The sun beat down mercilessly, and in such heat, water would be a salvation. The English "Euryalus" stood side by side with the French frigate "S;miramis" under Admiral Jaur;s. In those days, no one doubted this martial brotherhood, but who could have imagined it just half a century earlier? Truly, the friendship of former enemies is strong and sacred, once a common enemy is found.
War easily instills hatred of one nation for another, but its term is short and memory fleeting. Mortal enemies become brothers again as soon as the battle orders fall silent. And they are ready again not to kill, but to die for each other—obeying different commands from on high. And one of them, living to a ripe old age, will say in a sentimental mood—remember how we fought? And the other, no less gray-haired, and a cripple to boot, will clarify: "Do you mean the war where I was aiming at you and missed, or the one where I was covering you and they hit me?"
The "Blue Jackets"—the green shoots of the navy, gathered from all over the world—were eager for battle with youthful zeal. French, English, Americans, Dutch, Germans, Belgians, Indians, and Africans in identical white caps naively believed they were rushing to avenge the death of their comrades at Kagoshima. Back then, those damned Japanese had given them a good thrashing, resulting in "light losses." In reality, it wasn't a thirst for revenge that spoke in them, but a thirst for life—unmarred by truly heavy losses. After all, everyone has that "point of no return," after which you look at any war quite differently, that is, without enthusiasm?
This time, the "Euryalus" fired first, not waiting for a greeting from the shore. It fired the longest 110-pounder Armstrong gun on the forecastle, to be sure to reach the batteries of Maeda-mura. As soon as the range was found, the enemy positions knew no mercy. The guns fired unerringly—clouds of dust rose on the shore every minute. To the great sorrow of the "Blue Jackets," the 40-pounder Armstrongs on the quarterdeck remained idle, as did the short smoothbore guns on the main deck. There was no time for ceremony. The sailors were being saved for the land operation. Meanwhile, the light squadron silenced the battery on the northern shore, and when the main enemy forces were suppressed, the signal to cease fire was given.
A fire raged between the buildings of the Maeda-mura batteries. A loud explosion was heard from there, meaning the ammunition depot had been destroyed. Detachments from the "Perseus" and "Medusa" were the first to land on shore to deal with the remnants of the defense. The Japanese were determined to fight to the last shell, and in the morning they again opened fire on the squadron anchored at Tanoura. On the first day, the allied forces lost six men — all from the English corvette "Tartar," which took the brunt of the fire. A senior lieutenant — a young, promising officer—was seriously wounded in the back. He survived, contrary to the surgeons' expectations, but the spinal injury left no hope that he would ever walk again.
During combat operations, a translator's services are the most useless thing one can imagine. Therefore, Satow, left idle with his peaceful trade, took on any work assigned to him and mastered a host of new skills—from repairing boats and helping the wounded to (carefully!) handling shells. At night, he was left alone, and, falling asleep to the noise of the guns, he dreamed of the woman he loved. Now she hated him with all her soul, of this Satow had no doubt. At dawn, someone woke him and said it was time to land ashore. Captain Alexander's rifle detachment consisted of two hundred men. They were to climb the cliff east of Maeda-mura and capture a single-gun battery.
Part 8. Greetings from Old Harry
In Dorset, on the southern coast of England, there is a glorious spot called Old Harry Rocks. Three snow-white chalk giants—contemporaries of the dinosaurs—tower over the blue waters of the English Channel, exposed to all winds, looking like proud hermits who have scorned the rest of the world. Satow was about seven when he first looked at these rocks and wished he could fly over the strait and reach them. Since then, with his passion for mountaineering, he had conquered many peaks, but it seemed he had never found anything more beautiful.
"Well, we've come to visit Old Harry," said his father, erecting a tent that was somehow supposed to save them from the squalling wind without falling apart. A German by origin, in those years he had set himself the goal of studying England inside and out, and spent all his free time on it—to his wife's great disappointment.
"And who is this Harry?" asked the pensive Ernest, taking bread and cans of preserves from his backpack.
"That's what the locals call the devil, and they say he loved to rest on these rocks. Cozy, isn't it? I'd take a nap now if I weren't so hungry."
"Why would the devil live in such a beautiful place? He lives underground."
"The devil lives in various places, and most often in the most beautiful ones. You'll understand me when you fall in love with some flighty girl for the first time."
Back then, the intricate concept of a "flighty girl" meant no more to Satow than the notorious "Old Harry," and his father didn't want to explain the meaning of the word. They sat on a mossy cliff, listened to the cries of seagulls, and devoured sardines from a can opened with a knife. The waves beat furiously against the rocks, threatening to destroy them to their foundations every minute, but over millions of years, they had never carried out their threat.
"The sea," he said, "should be stormy. Expect trouble from a calm sea. All wars happen in quiet waters. In a dead calm, warships sink each other, and peaceful sharks devour people, attacking from behind. Of course, a skilled fisherman, given the right circumstances, might catch a fat fish. Or he might not. In short, I love a stormy sea more. A storm is what we all need. It cleanses everything, puts everything in its place. Look at this sea, son, and don't acknowledge any other, no matter what anyone says."
"Dad, in a storm, small boats and even big ships perish. Not all the poor wretches seeking a better life manage to cross the Channel. Is that good?"
"You see, they perish by chance. A storm is chance, and if it so wills it, then it's fate. So be it, and there's no evil intent in that. But if boats perish in quiet water—it's always the fault of other people, and that is the real evil, greetings from Old Harry."
"So, Old Harry didn't invent the storm?"
"Oh, come on, he's not up to that... He's just a petty mischief-maker who thinks he's someone great. And he always acts quietly, preferring that no one disturbs him. And you must hinder him with all your might, as soon as you notice his tricks. Otherwise, it can all go very far. So don't daydream!" His father flicked him on the nose, as he loved to do in a cheerful mood, and Satow vowed to himself that he would never miss another flick, cuff, or slap again.
Now he was eating sardines, sitting on the steps of a captured Japanese cannon, and sharing a loaf of bread with engineer Crowdy and the assistant ship's surgeon McBean. They opened the can with Crowdy's sword, and finding themselves without knives and forks, used their hands—scorning table etiquette. Their appetite was ravenous. In the morning, Captain Alexander's detachment had completed its combat mission — captured one of the Maeda-mura batteries by climbing a steep, grass-covered cliff.
The "Blue Jackets" scrambled up haphazardly, as if on a picnic, and after crossing the earthworks, found about twenty opponents in black armor on the platform. They retreated but continued firing from the other side of the hill. One sailor was wounded in the leg, and another was accidentally shot by a comrade standing behind him. A trembling hand. Pursuing the Japanese detachment, they passed the battery and climbed another hill, struggling through the wild heat through thickets of ferns and vines. The grass was slippery, the path narrow, and it was almost impossible to stay on one's feet. Men fell and continued to crawl upwards, tearing out clumps of grass and clawing at the damp, black earth with their nails. On the other side of the hill opened a narrow valley where the Japanese riflemen were supposed to be hiding.
"Still, it's good we didn't pursue them," said Crowdy, "with our small forces, we would have met Old Harry there."
"Ah, I think officer's instinct failed Tracey. We had every chance of success, odds of ten to one! And now those twenty devils won't leave us in peace. Hear that? They just won't calm down." McBean finished his food and wiped his greasy hands with a cloth soaked in alcohol.
"Mr. Assistant Surgeon, your information is outdated. A detachment of French marines just returned from reconnaissance. Up the valley, we were awaited by a stockade protected by three field guns. And, believe me, they would have left little of our two hundred. Maybe a dozen or so cripples at best."
"Well then... long live the military genius of Tracey, thanks to whom we turned left on that ill-fated road, passing by the warehouse towards the battery of the main group, and now have the happiness of dining in this amazing place!" McBean tipped his flask, rejoicing that he had avoided a lot of work for today. He did not admit the possibility of his own death, considering himself indispensable in the eyes of God due to his involvement in the holy medical profession.
The Japanese field battery continued to attack the English and French detachments from its position in the valley and tried to reach their ships in the Shimonoseki Strait. The allies responded with artillery fire. At first, all this noise evoked a shameful desire in Satow to hide from a shot, but later—seeing no real damage to either side—he got used to it and almost stopped noticing.
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The heat over the rice field showed no mercy. Felice Beato, mind numb, looked through the fogged lens at a spectacle of unearthly beauty. A mirror-like staircase the full width of the hilly valley rose to the sky, dotted with narrow, green strips of land. The water sparkled in the sun, reflecting rare crimson-gray clouds. Alexander's detachment continued clearing the area, and from time to time, shots were heard from different sides. Most often they hit the water. Click. Finally, a successful shot.
The remnants of Japanese riflemen tried to attack from behind the trees on the hillsides, climbing higher and higher. The "Blue Jackets," unable to see their targets, fired chaotically, wasting ammunition on imaginary opponents. A game of tag. Even the photographer—an inspired war enthusiast — grew tired of it and almost fell behind the detachment. Fear had left, and it all became somehow mundane. A tedious routine. Monotonous, viscous, and sticky as tar, with rare glimpses of unattainable beauty. Someday the stunned senses would regain their hearing and voice, and the photographs would help make drama out of this drudgery.
"Felice, don't tell me you've been shot again! Time to pack up, the whole detachment won't wait for art's sake. And... how do you carry all this with you?"
Satow stood with a wet head, in a wet shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and watched as Beato took the heavy camera off its tripod. His full backpack probably weighed half a hundredweight.
"Where did you get doused?"
"There's life-giving moisture all around here, highly recommended. Such heat is fatal to the English constitution. And I think you had a flask of water left. My mouth is parched."
"Enough for two sips, catch. It's not just hot here, it's also humid, and it's unbearable. The earth is steaming, and I'm soaked to the bone — like in a Turkish hammam! Anyway, we have a strange role, you and I. I feel like a sack of damp gunpowder."
"And I — a broken harmonium! The enemy doesn't really need a translator. Sit and wait until they deign to make peace. And then your star hour will come. Look, another one decided to take a swim."
Satow waved his hand a little higher, where Alexander's detachment was heading with joyful shouts. A sailor lay in the water among the green shoots — face down, arms outstretched. Coming closer, they saw an arrow sticking out of his back. There was little blood—almost all of it had drained and dissolved. Satow pulled the poor wretch onto a narrow embankment and turned him onto his back. English or French. A triumphant smile was frozen on the young face with a barely noticeable red fuzz, like down.
"I can't believe my eyes, is that an arrow?" Beato muttered and, for some reason, inserted an Italian joke about fortune's favorites. "You must have a big backside to get hit from such a giant distance. I swear, they shoot better with bows than with guns. That archer is a real devil, no less."
"And he also thought there was no death, and victory was practically in his pocket."
"Like the two idiots standing over him instead of running for it. What, exactly, are we hoping for? Our backsides?"
And they set off after the "Blue Jackets," feeling not the slightest twinge of conscience. The last parts of the detachment disappeared behind the hill and went into the valley. The shots sounded louder, and at the edge of the road—behind a palisade of pines—it seemed you could reach the shooter with your hand. The seriously wounded were left on the roadside, and passing by them was no longer so easy.
"They will come back for them, won't they?" Satow asked Alexander.
"If they last that long. First, we need to neutralize the battery, otherwise we'll all lie down here."
They dealt with the battery quickly, dispersing the defense with continuous fire. These were the very guns that had nearly played the "role of Old Harry" with them during the first sortie. Now they were knocked off their pedestals and sent to rest in the rice field. Before they could fully enjoy the victory, Alexander was wounded in the ankle and could go no further. He was placed on a stretcher, from where, overcoming the pain, he continued to lead the detachment.
The artillerymen in white surcoats and black armor took refuge in a fenced-off barracks, fiercely firing back with no hope of rescue. At the scene of the hottest fighting, Satow found four dead Japanese, one of whom had been shot through the heart. The most horrifying sight of his entire life. Not a drop of blood had flowed from this man, and his death could have seemed natural if not for his utterly blue face, which was darkening before his eyes. As if a cruel spirit of death had possessed him and sucked out all his blood without a trace. At Satow's request, he was placed in a huge, oblong basket and carried away from prying eyes. Retreating, the Japanese set fire to several houses and an ammunition depot, but at the last moment, the explosion was prevented. Old Harry, who was blindly waving his arms, gathering the dead, had missed again.
In the evening, Satow returned on board—exhausted, dirty, experiencing a ravenous hunger and thirst. In those two days, he had lived another life. And it was not at all like what he had considered life for twenty years. The next day, working parties of "Blue Jackets" landed on shore again to collect the remnants of the field guns. They blew up all the powder and threw the shells into the smooth, calm sea. Nothing foretold a storm.
The Japanese lost about twenty men, the English — eight. In retaliation, someone from the allies (the French, it seems) set fire to the eastern outskirts of Shimonoseki city along with residential houses. They said Japanese soldiers had been firing from there. The dead were buried on the shore at Tanoura in an open area overgrown with grass. Digging the graves, the sailors noticed particles of shiny sand in the earth and rejoiced like children, mistaking it for gold. Upon inspection, it turned out to be mica.
Part 9. The Crane's Song
As soon as the first rays of the stubborn sun broke through to Crane Hill, overgrown with a dense and gloomy forest, the monk Katsuro opened his eyes, and after offering morning prayers to the god of war Hachiman, took up his broom. The high stone staircase leading to the Tsurugaoka Hachimang; shrine in Kamakura was once again covered in fallen leaves overnight. What a nuisance! He opened the massive doors for the rare parishioners in this backwater and set about cleaning. He started from the top step and, by the time he reached the bottom, it was fully light. The monastery rooster was straining—that scoundrel had slept longer than he had. A pile of yellow leaves at the foot of the mountain exuded a damp, rancid smell. That's what old age smells like, thought Katsuro. It had come to him too early — when the battle orders fell silent. This is how a "man of service" ended his days.
The cranes had long since stopped coming, and now you'd have to wait until next spring. The monk missed their plaintive songs. A strange pleasure. It wrenches the soul, torments it, squeezes tears from a warrior's stern heart with a vise, and yet awakens in him something long withered, written off as scrap as unnecessary. Soft, warm, almost childish—from those forgotten years when a mother's affection replaced the whole world. And then suddenly there was neither affection nor the world... And they sing so thoughtfully, so humanly. As if they had lost everything in life without a trace and were now mourning it. And there is no end to these tears. And a heart-rending echo hovers over the valley.
For many years, he had not eaten the coveted half-raw meat, and fish rarely appeared on his meager table. Offerings had almost dried up lately. People seldom reached these parts, devoid of signs of life — if viewed from afar. Plain rice and bitter radish — all the monks could count on. And when the god Hachiman had a festival, they partook of pickled plums with great reverence and gratitude, accompanying the meal with long, exhausting prayers. Katsuro — "victorious son" — had grown thin, lost his strength, and almost forgotten that he was once a fierce strongman named Saito and wielded a sword more skillfully than he now managed a broom. He had had the honor of being the punishing hand of the head of government himself—Tair; Ii Naosuke.
By rights, he should have taken his own life. He had failed to protect his master from the conspirators. Those dogs attacked his palanquin right at the Sakurada Gate, and not one of the sixty guards could prevent it. His lord was beheaded and paraded shamefully through the streets of Edo before hundreds of onlookers. Katsuro had atoned for his guilt. He personally executed three participants in the attack and the old man who had dared to shelter them in his tea house. After that, he earned the right to remain alive and serve the god of war Hachiman in one of his many shrines. At first, he chose the Iwashimizu Shrine in Kyoto, but due to its proximity to the imperial palace, he deemed it unsafe. Many samurai still hated him, as they had his master. During the repressions, he had executed many "pro-imperial" forces—outstanding warriors and his own brothers-in-arms. And he never regretted it. He honored the Emperor and martial valor, but placed orders and loyalty to duty above all else.
And yet Hachiman — the god of "many flags" — had once been a mortal ruler named ;jin, son of the luminous goddess Amaterasu. He began his ascent up the divine ladder as a simple patron of hunting and fishing, but then witnessed fraternal strife. No, he said, there are more important matters. And he became the deity of the "bow and arrows," of warriors and war in all its grandeur. And since then, countless generations of samurai had sought salvation and patronage in him. Standing at the foot of the steep, evergreen mountain, Katsuro sighed and looked up at the summit where the shrine stood. He gathered the damp foliage into a huge canvas sack and tied it shut. Hoisting it onto his back, he felt his knees tremble. "It's just amazing, for a single leaf weighs almost nothing," he thought, bending under the weight of his burden.
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Sir Alcock was fresh and clean-shaven, like a recruit on his first parade. And even the thought of a possible resignation could not spoil his mood. The nearest telegraph on the island of Java was bursting with angry messages from Lord Russell. The British Foreign Minister accused the consul of exceeding his authority. Unheard of — to start a war on his own initiative on the territory entrusted to him! The diplomat had not waited for Her Majesty's sanction and was confident that the success of this brilliant operation would fully justify him. A duty fulfilled allowed him to retire with a clear conscience. To tell the truth, he had grown sated with Japan, like an overly spicy and cloying exotic dish that had to be consumed every day. A digestive — that is, spiritual—disorder had not yet overtaken him, but was giving clear signs in the form of insomnia and headaches. His soul demanded asceticism, plain meat, and oatmeal with skimmed milk. Let the young ones amuse themselves while they had the strength — mental and physical. One particularly valuable employee sat before him, ready to listen to praise and instruction.
"At last, we can put a full stop to this strange war. We couldn't reach an agreement, but things don't always go smoothly. Diplomats are needed precisely to sense the futility of their peaceful efforts in time and understand that it's time to use weapons. But what a result! The Ch;sh; lords have come to pay homage with money and admitted defeat. The Shimonoseki Strait is open for the benefit of all allied powers. Of course, I have no illusions, and we will still see the last convulsions of resistance. But, by and large, we have managed to win over all the rebel forces. With which I congratulate you."
Satow listened to his superior with half an ear and examined the copy of the Illustrated London News politely handed to him. A spread about the victorious operation against the Japanese barbarians. All illustrations were copied by his friend Charles Wirgman from Felice Beato's photographs. Primitive and terribly realistic. Wirgman is a damned genius after all. Funny, similar-looking figures were scattered across the valley and threateningly fixed bayonets. On the hills, similar black little men with swords and guns flitted about. And it was unclear who were the barbarians and who were the victors. An inquisitive reader could figure out this whole mess by studying the accompanying article. Satow needed no explanations and didn't read it.
"And yet I don't understand how we managed to pull the French over to our side. They promised Prince Ch;sh; they would leave the coalition and conclude a direct treaty, didn't they? And in the end, their marines fought under English banners, and their ships bombarded Shimonoseki."
"What is well done is done in time. And, no matter how you look at it, most sensible Japanese are for us. And are ready to cooperate with us for a rather symbolic payment. Many offer their services themselves, though I regard this with suspicion."
"Informers?"
"The very same. We have our people everywhere. And those five samurai who returned from Europe as friends of France also had the misfortune of communicating with some of them. This helped us take preliminary measures. You see how useful it is. You, it seems, also had contact with them, but for some reason learned nothing."
"Our contacts were more than superficial. And would they have been frank with an Englishman?"
"You're right. In any case, participation in the combat operation did you good. Gained some experience, tested your fate. Otherwise, you'd be sitting at home, amusing yourself with boring translations."
The translator shuddered and stared at his superior with a heavy, intent gaze. But he, as if nothing had happened, was admiring the official portrait of Queen Victoria, which had appeared in his office a couple of days earlier. Anyone would have stared. An allegory of youth—a rosy-cheeked beauty, with innocent, round, saucer-like eyes the color of cornflowers. A satin dress, baring her shoulders, shone with a pearly luster against the backdrop of a heavy, blood-red curtain that served as her background.
"Don't judge harshly—it's all for her. A great woman. All great things in this world are done by women. Don't you agree? And even victory, no matter how you look at it, is feminine! And freedom, and justice... And even the soul, damn it!"
"And war, but is that good or bad? It's all very confused with the feminine gender."
"It's inevitable. As inevitable as night and death. The only question is what to fight for and against what. You must decide. Yes! It's become fashionable here to marry Japanese women. Well, marry... an official marriage, of course, is impossible due to the duty of service. And why do you need that happiness? A temporary affair, so to speak, out of desperation. And when you finish your service—you're free as a bird. There are many candidates, despite this delicate circumstance. The ladies are all decent, from good families, not some 'tea girls.' And it's all by contract, that is, no surprises—in every sense of the word. I highly recommend it, if you don't want to pick up some merry diseases in the merry houses. But, anyway, it's your business. You, as I have gathered, are an original young man. How are you getting along living in the same house with Willis? Doesn't he pester you with his medical tales?"
"That's actually what I wanted to talk about. The thing is, Willis has decided to return to England. I know the house is too big for me alone, and by the rules, I would have to put up with a new neighbor, but... in short, I need one huge favor. For it, I'm ready to do anything."
"Well, well, I'm intrigued. Don't tell me you're not hopeless after all?"
"Yes, I'm going to... Well, I would like to live there with my wife."
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At first, he didn't recognize Kana, so changed was she by this short and non-life-threatening illness. Sunken eyes with dark circles, sharp cheekbones instead of rosy cheeks, a gaze just as direct and uncompromising, but without the former, stinging brilliance. Willis said that one night the fever had almost killed her. Her whole body shook as in a fit, she either gasped for air with her mouth open, then fell into a dead sleep, and her breathing was almost inaudible. Only a weak pulse on her emaciated wrists indicated that life still fluttered within her.
From the very day Satow returned, she began getting out of bed and didn't leave his side for a moment. She kept saying she was guilty of "everything" and never once explained what exactly. "Has she lost her mind?" Satow thought, amazed that a person of such willpower could be broken by anything. And then another trouble. When the insidious illness receded, Kana's hair began to fall out shamelessly, and after crying for a couple of days, she cut it "like a boy's." And this strange hairstyle incredibly suited her thin face and long neck.
There was something here that Satow didn't know and couldn't guess, only sensing it with his gut like the first—barely noticeable—tremor before an earthquake. She reveled in her mysterious repentance, and in the end, her behavior began to resemble a strong attachment with a glimmer of genuine feeling. However you looked at it, there was no better fuel for a woman's love than pangs of conscience—even when it came to warlike and unyielding individuals.
The translator blessed this incomprehensible confluence of circumstances when Kana suddenly agreed to stay in his house without an official marriage ceremony, forbidden by the duty of diplomatic service. She only took an oath that they were now truly-truly husband and wife, and not some "contractual" ones, but out of love and for life. Oh, those wonder-working oaths! How many foolish maidens they had ruined without shame or notorious pangs of conscience! Fortunately, Satow was not one of those scoundrels who would do anything to deceive the expectations of a naive heart. He firmly intended to preserve this union after the end of his Japanese mission and warned his wife that sooner or later she would have to part with her homeland and willy-nilly master English.
She took almost nothing from Lady Yashiki's house—didn't want to "drag the past with her." And under this plausible pretext, she asked him to get her more European clothes, to feel "in his skin."
"I don't wear dresses," Satow joked, though he had been concerned with this question long before it was voiced.
"That's not the point. I want to imbibe the Western spirit, to feel like a European woman. It will be easier for me to understand you that way."
"Don't you understand now? They say I have almost no accent left."
"Language isn't everything. And you speak disgustingly, to be completely honest."
"Thank you very much! Well then, let's see your English."
She did take something from the past—a katana with a family engraving in the form of four rhombuses or "diamonds." All that remained of her father. The motto of the Takeda clan was: "Swift as the wind, silent as the forest, fierce as fire, immovable as the mountain." The samurai family crest or "mon" symbolized these virtuous qualities. As soon as Kana crossed the threshold of the new house, hugging her beloved sword, she immediately declared—in her characteristic uncompromising manner—that she would prefer to keep it under her pillow, as tradition dictated, but for the first time in her life, she met the resolute resistance of her unenlightened husband.
Once he returned home from work a little earlier and saw how skillfully the samurai's daughter handled the weapon. She whirled around the spacious room they had furnished as a living room, fending off an invisible opponent. She stepped with tiny feet, almost as if waltzing, while her arms delivered blow after blow, whistling through the air. Kana was all in white—wide training trousers, a short, belted kimono. These clothes, too, had earned a "new life."
"I wouldn't want to be in your enemy's place, he'd lose his head."
"As a child, I trained every day—with my father. All my brothers were younger, and he jokingly called me the heir. When he was gone, I didn't touch a sword for several years, didn't ride a horse—didn't do any of the things we did together. My adoptive father was a kind old man, but he couldn't teach me anything. Only pounding leaves in a mortar... And he kept talking about forgiveness... and then he, too, was killed, along with his mercy. My father fought all his life and died by the sword; my stepfather forgave and preached peace all his life, and died by the sword... The end, it seems, is the same. So does it even matter? There is no sense in forgiveness while enemies walk the earth, while evil triumphs and mocks us."
"What is evil for some is, perhaps, good for others—the Moon is dark on one side too. And man is constantly changing, like nature... You said so yourself. No season is like another. And revenge, if you think about it, is a rather stupid thing. Hunting for fallen leaves..."
"I think I read something similar in one of your books. Its author is very, very talented, but I didn't see his name anywhere. I'd bet he's Japanese — the nature is described so subtly here..."
"I'm intrigued. Moreover, I'm amazed—at how quickly you're learning to read English. Please, do me a favor, read it aloud. As a reward, I'll tell you the author's name."
Kana brought the book and looked at him timidly and hesitantly, which happened to her extremely rarely. Then she gathered her strength and began to read slowly, opening the book where the bookmark lay.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises. The wind blows to the south, and goes round to the north; round and round goes the wind, and on its circuits the wind returns. All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again... Well, am I right? Is he Japanese?
"Maybe he is Japanese, I don't know that. The thing is, the author was too modest and didn't give his name. Just promise not to read it in crowded places. Here, this is, in a way, forbidden literature."
In the evenings, Satow couldn't get used to her strange occupation—sitting motionless for a long time, staring at one point. Finally, he couldn't stand it and sat down beside her, crossing his legs. Kana didn't stir and didn't even notice him, continuing to look out the open window. At first, he felt ridiculous, but then he became absorbed in the sunset and threw all thoughts out of his head. As soon as they were gone, his mind cast off its shackles and was left alone with a bright, shining emptiness. A silence audible only to the two of them settled in. And they enjoyed it until the sun went down.
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The inhabitants of the foreign and native quarters of Yokohama, for all their differences, went to bed at the same time—at night. And not one of them would have experienced boundless happiness had they been awakened by such a discourteous and barbaric method as Felice Beato chose that night. The rising star of world photography, in a state far from sober, was breaking down the door of his friend—the translator of the English diplomatic mission, a family man of good repute. Satow opened the door in his pajamas and nightcap, accompanying his attire with a displeased expression—to remind his friend of the time of day and appeal to his conscience. But seeing before him that rumpled, mustachioed face with its shameless expression, he abandoned all hope.
"You reek! What, business not going well again?"
"Got a cigar? And what time is it? You've started going to bed early somehow..."
"Indeed, early—four in the morning. I opened it so the neighbors wouldn't beat you. You've probably woken up the whole neighborhood. So, no cigar. Out with it, what's happened."
"Let me remember. I came for something! My head!" Beato rubbed his balding crown, then slammed his broad, heavy palm on the table—so hard the dishes rattled. "We've got another murder here, even two. So we relaxed too soon."
Satow had long since left his relaxed state, but asked with all the interest he was capable of at four in the morning.
"Is that so? Intriguing... And who was killed?"
"Major Baldwin and Lieutenant Bird of the 20th Regiment," the photographer rattled off proudly and continued with a note of reproach. "Late last night, while you were peacefully sleeping. About twelve miles from Yokohama. The British consul has already been informed, so you're in for a fun day tomorrow. Or no... today already."
The translator took cigars from the desk drawer. He handed one to Beato and lit one himself.
"Go on. Who can sleep now?"
"I thought on such an occasion you might want to keep me company," said Beato, timidly fishing a bottle of whiskey from inside his coat.
"That's all I needed! So there'd be one more corpse tomorrow? What about these poor wretches? How did it happen?"
"To be honest, there aren't many details yet. It's known that Baldwin was killed on the spot—so the locals say, but with Bird it's more complicated. He was seriously wounded but lived for several hours after that. Apparently, someone returned and finished him off—inflicted a fatal wound in the neck area. The spinal cord was severed between the second and third cervical vertebrae, and that's instant death. And suspicion falls on the henchmen of the Governor of Kanagawa..."
"What reason would they have?"
"What reason? So the wounded man wouldn't identify the killers and we wouldn't find ourselves face to face with a casus belli again."
"I suppose the regimental surgeons could have damaged the spinal cord themselves, not very skillfully wielding a probe or other instrument while dissecting the wound... And death, most likely, occurred from blood loss. Just think — several hours without help... Where did you say this happened?"
"In Kamakura. Another sightseeing trip to the shrines ended in tragedy. They managed to see the famous Great Buddha statue and were heading along the road to the Hachiman Shrine when a couple of men with swords jumped out at them from around a corner and hacked them to pieces! Just think, I was planning to visit that shrine myself any day now!"
"Have you become devout?"
"What's that got to do with it? It's any photographer's dream—the famous shrine of the war god. There are dozens of them in Japan—a real cult of this Hachiman. He's considered the patron of everything under the sun — samurai, hunting, fishing, the imperial line, the Minamoto clan... In one person, he's three-in-one — Zeus, Ares, and Artemis. A jack of all trades. The main shrines are here, in Kamakura, and in Kyoto, on Mount Otokoyama... You, it seems, have been to those parts with your..."
"Kamakura? He said Kamakura?" Kana appeared on the second floor, dressed to receive guests. Wishing to make an impression, she stopped on the stairs, fully visible. She wore a snow-white blouse with a starched stand-up collar and a narrow, black ankle-length skirt, flared at the very bottom. Only the impressive-sized diamonds in her ears, noticeable even from a distance, distinguished her from a modest English schoolgirl.
Beato couldn't control his emotions even when sober, and now his face was completely contorted with surprise. In a half-whisper, he asked his friend, who, in his opinion, had long since gone mad:
"Where from?…"
"Mum sent it," Satow whispered. "Can't buy it here. Kana absolutely wanted to wear European clothes. When my service is over, we'll return to London. She needs to get used to it."
"I meant the diamonds…"
"Mum too. A wedding gift for the bride. I told her I got married. Though she still thinks it's to an English girl. And where would they get them here?"
Meanwhile, Kana, full of dignity, descended, and the gentlemen stopped whispering.
"Yes, madam, we were talking about Kamakura and how many tourists the local attractions draw. It's all so... enticing. I've long dreamed of photographing the war god's shrine and have been begging Ernie to keep me company. He should see it too."
"What, Ernest, you refused? It's a unique place, and I told you so much about it."
"Ah, yes, I recall... Hachiman. How could I forget. We even went to Kyoto to see it, and it turns out there's another one here."
"You miss half of what I say. Felice, you were sent by the higher powers. Do something. Convince him to go to Kamakura and take me with him. I want to pray there for my relatives; there were many military men among them. You wouldn't refuse an orphan such a harmless request, would you? For that, I'm ready to treat you to dinner. Or breakfast—whatever you prefer."
"Alright, Kana. Hachiman it is, then. As soon as I sort out my affairs, we will definitely take this trip. I can't refuse you two. Especially in reward for dinner."
"A family of hucksters," Beato muttered when the incomparable lady retired to the kitchen, having made the proper impression.
________________________________________
The inner courtyard of the Yokohama prison was enclosed by a fence of light, freshly planed boards, and the wood, in its naive youth, still exuded the aroma of creation and great hopes. Early in the morning, a tacky crowd of onlookers gathered in the yard — some in civilian clothes and bowlers, others in official attire, with visors and cockades. The Shogunate had learned the lessons of war and approached the matter with the most respectful zeal. It took the local detective police less than a month to find the murderers of Bird and Baldwin. The spies showed such remarkable skill that three criminals were brought to trial at once — not two, as in the mise-en-sc;ne of the murder. Only one of them—Shimizu Seiji — admitted his guilt. He did so with pride and great pleasure. The others were arrested as conspirators. And all faced the same end — against the fence, in front of the crowd of gawkers.
In the middle of the yard, slightly apart from each other, three identical square pits, prepared for the execution, were visible. Their purpose was so shameful and repulsive that Satow didn't want to think about it beforehand. But then the show began, and the crowd came to life. Four Japanese guards dragged the condemned man into the yard and made him kneel right over the pit. Attendants blindfolded him, gathered his hair on top, and pulled down his shirt, baring his neck and shoulders. The executioner stood to the left and, without hesitation, delivered a precise blow. When the head flew into the pit and the body obediently slumped after it, "assistants" pounced from all sides—trying to squeeze as much blood out of it as possible. Next, the accomplice was brought in and placed by the second pit. He didn't want to keep still and kept trying to fall on his side, but still offered the bloody sacrifice.
Finally, it was Seiji's turn. Now this straight and thin, bamboo-stem of a man seemed unbending and looked at everyone with a feeling of cold superiority. Just yesterday, in a damp, dark cell where only rats saw him, he seemed to need nothing but understanding. He was quiet and detached. Satow had come to talk to him one-on-one. And this is what he heard.
"If those two had gotten out of the way, I wouldn't have touched them."
"But that's not in any of the interrogations."
"I know. They want to make a beast out of me. Well, so much the better. A beast is almost a hero."
"Inaba and Gamaike—they weren't there, were they?"
"They weren't. So what? The case, it seems, is closed."
"Who was?"
"I don't remember that."
And he sang some sad song about a young beauty and an elusive wind and ended it with the words that killing barbarians was the true spirit of a Japanese. Then Seiji was paraded through the city with his hands tied and a sign on which the sentence was written—as a warning to like-minded individuals. The Japanese, every single one, considered him a hero, even the executioner. For the first time in his life, this fellow, who had cut off hundreds of heads, felt like a murderer.
"Precision. In this business, precision is above all else. An execution on the second attempt is not an execution, but a mockery of both oneself and the condemned, may Buddha forgive him. The very last scoundrel deserves a quick death, and a hero all the more so. A great honor and a great sorrow—to execute a hero. Oh, don't let my hand tremble," he thought. And then he rolled up his sleeves, wrapped the sword hilt with a piece of coarse cloth, and gripped it firmly in his calloused, tenacious palms. He waited until Seiji drank his sake—it was his last request—and finished singing his favorite song. He asked not to be blindfolded and for the sword to be sharpened well.
At the last moment, his hand did tremble, and Seiji turned his head to the left, as if wanting to say something in farewell. The first blow was inaccurate, and the neck had to be chopped again, crunching through the bones. Satow hurried to leave the place of execution, pushing through the English garrison detachment. In the crowd, he distinguished cheerful voices.
"Sheer beasts, that's what you get for fighting such people. Better to step aside and wait until they devour each other out of sheer malice."
"Yeah! I feel like I'm at my butcher's. He used to crack a lamb's bones just like that."
Part 10. Footprints in the Snow
The second murderer of Bird and Baldwin was captured in early winter. The sun and the stormy wind argued with each other, and from time to time, the first snow pellets broke from the sky. As if someone up above was scattering rice by the handful — to feed the hungry. The prison yard became alternately white and gloomy when clouds rushed in, and dirty-gray again in the sunlight. The snow fell and immediately melted, leaving no traces on the ground. The young criminal possessed neither the fortitude nor the courage of Shimizu Seiji, and therefore the reprisal against him looked even more brutal. All the cruelty of war could not compare with it. Satow vowed that no force in the world would ever make him witness the sorrowful and shameful act called "execution" again.
When the Bird and Baldwin affair was over, he remembered Kamakura and decided to find Felice Beato — the instigator of the upcoming trip. By that time, the photographer had opened the first commercial photo studio in Yokohama and had enlisted the artist Charles Wirgman as his partner. A small premises with two huge surnames above the entrance was located on Benten-dori Street, not far from Satow's first apartment. He entered without knocking and was stunned. In the middle of the studio, on a "carpet" of black soil and withered foliage, stood a man of samurai appearance—shaved crown, long sword, and a stern gaze. Before him—on his knees and blindfolded—a "criminal" meekly awaited his fate. The backdrop for the dreadful scene was a pastoral landscape with Mount Fuji and picturesque pines.
"Don't raise the sword, don't raise it! What are you going to do... Both palms on the hilt—one a bit higher, like this, the other closer to the blade..." Beato left the camera and ran up to the "executioner," grabbing his hands. He was clearly on edge. The perfect composition was falling apart before his eyes because the model didn't know how to handle the weapon.
"Ah, Ernest, you'll be rich... You caught me on the verge of a nervous breakdown. These peasants have never held anything in their hands except pitchforks and hoes. I'd stand in the frame myself, but my face isn't fit for it. And I pay these people ten dollars a day! Saving them from starvation! Break! Damn you all..."
They sat down on a low wooden bench—all stained with paint. Rolls of glossy Japanese wall-paper and packs of packaged white paper—for Wirgman's sketches—lay in the corners. Only one element of this creative space looked finished: an open cabinet with neat rows of negatives—clean as in a medical laboratory.
"And I, imagine, have sworn off executions. What's going on here? Surely such photographs are in demand?" Satow asked when the models had dispersed.
"Oh, very much so, they have the biggest demand. You saw it yourself. Those crowds, thirsting for blood and thrills, their greedy, hellfire-burning eyes... Fear without threat to life—a piquant spice for a meaningless existence. You can make good money on that. Especially when it comes to the folk hero Shimizu Seiji..."
"His eyes weren't blindfolded."
"Strange. What's this new fashion?"
"He asked to."
"Ah, yes, they say he sang songs right before the execution too. An odd fellow. And he didn't repent, the scoundrel... That's what comes of living without the Christian faith. With them, it's like this—you die, you're reborn. So why grieve if there's no hell or heaven? And sins, therefore, need not be atoned for—cut down whoever you want..."
"With sins, they actually have it wisely and justly. If you don't atone in this life, you'll answer in the next. And so on in a circle."
"What's good about that? So the most terrible murderer always has a chance of salvation."
"But they don't destroy the soul, only the body. And they don't equate killing the body with killing the soul... After all, it truly is short-lived. And the soul—which is immortal—lives on crippled if it meets a real murderer..."
"And these—aren't they real? Toy ones?"
"They are real if they torment and make one suffer. That's what kills souls."
"Did your Japanese woman tell you that? Oh, Ernest, you rushed into marriage..."
"She doesn't like you either. But for a trip to Kamakura, she's ready to pray for you. For some reason, she needs that shrine... Hachiman's."
"Ah, the military shrine? Well, since we're done with the murderers—even if they're not real—I intend to go there... tomorrow, even. And I hope no noble knight chops up my mortal body. So tell your madam."
"Come by our place early, if work allows. I'm curious to see the masterpiece."
"And note, completely free of charge."
Beato no longer understood himself where his life was rushing, and what place he occupied in it. At times, he sensed with his gut that he had found his purpose, and the meaning — the profound meaning — sparkled like a bright butterfly on the horizon. But then the butterfly would disappear with the first gust of wind, and life became boring, vulgar, burdensome, and unbearably cramped again, like prison shackles. Neither distant countries nor mortal risk helped him retain the coveted feeling of his own importance — for longer than an instant. Real life remained somewhere outside the lens, and with it—real, more important people.
A friend to all and a friend to none. The life of the party, unbearable one-on-one. This sociable joker easily got along with anyone, had many different acquaintances, and not a single truly kindred soul. He grabbed at everything and made grand plans, but insurmountable difficulties constantly stood in his way. An artist by nature, Beato reluctantly burdened his head with numbers and planning, and financial matters went very poorly for him. In moments of numerous falls, he hopefully recalled how past failures "made him stronger." The Italian loved talking about himself more than anything in the world. That's how he added color to black-and-white memories not captured in any photograph.
________________________________________
That strange night, Kana couldn't fall asleep at all. She waited for dawn as a condemned man awaits execution, and she talked and talked and talked and talked. The wind, grown stronger over the Pacific, howled plaintively and forlornly, tore at the flimsy windows, and raised heavy memories from the depths of her soul. It was then that Satow finally heard the long-awaited truthful story. She was five years old when her father first brought her to the Hachiman Shrine, dedicated to the stern god of war. The maples were already reddening and falling leisurely. Up the steep, stone staircase reaching for the sky, women of unearthly beauty, cheerful children with angelic faces, and stern, noble warriors who knew no fear climbed one after another. They all wanted to touch the shrine. War was their deity.
Under these red vaults, in the ecstatic crowd of parishioners, the clever girl first felt sick, and then—surprisingly light. She understood and with submission accepted that real life was far from her girlish dreams. What could she do? A samurai's daughter—the beautiful and cruel land of Yamato — was born from the fire of terrible enmity. And probably, there was no country in the world born in greater agony. Her father said that many centuries ago, the Taira and Minamoto clans drowned each other in blood. They wanted power—no more and no less than all others. First, they fought outsiders for money, land, and regalia. Then anger and hatred took hold of them, demanding revenge for fallen comrades. And when the enemy was finished, they turned on their own brothers. The greedy god of war, having tasted blood, demanded more and more—without distinguishing faces or names. Kana knew this for sure. She was of Minamoto blood.
"When the war ended, the divine Emperor declared the winner the first Shogun, and the defeated—barbarians."
She spoke slowly, chanting, trying to fill every word with meaning.
"Thus, all earthly power went to Minamoto no Yoritomo. Not the strongest, not the noblest, but the cruelest and most unprincipled warrior. In gratitude to the higher powers, he built a shrine on Crane Hill, which to this day remains the main sanctuary of all Minamoto… Father considered Yoritomo a hero. He said the defeated—the Taira—were worse than wild beasts. Because of them, rivers of blood flowed; they killed children and women, and if not for their hopeless stupidity and malice—there would be no wars in the world… I listened to him spellbound, trying to remember every word. But the story of poor Shizuka spoiled everything. She lost the most in this war, though she hadn't spilled a single drop of blood."
"I think I've read about this Shizuka somewhere... one of the best dancers and most brilliant beauties of her time, who died some horrible, tragic death."
"Yoritomo had a younger brother—Yoshitsune. They started a rebellion against the Taira together, to avenge their father's death. While Yoritomo ruled from his headquarters in Kamakura, Yoshitsune led the military campaign against the Taira. Legends were told about this brilliant commander and peerless warrior. The samurai idolized him and were ready to do anything at his command. Fearing for his position, Yoritomo ordered his brother killed — while he was on a military campaign. A terrible fate also awaited his pregnant wife… Shizuka. The Shogun spared her life but decided to get rid of the nephew—if it was a boy. And so it happened. The infant was killed, and the tiny body was thrown into the ocean off the coast of Kamakura. Shizuka danced her last dance in the square before the Hachiman Shrine and went to a monastery. There, the twenty-year-old beauty quickly withered away, spending the last year of her life in prayers."
"My goodness. That year must have seemed very long to her..."
"Then I doubted my father's words and wanted to run away from this shrine. I wanted to shout to everyone I met that they had no place here, that they were treacherously deceived and were praying to the wrong gods. But then he hugged me and squeezed my small hand in his strong one, and I thought that I had never loved anyone in my life so much, and most likely, never would. And if I had to kill for my father's sake, I would kill — others, myself, and I wouldn't hesitate. I had no other path, it seemed. And now I don't know what to do."
"About what?"
"I think I'm pregnant."
"Why do you say that so despondently?"
"It's bad."
"Why?"
"Because. I don't want to become too attached to anyone. When you love with all your soul, and then they hurt you very badly — strike at the soft core of everything most bright and beautiful — how can you not become brutalized, how can you not go mad?"
"You have to fight. A true warrior is not one who chops off heads, but one who resists the darkness—no matter how strong it is. And first of all—within himself. No wonder angels are heavenly warriors. They fell into hell—then flapped their little wings—and were back in the heavens, in their native kingdom of light. And even took a couple of lost, weak souls with them."
"They manage that cleverly. I wish I could do the same, or else... In short, I don't want his mother to be a murderer."
"But you haven't killed anyone."
"Not yet. But who knows what might happen."
Then she was silent for a bit and added.
"You know, it was because of me that things turned out the way they did… with the French and Shimonoseki."
"I don't understand at all. What have you got to do with it? The consul spoke about some local informants; surely you're not involved in that?"
"Colonel Neale, and then Sir Alcock, were worried about you. Seeing that we were close, they asked me to keep an eye on you. Your friendship with the Satsuma samurai, and especially with Saig; Takamori, alarmed them. They feared that with your help, the imperial forces would learn the enemy's secrets, gain the upper hand over the Shogunate, and again achieve the closing of the country. That couldn't be allowed. And I wanted to be near you and couldn't refuse. Then Alcock learned from me about the Japanese collusion with the French. He was angry that you had hidden it from him. And, apparently, because of that, he sent you to certain death. But I couldn't have imagined that things would go so far, and your life would be in danger because of me."
"Thank you for your honesty. Better late than never. And of course, I don't blame you at all. Of course..." The translator got up from the bed and paced in circles, nervously clasping his hands behind his back, "Well, you've set me up for a fine night, damn you! And now I can't even leave you. Well, that's clever. Congratulations."
He silently went downstairs and locked himself in Willis's former room, which he and his wife — that deceitful Japanese viper—had furnished as a living room. Leaving for England, the doctor had left a whole chest of medicines for all occasions. Satow took out a brown vial of laudanum—an opium tincture. Willis said it relieved any pain. Exactly half remained—meaning Kana knew about this remedy too. Under its influence, Satow slept on the floor until morning.
________________________________________
At dawn, Kana was again transformed beyond recognition. It was hard to imagine a creature more meek, touching, and defenseless than this translucent nymph who had descended to the sinful earth from the second floor of a wooden house in Yokohama. Her white outfit with azure lilies made her look like the smoke from an opium den. It intoxicates and intoxicates, but the wind blows—and it's gone. On her thin waist, she fastened a heavy, well-sharpened katana. And going outside, she shrank from the cold. The outer door handle, the trees, the fallen leaves had turned gray overnight—covered with silver frost.
"Ernest, bring me something warm to put on. It seems winter has come," she called to her husband. Satow, who hadn't said a word to her all morning, was fussing in the garden and had just finished saddling the sleepy horses. They snorted discontentedly and stamped their hooves on the ground—all covered in snowy dust. He glanced at his wife, raising his eyebrows, and silently walked into the house — past her. He returned with a long mantle in his hands. A marvelous, rare thing. Cranes of gold embroidery flew across the red brocade; the collar was trimmed with black satin. The first thing that came to hand. Six months ago, this outfit "for a special occasion"—like a reception at the consul's—had cost him half his monthly salary, but the "occasion" had never arrived. "Now—completely out of place and time," he thought. "And to hell with it."
"Sorry, couldn't find a crown... Bear up. We'll have to manage without it. You don't seem yourself today. Maybe we should stay home?"
"This is exactly what's needed! How did you guess?" she squealed with childish joy, suddenly, nervously animating, and pressed her cheek against her husband. Then she suddenly went out altogether and pulled away.
"You know... You've become very dear to me," she said somehow thoughtfully and sternly, looking past him with hidden despair. His heart ached at her tone, and he himself didn't know why.
Felice Beato, as if on purpose, arrived on time—for the first and last time in his sinful life. Had he been late, as usual, by twenty minutes—Satow would have had time to listen to his intuition and put a cross on this whole strange undertaking. And who knows—perhaps he would have had a chance at happiness. But that Hachiman Shrine was the crowning achievement of his military-photographic career. The wayward genius was so excited, so awaited this meeting, that he hadn't gone to bed at all. All night he worked on the promised miracle of progress—a color photograph. The staged, studio "execution of the folk hero" Shimizu Seiji promised him and the artist Wirgman not only solid profits but—now for sure — world fame. Colored by hand, like a ukiyo-e print, it lost its drama and turned into some kind of Kabuki theater scene. An unparalleled masterpiece, thought Felice. Spotting Kana from afar, standing like a bright beacon by the door, he rushed to her and smugly handed her a commemorative copy.
"I swear to God, you've never seen anything like it! The print run is small for now—only ten copies. Quality above all. We're putting them on sale today. And you, I see, have a weapon no worse than our executioner's," Beato smirked.
The family sword, half her own height, caught the eye, making one want to relieve the weak creature of its unbearable burden. With a sharp movement, Kana wrapped herself in the mantle, and the katana disappeared under the wide folds. She replied, however, politely and even affectionately:
"Thank you. Your work is above all praise. And my special regards to Mr. Wirgman. He is definitely one of the best masters in your country," she tucked the photo into an inside pocket and headed for the horse. She jumped into the saddle in one go, didn't even ask for a leg up.
"Oh, these samurai daughters," Felice sighed with resignation.
The path to the Hachiman Shrine was not long but revealed itself only to the initiated. These remote, mountainous paths and gloomy forests Kana knew immeasurably better than her companions. She never looked back, even if called loudly on the road—and walked slightly ahead, as befitted a guide. This time, too, she slowed her pace and waited for Satow to draw level with her, to look into her hopelessly black eyes and ask a tormenting question.
"Why did you bring the sword with you?"
"I already told you."
"I need an honest answer."
"You yourself said the roads could be dangerous."
"Do you think two men with firearms can't protect you? Since when is a sword better than a revolver? And besides, we're done with the murderers. There's nothing to fear. Don't you believe me?"
"There will be no end to murderers as long as the human race exists. And a woman must protect herself all the more. Otherwise, it will be like in the story of the beautiful Shizuka... Heard of it?"
"I certainly have..." said Satow.
"But I haven't had the pleasure. But I'm ready to lend you my ears this very minute. If Ernest promises not to be a bore and not to pester me with stupid questions." The portly Beato kept his seat with great difficulty, and his horse was a mean, kicky one. But he tried his best not to disgrace himself—in the literal and figurative sense.
"I promise," was the gloomy reply.
And Kana, with great eagerness, repeated the story of the cruel, fratricidal war between the Taira and Minamoto. A story so ancient that no one living now considered it entirely truthful.
________________________________________
By winter, the monk Katsuro had begun to limp on one leg. And the more he overcame the pain, straining his last strength to do his assigned work, the more his knee swelled. He neglected treatment, and finally brought himself to the point where he couldn't descend the shrine staircase without help. The other monks forcibly put him to bed and forbade him to get up until fully recovered, diligently supplying him with ointments and poultices. And so he had been lying for several days—alone with his pain. Something told him he would lose this battle. And to die so shamefully was not what a former warrior wanted.
For the first time in a long while, he heard noise outside the door and someone's voice that seemed to be calling him. Then light burst into the narrow, ash-gray room, more like a hole in the wall—it was the boy-servant looking in on him. A ten-year-old hooligan and brawler from a very noble family, sent for re-education.
"Hey, Katsuro, they told me not to disturb you, but there's an urgent matter here."
"What happened?" Katsuro asked with hope for deliverance.
"There are three people looking for you. A strange company. Two men—gaijin — and a Japanese girl with them. Very beautiful. She's the one who's eager to see you. Says it's a matter of life and death."
Without a second thought, Katsuro sat up on the bed and started looking for his shoes with his eyes, but they were nowhere to be seen.
"Looking for these?" asked the servant, handing a pair of worn-out shoes from behind the door. "You're not supposed to go out, you know. And I'll get no pat on the head. Let's go down the back door. I'll help."
Leaning on the boy's shoulder, old Katsuro—and he felt old—trudged to the spare staircase. Stepping on the sore leg was unbearable, and it dragged powerlessly behind him as he hopped on the other leg, trying to keep his feeble body upright. But the boy was strong. With him, they slipped out of the shrine unnoticed and, passing through frost-covered thickets of azaleas, came to the bridge overlooking the two ponds. One was dedicated to the Minamoto, and in summer white lotuses grew there, while the other—with red lotuses—reminded of the blood shed by the Taira clan. Now nothing grew in these cold waters, and it was hard to tell one pond from the other.
"They're waiting by the Minamoto pond," said the servant, and they continued on their way.
The guests were indeed amazing. A tall, ramrod-straight European—with a long neck and eyes deep, piercing, and icy. Young, but life would age him quickly. It spares not the proud. The second—a fat hedonist, adventurer, and in rare cases — seeker of life's meaning. This one immediately headed for the shrine — nothing else concerned him. Set up some apparatus on a tripod stand and pointed it towards the main staircase. He himself bent over it on one side and buried his forehead in it. Strange. The girl was beautiful and dressed like an empress — in a purple mantle with a bird pattern. Unexpectedly, the cranes had returned to Crane Hill. She whispered a couple of words to the second, prickly one, and he, with a distrustful look, withdrew after the fat man. In farewell, the girl touched his cheek with her hand and smiled tenderly after him. When the two were far away and couldn't hear them, the stranger's face changed—as the sky changes before a storm—and she approached the monk, looking him straight in the eye.
"So I've found you, Saito," she hissed viciously.
"Who are you talking about? There is no Saito here."
"I know all about you. And I've been looking for you all my life, to take revenge. Many years ago, Saito, whom you've forgotten, killed my father. First my real one, then my adoptive one. Killed all my loved ones—my mother, my brothers, my sisters. Killed them cruelly and mercilessly. But I managed to survive, and here I am. Remember now!"
Katsuro didn't understand half her words and thought only of his sore leg. The girl standing before him was young and beautiful as sunlight, but for some reason spoke of death.
"Daughter, I don't know you at all, I don't know who your parents were, and I remember almost nothing from my past life. And Saito remembers even less. He killed more people than the wind blows leaves, but it's not for you and me to judge him. Such is his sorrowful lot. It's good it's winter now, and nothing reminds him of it. If you only knew how hard it is to carry all these leaves on yourself! Look what time has done to me. There's nothing left in me of that bloodthirsty Saito; I'm just a poor, half-starved monk. Skin and bones."
"Don't you dare, don't you dare appeal for compassion, you mangy dog! You'll get no forgiveness or sympathy from me. For years I've destroyed everything soft, feminine, everything weak and human in myself, so as not to flinch and not take a step back at the very last moment. Revenge is the meaning of my existence, and don't awaken other feelings in me!"
"Very well, if you want to kill me so much, I will part with my life without regret. To tell the truth, I'm quite bored with it. My torments are so great that I will gladly accept death from your beautiful hands. Only one thing worries me. To deprive someone of life is a heavy burden; will your fragile shoulders bear it? As before — will never be. Such is the law. And I would like, my dear, to wish you happiness. For that, I am ready to endure all the sufferings of the world."
"My father also wished me happiness, and you killed him for his loyalty to the Emperor. Didn't you know whom you raised your sword against? Didn't know that the Takeda are descendants of the Minamoto? And now you serve in the Hachiman Shrine — in our shrine! Where do you get such shamelessness? No, I won't let you die nobly; you will die like a beast. Because of you, I became the wife of an enemy; to get to you, I began to help the enemy. And do you know why? Because you are more terrible than any enemy. You are a traitor, a vile rat. I searched for you all over the country, searched even in Kyoto—all in vain. You hid where you are hardest to find. But now my heart trembles in anticipation of your death."
This was a lie. Kana didn't show it by word or gesture, but the worst had happened to her. At the last moment, she weakened, went soft. Everything she had lived for, striven for over long years, turned out to be empty and futile. She realized she couldn't take the heavy father's sword in her hands and with a punishing, dignified, sharp movement cut off the head of the blissful old man, before whom she wanted to fall on her face and sob, embracing his feet. And before this terrible thought could completely possess her, before love and mercy in an instant destroyed years of labor of hatred and thirst for vengeance, she quickly—almost reflexively—pulled a small knife from her bosom, the one with which she cut flowers in spring and ripe plums in summer. She came very, very close to the old man and, on an exhale, plunged the knife into his skinny stomach. Bewilderment froze on the monk's emaciated face, his body went limp and obediently slumped into her arms. He never understood that his tedious life had finally ceased, and the pain in his leg would trouble him no more.
EPILOGUE
Almighty spirit, giving birth to all living things! To you we erect our temples. And as long as the cranes sing, and as long as the snow falls, as long as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, they are unshakable in our hearts. The summit of the highest mountain serves as their foundation, and their guard—the cruel and fierce spirit of war. Like a chained dog, it opens its greedy maw, and we obediently bring bloody sacrifices. In the bud, we destroy everything precious, pure, dear to the heart, and at times are ready to leap headlong into it ourselves. We are deceptively driven by something equal in power to love.
The old man had been right. Victory over him lay as a heavy burden on her young, healthy shoulders and broke her fragile bones. Kana didn't raise a fuss and didn't show anything when the monk, all covered in blood, lay beside her on the shore of the Minamoto lake, where the white lotuses had not yet had time to bloom. An invisible force pulled her to the ground—so that her knees buckled. She held the bloodied knife in her hand. Her father would have been very proud, probably. What a pity that now no one would be proud of her. The deed was done. Life had been lived. For good or ill, each has their own lot. Somewhere far away—under the curved slopes of pointed roofs—remained the man who, unfortunately, had managed to love her.
Funny and sad. Someday he would be able to forgive her. And their child would probably have been clever, would have gone to London—or wherever children from blessed families who know neither poverty nor war go. But what's the use now. Now she was concerned with something else. What was the war god Hachiman, in whom she had believed, like? Did he love his children as that other one, of whom the Englishman spoke, did? It can't be that the sacrifices were in vain? Yes, there, beyond the line of darkness, her deserved reward awaited her. Not the heavenly bowers of the righteous, not the luminous peace of sages, but a palace of martial valor adorned with trophies. Bronze statues of the best warriors would bow before her and cast their swords at her feet, and she would draw her sword and finally rid herself of the unbearable burden. Clinging to this small hope, Kana lay down on the ground—next to the old man—and with the same knife, still warm from his blood, slit her own throat. That's what all the women of her clan did when living became more terrible than dying.
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In the distance, the dry, staccato beat of drums sounded, followed by the clatter of many hooves on a cobbled path. A detachment of dozens, if not hundreds, of horsemen appeared. The great Shogun of the Tokugawa dynasty had come to the shrine built by the Shogun of the Minamoto dynasty, straight from Kyoto. This short man with a hard, immobile face, every nerve of which was frozen in tension, kept a terrible secret. Panic had gripped the imperial capital but had not yet swept through the narrow streets of Edo, Yokohama, Nagasaki, and Kamakura. The divine Emperor K;mei—this last defender of the land of Yamato — had untimely and suddenly passed into the next world. As the doctors said, the cause was smallpox. But no, even this monstrous disease could not so disfigure a face. On the day of his death, the mikado's face had blackened and contorted to such an extent that he was unrecognizable. The little prince—the future Emperor Meiji—seeing it, screamed in horror. One could not appear before Amaterasu in such a state. The court physician ordered a crystal-white porcelain mask to be made. In it, the Emperor was committed to the flames.
Now the Shogun wanted to ascend to the Hachiman sanctuary and ask a single question, but he couldn't form it into anything coherent and complete. All the samurai of his detachment had already passed the huge torii that cut into the sky as a perfect red rectangle. In the Shinto teaching, known as the "way of the gods," these gates separated the higher, spiritual world from everything earthly. The Shogun respectfully dismounted and alone climbed the curved Drum Bridge, intended for his high office. It was easy to fall from the slippery bridge. On both sides, the ponds of the hostile Genji and Heike clans cooled in winter's embrace.
The Shogun noticed something like two human figures on a distant, frost-covered shore of the pond and sent guards to check. They returned and reported with impassive faces that those two, it seemed, had died a violent death.
"So this is how I am received here!" the Shogun said. "What disrespect. And in this shrine, the sacred shrine of war! It seems nothing holy remains on this earth; we have defiled all we could defile. We are not far from a coup!"
The monks bustled about. Preparing for the evening prayer, they realized Katsuro was missing. By his open cell door, the dropped rosary in his haste, and finally, by the footprints in the snow, they reached the scene of the tragedy, but it was too late. The Shogun ordered the bodies of the girl and the old man to be taken away and immediately committed to the flames. The monks fell to their knees before him, begging forgiveness, but he, not looking at them, headed for the shrine. The samurai waited for him in complete silence.
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Neither the photographer nor the translator noticed anything that was happening under their noses. They were quite chilled and hid from the cold inside the shrine, where there wasn't a soul between prayers. Beato joked all the way and dreamed of world fame, while Satow was planning to resign and return to London with his wife. The consulate had refused a salary increase, and they couldn't live on three hundred pounds with a child. His father had already given his approval and secured him a lucrative position at the University. Enough exoticism. Here everything was alien and somehow unreal. A mirage that was about to disappear.
"Felice, they've been gone a long time, I'm worried. It's not dangerous here, is it?"
"Come on—nothing but monks around. They wouldn't hurt a fly, or whoever buzzes here... It's when you ride back at night, watch out then! Listen, I didn't want to tell you right away… but I'm going on alone from here. Go back home, she needs to take care of herself, and I have grand plans. Hakone, Hara, the Yamanashi Valley, Miyanoshita, Nagasaki, Omiya, Edo, Kyoto at last! All of Japan will be ours! We'll catch it in the lens!" And he laughed carefreely, slapping his camera as if it were the shoulder of a comrade-in-arms.
"What can you talk about for so long, even with the rarest medical specialist? And what herbs could there be at this time of year? Dried ones, maybe. They didn't go into the forest to look for them, did they?"
"These expectant mothers—all have their quirks, they have only one thing on their minds. Who am I telling this to. Well, if you want—go take a look. I'll warm up here for now."
A huge bonfire was blazing in the shrine's inner courtyard, and thick black smoke rose higher than Tsurugaoka Hill. The servants of the war god in monastic robes lined up to see off their brother and the unknown, beautiful girl in the crane mantle on their final journey. Satow went towards this smoke, and the sight that opened before him he took for an ancient rite. He quietly asked the procession what was happening. His eyes were watering badly, and it was becoming hard to breathe. He wanted to leave this place as soon as he heard the answer.
"Some madwoman attacked the monk Katsuro with a knife, and then stuck the same knife into her own throat. Our servant saw it all from afar, but didn't hear a word and didn't have time to call for help. According to him, it all looked proper, and he couldn't have imagined that a conversation with such a young lady could end in something so monstrous... What was it? Could the sins of a wild youth have caught up with Katsuro? Women are dangerous, treacherous, and there's no escaping them, it seems!"
The full, terrible meaning of what was said didn't reach him immediately. At first, he tried to convince himself that it was another girl and another monk burning in that fire, and continued to search for Kana in the shrine's vicinity. And then, at night, worn out, he returned to the dying fire and watched as the monks raked the ashes. Then he followed them for a long time, as if enchanted, away from the shrine—along the road leading to the coast. That same night, the ashes were scattered over the ocean. Fortunately, the moon shone brightly, and he got a good look at and remembered the place where the ashes met the water.
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The door to the translator's office was locked from the inside, and for several days now, no one had come out. The English consulate urged everyone to treat his grief with respect and not to disturb him over trifles, but Beato couldn't rid himself of frightening thoughts. Unnoticed, he slipped into the second floor of the diplomatic mission building. Hearing no sound from behind Satow's door, he broke it down with his shoulder. There, in the stuffy room, it smelled of alcohol and despair. On a worn-out sofa, clutching his head in his hands, half-sitting, half-lying, was some emaciated man with sunken eyes who resembled his good acquaintance—as a shadow on the wall resembles a living person. Felice called out to him, but there was no answer.
An open notebook with dates and entries in English lay on the table — apparently, a diary. From the crooked, sweeping letters, resembling hieroglyphs, the photographer realized Kana had been keeping it. And this was probably the only thing Satow had taken from their house in Yokohama. And he didn't want to return there anymore. The notebook was almost completely filled, and on the open page, the text broke off. It must have spoken of their acquaintance with Ernest, the trip to Kyoto, the hunt for red leaves, their life together in Yokohama, and at least a little — about the reasons for her strange act. Beato didn't try to read it carefully. Only the last phrase caught his eye — "The sun also rises." All about themselves, these people... The Land of the Rising Sun, that's clear. But what did she mean by this "also"?
Satow seemed to notice neither the guest nor the broken door. Then Beato sat down beside him and put a hand on his back.
"We've lost you," he said cautiously, without any hope of an answer.
"I've lost myself," the shadow of Satow suddenly responded.
"Yes, you don't look too good."
"Why did she do it? It's all so stupid somehow. Stupid and meaningless. And God knows what to do with it all now... Some kind of evil, monstrous phantasmagoria. Inhuman! Damn, damn!.." He buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child.
"Erm, buddy, you're not going to lay hands on yourself too, are you? Or start killing everyone in sight? Ernest, she was weak, she couldn't do it right. Hatred in her turned out to be stronger than love. But you are strong, you can do it. Don't let the darkness defeat you. You know how it's done now, don't you?"
And he repeated with a doubt in his voice that faltered at the last moment:
"You know now, don't you?"
May 23, 2024
Hunting for Red Leaves
© Copyright: Ýëü Ðèêìàí, 2025
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹225120301238
Ñâèäåòåëüñòâî î ïóáëèêàöèè ¹225120301238
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