The Way of the Traitor

by Laura Joh Rowland

  How completely he’d misjudged the doctor, who had always seemed a paragon of stolid, bourgeois virtue! Whatever Huygens had done, it must be bad, for him to worry so. “As far as the Japanese authorities are concerned, either of us could be a smuggler,” deGraeff continued, though he knew that his history as Spaen’s private trade partner counted heavily against him. “We had equal access to the goods. Oh, but you’re the one who speaks the native tongue, aren’t you?”

  Huygens buried his face in his hands and uttered a mournful curse: “Verdomme!”

  DeGraeff smiled. “So it seems that we must unite for our mutual protection,” he said. “If you keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours.” And not only the ones under discussion, but also their whereabouts last night and when Spaen had disappeared—and what deGraeff planned to do before they sailed. “If we both stand firm, no one can ever lay the blame for Spaen’s murder on either of us. We’ll be safe.”

  The doctor looked up, nodding eagerly in pitiful relief and gratitude. “Yes, yes. That’s what we’ll do.” He clasped deGraeff’s hands in his hot, sweaty ones. “Thank you, Maarten.”

  In the street, guards surrounded the three other Dutchmen, who had returned from their trip this morning. Interpreter Iishino waved, calling, “Assistant Director deGraeff! Dr. Huygens! Time for Director Spaen’s funeral.”

  DeGraeff stood up and headed for the ladder. “And I thank you, Nicolaes.”

  His soul might be damned to burn in hell for all eternity, but with luck neither the Japanese nor the Dutch authorities would punish him for Spaen’s murder or any other crimes. The danger would soon be over; he would return to the Netherlands a wealthy, free man.

  He wondered what Huygens’s guilty secret was, and whether the good doctor was capable of murder.

  Jan Spaen’s funeral procession ascended the steep streets of Nagasaki toward the Dutch burial ground in the hills. Sano, dressed in his ceremonial garb of white under-robe, black silk kimono, trousers, and surcoat, with black cloth covering his swords as a gesture of respect for the dead, rode near the end. Mounted troops cleared a path through the crowd that had come to see the barbarians. Spectators trailed the procession and jammed balconies or rooftops along the route, cheering. Refreshment vendors did a brisk trade, but ordinary business had halted. The drizzle continued, yet no one sought cover.

  “Get back!” shouted the footsoldiers who ran alongside the procession, pushing away gawkers who got too close. “Anyone who touches or speaks to the barbarians will die!”

  In contrast to all this fanfare, the funeral party itself seemed insignificant, lacking the splendor of a Japanese ritual. There were no flowers; no lantern bearers; no priests, chants, incense, bells, or drums; no white-robed mourners. Six Deshima servants, wearing everyday kimonos, carried the black-draped coffin. Behind it walked Assistant Director deGraeff, Dr. Huygens, and the three other Dutchmen, who had returned from paying homage to the Kyūshū daimyo, all dressed in somber black. Chief Ohira, Interpreter Iishino, Nirin, and twenty guards followed, also clad in ordinary garb. Just ahead of Sano rode Yoriki Ota and other Nagasaki officials. After them trailed four peasants carrying ropes and shovels.

  Sano knew that the anti-Christianity laws forbade the Dutch to practice their customary death rites. For the first time he pitied Jan Spaen, dying in a foreign land, his funeral a public spectacle for curious strangers. However, Sano’s thoughts soon drifted from Director Spaen as he covertly scanned the crowds. Upon going home to dress for the funeral, he’d learned that Old Carp had received no word from Hirata. He’d seen troops searching buildings and questioning residents and pedestrians, but no sightings had been reported. Sano hoped Hirata would lie low until the charges against them were dropped, yet he knew the odds against that. He kept imagining he saw Hirata’s face among the horde.

  At last the procession reached the burial ground. Tall cedars bordered the grassy, windswept plateau where rows of wooden stakes marked barbarian graves. The funeral party grouped around these, with troops keeping away the gawkers. Chief Ohira avoided Sano’s gaze, while Nirin stared insolently. But Sano wasn’t concerned with these suspects at the moment. Dismounting, he started toward the barbarians.

  “Sorry, you can’t go over there.”

  Guards stepped between Sano and the Dutchmen, forcing him back. Sano despaired of ever speaking to the Dutch suspects again. Yet perhaps this trip would still prove to be valuable. He took a place next to a grinning, nervous Interpreter Iishino.

  Chief Ohira announced, “We are gathered here to bury the earthly remains of Trade Director Jan Spaen.” He nodded to the gravediggers, who began shoveling a hole in a bare patch of ground. The bearers set the coffin nearby. “Director Spaen’s comrades will pay their last respects.” Frowning at the Dutchmen, he added, “Any references to Christianity will result in a severe reduction of trade privileges.”

  Interpreter Iishino darted over to the grave, obviously eager to get away from Sano. He translated Ohira’s words, beckoning to the Dutch. The barbarians stood beside the coffin, heads bowed, hats in their hands. DeGraeff spoke first. The clink of shovels, the rustling of the trees, and the horses’ stomps accompanied his expressionless monologue.

  “Jan Spaen was a brave, talented trader,” Iishino translated, hunching his shoulders against the damp wind—or Sano’s scrutiny? “He opened new markets and generated high profits for the East India Company. He was my partner for ten years, and I very much regret his passing.”

  Sano paid minimal attention to the rest of this positive eulogy from a murder suspect who wouldn’t want to air his grievances against the deceased. He studied Iishino, trying with difficulty to imagine him as a murderer. Had this buffoon shot Jan Spaen? If the mere sight of Spaen’s corpse had shocked the jitters out of him, how could he have stabbed Peony?

  Yet perhaps Iishino’s reaction to the corpse had been caused by fear of betraying guilt. He had access to Deshima’s warehouses. He had the language skills necessary for colluding with the Dutch. He’d seemed worried when Sano asked why Director Spaen had been updating the account books so long after the official sale of Dutch goods, maybe because he knew Spaen had recorded the smuggling transactions and didn’t want Sano to find out. And Iishino was the person most responsible for creating false evidence of Sano’s wrongful behavior toward the Dutch. Sano’s dislike for the interpreter deepened into loathing.

  Iishino finished translating the assistant director’s recitation. Then it was Dr. Huygens’s turn to speak.

  For a long time, the doctor remained silent, head bowed over the coffin. Drizzle misted the air. Dirt flew from the hole where the gravediggers worked chest deep. Then Huygens spoke two short phrases.

  “May all our sins be forgiven. Rest in peace,” Iishino echoed.

  The doctor’s ambiguous words seemed to imply that he himself was guilty of some offense. Distracted from his speculations about Interpreter Iishino, Sano again feared he’d trusted Huygens too quickly. Had he ignored clues during their meeting? Could the doctor have murdered Spaen?

  The other Dutchmen spoke their pieces. The gravediggers placed ropes under the coffin and lowered it into the hole. Each barbarian cast a handful of dirt onto the coffin. Then the diggers shoveled earth into the grave. Sano’s skin crawled at the thought of the corpse slowly rotting underground. How much cleaner and more final was the Buddhist custom of cremation. But Sano had no time to ponder the differences between Japanese and Dutch funerary rites, or Dr. Huygens’s possible guilt. Interpreter Iishino was edging toward the road leading down the hill.

  Sano cut through the circle of troops, pushed past spectators, and hurried after Iishino. The interpreter ran down the road, shoulders hunched, sandals flapping. Sano caught up with him, seized his arm, and swung him around.

  “Not so fast, Iishino,” he said.

  Grinning, Iishino shrugged. He let out a high, nervous titter, and said, “Excuse me, sōsakan-sama, excuse me.” When none of these ploys broke Sano’s hold on him, he wh
impered.

  “Why did you tell those lies about me?” Contempt roughened Sano’s tone. He flung Iishino up against a tree. “I never asked the Dutch captain for weapons, or conspired with Dr. Huygens to overthrow the government, and you know it.” When Iishino cringed and trembled, Sano shouted, “Speak up! I want an answer, now. Why did you lie?”

  Surprisingly, the interpreter’s toothy grin reappeared. “I didn’t lie, sōsakan-sama, I didn’t lie,” he said. “I only told my version of the truth, which is different from yours. The tribunal will decide which version to believe.”

  Of all the incredible nerve! “There’s no one here but you and me, so you might as well drop the act,” Sano said, locking a hand over Iishino’s throat and pinning him to the tree. “You’re going to explain why you lied. Then we’re going to Governor Nagai so you can retract your statement.”

  Iishino kicked, thrashed, and managed to choke out, “My statement has already been entered into the official record. I couldn’t retract it even if I wanted to. And if you kill me, it will only convince the tribunal of your guilt.”

  Much as Sano hated to admit it, the interpreter was probably right on the first point as well as the second: If Governor Nagai and Chamberlain Yanagisawa intended to destroy him, they wouldn’t let Iishino change his statement. Reluctantly Sano released the interpreter, who collapsed to the ground with a moan of relief.

  “Where were you the night Jan Spaen disappeared?” Sano demanded.

  Clambering to his feet, Iishino made an exaggerated show of wiping mud from his garments, avoiding Sano’s gaze. “I went to the governor’s mansion in the afternoon to translate some Dutch documents. By the time I finished, it was so late that the city gates were closed, and I couldn’t go home. I slept in the office, and didn’t know the barbarian was missing until I reported for work on Deshima.”

  Sano thought that Iishino must be confident that the governor’s staff would confirm his story, either because he really had been there, or because they had orders to protect him. “What about the night before last?” Sano asked, curious to see what alibi Iishino would present for Peony’s murder and the attack on himself.

  “I was at home with my wife.” Iishino beamed. “She is Governor Nagai’s niece.”

  And the unimpeachable source of another unbreakable alibi. “And last night? Were you on Deshima?”

  Iishino sidled up the road. “I should go back to the funeral,” he said. “My services might be needed. Of course I was not on Deshima last night. The junior interpreters cover the late shift. I was at home until the governor’s messenger summoned me to your hearing.”

  “I’m not through with you yet,” Sano said, blocking Iishino’s path. “What was your relationship with Jan Spaen?”

  Iishino tried to step around Sano, failed, then grimaced in resignation. “I know you’re thinking maybe I killed the barbarian, sōsakan-sama. But I didn’t. I liked Spaen the way I do all the Dutch—they’re my friends.” At Sano’s surprised look, he amended hastily, “Oh, not in any improper way; I never favor barbarians. But I enjoy being with them. You see, they have no choice but to accept my company. They have to listen to me and talk to me. They can’t run away when they see me coming, or brush me off the way other people do.”

  He sighed, and his face took on a mournful cast. “All my life I’ve had difficulty making friends. When I was young, the other boys at the temple school shunned me and played cruel jokes on me. One night they carried my bed outside while I was sleeping and put it beside the river. When I got up, I fell in the water and almost drowned. Learning the Dutch language was my salvation, my salvation. If not for the barbarians, I would be a very lonely man. And Jan Spaen was nice to me. He told me about his adventures. He followed my advice when I taught him how to behave in this country. I would never have done anything to hurt him.”

  Hearing the pained sincerity in Iishino’s voice, Sano felt an unexpected rush of pity for the interpreter. He hadn’t realized how much Iishino minded being disliked; some obnoxious men were unaware of the antipathy they inspired, or indifferent to it. How sad that a Japanese should turn to foreigners for friendship because his countrymen shunned him.

  “You might be more popular if you stopped being so bossy and critical,” Sano suggested.

  The interpreter’s wide eyes blinked in surprise. “But it’s my duty to correct people when they’re doing something wrong,” he said with self-righteous pomp. His head bobbed emphatically. “If they don’t appreciate my advice, it’s because they’re too sensitive or proud to benefit from my superior wisdom.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t always assume that your wisdom is superior,” Sano said, though he saw the futility of trying to change Iishino’s attitude. The interpreter seemed destined to remain friendless. “You can’t be right all the time.”

  “I beg to differ—at least in your case, sōsakan-sama.” Iishino grinned smugly. “Because you should have heeded my warning against getting too close to the barbarians. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in all this trouble.”

  He dodged around Sano and scurried up the hill toward the burial ground. As Sano watched him go, he glimpsed other possible motives for Iishino’s actions. Did the interpreter so greatly resent the universal rejection of his advice and friendship that he’d taken revenge on Sano, a convenient target? Were both Iishino and Ohira pawns of Governor Nagai and Chamberlain Yanagisawa?

  Or was Iishino a criminal, trying to hide his guilt by destroying a man who might expose and destroy him?

  Sano retrieved his horse and started down the road toward town. It was afternoon now; Kiyoshi would have had plenty of time to reflect on his dire situation. Perhaps he was ready to tell the truth about why he’d been in the cove last night, and supply answers that the suspects had not.

  “You can see Kiyoshi if you want, but don’t expect him to talk,” said the warden, leading Sano through Nagasaki Jail. “He hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since he arrived.”

  In the prison’s dim corridors, ironclad doors studded dingy plaster walls. From behind these issued the wails of inmates, most of whom were convicted criminals awaiting execution. The air reeked of excrement, rotten food, and sickness. Patrolling jailers banged on the doors, ordering the inmates to shut up and behave. Sano tried not to picture himself and Hirata as prisoners. He would clear their names, and Kiyoshi was going to help him.

  “He’s in here,” the warden said, unbarring a door. “Just call when you’re done, and I’ll come let you out.”

  Sano entered the cell; the warden secured the door behind him. Except for a wastebucket in one corner, the room was unfurnished. Rain streaked past the single window at ceiling level and dashed the tile roof. A tray of rice and pickles sat beside Kiyoshi, who knelt in the middle of the dirty floor. Stripped of his swords and shoes, he wore a ragged muslin kimono and didn’t react when Sano spoke his name. Sano squatted across from the youth, shivering in his wet garments and the unpleasant chill exuded by the prison walls.

  “Kiyoshi?” Sano repeated. “Can you hear me?”

  The boy’s face seemed made of ivory, the handsome features sharp, pale, and devoid of animation. A split lip and bruised cheekbone added touches of livid color. His eyes focused inward; his hands lay motionless, palms down, upon his thighs. Yet Sano perceived an aura of agony radiating from Kiyoshi. All thought of using verbal or physical aggression to force the truth out of him fled Sano in a rush of sympathy. The boy’s lies had incriminated Sano, but also condemned himself to a disgraceful death.

  “How are you feeling, Kiyoshi?” Sano asked quietly. “Are the jailers treating you well?”

  No answer. The youth’s expression registered no sign that he even knew anyone was in the room with him. Sano, seeking a way to reach him, turned to the tray of food.

  “It doesn’t look as if you’ve eaten,” he said. “Would you like to now?”

  Then, seeing the condition of the food, he grimaced in disgust. The rice was burnt, the radish pickles moldy. A stal
e, sour smell arose from the mess.

  “Warden!” Sano shouted. The man opened the door so fast that Sano guessed he’d been eavesdropping outside. “Take this garbage away and bring something better.”

  The warden frowned. “He’s supposed to be treated the same as the other prisoners—he eats what they eat; no special privileges of any kind. Governor Nagai’s orders.”

  How quickly and completely the governor had withdrawn favor from his former protégé, Sano thought. Did he really believe in Kiyoshi’s guilt, or want to distance himself from an accomplice turned scapegoat?

  “Bring hot soup, fresh rice, and sake,” Sano told the warden. “I’ll take the responsibility.”

  “Suit yourself.” Shrugging, the warden took the tray and left.

  When the new provisions came, Sano set them in front of Kiyoshi, but the youth made no move to eat. Sano held a spoonful of soup to Kiyoshi’s mouth.

  “Drink this,” he coaxed. “You’ll feel better.”

  The soup trickled down Kiyoshi’s immobile lips and onto his kimono, as did the liquor Sano offered next. Sano wiped the young man’s face with his own sleeve, then spoke in a calm, quiet tone, feeling his way.

  “From what I can tell, you’re a dutiful, hardworking samurai. And you must be intelligent to learn Dutch.”

  Sano paused, waiting for a response, but Kiyoshi didn’t even blink. Sano continued, “I don’t believe you would ever want to break the law, or intentionally hurt anyone. Isn’t that why you’re suffering now? Because even though you didn’t commit the crime you confessed to, you’ve hurt so many people. Not just me, but the people to whom you owe your highest loyalty: your father, Governor Nagai, Interpreter Iishino … and Junko.”

  Though the young samurai’s face retained its icy pallor and stillness, Sano detected a faint reaction to Junko’s name: The atmosphere around Kiyoshi vibrated like a taut samisen string when touched too lightly to make a sound.

  “Junko must love you very much, to disobey her father by meeting you secretly,” Sano said. “She would be heartbroken if you should die—especially for something you didn’t do.”