The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (92 page)

Shiroyama looks at the irritating, loyal man. 'Wada-
sama
.'

'Serving the Magistrate has been the deepest honour of my life . . .'

Wada's face is taut with emotion; his eyes are shining.

'Each one of us learns from the Magistrate's wisdom and example . . .'

All
you
learnt from me
, thinks Shiroyama,
is to ensure that one thousand men man the coastal defences at all times
.

'Our memories of you shall dwell in our hearts and minds for ever.'

As my body and my head
, thinks Shiroyama,
moulder in the ground together
.

'Nagasaki shall never,' tears stream down his face, 'ever recover!'

Oh
, supposes Shiroyama,
by next week things will be back to normal
.

'On behalf of
all
who were -
are
- privileged to serve under you . . .'

Even the untouchable
, thinks the Magistrate,
who empties the shit-pot?

'. . . I, Wada, offer our undying gratitude for your gracious patronage!'

Under the eaves, pigeons coo like grandmothers greeting newborn babies.

'Thank you,' he says. 'Serve my successor as you served me.'

So the stupidest speech I ever heard
, he thinks,
was the very last
.

Chamberlain Tomine opens the door for his final appointment.

* * *

The door rumbles shut on the Hall of Sixty Mats. Nobody may enter now until Chamberlain Tomine emerges to announce Magistrate Shiroyama's honourable death. The near-silent crowd in the gallery is returning to the bright realm of Life. Out of respect for the Magistrate, the entire wing shall remain vacant until nightfall but for the occasional guard.

One high screen is half open, but the Hall is dim and cavernous today.

Lord Abbot Enomoto is studying the state of play on the
Go
board.

The Abbot turns and bows. His acolyte bows low.

The Magistrate begins the journey to the centre of the room. His body pushes aside drapes of hushed air. His feet swish on the floor. Chamberlain Tomine follows in his master's wake.

The Hall of Sixty Mats might be six hundred wide or six thousand long.

Shiroyama sits across the
Go
table from his enemy. 'It is unpardonably selfish to lay these last two impositions on such a busy man.'

'Your Honour's requests,' replies Enomoto, 'pay me a singular compliment.'

'I had heard of Enomoto-
sama
's accomplishments as a swordsman, mentioned, in low, awed tones, long before I met you in person.'

'People exaggerate such stories, but it is true that, down the years, five men have asked me to be a
kaishaku
second at their deaths. I discharged those duties competently.'

'Your name came to mind, Lord Abbot. Yours and no other.' Shiroyama glances down at Enomoto's sash for his scabbard.

'My acolyte,' the Abbot nods at the youth, 'has brought it.'

The sword, wrapped in black, lies on a square of red velvet.

On a side table are a white tray, four black cups and a red gourd.

A white linen sheet, large enough to enfold a corpse, lies at a tactful distance.

'Your wish is still,' Enomoto indicates the game, 'to end what we began?'

'One must do something before one dies.' The Magistrate drapes his
haori
jacket over his knees and turns his attention to the game. 'Have you decided your next move?'

Enomoto places a White stone to threaten Black's eastern outpost.

The cautious
click
of the stone sounds like a blind man's cane.

Shiroyama makes a safe play that is both a bridge to and a bridge-head against White's north.

'To win,' his father taught him, 'one must purify oneself of the
desire
to win.'

Enomoto secures his northern army by opening an eye in its ranks.

The blind man moves faster now:
click
goes his cane;
click
, a stone is placed.

A few moves later, Shiroyama's Black takes a group of six White prisoners.

'They were living on borrowed time,' Enomoto remarks, 'at crippling interest.' He plants a spy deep behind Black's western frontier.

Shiroyama ignores it, and starts a road between his western and central armies.

Enomoto places another strange stone in the south-west of nowhere.

Two moves later, Shiroyama's bold Black bridge is only three stones from completion.
Surely
, thinks the Magistrate,
he can't allow me to go unchallenged?

Enomoto places a stone within hailing distance of his western spy . . .

. . . and Shiroyama sees the way-stations of a Black cordon, curving in a crescent from south-west to north-east.

If White prevents Black's main armies conjoining at this late stage . . .

. . .
my dominant empire
, Shiroyama sees,
is split into three paltry fiefdoms
.

The bridge is just two intersections away: Shiroyama claims one . . .

. . . and Enomoto places a White stone on the other: the battle turns.

I go there so he goes there; I go there so he goes there; I go there . . .

But by the fifth move and counter-move, Shiroyama forgets the first.

Go
is a duel between prophets
, he thinks.
Whoever sees furthest wins
.

His divided armies are reduced to praying for a White blunder.

But Enomoto
, knows the Magistrate,
does not make blunders
.

'Do you ever suspect,' he asks, 'we don't play
Go
, rather
Go
plays us?'

'Your Honour has a monastic mind,' Enomoto replies.

More moves follow, but the game has passed its point of perfect ripeness.

Discreetly, Shiroyama counts Black's territories held and the prisoners taken.

Enomoto notices, does the same for White, and waits for the Magistrate.

The Abbot makes it eight points in White's favour; Shiroyama puts Enomoto's margin of victory at eight and a half points.

'The duel,' remarks the loser, 'was between my boldness and your subtleties.'

'My subtleties very nearly undid me,' concedes Enomoto.

The players return the stones to the bowls.

'Ensure that this
Go
goes to my son,' Shiroyama orders Tomine.

* * *

Shiroyama indicates the red gourd. 'Thank you for providing the
sake
, Lord Abbot.'

'Thank you for respecting my precautions, even at the last, Magistrate.'

Shiroyama sifts Enomoto's tone for glints of irony, but finds none.

The acolyte fills the four black cups from the red gourd.

The Hall of Sixty Mats is now as quiet as a forgotten graveyard.

My final minutes
, thinks the Magistrate, watching the careful acolyte.

A black swallowtail butterfly blunders across the table.

The acolyte hands one cup of
sake
to the Magistrate first, one to his master, one to the chamberlain, and returns to his cushion with the fourth.

So as not to glance at Tomine or Enomoto's cup, Shiroyama imagines the wronged souls - how many tens, how many hundreds? - watching from the slants of darkness, thirsty for vengeance. He raises his cup. He says, 'Life and Death are indivisible.'

The other three repeat the well-worn phrase. The Magistrate shuts his eyes.

The volcano-ash glaze of the Sakurajima cup is rough on his lips.

The spirit, thick and astringent, sluices around the Magistrate's mouth . . .

. . . and its aftertaste is perfumed . . . untainted by the additive.

From inside the dark tent of his eyelids, he hears loyal Tomine drink . . .

. . . but neither Enomoto nor the acolyte follows. He waits. Seconds pass.

Despair possesses the Magistrate.
Enomoto knew about the poison
.

When he opens his eyes he will be greeted by wry mockery.

Our planning, ingenuity and Tomine's terrible sacrifice are in vain.

He has failed Orito, Ogawa and de Zoet, and all the wronged souls.

Did Tomine's procurer betray us? Or the Chinese druggist?

Should I try to kill the devil with my ceremonial sword?

He opens his eyes to gauge his chances, as Enomoto drains his cup . . .

. . . and the acolyte lowers his own, a moment after his master.

Shiroyama's despair is gone, replaced in a heart-beat, by a flat fact.
They will know in two minutes, and we will be dead in four.
'Would you spread the cloth, Chamberlain? Just over there . . .'

Enomoto raises his palm. 'My acolyte can perform such work.'

They watch the young man unfold the large sheet of white hemp. Its purpose is to absorb blood from the decapitated body and to wrap the corpse afterwards, but its role this morning is to distract Enomoto from the Magistrate's true end-game whilst the
sake
is absorbed by their bodies.

'Shall I recite,' the Lord Abbot offers, 'a Mantra of Redemption?'

'What redemption can be won,' replies Shiroyama, 'is mine, now.'

Enomoto makes no comment, but retrieves his sword. 'Is your hara-kiri to be visceral, Magistrate, with a
tanto
dagger, or shall it be a symbolic touch with your fan, after the modern fashion?'

Numbness is encrusting the ends of Shiroyama's fingers and toes.
The poison is safe in our veins
. 'First, Lord Abbot, an explanation is owed.'

Enomoto lays his sword across his knees. 'Regarding what matter?'

'Regarding why the four of us shall be dead within three minutes.'