by Margi Preus
He watched as the procession moved on, and the boy, along with the dignitaries, entered the treaty house.
“Now is the time to sell more of the prints,” Ozawa told him. “The crowd will be hungry for them. Go!”
Yoshi snatched up the bundle of fans and scrolls and umbrellas that had been printed with images of the outsiders and their Black Ships. “See the barbarians here!” he called out. “See their faces—hairy as snow monkeys! With noses as big and bulbous as ginger roots. And their spooky blue eyes! See their comical and impractical style of dressing! Remember this historic moment with a one-of-a-kind keepsake.”
People crushed in on all sides, reaching out with money for the prints, and soon Yoshi’s pouch was heavy with coins. But he and Ozawa had planned well and brought plenty of towels and fans and umbrellas, and Yoshi continued to move along.
“Get your keepsake of the bar—” he began again, when through the crowd his eye caught a familiar face, a familiar face with an ugly-looking wound along one side.
How could he have let down his guard? Of course representatives from Hideki’s family were bound to be here! And of course that meant the head of bodyguards, Kitsune, would accompany them.
Now Kitsune stood merely a few feet from Yoshi, separated only by a wall of customers. Yoshi’s heart raced. He swallowed the last part of the word “—barians,” turned, and ran.
13
INSIDE THE TREATY HOUSE
Jack tried not to move, because his wet shoes squeaked if he did, and an air of solemnity permeated the inside of the pavilion. The Japanese officials, the commodore, and the most senior officers were seated on a raised platform. Jack, along with other lesser dignitaries, was given a seat on the lower level.
The Japanese officials looked gloomy and downcast, Jack thought. Their expressions seemed to say that this was great fun for the Americans and anything but fun for them.
There was a lot of bowing and a tedious amount of translating. It seemed to Jack as if the English was being translated first into Dutch and then into Japanese and from Japanese to Dutch and from Dutch to English. Wouldn’t this be simpler if they cut out the Dutch middleman? Or was there not one soul in all of Japan who could speak English?
Everyone was served a greenish tea that Jack thought tasted like grass. In fact, if he closed his eyes, the whole place smelled like the hayloft back at the farm, loaded with fresh-cut hay. Probably because of the woven-grass mats that covered the floor.
The commodore beckoned to the two boys to bring forth the boxes, and Jack stepped forward, hoping that he wasn’t leaving a wet trail behind him. He presented his box to one of the black crewmen who came forward to receive them. The rosewood box was opened, and within it was another box of pure gold. Within that box was the president’s letter, bound in blue silk velvet and sealed by cords of gold and silk with golden tassels. Both letters were taken out and laid upon the lid of the Japanese box placed to receive them. All this happened in perfect silence.
Jack knew that the two letters were from the president of the United States and the commodore to the emperor of Japan. He even knew a bit about what was in the letters: requests for trade, for open ports where American ships might stop for provisions, water, coal, and the like. Protestations of friendship. And a demand that shipwrecked American sailors be treated hospitably.
But as more tedious translation took place, Jack began to get itchy, like he did at home when his family went to church. He’d glance at the big oak that stood outside the church window and wish he was in its leafy branches.
Just outside the treaty house was a camellia tree, covered with flowers, and practically as big as the oak at home. He’d like to climb that tree, he thought. He’d like to race through those fields out there—to really run—something he hadn’t done since he’d gone aboard the Susquehanna seven months earlier. He wanted to climb a tree, feel moss and earth under his feet, touch grass, smell dirt.
So, he thought, could we add just one more request to the president’s letter? Could it also request that one Jack Sullivan be allowed to roam about in your fields and forests? Climb your trees? Cast a line and try for fish in your streams?
At last, the interminable interview was over, and the commodore said he looked forward to a reply from the mikado and would be back in one year. And next time, the commodore made a point to say, he would be bringing more ships.
14
THE CHASE
Yoshi darted through the crowd, trying to stay low. Even over all the noise and chaos, he sensed Kitsune’s hard breathing behind him.
“Stop that rascal!” Kitsune shouted. “Catch that little thief!”
Yoshi halted abruptly, spun around, and protested, “I may be a lot of things, but I am not, nor will I ever be, a thief!” Then he turned and bolted into the throng.
Since most of the spectators had bowed their heads to the honorable samurai, no one had seen where the “rascal” had gone.
People were on their way back to their homes and villages on foot or by the many ferryboats that lined the waterfront for the occasion. If he could time it right, Yoshi thought, he might be able to escape Kitsune. He made a final dash through the crowds, heading for the bay.
There was the shore, and there, just pulling away from it, a ferry. Yoshi put on a burst of speed, raced down to the water’s edge, and flung himself onto the departing boat.
Kitsune appeared at the water’s edge, red-faced and shouting: “Bring that little troublemaker back here at once!”
A Japanese ferry. (Ando Hiroshige)
The boatman looked at Yoshi; he looked back at the fierce-looking samurai. Anybody could see he’d be in trouble no matter what he did. His solution was to pluck Yoshi up by the collar of his tunic and toss him overboard.
The last thing Yoshi heard before his head went underwater was the laughter of the passengers.
The cold water quickly seeped through his clothes. Never mind his clothes! What about the prints and fans? The towels and umbrellas? They were ruined!
Down he went, and he only managed to get his head above water with a lot of thrashing and kicking. He took a big gulp of air and noticed scrolls and fans floating or starting to sink. He snatched at the items, but his struggling made his head go under again. No matter how hard he kicked, it seemed he was being dragged down. It felt as if someone were tugging on his feet!
And then he remembered the pouch full of coins. If he untied the pouch and let it go, he would probably bob to the surface. But the money! It wasn’t his money—it was Ozawa-san’s. And the money from Hideki’s clothing, too! How would he ever earn enough to repay Ozawa and Hideki? It could take a lifetime!
On the other hand, if he drowned here and now, the money would go down with him anyway. Still, maybe it would be better to drown than to suffer the shame of losing Ozawa-san’s goods and money.
But, oh! He wanted to take a breath! He wanted to live! He wanted to see what lay beyond the dark hills on the other side of the bay. If only, he thought, he could swim the way he had in his dream when he swam from star to star.
One thing was certain: Unless he let go of the money, both he and the money were doomed. He tore the pouch away from his sash, then kicked. As he rose up and up, he watched the coins drop from the pouch, glimmering like stars in a dark sky. They drifted down and down, glinted one last time, then disappeared into the murky depths.
15
LEAVING JAPAN
July 17, 1853
The squadron left the anchorage on Sunday morning, July 17. The four vessels began their voyage and started away rapidly without a yard of canvas set. The morning was fine, and as the departure of the Americans was a great event, and the appearance of the four ships moving off in stately procession, succeeding each other in regular line, was imposing and novel to the Japanese unfamiliar with the power of steam, crowds of people gathered upon the land to behold the sight. . . . The soldiers thronged out of the batteries and hurrying to the loftiest summits eagerly looked at th
e passing ships. As the squadron steamed out of the bay a parting look was obtained of the lofty summit of Mount Fuji, both behind and in advance.
—M. C. Perry, Narrative of the Expedition to the China Seas and Japan, 1852–1854
PART TWO
EARTH
Even a road of one thousand miles
can only be traversed by taking one step at a time.
—Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings
16
THE TOKAIDO
The Month of Leaves, 6th Year of Kaei
There were opportunities along the Tokaido. Everyone always said so. After all, it was the main road leading to and away from Edo, and everyone who traveled had to use it, rich and poor, big and small, powerful or powerless.
The mighty lords were borne along in fine palanquins carried by four bearers and accompanied by hundreds of servants and retainers. Others traveled in simpler kagos, basket-like chairs suspended on poles carried by two men. There were samurai on horseback, and many others who walked and had very little in the way of baggage.
Yoshi was one of these. He had the clothes on his back and, fortunately, the somewhat rumpled travel permit. He had also managed to save one wrinkled, ragged print from his underwater adventure, which he had carefully unrolled and dried in the sun. That one print was the only thing he had left of Ozawa’s art.
“No matter how hungry I get,” Yoshi told himself, “I am not going to sell it.”
There must be some kind of work he could do to earn back the money he’d lost, Yoshi thought as he trudged along the road. There were many, many travelers on the Tokaido, and travelers needed things. They needed a place to sleep, food to eat, entertainment, and new sandals when theirs wore out. He would find a way to earn money, and then he would return to Uraga and repay Ozawa-san.
His stomach rumbled as he passed by a man grilling eels. Then his mouth watered at the smell of toasted dengaku. He stopped to watch hungrily as men dipped the tofu cakes in a paste of fermented soybeans, but he turned away quickly before the warm food disappeared into their mouths.
Then, all of a sudden, there was the answer: a pleasant-looking man wearing a fuki-leaf hat, sitting among cypress trees, weaving straw into shoes. Well! If there was one thing Yoshi knew, it was shoes.
Travelers on the Tokaido. (Katsushika Hokusai)
“Honorable sandal maker,” Yoshi said, “please excuse my intrusion.”
The sandal maker dropped his head in a cursory bow and kept at his work, expertly weaving the lengths of straw.
“You are very accomplished at your work, sir,” Yoshi said.
The man crinkled his face and shook his head. “It is a lowly occupation,” he replied.
Some scratchy thing dropped down the back of Yoshi’s tunic, and he glanced up into the tree. He caught a glimpse of a little face. Just for an instant. Then the face disappeared among the branches.
Yoshi stepped out from under the tree and turned back to the sandal maker. “It is an honest occupation,” he said, “for without sandals, what would happen to our poor feet?”
“Or our horses’ feet,” the man said.
“What?”
“These are shoes for horses.” The man dangled a huge woven-straw shoe from his finger.
Of course! There were many horses along the Tokaido. Their hooves needed protection against the rocky ground. He’d seen strings of these shoes hanging at transport stations.
“Do you need an assistant?” Yoshi blurted out. “I know I don’t look like much, and, indeed, I am not much of anything. But I have experience with shoes.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the sandal maker said. “I will give you four sandals to sell, and you will bring me the money you make. I am quite certain you will come back, because at the end of the day you are going to want nothing more than to return Chibi to me.”
“Chibi?” Yoshi asked.
“Chibi-chan!” the sandal maker shouted up into the tree. In answer, there was a rain of pine needles and suddenly a small boy stood before Yoshi.
“Are you going to be my friend today?” the boy asked. Without an invitation, he climbed like a monkey onto Yoshi’s back.
The sandal maker was right: Yoshi couldn’t wait to return Chibi to him at the end of the day. Yoshi had sold only one sandal all day. The rest of the time he’d spent chasing the little boy, snatching him out of the road when horses came thundering by, coaxing him down from the roof of a food stall and out of trees, apologizing to people for his misbehavior, returning a peach that Chibi had stolen from a fruit vendor, and, sadly, using the money he’d earned from his one sandal sale to buy the crying Chibi a slice of bean jelly.
But Jiro the sandal maker was kind. He offered Yoshi a place to sleep in his little hut set back among the cypress trees.
“The Tokaido can be a dangerous place at night,” he said.
Every day, Yoshi took Chibi and tried to sell horseshoes. But every day, he spent most of the time chasing after the little boy. By sundown, after Yoshi had paid the sandal maker, there were always just a few coins left. By the time he had bought something to eat, there was often not even enough money for a soak at the public bathhouse, where he might wash off the grit and dust from the day.
Then Yoshi discovered that he could do better business if he set himself up near the way station, where travelers exchanged their horses for fresh mounts or stopped to rest, water, or feed their horses. He offered to carry water or pick the stones out of the horses’ hooves and was sometimes rewarded with a sale. When he found a long pole on which he could carry many sandals at a time, business began to really pick up.
He knew he should save all his money so he could someday have enough to repay Ozawa, but he had an idea of how he could earn even more money: He bought himself a yatate. The drawing kit had a perfect little inkwell and a small tube into which slid an equally small brush. He also purchased some mulberry-bark paper. While he waited for customers, he drew pictures. These he intended to sell and in this way earn even more money. He wasn’t nearly as good as Ozawa, of course, but he had learned quite a bit from the artist. At least, he thought so.
A post station on the Tokaido. (Ando Hiroshige)
At first, he tried drawing barbarians, but his potential customers scoffed at the pictures. “No,” they said. “Barbarians have bigger noses than that. And they’re hairier.”
So he quit trying to draw barbarians and started drawing horses. This was easier because he could look at actual horses, and that helped. Sometimes he drew horses and sometimes he drew swords, and he imagined that soon people would pay a lot of money for his pictures and he would earn so much money that he could pay Ozawa back. And hire a babysitter for Chibi.
In the meantime, his pouch grew quite plump and full of coins, and he liked to jingle it from time to time, imagining how it would be when he would one day have enough to repay both Ozawa and Hideki.
Things got even better when he found a big-branched tree and said to Chibi, “Climb up in that tree and call down to me if you see anyone on horseback.” The little monkey scampered up the tree.
“What are you drawing?” Chibi called down to Yoshi from his perch in the tree one day.
“I am drawing a picture of a sword that will be so good that it will leap off the page and into my hand,” Yoshi replied. “Then I’ll draw myself a suit of armor and a helmet with huge stag horns coming out of the top, and all of it painted in red lacquer. Next I’ll draw a horse that will whinny and prance out of the paper, and then I will ride away and fight the barbarians.”
“Can I come, too?” Chibi asked from up in his tree.
“No,” said a voice, none too kindly. Then thud thud thud. Footsteps approached.
Yoshi recognized the thudding footfall. He knew who it was without having to look up.
“So, Yoshitaro,” Kitsune said, “you want to fight the barbarians.”
Yoshi didn’t answer. He didn’t look up. He knew what the law said: “Common people who behave unbec
omingly to a samurai or who do not show respect to their superiors may be cut down on the spot.” Kitsune already had reason enough to cut him down.
So Yoshi held his tongue, and glanced wistfully at his drawings. If only, he thought, he was as good an artist as Sesshu Toyo had been, and his drawings could become real. What was it that Ozawa had said? Something about how much we fail to imagine is possible . . . ? He wished he could imagine something that would save him from Kitsune, because things did not look good for him right now.
“There was a time when you thought you were good enough to draw a sword,” Kitsune said, pantomiming the drawing of a sword from its scabbard. “Now you can only draw a sword.” He pretended to draw with a brush in the air, and laughed at his pun.
Again, Yoshi said nothing. There was a little shower of leaves from above, but Yoshi forced himself not to look up. He hoped Chibi would stay still and out of trouble up there.
“Hideki . . . ,” Kitsune began, “because of you . . .”
Yoshi’s heart nearly stopped beating. Because of him . . . what? Had Hideki been injured? Killed? What?
“Hideki wishes to become a monk!”
Yoshi almost clapped. That was a perfect thing for tender-hearted Hideki. He would be an excellent monk. And he would not have to fight.
Yoshi glanced up at Kitsune. A livid scar ran down one side of his face. The scar I made, Yoshi realized with horror.
“This is not what his father had in mind for his son,” Kitsune said.
Yoshi lowered his eyes.
“What kind of a world do we live in when a son willfully goes against his father’s wishes?”
Yoshi knew this was not a question that required an answer.
“You put him up to it!” Kitsune exclaimed. “It is your fault! His father brought him home from that temple, and now he has run away again. You have done this.”