Kiku's Prayer: A Novel

by Endō, Shūsaku. Translated by Van C. Gessel

  Those doubts plagued Petitjean every day after his meeting with Itō. Dark shadows were occasionally cast across his believing heart. But ultimately he made every effort to believe that God could never do anything evil but would only provide good things for man.

  “God … Lord Itō, God works only good for mankind.”

  “So you’re telling me that the horrible suffering of the Kirishitans in Tsuwano, that this God of yours regards those sufferings as good?!” Itō scoffed. Only a religious fanatic or an idiot could ever give the answer that Petitjean just gave. Little wonder that Itō laughed in scorn.

  “Yes.”

  “Their sufferings are good?”

  “Right now they don’t seem like good to us. But the day will come when we will realize that it was all for the best.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Itō noisily gulped down his saké. “How can you know something like that?”

  “It is contrary to reason. But the knowledge and the workings of God are far, far beyond our comprehension. What I’m telling you is true. It’s because they believe this that the Urakami Kirishitans are able to endure such torments, and they believe and pray and regard the workings of the Lord just as we do.”

  “Hmm. So you’re saying their sufferings will one day bring about something good? Well, I’m willing to bet that nothing good will result. I’ll wager my head on it.” Itō stood up angrily to contest Petitjean’s declaration. “If this God of yours doesn’t really exist—and I don’t think he does—then you and those prisoners are living totally pointless lives.”

  If there is no God, you and the Urakami Kirishitans are living totally pointless lives—Itō’s assertion struck at the very heart of the most frightening, most cruel, of all spiritual dilemmas.

  If there is no God, then it was absolutely meaningless for Sen’emon and Seikichi and Kanzaburō and the others in Tsuwano to have endured those brutal tortures. It would render Petitjean’s arduous journey across the seas to this distant land of Japan an act of futility. Perhaps God did exist, and perhaps he didn’t. Certainly many people believe that God is the product human imaginings and desires….

  “You’re right.” His eyes closed, Petitjean muttered, “If there is no God … then I and the prisoners at Tsuwano … we have indeed lived cruelly meaningless lives.”

  “And yet even knowing there is that possibility, you still endure such hardships? What exactly is the bearing of such pain supposed to lead to?”

  “I don’t know. But I know with absolute certainty that God will not let their sufferings come to naught. You’ll realize that someday. I am certain you will realize it.”

  Fanatical bastard. Itō looked with pity at the sorrowing face of the foreigner. It was futile to try to say anything to men beguiled by such fossilized thinking. They rebuff any attempts at persuasion.

  It was more important now to take this opportunity to find out what the official of the Tsuwano domain had asked him to determine.

  “I hear that you foreigners persist in lodging complaints to the authorities about the harsh treatment the Kirishitans are receiving.”

  “That’s right. We continue to request through our ministers and consulates that the violence be stopped and that they be given a bit more to eat.”

  “And do I understand that you’re demanding that people like me who treat the prisoners roughly must be punished?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. That’s something your Japanese courts will have to consider.”

  “You do a fine job of evading the issue.”

  Itō sneered. This is how these missionaries always behave. They protect themselves so effectively that the ultimate responsibility for things doesn’t fall on them. The missionaries stirred up the Urakami peasants to revolt, but after the protestors were arrested, they went on living their carefree lives.

  “Why haven’t you gone to Tsuwano? Why haven’t you gone there to experience the same torment as those peasants? You put on such a good face…. You’re just like Hondō Shuntarō.”

  “I have suffered sometimes—no, frequently over that very question. On chilly nights, I think about how I’m sleeping in my own house while those farmers are shivering in the cold, and it pains me deeply.”

  “Spare me the fancy words!” Itō said angrily. “You’re no different from Hondō Shuntarō. All you have is a gift for getting on well in the world. Without ever dirtying your own hands. Hondō’s never struck a single criminal. He orders somebody else to beat them and watches from a distance. I’m the one that has to strike the blows….” His eyes filled with tears, Itō cried, “I’ll bet you don’t know the first thing about the pains of those who are beaten. And you know nothing of the torment of those who administer the torture!”

  Then Petitjean said something completely unexpected. “No, I don’t know those pains. But I do know that God loves you more than he loves Lord Hondō.”

  Itō looked up at Petitjean’s face in amazement. He thought perhaps he was being mocked, ridiculed.

  “You say this God of yours … loves me more than Hondō? A man who’s tortured and inflicted pain on you Kirishitans?”

  “You are suffering. But Lord Hondō feels no anguish in his heart. His heart is filled with the dream of taking advantage of the mounting opportunities in this age of Meiji and making a success of himself.”

  “And what … what’s so wrong with that? I’m … if anything, I’m jealous of the success Hondō is having.”

  “But it’s your jaundiced, wounded heart that God is trying to penetrate, not Hondō’s. God has no interest in a man like Lord Hondō, who is inflamed right now with the lust for success. He is drawn instead to a heart like yours.”

  Hatefully Itō said, “I really despise the kind of nonsense you people use to trick the hearts of men. You prey on a man’s weaknesses, but no matter how hard you try to charm me with your Kirishitan babble, I’m not falling for your lofty words and schemes. I see exactly what you’re up to.”

  “You’re wrong.” Petitjean shook his head vigorously. “Someday you’ll understand. By inflicting pain on the Urakami Kirishitans, you’re splattering your own body with blood.”

  “Listen, I’m not that kind of man! Someone like me—I enjoy torturing them. It’s nothing more than torture. I hurt them because I find it amusing to hurt them—that’s all there is to it!” Itō protested, his eyes flashing with rage and the spittle rising in his mouth. He was determined not to allow Petitjean to see through his weaknesses. He could not forgive this foreigner with the all-knowing look who had rudely penetrated into the depths of his heart.

  “Then go ahead and torment them all you want.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Pain will give birth to love among them. Without pain, Lord Itō … love cannot come into being.”

  Itō couldn’t understand half of what Petitjean was saying. But the remaining half of his words echoed through his heart with a weight that he had never sensed in words before.

  “Hmmph!” He stood up from the sand in a deliberate show of scorn. “So you’re saying that this God or whoever loves me more than he loves Hondō? What a peculiar religion!” Sneering, he made his way down the beach.

  A man as base and cowardly, cunning and selfish, and incapable of curbing his lusts as himself was no better than a worm. What could Petitjean’s bizarre statement possibly mean—that such a worm had vastly more worth in the eyes of God than did Hondō Shuntarō?

  1. Francis Ottiwell Adams (1825–1889) served as secretary to the British legation during a brief interval when Harry Smith Parkes was on leave in the United Kingdom.

  SNOW. AND THE BLESSED MOTHER

  ON THAT DAY—

  The cold was more biting than usual. It seemed as though at any moment, snow would begin to fall from a cloudy sky that was the color of faded cotton. The madam of the Yamazaki Teahouse had gone to participate in the Shinto Fire Festival at the Suwa Shrine, leaving Kiku to mind the shop. As a result, Kiku was able to rest until eveni
ng came.

  After Kiku fell ill, the madam began taking verbal jabs at her. “We’re not like other places of business—we can’t afford to support people who can’t work. I can’t have you do nothing but lie around all day.”

  It incensed a determined woman like Kiku to listen to such sarcasm, so she would work through her fever, toiling in the kitchen and dusting the shop. But while working that hard, she sometimes had dizzy spells or became so lethargic she felt like crouching down where she stood.

  On this particular day she was unusually exhausted. It felt as though leaden weights were pressing down on her body, and she could tell that she was running a fever.

  “You’re such a fortunate girl. I hear that they stop feeding a courtesan who ends up unable to work because of lung problems.” Recalling the madam’s spiteful words, she worked until nearly noon. When she lay down to rest a bit at midday, the man with the yellow teeth slid the back door open with a rattle.

  “You again?”

  “Yep. Can you come see a client? He’s a Chinese merchant, and he’s the kind of guy who won’t take no for an answer when he wants a woman. He says he’ll pay handsomely.”

  “I can’t today.” Kiku feebly shook her head. “I don’t feel well, and I’m in a lot of pain.”

  “That’s too bad! But it won’t take long. And he says he’s willing to pay two ryo.”

  “Why don’t you just send for one of the Jūzenji girls?” Kiku whispered.

  The “Jūzenji girls” were the prostitutes who serviced the Chinese; they were considered lower in status than the women at Maruyama who entertained the Dutch. “Jūzenji girls” was used as an epithet to describe them.1

  “But your reputation is so high among the Chinese men. A beautiful face, they say, and a good heart, too!” The man was determined to win her over with flattery. No doubt he had boasted around Nakajuku that he would bring Kiku back without fail.

  “It’s two ryo! Aren’t many Chinese who’ll pay as much as two ryo!”

  Kiku wanted to earn at least one or two ryo for Seikichi before Itō returned to Tsuwano. She had the feeling that with her body this enervated, she would not live much longer anyway.

  And for that reason—

  For that reason, she needed to muster the last of her strength and give her all for her love of Seikichi. Kiku was the kind of woman who simply had to give love.

  She locked up the shop and left the Yamazaki Teahouse to accompany the yellow-toothed man. The sky was overcast, and the penetrating cold stabbed into her body.

  “Looks like it might snow,” the man muttered, looking up at the gray skies.

  “I have to get back as soon as possible. The madam will be coming back from the Fire Festival soon, and then clients will be coming this evening. If they start arriving before the geiko are there … that would be a disaster!”

  “I know. I know!” With a knowing look, the man started down the Maruyama slope ahead of Kiku.

  The ocean was dark today. Conspicuously black clouds pressed in from behind Mount Inasa.

  Today’s client was a young Chinese merchant with a slim figure and protruding cheekbones. He was impatient to get his hands on Kiku’s body.

  “,” he exclaimed when he saw Kiku. He may have been correct in saying (What a beautiful woman!), but it was idle flattery for him to say (Such a charming outfit!) when she had come without even taking the time to change her clothes.

  The Chinese man who was acting as interpreter lied and told the client, “She’s one of the top two women of the quarter right now,” to which the client voiced his gratitude, “.”

  Large snowflakes began to fall outside the window. The cold grew even more intense. As she poured the drinks and joined in singing the Chinese songs, Kiku’s body became feverish and she felt terrible. Seeing her red, feverish face, the Chinese merchant mistook it for intoxication and the flush of desire, and he quickly moved her into bed.

  So sluggish. She wanted this laborious chore to be over quickly. While the slender Chinese man moved his body unremittingly above her, Kiku endured by imagining Seikichi’s face. She struggled to remind herself that however much she had to undergo, Seikichi was suffering far greater pain. And she hoped that if there were a God, he would lessen Seikichi’s suffering by exactly the amount of suffering she was subjected to.

  The image that suddenly popped into her mind was the angelic face of the woman in the Nambanji. That Blessed Mother whom Seikichi revered and worshipped.

  I don’t care how much I have to suffer, please just make things easier for him in Tsuwano. With her eyes closed, she pleaded in her heart to that woman. It was less a plea than it was a prayer. As she repeated the prayer in her heart, the body of the slender man shuddered; she heard his heavy breathing, his face with its bloodshot eyes was directly above her, and the torrent of his lust coursed powerfully into her body.

  In that moment, Kiku coughed violently. It felt as though some object like a fishbone was caught in her throat, so she tried to force it out, with the result that a bloody liquid filled her mouth.

  It was fresh blood. The blood spilled from her lips and stained the tatami.

  The startled Chinese man wrenched his naked body away from her and shouted frantically for the man who was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

  The Chinese men were kind to her. They let her remain lying down and, before long, brought some warm medicine in a cup and had her drink it.

  “It’s a sedative and something to stop the bleeding,” the man who was acting as interpreter, with a face whiter than a sheet of paper, explained to Kiku. The brown medicinal drink had a strong aroma, but when she drank it, she could tell that the tightness in her chest was gradually abating, and she no longer felt nauseous.

  I have to go back. It must be about the time the madam will be returning. Those were her first thoughts, but her leaden body would not move. The medicinal potion they had given her must have contained a sleeping drug, since she fell into a light sleep.

  Her dream was the same as usual. A gentle spring in Magome. Skylarks twittered overhead, and then the field carpeted in lotus flowers. She was playing with Mitsu and some other girls. Seikichi was there, too. And Kiku, excessively mindful of Seikichi’s presence, was purposely standoffish, moving far away from him at times. When she did, Seikichi looked very, very sad.

  She woke up. It was a dark, solitary evening. Outside enormous snowflakes were falling. The roofs of the houses had turned starkly white.

  Kiku forced herself to get up and staggered slowly down the stairs. Three or four men, including the slender Chinese man, were drinking and playing a Chinese version of paper-rock-scissors.

  “You should have slept longer,” said the one who could speak Japanese.

  “I’m sorry for all the trouble. I’ll come back again to give a proper apology, but for today, please excuse me.”

  “You’ve got to take care of yourself!”

  The Chinese merchant had paid her two ryo, but she tried to return one ryo to him as an apology for coughing up blood.

  “Don’t worry about it. Keep it,” he said gently, shaking his head.

  She tried to make her way back to Maruyama through the large flakes of falling snow. And she began pondering how she might make her excuses. She knew that she would be found out no matter how hard she tried to conceal her activities, and there was every possibility that the madam already had some vague idea of what Kiku had been doing.

  She walked through the snow, her heart heavy. It was dark along the road and there were no other people to be seen. Her fever sent shivers racing from her shoulders to her back from time to time, and her head was extremely hot.

  Again she felt like throwing up. She stopped and spit out whatever was caught in her throat. Bright red blood stained the snow.

  Staring at the blood, she decided she could never return to the Yamazaki Teahouse. Maruyama was not so indulgent a place as to let a woman who could not work obtain her food and lodgings for free.
>
  Could she go back to her home in Magome? Her pride would not allow it. It was too painful to consider the pain she would cause Granny and her parents when they saw her wasted body.

  I don’t think I have much longer to live. In that moment, she sensed the certain brevity of her own life. And she realized that there was really only one place she could go—the Nambanji at Ōura, where she could recall how Seikichi had looked when she saw him there.

  Seikichi had always said that no place was more valuable to him than the Nambanji. And it was there he had worshipped that woman.

  The dark ocean. The dark beach. Kiku walked along the deserted road toward Ōura.

  The snow fluttered in the wind. The ocean was tinged a deep purple hue, and the road alongside the beach had already turned white. Kiku had no umbrella, so the innumerable snowflakes grazed past her hair and shoulders or landed on them.

  Strangely she felt no pain. For whatever reason, her last strength came from the hope that if she could make it to the Nambanji in Ōura, she would find Seikichi there.

  Panting for breath, stopping occasionally and coughing every time she stopped, she climbed the slope. Snow had already started to bury the slanting path, making it difficult to walk. She kicked off her geta and continued barefoot.

  By the time she reached the crest of the hill, her energy was gone. She coughed violently and leaned against the earthen wall of the church to catch her breath. That earthen wall she leaned against has become a corner of the Tōkyū Hotel today, but the church still looks essentially the way it did that day.

  Through the white veil of snow, she could see the Nambanji directly in front of her. Enfolded in that veil, she was swept up in the illusion that Seikichi was waiting for her right now inside the church. Spring in Urakami. Young girls at play. Days filled with such joy. Wispy memories of Seikichi’s clear voice as he sold his wares those mornings in early summer, and the brief opportunity she had to talk with him at this church.