The Blonde Samurai

by Jina Bacarr

  Orders from the consul were to shoot them on sight.

  Shintaro. I swore I’d heard noises at night outside the western-style glass windows, stealthlike, as if the voyeur could peel back the thick walls and slide them open like a paper door to peer inside. I knew he’d come, but he would do nothing to jeopardize the welfare of our child. How was I going to tell him I must remain with my husband? He was a samurai, and I prayed he would understand the loyalty I owed to my family. I had to come up with a determined, infallible plan to keep my child safe, but what? Days thinking…until I realized I suffered from the Occidental ailment of too much thinking, not allowing my mind to act as I had been taught to do, to move forward with the confidence of a warrior. I recalled the grace and fluidity of Shintaro wielding his sword, the effortlessness. The beauty of his movements Don’t think, do. And so I would. I sneaked out when my husband was off somewhere and made my way to the shop of the old swordsmith and bade him take word to Shintaro. I had a plan, dangerous, daring, but my baby’s life depended on it, for I believed within my heart that James would never allow my child to live.

  When I was but a fortnight from my due time, I started out for Ōzaka aboard the train with my black cloth traveling bag in hand, the quiet native woman hired to accompany me nervously clutching her ticket. Her dark eyes cast downward, praying my husband wouldn’t look too closely at her.

  Nami.

  When the native women had arrived at our house for his lordship to choose my traveling companion, I took it upon myself to assume the lead. I reminded James that I spoke the native language, so he put up no protest when I interviewed the women and chose Nami, telling him she was best suited to assist me. I carried off my part with great aplomb, hoping my scheme would work. James had seen Nami but once before in the woods, her long hair loose and her posture in clear defiance of him. Here she remained placid and compliant. Submissive. I thank the holy saints he never questioned my choice.

  Nami played her part well, acting the perfect servant, straightening my chest drawers without being asked, brewing hot tea at the proper times and showing the deepest respect by dropping to the floor and touching her forehead to the straw mat when James or I entered the room. By Nami keeping her head bowed low whenever my husband was present, as was the native custom, he never suspected anything was amiss. I felt rather clever at having accomplished the ruse by arranging with Shintaro to have her arrive with the other native women. I held back my joy at seeing her, using the most formal language when I spoke to her, but noted her smile when she gave me a bleached-white cotton obi to tie around my protruding belly, a native tradition to help ensure an easy delivery, she said. So eager was James to return to London, he gave no further thought to the comings and goings of a lowly servant. I was not only to submit to him after the birth of my baby to produce an heir, he said, but cajole my father into drawing up a new letter of credit. I had no choice but to do as he wished. Da had written to me that the U.S. was in an economic depression with no end in sight. I didn’t wish to add to his mounting troubles with a scandal.

  I admit, dear lady reader, it was daring and exciting to race down the aisle in the railway car after James saw us safely aboard, the two of us heading toward the rear exit. Pushing my way though the narrow corridor, hot and perspiring, I panicked when I felt the sudden rush of wetness between my legs. I sniffed it and a shiver went through me. It had the smell of bleach, not urine. My bag of waters had broken. My step faltered when the locomotive jerked forward, a hiss of steam pouring out the engine, the whistle sharp and shrill in my ears, startling me as if announcing my deceitful deed. I ignored it and got off the train without mishap with Nami behind me. By the time my husband received word I had not arrived in Ōzaka, we’d be safe in the samurai village. Only after I looked into my baby’s eyes and held its tiny body, soft and warm, in my arms, would I return to James and fulfill my duty.

  First we must complete our escape.

  It was too dangerous for my samurai to move around the foreign settlement, so Akira disguised himself as a jinriki-man. Bowl-shaped straw hat upon his head, chest bare, wearing a loincloth and straw sandals, he waited for us outside the train terminal alongside the kuruma procured by the old swordsmith. He bowed, then nodded in approval when he saw my thin navy serge jacket barely covering my large belly. He picked me up into his strong arms and lifted me into the vehicle, his touch sending a different kind of thrill through me, comforting, tender. I will never forget that moment.

  Akira lifted up the shafts, got into them and tilted his body backward, then we raced out of the settlement and up into the hills, Nami and I laughing and crying and clinging to each other. All that mattered was that Shintaro waited for us with horses atop the hill near the small sanctuary. I was alive again, and happy and free.

  The hills behind the foreign settlement. Hidden in the bamboo thickets where I first lost my way, breathing in the fragrance of the orange blossoms which had guided me here, petal-soft rain cooling the fever in me brought on by my reckless escape, exhausted and nearly faint, I fell into the arms of my samurai.

  Shintaro.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” I whispered, his strong arms holding me, his fingers loosening my hair then burying his face in it, breathing in my scent.

  “I prayed to the gods you would be safe—” he stroked my belly, hard and round, as if he could feel the life stirring within me “—and the child.”

  “Our child, Shintaro,” I said, looking up at him, his dark eyes worried and curious, a kind of wild flickering in its depths then it was gone. I closed my fingers over his, clenching my teeth as another pain ripped through me. “Hold me…please.”

  He pulled me closer to him as the pains kept coming, closer and closer together, setting off a new fear in me. The child was not yet due but the pains had been regular, intense, a dull, heavy pain in my back and my loins before abating, stopping, then coming again. I was in labor. Why now? Here in the woods? How long before the baby came? What if I couldn’t birth the child? And my baby…would I find the courage to endure—for no romance of illusion this—the strength to survive long enough to hear its first cry?

  I rested my cheek against my samurai’s shoulder, as if overcome with a great weariness, exhaustion setting in. But it was no time to surrender to my weary self when my child was stirring inside me, begging to burst out, stubborn and persistent, determined to find its way with a freshness of spirit that exhilarated me. I was in a state of grace in this setting of nature, wild and free, surrounded by large cedars smudging the landscape with subtle black strokes, tall bamboo bending with the wind, bushes dripping with white flowers sown by the seeds of the gods. I tensed when a breath of wind blew over me, making me shiver. Dusk loomed low like a shy creature of the night watching me, its breathy mist hovering over me. The rain had stopped, but darkness would soon cover us, making it too dangerous to brave the treacherous footpath down into the hidden village below or back to the sanctuary. What lay ahead of me, pray?

  I shan’t forget those long hours, my pains coming closer together and leaving me no breath for a sigh, my samurai patient and watchful…wrapping his kimono jacket around me to keep me warm, his gesture making me smile. It made the pains more bearable, reminding me of the Irish tradition of a woman wearing the coat of her baby’s father so he may share her pains. I no longer feared the oncoming night nor the dawn, restless as I was to bring my child out of its solitude. Shintaro built a small fire while Nami set water to boil in a round iron pot. (Had the gods told them the child was to be born in this verdant spot?) Akira stretched a canopy of green silk between the trees to enclose us, while keeping watch for intruders. ’Tis amusing to me, to observe how I, an Occidental woman, who ran from the wrath of my husband, found comfort in the arms of this samurai, the gentle woman wedded to him and the strong young warrior who loved him. Where once I may have feared being drawn too deeply into their lives, they were now significant links in a chain that bound me to this land.

&nb
sp; You may scoff and say I have idealized the way of the warrior, but I wish for you to experience Bushido- as you would a drop of pure, fine oil from a flower, a perfume, if you will, so you may apply it to your life as you would scent to your skin and make it yours alone.

  I lay under the silken canopy stretched between the trees to keep out the night chill, the sound of insects chirping and keeping time with my ragged breathing as if they knew their pleasant sounds helped me to stay calm. But I shall not lie; the grinding pain in my groin became unbearable, coming at intermittent times then moving to my belly. It became so severe in my back and hips I am sweating as I write, dots of perspiration blurring the words upon the linen paper as I wished then I could blur the pain. Did you entreat your physician to employ chloroform, dear lady reader, to ease the discomfort as Queen Victoria did? If not, and so as not to make you suffer the indescribable pain of labor, I shall pause here to catch my breath. Pace the carpet if you must and warm yourself with hot tea, for the sacred event of birth is something this memoirist must leave in the hands of the gods.

  I breathed deep…slow…in then out…bore down, pushed, then pushed again harder. Nothing. Shintaro held me under the arms from behind while I squatted…Nami pushing upward around my anus. Sweat dripped down my face and into my ears, saltiness on my lips…water, water…I needed water…but the natives didn’t drink water…someone put a small piece of wood into my hand…a lucky charm from the goddess of mercy to help me through childbirth, Nami told me…I want water, my tongue was so dry it felt swollen…she lay a moist cloth on my forehead…I opened my mouth and squeezed the cloth until drops of water tickled my tongue like a fairy’s toe…the pain, the pain, oh dear God, the pain. By the sainted head of my mother, I never dreamed such pain would come…push, yes, push…I was trying…trying, I cried out in English…a man’s voice, deep and demanding, cursed the gods for abandoning me…then he touched my cheek, comforting me…I squeezed my eyes shut and bore down…pushing downward…then again…again for how long I don’t know…until…oh, yes, yes…I clenched my teeth and pushed the baby out…I let out a loud sigh as my samurai eased me down onto the prepared bedding…sobbing I was when I heard a baby’s cry. Through the sweat dripping into my eyes, I could see Shintaro draw his short sword then cut the cord, but not too close to the baby’s navel, then Akira tied it. I strained to see my baby…there, Nami had the child…so red and wrinkly…Shintaro placing hot, wet cloths on my belly…oh, another contraction…I moaned as the afterbirth gushed out of me…I lay back and gazed upward, the dawn lifting the shadows…a light breeze as soft as a baby’s breath fanning my burning face…I saw Nami clearing the infant’s mouth and nostrils before cleaning it then wrapping the child in a thick flannel kimono…red, the color of birth.

  I looked up to see her hand the child to Shintaro, and the warmth of his smile gave to his eyes an expression of pride and wonderment before he placed the baby into my waiting arms. I couldn’t stop smiling at him when he said, “The gods have blessed us with a daughter.”

  17

  “I refuse to let you go.”

  “I find it ironic, Shintaro, that once you ordered me to leave, and now you order me to stay?”

  “You have a child—”

  “We have a child, you and I. But my baby will not be safe here if I remain.” I paced up and down, frantic, trying to make him understand I didn’t trust James, that he might send soldiers to find me and kill my little girl. And Shintaro.

  Frustrated, I sat down on a square pillow next to my child asleep on the straw matting and stroked her cheek. So innocent. I had no choice. I must leave everything I loved to save them.

  “We will go where your soldiers cannot find us,” said my samurai, indicating they would break camp and travel farther west.

  I nodded, understanding. “You and the baby will be safe there, but I can’t keep on running. I must go back to London and be a wife to a man I hate.”

  “I will not give you up.”

  “You must. Nothing can change what I have to do.”

  “You have changed me, yet you ask me to accept that when a man finds the perfect blossom,” he said, resorting to poetry to express himself since his status of samurai allowed him no other way, “it can never be his.”

  “I will always belong to you, Shintaro. You must believe me.”

  I picked up the baby and took her to my breast, her tiny mouth latching onto my nipple and suckling. A twinge of pain made me gasp, but I wanted to nurse her for as long as I could. Nami had insisted the baby suck seaweed tea dissolved in water from a little silk bag for three days. Then, on the seventh day, we visited the shrine near the small sanctuary atop the hill and, as tradition dictated, Nami, who had assisted at the child’s birth and was due much respect, named her.

  Reiko. Beautiful child.

  “Nami will care for our daughter,” I said approvingly. “She is a good woman…and she loves you, Shintaro.”

  “She is as gentle as the wings of a butterfly, but you, you are the blaze of crimson of the autumnal leaves, tongues of fire branding my soul with your touch, the smoothness of your skin, your hair like gold blossoms, all bringing me inescapable pleasure.” He rested his hand on my bare bosom and stared, his face filled with passion, into mine.

  “You flatter me with your words of poetry, Shintaro, but you refuse to listen to me. Why?”

  “You come from a strange shore, have learned our ways, but—”

  “But I am not born samurai, is that what you wish to say?” I paused, choosing my words carefully, “Or because I am gaijin?”

  He refused to answer me. Why were men so stubborn, even samurai? Didn’t he understand that by fulfilling my duty to my husband and my family, I would prove to him I had embraced their moral code?

  “Is it not true Bushido- demands loyalty?” I continued. “And familial duty?” I put the baby over my shoulder and loosened the cords on her chemise before patting her lightly on the back. “’Tis the only way we can appease the gods for our sins and keep our daughter safe.”

  He grunted, understanding. We both feared for our child’s safety, he because he believed a child belonged to the gods until the age of seven and could be taken from him at any time, and me because the devil himself in the form of my husband could do the same.

  I cannot say we found common ground as the days passed, my Irish temper roused with a determination to keep my child safe, forgetting Shintaro was the lord and not used to such actions, especially from a woman. I have no excuse except to say I suffered from a deep melancholia after the birth of my child. I found strength by reflecting on the unruffled water of a lake not far from the village. There, as is the way of the warrior, I calmed my mind, my spirit, able to see my life clearly without putting emphasis on any one thing, and to find peace within myself.

  We talked and talked and talked, Shintaro and I: when the baby woke up at nights for feeding; carrying her on my back as we walked through the village; breathing in the orange blossoms while we sat on the veranda in the late afternoons, but in the end he knew I was right. I made preparations to return to the settlement, but I shall never forget those precious days after the birth of my daughter and the traditions I hold so dear: Nami burying a pen and ink with the afterbirth to assure the child’s skill with calligraphy (important for the daughter of a samurai), along with a fan so she would rise in the world (to become a geisha? I wondered); Shintaro insisting I not be separated from the others after childbirth; the celebration meal of rice colored by red beans. And when I told him about the ancient Irish tradition of placing cooked rice on the tip of his blade and feeding it to the baby (so the child wouldn’t die by the sword), he found that barbaric, making us both laugh.

  After childbirth, I can unequivocally say you may have been advised by your physician or midwife to remain in bed for two weeks and not to climb stairs for six weeks. Sound advice, but what about sex? Oh, don’t be so prudish. That’s why you purchased this book, isn’t it? Yes, I realize you may not wis
h to have more children and, since birth control material is difficult to procure in England (try reading The Fruits of Philosophy, if you can get a copy), you may avoid sex. Do I hear a snicker or two? Most likely ’tis from those stalwart matrons who prefer their husband’s poker find its way into a pantry maid to save them the difficulty of birthing a child once their duty is done and they produce an heir or two (a spare, if you will). But to those of you who divine the touch of your husband as a way of finding a soothing satisfaction, I have a solution I can personally recommend.

  Two men.

  I shall not be so indelicate as to advise you to allow the gentlemen to probe you with their fingers or their cocks, but to do as I did on a summer night when the already suffocating heat raised a fever in me and in my samurai. The smell of arousal was everywhere as the andon burned low, the scent of fragrant oil filling my nostrils, its slickness rubbed on nude bodies tempting me with an eroticism I could not resist. I had qualms about the mother in me eclipsing the sexual creature, so it was with real delight I welcomed my samurai’s embraces. I did not revolt against my femininity, dear lady reader, but encouraged it, both sexually and maternally. And so I pass this advice along to you to encourage you not to deny yourself and his lordship mutual physical pleasure after birthing a child. So with your permission, ’tis a fond memory I shall indulge in…

  Nude. I lay on my stomach, artful hands massaging my shoulders, back, buttocks, easing the fatigue in my knotted muscles, loosening my tightened ligaments, the silky futon keeping my skin cool while the samurai took their time to pleasure me, their bodies hot, their touch hotter. I breathed in the salty smell of perspiration, theirs and mine, mixing together in a provocative scent. I moaned when Shintaro placed his hand on the nape of my neck and my shoulders, caressing me with a gentleness I found so natural, so soothing it made me forget my pussy was dry and tender, my breasts full and painful, my nipples cracking.