Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [321]
Many times he had gone to Omi’s house to see Mariko or to inquire about her. Samurai had always turned him away, politely but firmly. Omi had told him as a tomodashi, a friend, that she was all right. Don’t worry, Anjin-san. Do you understand? Yes, he had said, understanding only that he could not see her.
Then he had been sent for by Toranaga and had wanted to tell him so much but because of his lack of words had failed to do anything other than irritate him. Fujiko had gone several times to see Mariko. When she came back she always said that Mariko was well, adding the inevitable, “Shinpai suruna, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu?” Don’t worry—do you understand?
With Buntaro it had been as though nothing had ever happened. They mouthed polite greetings when they met during the day. Apart from occasionally using the bath house, Buntaro was like any other samurai in Anjiro, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
From dawn to dusk Blackthorne had been chased by the accelerated training. He had had to suppress his frustration as he tried to teach, and strove to learn the language. By nightfall he was always exhausted. Hot and sweating and rain-soaked. And alone. Never had he felt so alone, so aware of not belonging in this alien world.
Then there was the horror that began three days ago. It had been a very long humid day. At sunset he had wearily ridden home and had instantly felt trouble permeating his house. Fujiko had greeted him nervously.
“Nan desu ka?”
She had replied quietly, at length, eyes lowered.
“Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand. “Nan desu ka?” he asked again, impatiently, his fatigue making him irritable.
Then she had beckoned him into the garden. She pointed at the eaves but the roof seemed sound enough to him. More words and signs and it finally dawned on him that she was pointing to where he had hung the pheasant.
“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Watashi …” But he couldn’t remember how to say it so he just shrugged wearily. “Wakarimasu. Nan desu kiji ka?” I understand. What about the pheasant?
Servants were peering at him from doors and windows, clearly petrified. She spoke again. He concentrated but her words did not make sense.
“Wakarimasen, Fujiko-san.” I don’t understand, Fujiko-san.
She took a deep breath, then shakily imitated someone removing the pheasant, carrying it away, and burying it.
“Ahhhh! Wakarimasu, Fujiko-san. Wakarimasu! Was it getting high?” he asked. As he did not know the Japanese word he held his nose and pantomimed stench.
“Hai, hai, Anjin-san. Dozo gomen nasai, gomen nasai.” She made the sound of flies and, with her hands, painted a picture of a buzzing cloud.
“Ah so desu! Wakarimasu.” Once upon a time he would have apologized and, if he had known the words, he would have said, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Instead he just shrugged, eased the ache in his back, and mumbled, “Shigata ga nai,” wanting only to slide into the ecstasy of the bath and massage, the only joy that made life possible. “The hell with it,” he said in English, turning away. “If I’d been here during the day I’d’ve noticed it. The hell with it!”
“Dozo, Anjin-san?”
“Shigata ga nai,” he repeated louder.
“Ah so desu, arigato goziemashita.”
“Tare toru desu ka?” Who took it?
“Ueki-ya.”
“Oh, that old bugger!” Ueki-ya, the gardener, the kind, toothless old man who tended the plants with loving hands and made his garden beautiful. “Yoi. Motte kuru Ueki-ya.” Good, fetch him.
Fujiko shook her head. Her face had become chalky white.
“Ueki-ya shinda desu, shinda desu!” she whispered.
“Ueki-ya ga shindato? Donoyoni? Doshité? Doshité shindanoda?” How? Why? How did he die?
Her hand pointed at the place where the pheasant had been and she spoke many gentle incomprehensible words. Then she mimed the single cut of a sword.
“Jesus Christ God! You put that old man to death over a stinking, God-cursed pheasant?”
At once all the servants rushed to the garden and fell on their knees. They put their heads into the dirt and froze, even the children of the cook.
“What the piss-hell’s going on?” Blackthorne