Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [115]
The monk’s tantrum grew apace. The nearby Japanese shifted uneasily. One of them got up and shook the priest gently and spoke to him. Father Domingo gradually came out of his fit, his eyes cleared. He looked at Blackthorne with recognition, replied to the Japanese, and calmed the rest.
“So sorry, señor,” he said breathlessly. “They—they thought I was angry against—against the señor. God forgive my foolish rage! It was just—que va, Jesuits come from hell, along with heretics and heathens. I can tell you much about them.” The monk wiped the spittle off his chin and tried to calm himself. He pressed his chest to ease the pain there. “The señor was saying? Thy ship, it was cast ashore?”
“Yes. In a way. We came aground,” Blackthorne replied. He eased his legs carefully. The men who were watching and listening gave him more room. One got up and motioned him to stretch out. “Thanks,” he said at once. “Oh, how do you say ‘thank you,’ Father?”
“‘Domo.’ Sometimes you say ‘arigato.’ A woman has to be very polite, señor. She says ‘arigato goziemashita.’”
“Thank you. What’s his name?” Blackthorne indicated the man who had got up.
“That’s Gonzalez.”
“But what’s his Japanese name?”
“Ah yes! He’s Akabo. But that just means ‘porter,’ señor. They don’t have names. Only samurai have names.”
“What?”
“Only samurai have names, first names and surnames. It’s their law, señor. Everyone else has to make do with what they are—porter, fisherman, cook, executioner, farmer, and so on. Sons and daughters are mostly just First Daughter, Second Daughter, First Son, and so on. Sometimes they’d call a man ‘fisherman who lives near the elm tree’ or ‘fisherman with bad eyes.’” The monk shrugged and stifled a yawn. “Ordinary Japanese aren’t allowed names. Whores give themselves names like Carp or Moon or Petal or Eel or Star. It’s strange, señor, but it’s their law. We give them Christian names, real names, when we baptize them, bringing them salvation and the word of God …” His words trailed off and he slept.
“Domo, Akabo-san,” Blackthorne said to the porter.
The man smiled shyly and bowed and sucked in his breath.
Later the monk awakened and said a brief prayer and scratched. “Only yesterday, the señor said? He came here only yesterday? What occurred with the señor?”
“When we landed there was a Jesuit there,” Blackthorne said. “But you, Father. You were saying they accused you? What happened to you and your ship?”
“Our ship? Did the señor ask about our ship? Was the señor coming from Manila like us? Or—oh, how foolish of me! I remember now, the señor was outward bound from home and never in Asia before. By the Blessed Body of Christ, it’s so good to talk to a civilized man again, in my blessed mother’s tongue! Que va, it’s been so long. My head aches, aches, señor. Our ship? We were going home at long last. Home from Manila to Acapulco, in the land of Cortes, in Mexico, thence overland to Vera Cruz. And thence another ship and across the Atlantic, and at long, long last, to home. My village is outside Madrid, señor, in the mountains. It is called Santa Veronica. Forty years I’ve been away, señor. In the New World, in Mexico and in the Philippines. Always with our glorious conquistadores, may the Virgin watch over them! I was in Luzon when we destroyed the heathen native king, Lumalon, and conquered Luzon, and so brought the word of God to the Philippines. Many of our Japan converts fought with us even then, señor. Such fighters! That was in 1575. Mother Church is well planted there, my son, and never a filthy Jesuit or Portuguese to be seen. I came to the Japans for almost two years, then had to leave for Manila again when the Jesuits betrayed us.”
The monk stopped and closed his eyes, drifting off. Later he came back again, and, as old people will sometimes do, he continued as though he had never slept. “My ship was the great galleon San Felipe. We carried a cargo of spices, gold and silver, and specie to the value of a million and a half silver pesos. One of the great storms