The Samurai and the Long-Nosed Devils

by Lensey Namioka

  Pedro’s thoughts raced. Yesterday, when he returned from the walk with Father Luis and brought back his ordinary weapon to the cupboard, all three guns had been present, he was sure. Could any of the staff have taken one of the guns? More than once Pedro had warned them that firearms were very dangerous in inexperienced hands, and he was sure that they had been impressed by the warning.

  Suddenly, he remembered the two bodyguards and their avid interest in the guns. He liked the two men, but he had to admit that they looked desperately poor. Pedro could think of many warlords, enemies of Nobunaga, who would pay handsomely to possess this new type of gun. Cursing under his breath, he made for the room assigned to the two bodyguards.

  The two ronin were polishing their swords, and they looked up in surprise at Pedro’s abrupt entrance. This morning they had shaved and put on fresh clothes, and the result was a dramatic change in their appearances. Pedro realized that they were both much younger than he had thought when he saw them unshaven. Matsuzo looked barely twenty. Zenta seemed a few years older, with an air of authority that went with considerable maturity.

  Pedro had discovered that it was difficult to guess the ages of the Japanese since their skin wrinkled less than that of the Europeans. But though their faces provided little clue, their hands usually did. Zenta’s hands were slender and well shaped, except for calluses resulting from the constant handling of weapons. They showed almost no prominent veins, and from that Pedro guessed that the ronin was in his mid-twenties, approximately the same age as himself.

  There was nothing about the two ronin to recall the vagabonds of the previous day, and as soon as he saw them Pedro’s suspicions vanished. He felt extremely foolish under their steady gaze.

  “Yes? Is there something wrong?” asked Zenta. Dressed in a clean, dark blue kimono, with his hair neatly tied back, he made a very formidable figure.

  Pedro cleared his throat and lamely brought out the story of the missing gun. When he finished there was a strained silence in the room. Finally Zenta said icily, “You came to ask us if we had taken the gun, is that it?”

  Pedro knew that only complete honesty would serve. “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “But now I realize that I’m wrong and I ask your pardon. Can you help me find the gun by questioning the staff? They would answer more readily to their own countrymen.”

  Zenta’s manner thawed slightly. “Very well. This is a good opportunity for me to look over the whole staff, anyway.” He got up quickly, and Pedro envied the fluid ease of his movement. He himself, after sitting on the floor for a long time, always found his legs stiff and sore.

  Pedro lost no time in calling together the staff to the front courtyard. Zenta stood on the wooden veranda and for a few minutes he silently studied the figures humbly crouched on the sandy ground in front of him. Then he summoned them one by one and questioned each on his activities of the morning.

  With a mixture of amusement and irritation, Pedro saw that each person bowed very low and answered with the utmost respect. Father Luis had worked long and stubbornly to prevent his staff from getting down on their hands and knees before him. After months of hard work, he thought he had cured them of the habit. Now, faced with an authoritative samurai, they immediately went back to their groveling. Pedro began to think that the Japanese, even when converted to Christianity, would never behave like Europeans.

  When the last man had been questioned and dismissed, the two ronin conferred with each other and compared impressions. Finally Zenta turned to Pedro and said, “I may be wrong, but my feeling is that none of these people stole your gun.”

  Pedro was inclined to agree. In his opinion, the culprit would have betrayed himself under Zenta’s efficient and ruthless questioning.

  “But not everyone is here,” said Matsuzo. “The cook told me that two of the girls have gone shopping for vegetables.”

  “We can rule out the girls,” said Pedro. “They’re too frightened of the guns to touch them.” He remembered that one of the girls was Maria, the gentlest and most timid soul in the household. The thought of Maria, however, suddenly reminded him of the fence.

  Meanwhile Zenta was saying, “We should check all the entrances to see how an outsider could get into the house.”

  “I think I know of a place where an outsider can get in,” Pedro said slowly. He told the two ronin about the portion of the fence that could be unfastened and about the two girls, Maria and Chiyo, regularly exchanging news.

  “Maria’s friend is Chiyo?” exclaimed Matsuzo. “But we’ve met her already!”

  Pedro laughed heartily as he listened to Matsuzo’s account of the fight with the Mt. Hiei monks. He thoroughly enjoyed the story of their disgrace, since Father Luis had been harassed by their jeers and threats on a number of occasions. But he sobered when he remembered the stolen gun. “We can’t rule out the possibility of Chiyo taking the gun. She could have found out from Maria where it was kept, and she probably knew her way around our house as well.”

  “Chiyo wouldn’t steal your gun!” cried Matsuzo, turning red with anger. “If she is Hambei’s friend, she would have no reason to take the gun, since you were about to present it to Nobunaga anyway.”

  Zenta seemed less certain. “She may have her private reasons. That girl looks as if she has a mind of her own.”

  With Matsuzo still protesting Chiyo’s innocence, the three men arrived at the bamboo fence which marked the boundary of their garden. Behind the fence were some tall camellia bushes which served as an additional screen for privacy.

  Zenta stooped down to inspect the portion of the fence indicated by Pedro. After a moment he stood up. “Well, whoever passed through here last took the time to fasten the knots again. It’s a pity that there has been no rain lately. The ground is too hard to offer any . . .”

  He suddenly broke off and froze. Pedro followed his glance and saw that there was a man on the other side of the camellia bushes looking at them. In the next moment the man turned away and busied himself pruning the pine tree. Pedro couldn’t see much through the camellia branches, except that the man had a scarf tied under his chin, such as workmen commonly wore.

  “That’s strange,” muttered Matsuzo. “He’s thinning the pine needles!”

  “What? Are you sure?” cried Zenta. Both men stared at the gardener.

  Pedro had thought that he knew the Japanese people much better than Father Luis did, but now he decided that it was hopeless to understand them. The two bodyguards, it seemed, were more interested in gardening than in matters like stolen guns. Back in Europe, gardening was for gardeners; but in Japan, even the most warlike samurai showed an expert interest in gardening and landscaping. Pedro still remembered the occasion when Nobunaga had invited him and Father Luis to look at the new palace that he was constructing on the Nijo. Taking them around the site, the warlord had given a long and tedious talk of the trees, bushes, rocks, and moss that he planned to put in. Moss!

  Some of Pedro’s thoughts must have shown in his face, for Zenta explained, “This man is thinning pine needles at the wrong time of the year. Early spring is the proper season for it. Therefore he must be someone who is only pretending to be a gardener in order to spy on us.” Pedro finally understood. “Then he might even be the one who stole my gun! Do you think he is one of Lord Fujikawa’s samurai?” Matsuzo looked horrified. “If this man knows about the weak place in the fence, he might also know of Chiyo’s meetings with Maria. In that case Chiyo could be in serious trouble! We must do something to help her!”

  “Wait,” said Zenta. “It won’t help Chiyo if you rush next door waving your sword attempting a single-handed rescue. Hambei is the person who can do something. He is known to be her betrothed, and he can find a legitimate reason to ask for news of her.”

  Pedro felt that they were forgetting his stolen gun. “How can we find out whether one of Lord Fujikawa’s men took my gun?” he asked. “I already told Nobunaga about the model with the rifled bore. He will be furious when he learns th
at I’ve lost it.”

  “How many people know about the new model?” asked Zenta.

  “Too many,” said Pedro. “When I described it to Nobunaga, a number of other warlords were present with their retainers.”

  “Any one of them could have dispatched a man to steal it,” said Zenta thoughtfully. “In addition to the weak place in the fence, we must look for other means of access to the storeroom.”

  As the three men walked back to the house, they were preoccupied with the problem of the theft and did not look back at the man in Lord Fujikawa’s garden. The false gardener moved very carefully until he reached the workmen’s entrance at the rear of the garden. With a quick look around, he let himself quietly out of the gate.

  In the street he took off his scarf to wipe his face, and for a moment his cropped head was exposed to view. When he covered his head with the scarf again, he wore it low across his forehead with the corners tied at the back of the neck, in the style of the warrior monks.

  Chapter 6

  In the room shared by the two bodyguards, the bedding had been folded and put away into a cupboard and a small table set out for Matsuzo’s attempt at poetry.

  They had sent a message to Hambei concerning their fear that Chiyo’s meetings with Maria had been discovered. But they had learned that Hambei was in attendance on Nobunaga, and it was not known when he could be reached.

  Meanwhile Matsuzo tried to pass the time by writing some poems on his first impressions of Miyako. In the sultry heat, however, his hand perspired so much that he could not get a good grip on the brush. His writing soon acquired a rather tipsy look, with all the vertical strokes on the verge of collapse. He finally threw down the brush in disgust, spattering ink all over his desk.

  “Haven’t you written enough poems already?” murmured Zenta. He was stretched out on the floor supporting himself on one elbow, and he was studying a diagram which he had made of the foreigners’ residence.

  Although the door to the garden was completely open, not a breath of air stirred in the room. The thin pieces of rice paper containing Matsuzo’s poems drooped with humidity. In a burst of irritation, he seized a fistful of the papers and used them to wipe his desk, which he only succeeded in smearing. He uttered a stream of words picked up in his recent travels that would have shocked the ears of his well-bred family. The underlying cause of his irritation, of course, was his anxiety over Chiyo.

  Finally, when Matsuzo’s worry had almost reached fever pitch, the door to the corridor gently slid open and a young girl put her head in. She announced that she was Maria, with a message from Chiyo.

  “What?” yelled Matsuzo, causing the girl to shrink back like a startled doe.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Zenta told the girl. “Come in and give us the message.”

  Maria entered the room and knelt respectfully by the door. She was very pretty, with her soft round cheeks and gently arched brows. In Matsuzo’s opinion, however, she had none of Chiyo’s sparkle and vitality.

  “I saw Chiyo this morning at the market,” Maria began. “She wanted to tell you how glad she was that you would be living next door. It gave her a sense of security to have protectors so close.”

  “She should not be so certain of her security,” warned Zenta. “We know that you two have unfastened a portion of the back fence, and we’re afraid that Lord Fujikawa’s people may know the fact also.”

  Maria swallowed and nodded. “Chiyo was afraid of that. Yesterday, when she returned to her side of the fence, she had the feeling that someone was watching her.”

  Matsuzo jumped. “That proves it, then! Chiyo is in danger!”

  “The strange thing is that Lord Fujikawa said nothing to Chiyo about it,” said Maria. “In the end she decided it was only her imagination.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Matsuzo. “Because we saw a man skulking by the fence, and he was obviously up to no good. You’ll have to stop your secret meetings. They’re too risky.”

  “You’re right,” said Maria sadly. “In the future I can only meet Chiyo by chance, as we did in the market this morning.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Zenta. “I should like to see Chiyo and ask her some questions. How can we get in touch with her?”

  “Chiyo told me that she is going to accompany Lord Fujikawa and Lady Yuki to Kiyomizu Temple this afternoon. Perhaps you can find her there.”

  Kiyomizu was one of the most famous temples in Miyako, and it was certain to be thronged with visitors. There was a chance that mingling with the crowd, the two men would be able to speak to Chiyo without attracting the attention of the Fujikawa men.

  Now that Chiyo seemed to be in no immediate danger, Matsuzo felt his spirits rise. As Zenta left to inform Pedro of their plans to visit the temple, Matsuzo smoothed out the crumpled pieces of paper containing his poems and read them over again. They sounded not too bad after all.

  Out in the street the heat fell on the two men like a soggy quilt. Perspiring freely, they marveled at seeing the people of Miyako cheerfully going about their business. They heard sounds of hammering and saw people assembling a number of huge wooden carts, some of them two stories high. Used as parade floats in the Gion Festival, these carts were taken apart and stored when not in use, and again assembled each year for the parade which climaxed the whole festival. The workmen chatted happily, apparently unaffected by the heat.

  The two ronin found Kiyomizu Temple easily. Situated on a hill in the southeastern part of Miyako, its grounds were shaded with trees and offered a relief from the stifling heat of the city. At least half of the population of Miyako seemed to think so. The narrow, crooked street leading up to the temple was packed to suffocation with people buying refreshments and prayer beads from the shops which lined both sides of the street.

  Matsuzo found the atmosphere more carnivallike than religious. He unceremoniously pushed away a white-clad pilgrim who had dug an elbow into his ribs. “How can we possibly find Lord Fujikawa’s party in this thick crowd?” he asked.

  “We won’t find Lord Fujikawa here with the common herd,” said Zenta. “Let’s go up to the temple itself. There will be rooms set aside for his party.”

  Most temples had accommodations for people of rank so that they could perform their devotions in privacy and comfort. The two ronin walked among the various sections of the temple until they saw two sedan chairs near the entrance of one building. Sitting in the shade near the chairs were a number of samurai, and Matsuzo identified them as Lord Fujikawa’s men by the crests on their kimonos.

  “What shall we do now?” he asked. “We can’t just walk up to them and ask to see Chiyo.”

  “We may have to wait until the party starts home,” said Zenta. “When Chiyo walks by, we’ll try to attract her attention somehow. She looked like a very resourceful girl, and I’m sure she would be able to think of an excuse to stay behind.”

  “Do you think these men will recognize us?” asked Matsuzo. “I don’t mind a repeat of yesterday’s fight, but it will hardly help Chiyo.” “I don’t think there is any chance of recognition, especially if we don’t approach too closely,” replied Zenta.

  Matsuzo decided that Zenta was right. There was such a change in their appearance that they received only a brief glance from the Fujikawa men. The two ronin seated themselves casually on a stone bench a little distance away and presented the appearance of visitors enjoying the pleasant air.

  They were in luck. Before they had waited a few minutes, two girls came up the path, one carrying a stack of lacquered food boxes and the other a rice bucket. The girl with the boxes was Chiyo. As they walked by, the girls stole curious glances at the two young samurai.

  Matsuzo wondered whether Chiyo would still recognize them. He had no need to worry. Chiyo’s eyes were sharp and her memory was excellent. She broke into a wide smile. “You must have been sent by Hambei.”

  “Yes,” said Zenta, taking her cue. “Hambei is busy today attending his master, and he asked us to bring you a mess
age.”

  Chiyo held out her stack of boxes to her companion. “Can you carry these for me? Please tell Lady Yuki that I shall be with her very shortly.”

  When the other girl left Chiyo turned eagerly to the two men. “I was so glad when Maria told me that you were the new bodyguards. It’s good to know that my rescuers are next door.”

  Matsuzo blushed. “We were worried about you,” he said gruffly. “We came to warn you that Lord Fujikawa may have found out about your meetings with Maria.”

  “Tampering with the fence was a little rash,” admitted Chiyo. “Fortunately Lord Fujikawa doesn’t seem to have heard about it. What worries me more is that I thought I saw one of the Mt. Hiei monks in our neighborhood. He slipped around a corner when I turned, but I’m sure that he was the monk who attacked me yesterday.”

  “That scoundrel!” cried Matsuzo. “Doesn’t he have any shame?”

  Sounds of activity among Lord Fujikawa’s samurai reached their ears. They saw that some of the men had stood up and were beginning to put on their hats.

  “We may not have much more time to talk,” Zenta said to Chiyo. “I want to ask you about something. One of the guns belonging to the Portuguese has been stolen. Did any of the samurai in your household say anything about it?” Chiyo’s eyes widened. “No, I don’t think so.

  Do you suspect one of Lord Fujikawa’s men of taking it?”

  “They hate the Portuguese and they live right next door,” replied Zenta. “Those are reasons to suspect them first. If one of them stole the gun, you might have heard some talk.”

  “I haven’t heard any talk about the gun,” said Chiyo slowly. Suddenly she smiled and her large eyes were bright with mischief. “The only talk I’ve been hearing was about your fight with Kotaro yesterday. He is a bully, and some of the men are not sorry that he was given a lesson.”

  “Yes, poor Kotaro must keep his head covered until his hair grows long enough to be tied up in a topknot again,” said a languid voice.