The Blonde Samurai (28 page)

Mr. Fawkes and I spoke in hushed tones as we sat upon large square purple pillows in the cypress-wood drawing room near the royal apartments, our backs to a pair of black lacquered screens inlaid with white pearl chrysanthemums, a subtle breeze of incense making my nose tingle with a woodsy scent. I reminded Mr. Fawkes of the time in Yokohama when I slid off a large pillow and onto the floor and for a moment we shared a bit of mirth. Then we fell silent, each to our own thoughts, Mr. Fawkes’s gold watch ticking away as he checked the hour numerous times. A royal handservant brought us hot
tea and sweet bean cakes, bowing low than leaving us alone. Raising the cup to my lips, I couldn’t help but notice how the room shimmered with hanging silks in bright red and blue mineral hues. I was too restless and unsettled to remember anything more as we waited for word from the empress. All I could think about was, if no word came and Shintaro committed
seppuku,
I had no recourse but to return home with my child.

A warrior is always prepared for a violent death and fears death less than you or I. A samurai such as Lord Shintaro exists in a state of mind where he does not fear death because he is trained since childhood to believe his life is not his own but in the service of others. As a boy, he is expected to endure the heat of summer and the cold of winter and is commanded to spend the night in cemeteries to familiarize him with the fearsome sensation that death evokes. (’Tis not as strange as you may believe. How often have young ruffians fled the London streets to endure a night in Abney Park Cemetery shrouded in gothic ruins and thick fog?) As a boy, a samurai learns to endure physical pain without betraying the slightest emotion. (No doubt if you ask his lordship, he will expound about his younger days in the British army under the stone-faced officer who led his troops into battle knowing he may die.) The way of the warrior is a noble pursuit, but when a samurai violates his code of honor, he must redeem himself with the act of ritual suicide, the heart of his discipline. He performs the ceremony by using a distinct blade to cut into his lower belly, considered the source of his power, his soul, making a horizontal cut from the left to the right side of his abdomen and, if his strength allows, follows this with another cut upward toward his throat, revealing the state
of his soul, pure or unclean. Death is not always immediate, but this allows him to maintain command over his own destiny until the end. Once he completes the ritual cuts, he offers his neck to his assistant standing behind him, ready to behead him.

May God rest his soul…

In the course of the longest evening of my life on that hot summer night of 1875, desperately eager to see my samurai again, to grab onto some semblance of him and the little things that meant so much to me, the deep desires that made my blood run hot, I relived every moment with Shintaro: from his seductive smile when he grabbed the train of my dress at the palace gate, to the animal smell of his lust when he thought I was a young man in Yoshiwara, to the unbelievable feeling I experienced rubbing our nude bodies together under a crashing waterfall. I tingled inside, then sadness seeped through me, for I couldn’t hold on to the sensuousness of my thoughts knowing how fleeting they were, like the fair pink blossoms so lovely and full of grace that linger on the bough for a short time. I couldn’t cry, my heart throbbing, flesh cold, chest so tight I could no longer think. When I put my hand to my bosom, a seeping dampness wet my fingertips, making them sticky. My breasts, full and heavy with milk, felt warm to my touch, the mother instinct in me at war with the temptress, so confused was I, wanting to run away with my child, yet craving to feel my samurai’s strong arms around me again…this madness, this recklessness devouring me like an insatiable lust to go to him, be with him before he drew his last breath, the waiting was killing me.
Why was I here, why wasn’t I with him?
What I’d asked for was impossible, why torture myself when I could be with him, touch his lips one
last time in a fated kiss? No, I couldn’t stand it any longer, I told Mr. Fawkes when his timepiece struck the hour before dawn. I was leaving now before the night dissipated into a pearl grayness blessed with mist and with tears…if only to see him one last time before the knife cut his life from me and an eternal coldness claimed my heart.

Grabbing the gosho doll, I raced from the drawing room seconds before the door to the royal apartments opened and the scent of camellia oil floated in on a silken breeze—

But I was already gone.

Dawn. Dew-filled. Hazy gray. Gathering up my skirts, I jumped from the carriage and opened the gate with a trembling hand, the stillness of the garden broken by the sound of a man’s heavy breathing.
Shintaro? Is he still alive? Or do the labored breaths belong to his trusted retainer? Am I too late?

What happened next occurred in the most fleeting of moments, every second precious. The harrowing scene before me claimed every nerve fiber in my being, as if I was scourged with a searing white pain that jarred my sense of reasoning and made me scream in my head with disbelief. My chest tightened, for the longer I stared, the stronger my sense of horror became, rooting me to the spot.

There in front of a three-paneled white screen, his second kneeling behind him with his sword held high in both hands, poised for the final act, I saw Shintaro sitting in repose and naked to the waist. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, his muscular chest, his knees and bare toes touching the thick red matting, the sleeves of his white kimono tucked under his knees to prevent him from falling backward when the deed was done, his body resting on his heels. He possessed such a potent aura that it made me stop, hold my breath, as if the
dawn approached him with reverence and homage. I wished I could hold this moment forever in my heart and not let it go, but it was a sinner’s prayer and the gods would not listen to me. I gasped when I saw him pick up the ritual knife wrapped in paper off the tray and unwrap it, then examine its nine and one-half inch sharp blade, his dark, brooding eyes flashing with profound fortitude and inhuman power. Then, with a final resolute look at the deadly weapon, he raised it over his head, his lips mumbling prayers, his eyes determining its lethal path when—

“Stop!”
I cried out, dropping the gosho doll. “I beg you, Shintaro, stop!”

He clenched his teeth, his face contorted, taut, but he would not put down the knife, as if he willed himself not to. Did I see a moment of hesitation flicker in his eyes when he looked at me with such longing and I did the same? Everything we had coming to life in those few moments? Yet never did I see him falter or weaken in his resolve. With every moment that passed, my heart pounded harder. My samurai didn’t flinch but I had to stop him,
had to,
before he unleashed the unyielding power that was the way of the warrior.

“Go!”
he yelled, at the same time motioning for his retainer to lower his sword. “You are not welcome here.”

“Don’t send me away, Shintaro,” I begged. I took a deep breath and gathered up my strength, though I was terrified of what would happen next. I said in a clear voice, “I—I cannot live without you.”

“You must go,
now!
”

“No, my lord, not this time.”

I grabbed the knife from his hand. So quick was my movement he was too stunned to move. Then, ripping open my bodice, I pricked my skin with the tip of the knife, the sharp
pain fueling my inner fury as I moved it toward my throat, my hand shaking, ready to end my own life.

“I forbid you!”
Shintaro cried out, pulling the knife from my hand, then wiping the trickle of blood off the swell of my breast and rubbing it onto his abdomen. “I alone am destined to join my ancestors—”

“
No…
you must let me come with you,” I begged. “I love you, Shintaro. My life is over without you.”

The cry of a child.

Our
child.

The baby’s wail broke through the painful exchange between this crazed Irish lass and this determined samurai, the sound of bare feet scurrying away, and I knew that Nami had awakened when she heard the shouting, then fled. Sobbing like a mad fool, I collapsed into Shintaro’s arms, flung into a mortal despair for thinking such thoughts when such a deed would leave my child helpless and alone. I called upon God to forgive this sinner and not despise me, so despondent was I that this grand passion I had for my samurai had wrought such thoughts in my mind, depriving me of my senses. Shintaro understood my pain and held me in his arms, stroking my hair coming undone and falling around my shoulders. I gained strength from being close to him, his bare chest shimmering with sweat, his muscular body warm and hard and so alive. I couldn’t bear to see him grow cold, his blood stilled, but what choice had the gods given me? That I, a woman who had come to this land disbelieving, could have opened her heart to this man and he to me, but in doing so I had challenged the sensibilities of not only my own people but his, as well. And for our love, we must now pay the ultimate price.

But no one could ever make me stop loving him…

Cradling me in his arms, his closeness making me tremble, I sensed Shintaro forgave me for my overwrought emotion and held me blameless as we clung to each other until the first ray of sunshine struck the blade of the knife he clutched in his hand. I knew then I could not stop him from carrying out his duty.

I don’t know how long we held each other, gathering warmth and strength from the closeness, knowing the end was near, when I heard shouting, a man yelling out to us in both English and the native language, the unspeakable sound of joy in his voice tempered with overwhelming fear.
Who? Could it be…

“Am I too late, milady?” I heard him cry out. “Oh, I pray I’m not too late!”

I turned to see Mr. Fawkes, dear wonderful Mr. Fawkes, racing into the garden, waving a parchment, a long sheet of official-looking paper inscribed with vertical native writing reading from right to left and signed with the imperial signature and the official privy seal.

The emperor’s seal.

“Mr. Fawkes!” I cried out, my heart racing, believing, hoping, “do you have—”

“Yes, milady,
yes,
” he said, huffing and puffing and out of breath and wiping his ruddy face with tissues. “A pardon. I have here in my hand a full pardon for Lord Shintaro from the emperor. Never in the history of the Imperial Japanese Empire has such a thing happened, never. And I doubt if it ever will again.”

“This can’t be true,” Shintaro said, grabbing the parchment and reading it. “
It can’t be.
How?”

“The empress, my lord,” I said, putting my hand up to his
face and pressing his cheek against mine. A gesture of affection and tenderness. “She believes in us…and in love.”

I can still see the disbelief, then joy in his eyes. Feel the sensual energy in his soul that he had contained and now released, never believing he would again feel the warmth of my hand on his skin, my love drawing him into my arms as if only we two existed in the world.

And with that moment of grand storytelling, so beautiful it was, like the heavens opening and the gods embracing us, I shall end my tale of the blonde samurai.

For ’tis a perfect ending, is it not, dear lady reader?

I think so.

I
t seems I have not finished after all as I read through this memoir, editing, crossing out, adding favorite moments, delighting in erotic ones. I cannot stop my pen from drafting a quick aftermath of what happened to all the key players in my adventure, for I imagine you’re as curious as a hatless girl from York Street wondering if the gentleman peeking up her garters will pay well for the privilege. I shall not disappoint you, for it takes a fine woman like yourself, dear lady reader, to follow along with my story and not close the book a dozen times and toss it across her boudoir.
You did? And tore out a page or two?
Did those missing pages find their way into your drawers…that will be our secret, won’t it?

No matter, you’re here with me now. And so we shall have a gossip as I sit here at the oak desk in my hotel room hours before my steamer leaves for Yokohama. Did I tell you Mr. Edward Mallory and his pretty young wife stopped by and invited me for tea? She’s going to have a baby and they
promised to name the child Kathlene after me if it’s a girl. I am most flattered.

Next I shall reflect on the unbelievable journey I have taken with all its woes and triumphs, sorrows and joys. To begin, Shintaro regained his seat on the mikado’s council when certain members were forced to admit they had unjustly blamed him for the “disturbances” hampering progress on the railway from Kobé to Tokio to curtail his powerful influence with the emperor. To assist him with his duties at court, Shintaro engaged Mr. Fawkes as his personal adviser in western affairs. A most amusing duo these two, the tall samurai receiving political counsel from the consummate Englishman, while Shintaro schooled Mr. Fawkes in the art of writing poetry.

Then I was most delighted when the young geisha, Simouyé, paid me a visit. For a few moments I brought Akira back to life, and told her how her brother saved me from the assassins. She was so pleased to see that we have enshrined his swords in a place of honor, and for her kind words I am grateful. I cannot continue without taking a moment to reflect on the profound love story of Shintaro and Akira, awakening in me a taste for this unusual affair in which I was privileged to be a participant, as intense as it was sexual, without rivalry, and one I shall never forget…

On to the unpleasantness in my story. James, as you know, returned to England and in spite of his arrogance (and to save his reputation), granted me a divorce and acquiesced to pay back the funds he swindled from my father as well as remove himself from Da’s dealings in Japan. Before I left London, I heard whispers that he had his eye on another American heiress. I pray she has a substantial bank account
and
a sturdy bottom to please him.

And Nami. If there was ever a sainted woman who could
compare to my own sweet mother, ’tis Nami. She begged Shintaro to release her from their marriage upon my return so she might enter a Buddhist convent and serve the poor. The gods might identify me as a sinner, but I have no doubt she is one of their own.

I must add that Da and Mother were delighted with my stories about their little granddaughter and have made me promise I will have her likeness taken at a photographic studio in Tokio and send it to them. Da confided in me he never did approve of my marriage to James and he was pleased I have found a man such as Shintaro, even if he didn’t understand this “samurai business,”
but if the emperor pardoned him,
he said,
that’s good enough for this Irishman.

All this, dear lady reader, in the months since that delirious dawn when I swear I saw a single tear slide down the cheek of my samurai as he read the bold strokes written on the ivory-gray linen parchment. I have never been so happy.

I am looking at the letter I received from Mr. Fawkes this morning via the purser on the ship. He will meet me in Yokohama when the steamer docks and escort me to the house in Tokio I share with Shintaro and my daughter, Reiko, and Nami. Until then, I cannot quell the ache in my heart, wanting so to hold my baby close to my bosom with my samurai’s arms around us. That must wait, since my Lord Shintaro has been engaged as a special emissary of the mikado’s government and was called to the old western provinces to quell an uprising there. Mr. Fawkes also relates some wonderful news: Shintaro’s lands have been restored to him. As soon as his work is finished, we shall retire to the country for…

Can you keep a secret?

A wedding.

And I shall wear the most sumptuous red kimono.

’Tis truly the end of my story, dear lady reader, and since I promised you an erotic tome when I began my memoir, I shall end it by trying my hand at scripting a sensual poem inspired by my Lord Shintaro the night before I left for London. A night when I lay in his arms, my pussy tingling from the touch of his hands parting my thighs and…

And now so have you.