* * *
Sharper than any barber’s straight-razor, the edge of the samurai blade nicked the skin, drew blood. The director hissed in surprise, frowning at his cut finger, then laughed at himself. “How’d you like to slice that across your belly, Mikey?”
As his assistant Michael Kendai watched, Redmond held the blade up to the bright California sunlight that streamed into the makeshift studio though open windows and a cobwebbed skylight. “The katana is real, sir, a century old. More than just a prop.”
“Forged in 1811, eh?” He didn’t sound impressed. “It’s just a sword.”
Outside, the muffled sounds of motorcar traffic echoed along the dirt streets. One of the rattling vehicles backfired, and someone shouted obscenities in coarse Italian. Horses clopped by, pulling a late-morning milk cart. In his tiny warehouse studio, Michael knew that Redmond never noticed any outside distractions. He was too caught up in finding interesting things to shoot with his motion-picture camera, and he would never believe the doom-sayers who claimed that nickelodeon audiences were tired of seeing marvels on celluloid film.
“Where did you get this samurai Taka-what’s-his-name?” Redmond spoke as if the young Japanese man and his elderly parents weren’t already right there beside him. The immigrants spoke no English, remained apart from the conversation; but they knew full well the business matters being discussed. “And how did you talk him into doing Harry Carry in front of the motion picture camera?”
Michael folded his hands together, frowned at Redmond’s unkempt appearance, mussed red-brown hair, and pungent cologne. He gave the director a look that plainly said Not many people try my patience, but you are one of them. “Akira Takahashi came to me of his own free will and volunteered his performance of hara-kiri.”
He looked around the small back-room studio, not eager to begin, but they would lose the best sunlight soon. The glass cyclopean eye of his hand-cranked movie camera stood watching the young samurai. A spare camera (which didn’t work anyway) leaned against a corner.
Takahashi sat in bright robes, cross-legged on the white blanket he had spread out for him on top of the sour sawdust. His pate had been shaved in the traditional fashion, his straight black hair gathered in a ponytail at his neck. The old father, holding a worn, nicked sword of his own, squatted stony-faced beside his son, staring straight ahead. Only the wrinkled mother showed fear and anger, flashing tears at Redmond.
Michael explained, “Mr. Takahashi wishes to book steamer passage back to Japan for his parents, and he can think of no other way to raise the money. He considers it a fair exchange.”
Redmond laughed nervously. His face had too many freckles, his skin was too pasty, his personality too slippery. “A lot of people are trying to get into this new movie business, but not usually by killing themselves on film.” He sheathed the blade and handed the slim katana back.
Michael frowned at how low he himself had fallen, how disappointed the spirits of his own dead family must be. “Most directors do not wish to photograph such a spectacle either, and most patrons do not wish to see the result. But there are exceptions everywhere.” He gave Redmond a cold stare. “You and I know how to find them.”
The director raised his chin, pontificating. “Fifteen years ago, people flocked to nickelodeons to see a man sneeze, to watch a waterfall or a running horse. Today, we’ve got to give them something more for their money, eh?”
“I’m sure we do.”
With a deaf ear for his assistant’s sarcasm, Redmond strutted around the floor, looking at the natural light, at the position of the white blanket, but Michael had already set everything up perfectly. The three Japanese followed the director with their eyes, like animals in a cage.
“If they liked it so much in Japan, why’d they come to Hollywood in the first place, eh?” Redmond whispered, as if he didn’t want the family to hear.
Michael drew a deep breath. “Many well-to-do samurai families were ruined in the overthrow of the last Shogun in 1868. Akira’s father tried to earn a living in the new Japanese National Army, but he could not tolerate the army’s lack of traditional honor. His eldest son, Akira’s brother, entered the Japanese navy and was killed five years ago in the Russo-Japanese War. Akira and his parents then fled to America, but they found no opportunities here. Now they are destitute and wish only to go home to die.”
“Well, we’ll help them out then, eh?” Redmond removed a folded piece of paper from his trouser pocket. “I drew up a simple contract for Mr. Samurai. Get him to sign it, and we can start shooting.” He looked critically at the slanting daylight in the studio. “Read it to him, if you like.”
Michael glanced over the contract; it looked as if Redmond had done the typing himself. He formally presented the samurai with his sword, then spoke rapidly in Japanese, explaining the contract and its purpose. The young man drew himself up, glared at Redmond, and answered Michael sharply.
“He doesn’t understand the need for a contract.” Michael turned to Redmond. “He asks if you are questioning his honor, if you doubt he will do as he has promised.”
“What?” Redmond was oblivious to nuances. “The contract’s for his protection, not mine.”
Michael relayed the information. The old mother spoke quickly, while her son stared down at the curved sword in its sheath. “They ask why they should not trust you. Are you not an honorable man?
Redmond made an exasperated sound. “Mikey, just explain to them I need to have it in writing that he’s fully aware of what he’s doing, that he offered his services willingly, and that I did not seek him out. What does he care anyway, eh? He’s going to be dead?”
Michael considered for a moment, then spoke in Japanese again. “I told him it was our custom to require such agreements. They have a great respect for customs and traditions.” Finally, Takahashi took the contract and signed.
Redmond rolled his eyes and tucked the signed paper into his pocket. He clapped his hands for attention. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
Michael took up his position behind the tripod, checking the lens, making sure the celluloid reel was loaded properly. Due to the questionable legality of his projects, Redmond involved as few people in the productions as possible. Michael had become accustomed to cranking the camera himself.
Sunlight poured through the flyspecked skylight, flooding the blanket spread on the floor. Akira Takahashi blinked in the glare. The handle of the katana looked like molten silver. Redmond didn’t have to tell anyone what to do.
The old mother moved out of the light to where she could watch. The elder Takahashi drew himself taller, holding his own sword in one hand. He waited just behind and to the right of his son.
“Mikey, what’s the old guy doing with a sword?” Redmond asked.
“He is the kaishaku.” Michael paused just long enough to emphasize how little Redmond understood about what was going to take place. “During hara-kiri, a samurai is permitted to have a close friend stand beside him. Once he has succeeded in cutting open his belly, the friend is allowed to strike off his head, releasing him from the terrible pain.”
Redmond’s eyes widened. “You mean the old man is going to chop off—oh, fantastic! You didn’t tell me that before.”
Michael scowled, then erased the expression. By participating in this heinous act, he felt as if he was betraying the Takahashi family—but he was giving them what they wanted. Even with his rationalizations, he disgusted himself.
Michael looked through the camera and signalled to Takahashi that everything was ready. The young samurai held the gazes of his parents for a long moment,hen he took up the sword. Michael began to turn the crank, recording every second on the clicking ribbon of film.
Takahashi pulled the katana from its sheath, never taking his eyes from the steel. The traditional samurai sword had been crafted by one of the finest Zen swordmakers, displaying an edge that consisted of half a million layers of folded steel, so sharp it seemed to slice rays of sunlight
.
Takahashi took a white cloth from his father and wrapped it around the blade close to the hilt, leaving five inches of naked metal. He placed the wrapped katana on the blanket in front of him so he could proceed without taking his eyes from it. He never blinked while he undid the sash of his ceremonial robe, baring his chest. His stomach muscles were firm and tense.
Maintaining an even, smooth motion, Michael turned the camera crank as queasiness built within him. If a blade had plunged into his own belly, a swarm of butterflies would have emerged. . . .
Takahashi stared into space. Moving by itself, his hand picked up the katana again, flipped it around so that its point rested against his abdomen. Michael saw the smallest of tremors in his throat, as if he were trying not to swallow.
For long moments he did not breathe. Everything stopped, like a still from a motion picture. The father stood like a statue behind his son, sword raised and waiting. The ancient mother stared wide-eyed, but made no sound.
Redmond fidgeted. “What’s he waiting for?”
“Shut up, Redmond.”
Takahashi uttered an animal sound and thrust five inches of the blade into the left side of his abdomen. He made an astonished, coughing sound. He sat rigid, frozen again.
Crimson soaked into his bright robe, dribbled onto his leg. Spasms flickered across his face, betraying the pain. Takahashi’s hands became slippery with blood, but he managed to keep his grip on the handle.
He used both hands against the back of the blade to push the cutting edge across his stomach in a gash that grew wider like a grotesque smile. His face turned gray and wet, and his breathing had no rhythm at all.
Michael continued to turn the camera crank. Redmond stared, silent with awe and fascination.
Takahashi’s body shuddered as the blade cut below his navel. He gave another, weaker cry and wrenched the blade the rest of the way across.
Michael’s world turned red and fuzzy. Black things swam in his stomach and his eyes; sweat trickled down his forehead. His knees turned to water, but at least he didn’t topple the camera. Redmond saw him faint, muttered a curse, and pushed him out of the way. He began cranking the camera himself.
Takahashi’s body convulsed as if he were trying to vomit, and intestines spilled out into his lap like gray, white, and red eels. His eyes pushed away their glassy bleariness and widened upon seeing all that had been kept neatly inside of him. He made a gurgling sound.
“Seppuku!” the old man cried and brought down his sword, striking off his son’s head. The dead samurai collapsed into a heap of blood and mismatched flesh. The old man fell to his knees.
“Perfect!” Redmond said and stopped filming.
* * *
Two days later, Michael found Redmond waiting for him in a booth at the back of the café, adding too much sugar to his mug of coffee. Michael felt bone-weary and ragged. “The funeral pyre was very difficult to arrange, Redmond.”
The director scowled up from his plate of fried eggs. “I don’t care how hard it was, Mikey, you’re not getting any more money for it. We’ve got a written agreement.”
Michael let out a disgusted sigh as he sat down. “I was merely stating a fact.” Seeing Michael’s Japanese features, the waiter ignored him.
Redmond stirred his coffee, oblivious to how his spoon clanged against the mug. He whistled for the waiter to bring coffee for Michael. “So why did you go to all that trouble, if it was so difficult? That part wasn’t written into the contract.”
The waiter brought a silver pot over, then left scowling when Michael ordered tea instead. Michael leaned across the sticky tabletop. “Redmond, we killed their son. We owed it to them.”
“What is someone with a conscience doing this business?” Redmond tried to laugh, then took a bite out of his jam-smeared toast. “Besides, we didn’t kill the guy. If his parents didn’t want him to do it, they could have stopped him at any time.” He slurped his coffee, then spooned in more sugar.
“Not in Japanese culture, Redmond. Once a son comes of age, the parents must follow his wishes. Mr. Takahashi decided to send his mother and father home. They had no choice in the matter.” The waiter returned with Michael’s tea. Absently, after the man had left, he took a sugar cube and laid it on his saucer, crushing it with the rounded bottom of his spoon, then tapped the sugar into his tea. “Their steamer should have departed for Japan at dawn today.”
“You haven’t heard yet, eh?” Redmond snickered, another bite of toast poised halfway to his mouth. “The old man was so excited that he dropped stone dead on the dock. Spilled Junior’s ashes all over the place. Can you imagine the expression on the old lady’s face?”
Michael stopped stirring his tea and looked straight into Redmond’s muddy green eyes, searching for some sign of a practical joke. “How do you know this? Why did no one tell me?”
“Nobody could find you! As far as I know, you disappear off the face of the Earth when you don’t want to be found. I got a telegram from a flustered delivery boy. Seems he’d been running all over Hollywood looking for you.”
Michael remained silent for so long that Redmond began to fidget. The family had already been through so much. Michael finally muttered, as if speaking to himself, “Their eldest son died fighting the Russian navy for Liaotung Peninsula. On his last birthday, after he’d been gone for months on the battleship Miyako, the family set out an extra bowl of rice to honor him. And the son sent his spirit across the sea to join them for the meal. They laughed and talked, but with moonrise the spirit returned to the ship.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “That night, the Miyako struck a mine in the Sea of Japan and sank.”
Redmond took another bite of his runny eggs. “You mean the ghost appeared even before the son was killed? Just what were they doing for their little celebration? Smoking opium pipes?”
“Opium is from China, Redmond, not Japan.” With an effort, Michael regained his patience. “Vengeful ghosts are common in our tradition. Anyone who dies violently is certain to haunt those who caused him to suffer. But the Japanese don’t believe a person needs to be dead to send his spirit wandering. The family Takahashi truly believes they dined with the elder son on the eve of his death.”
“Aww, tug my heartstrings.” Then Redmond narrowed his eyes at Michael. “Oh, I see, you’re trying to scare me that Mr. Samurai’s ghost is coming to get me. Forget it, Mikey. He volunteered. You brought him to me.”
Michael didn’t bother to respond. He stood up, leaving Redmond to pay for his unfinished tea. “Is that all you wanted to see me about?”
Redmond smiled. “I’ll be screening my samurai picture in three days, and I need you to run the projector. I’ve found a private room and five men sufficiently bored with the nickelodeons. They’ll pay ten dollars each, if I can deliver what I’ve promised. Some are worried it might be trick photography, like George Meliés might do.”
“Meliés never showed a man disemboweling himself.” Michael let no ironic expression show. “Besides, Redmond, who could question your honesty?”
Redmond grinned, then scowled, then drank his coffee.
* * *
Redmond insisted on keeping the door locked and the screening room dim, lit only by tasteless red lights behind incense burners. Even more tasteless was his decision to use Takahashi’s white blanket—laundered to remove most of the bloodstains—as a projection screen.
Michael mounted the single celluloid reel on the projector as Redmond ushered his clients to flimsy wooden chairs in the room. The director wore a ridiculous Japanese robe, as if to create the proper ambiance.
Michael inspected the five men, who didn’t bother to notice the Japanese-American assistant. One looked bored, two were fidgety (wearing obvious disguises); the remaining two frowned with skepticism while tugging on their identical muttonchop whiskers.
Michael wondered what type of lives these men led. Did they beat their wives, or harm their children, or frequent prostitutes—or did they derive enough ple
asure just from watching gruesome motion-picture shows?
Of the six pictures on which he had worked with Redmond, this had been by far the most dissatisfying. The first had been a beautiful study of a ballerina’s dance; then he had photographed sultry naked women. What might come next after ritual suicide—Redmond killing a baby, perhaps? Michael felt the shame in his involvement, even if Redmond didn’t care.
After this evening’s spectacle, Michael had made up his mind to disappear, as he had done so many times before, simply cover his tracks. He had enough skill and connections to find work elsewhere, even with his Japanese heritage. Perhaps he would go to New York City, though the majority of filmmaking had shifted toward the Los Angeles area with its variety of scenery. . . .
As Michael fed the celluloid film into the projector and checked the bulb, Redmond began to explain, inaccurately, the traditions and lore behind hara-kiri. Michael considered leaving the room after he started the projector, just to avoid seeing Takahashi die yet again, but decided against it. He would see this project through to the end, then be away from Redmond for good.
“Gentlemen, please enjoy the first screening of Redmond’s Scarlet Sword.” The director placed his hands together to imitate a Japanese bow, then stepped away from the bloodstained screen. As the projector began to flicker and whir, a sepia image of Akira Takahashi appeared on the screen. Michael focused quickly.
The five men in the audience watched as the grim young man sat cross-legged in his robes, staring at his sword. The film was intensely sharp and remarkably clear, showing too many details.
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