by David Peace
‘But when Genta was but seven years old, the old woman passed away. The master and his wife consoled the child, let him continue to live in their house, in the room he had shared with his adopted mother, allowing him to become one of their servants, with chores and with duties. The work and life of Genta was hard and tough, in truth not much more than that of a cow or a horse. But Genta never complained, never shirked, ever attentive to his chores, ever diligent in his duties, a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips. And on the rare occasions when he was allowed time off from his chores and his duties, Genta would first tend to the grave of his adopted mother, bringing her flowers and watering her stone, then wander along the banks of the river, down among the reeds, down to the mouth, to stare at the sea and watch the waves, with a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips.
‘But one such day, when Genta was in his fifteenth year, and had tended to the grave of his adopted mother and had gone to wander down by the sea, a great and sudden typhoon struck the region and the village, lifting the roofs from the houses, flattening the crops in the field, bursting the sides of the river, drowning the reeds on its banks. And after the storm had passed, after the floods had subsided, and after the master had had the servants search and search, there was no trace of Genta. It was assumed he had been washed out to sea, believed drowned under its waves.
‘But then, after forty days and forty nights, Genta returned to the house of his master. His clothes were but rags, his hair matted with dirt, and on his forehead was a mark in mud, a Christian cross. Genta was brought before his master and asked to account for his disappearance and reappearance. And with that familiar light in his eyes, that same smile upon his lips, but with a voice much changed from his voice of old, now calm and dignified, he said, When I wandered along the banks, through the reeds, down to the beach and the sea, I came upon a red-haired stranger. He told me many things about this world and about the next; he took away my old name, he gave me a new name. Then he led me down to the water’s edge and held me down beneath the waves, as the storm raged up above and the waters rose about me. And then I was released, and when I came back up above the waves and felt the air flowing through my lungs, I knew I felt the breath of God Himself.
‘The master had been sad when he believed the boy had drowned and happy when Genta had returned alive to his house. He had listened in silence to the tale the boy told, but now he stared at the mark in mud upon his forehead and asked, What new name did this red-haired stranger give you?
‘And the boy said, Yaso.’
In the dark and empty church, its cross dull and hidden, Father Gracy turned abruptly to the young man telling him this tale and said, ‘Yaso?’
‘Yes,’ said the young man. ‘Yaso, our old word for Jesus.’
Father Gracy nodded and said, ‘I know. Please go on …’
‘As I have said,’ continued the young man, ‘this happened during a time of persecution, the Christian faith forbidden and severely punished. And so the master was most afraid. He had the servants confine the boy to the stables while he thought what best to do, for he was confused and torn. True, the boy was but a servant, yet a good and faithful servant. Perhaps he had been driven mad by fear in the storm, then plagued by lack of food and water. Now he had returned, and with food and with water he might yet be restored, returned to his old self, the good and loyal servant boy named Genta. And so the master decided to wait a while, but he strictly admonished the servants of his house to say nothing of the boy’s return or of the tale he had told.
‘But people talk, and the servants talked, and so word soon spread of the boy and the tale he had told. And one day the word reached a village, a village where the folk still secretly followed the Christian faith. Despite the danger, despite the risk, the elders of the village decided they had to see this boy for themselves, to hear his tale for themselves. And so one night, under cover of its darkness, they sent three of their number down to the house of Saburōji, to sneak into the stables. There they found the boy, there they heard his tale, heard him say his name, a light in his eyes, a smile on his lips, Yaso.
‘These hidden Christians were shocked, these secret Christians confused, and they asked the boy, How can you be Yaso?
‘I am the son of God, I am the child of Mary, said the boy. For we are all the sons of God, we are all the children of Mary.
‘But these Christians were appalled, these Christians were angry, and they said, This is blasphemy, this is heresy. You are no son of God, you are no child of Mary. You are a blasphemer, you are a heretic. And these Christians left the boy in the stable, and these Christians journeyed on to Nagasaki. There they sought out the magistrate, there they spoke to the magistrate, never mentioning their own beliefs, never revealing their own faith, speaking only of the boy, telling only of his tale.
‘Immediately, the magistrate dispatched his officers to the house of Saburōji in Urakami. The magistrate had his officers arrest the entire household and bring them to the prison in Nagasaki.
‘Now Saburōji had been on good terms with the magistrate for many years. He had always paid his taxes on time, he had never protested whenever they were raised. And so when Saburōji told his story, the magistrate was inclined to believe him, and when Saburōji and his household all trampled and spat upon the face of Christ, the magistrate released them.
‘But there still remained the matter of the boy who said his name was Yaso, a matter that was not so easy to resolve.
‘The boy was brought before the magistrate, and the boy repeated his tale to the magistrate. He did not change his story, he did not deny his name. And the magistrate listened in silence, then the magistrate thought for a while. For the magistrate was a learned man, and not an impulsive man. He was not from Nagasaki; he had been born in Edo. There he had been schooled in the Law, and there he had studied the Christian heresy. And the Law was very clear: all heretics were to be put to death by crucifixion. That was the Law.
‘Now the magistrate asked the boy, After you had been given your new name, and after you had come back up above the waves, what then became of this red-haired stranger of whom you speak?
‘With that familiar light in his eyes, with that same smile upon his lips, the boy said, He walked upon the waters, out across the sea.
‘And so you have not seen this stranger since, asked the magistrate.
‘No, said the boy. But he told me he will return.
‘Really, said the magistrate, and did he tell you when?
‘Yes, said the boy. He will return at the end.
‘At the end, repeated the magistrate. Well, unless you renounce your heretical beliefs, unless you trample upon the face of Christ, then your own end is close at hand, you realise that, do you not?
‘With the light in his eyes, with the smile on his lips, the boy said, I do.
‘And you are prepared then to accept your fate, your death?
‘Yes, said the boy. I am.’
Beside the young man in the pew, in the dark and empty church, Father Gracy felt his shoulders sag and his eyes moisten as he stared through the dark at the cross hidden in the shadows by the altar.
‘Now as I have already said,’ continued the young man, ‘the magistrate was a learned man, a man who had studied the Christian heresy. And though the Law clearly stated that all heretics had to die by crucifixion, the magistrate now decided upon a different fate for the boy who called himself Yaso: there would be no repetition, there would be no crucifixion.
‘Late that afternoon at low tide, while the people of Nagasaki and Urakami gathered to watch from the shore, the magistrate and his officers led the boy down onto the beach, close to the mouth of the Urakami River. There the officers began to dig a hole in the sand, to plant a tree trunk in the hole, to tie the boy to the trunk. But the boy stopped them, saying, There is no need for you to toil. For I will stand here and wait upon the beach, and wait for Him to come again, for Him to return again for me.
‘The officers looked a
t the magistrate. The magistrate stared at the boy. The boy smiled, and the magistrate nodded, So be it.
‘And the magistrate and his officers left the boy standing on the beach, the water already lapping at his feet, his hands clasped together, his face turned to the sky, a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips.
‘In the deepening dusk, the magistrate took his seat before the people of Nagasaki and Urakami, his eyes fixed upon the boy on the beach as wave by wave the tide came in, the wind in the reeds, the wind on the water.
‘One sun, one shaku, the tide came in, the water came in, over the beach and over the boy, his ankles then his shins, his knees then his thighs, over his waist and up to his chest, the boy never moving, his face never turning, turned to the sky, the darkening sky, the rising waters and the endless waves, up to his neck and over his chin, into his mouth and through his hair, over his hair and over his head, the boy now under the water, the boy now under the waves, the boy drowned, the boy dead.
‘Early the next morning at low tide, the officers of the magistrate found the body of the boy washed up among the tall reeds, his hands still clasped together, his eyes still open, a smile upon his lips. But, it is said, when they moved his body, when they raised it from the reeds, a delicate fragrance filled the air and his mouth fell open. And in the mouth of the boy, a lily bloomed. So ends the story of the Faith of Genta, the Yaso of Nagasaki.’
For a long, long time, in the dark and empty church, Father Gracy did not speak. Then with the trails of tears still wet upon his face, he turned to the young man sat beside him in the pew. There were tears in the eyes of the young man, too, as Father Gracy said, ‘Merci. Thank you.’
‘You are welcome,’ said the young man. ‘Of all the tales of martyrs in Japan, this one, this life of this Holy Fool, is my favourite story.’
Father Gracy nodded, then asked, ‘And why is that?’
‘I was born in these modern times,’ replied the young man, hesitantly. ‘But I feel I can do no work of any lasting worth. Day and night, I just live a desultory and decadent life, standing on the beach, yet then running from the waves, always wanting to believe, yet never having faith …’
Father Léon Gracy nodded again, then smiled sadly and said, ‘Well, and though it can be of little comfort, you are not alone. For maybe in all our mistakes and in all our misunderstandings, we are all just running from the waves, all then just hiding and hidden, yet still wanting to believe, still waiting to have faith. And so in the end, perhaps the wanting and the waiting, perhaps that is belief, that is faith. Just wanting, just waiting –
‘The most we can hope for, the very most we deserve.’
*
Arrived Nagasaki, hosted by Mr Nagami, who is showing us around. Already quite impressed by what a good place Nagasaki is. Very good mixture of Chinese and Western tastes. There are a lot of foreigners and Chinese. Mostly, it is stone-paved, with stone bridges in the Chinese style. There are three Roman Catholic Temples. All of them are quite grand. Yesterday, I visited one of them and talked with a French priest for almost the entire afternoon. On the way back, I strolled around the town and found a surprisingly good bargain which I will send to you.
Postcard from Akutagawa to his wife Fumi,
in Tabata, Tokyo, dated May 7, 1919
*
At his desk in his office at the Nagasaki Prefectural Hospital, Mokichi Saitō, chief of the psychiatric division, chairman of the Department of Psychiatry at the Nagasaki School of Medicine, counselling physician to the Nagasaki First Aid Station, and renowned tanka poet, closed his eyes. He was exhausted and he was depressed; exhausted by his workload, depressed by this place. And now he was trapped here, trapped here because of Ishida.
Noburo Ishida had graduated from Tokyo Imperial University Medical School three years ahead of Mokichi. The most brilliant psychiatrist of their generation, Ishida had published the standard textbook on psychiatric disorders. Not only that, Ishida had also translated Don Quixote and, under the pen name of Hamatorō Ojima, written short stories and novels of his own. In January 1918, Ishida had left for the United States to study the treatment of schizophrenia with Adolf Meyer at the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. For the duration of Ishida’s studies in America, Mokichi had agreed to temporarily cover for him in Nagasaki. However, things had not gone as planned; in fact, things had gone most awry.
In Baltimore, Ishida had developed schizophrenic symptoms himself, suffering from delusions and auditory hallucinations. He believed he had fallen in love with the head nurse, but then believed he was caught in a ‘love triangle’ with the nurse and a German doctor named Wolf. Early on the morning of the twenty-first of December last year, Ishida hunted down and shot and killed Dr George V. Wolf. The Baltimore police caught and arrested Ishida, but there were then conflicting opinions as to his sanity. Now Ishida was incarcerated in a Baltimore prison, and now Mokichi was trapped in a prison of his own, here in Nagasaki.
There was a knock on his door. Mokichi opened his eyes, rubbed his face, looked at his watch and sighed; he had forgotten, forgotten he had agreed to this visit from Mr Nagami and his two celebrated guests from Tokyo.
There was a second knock now. Mokichi stood up behind his desk and called out, ‘Yes. Please come in.’
Nagami opened the door, leading in his two guests, bowing and excusing the interruption, thanking Mokichi for his time, introducing his guests –
‘This is Mr Kan Kikuchi, or Hiroshi Kikuchi, as he prefers, and Mr Ryūnosuke Akutagawa,’ said Nagami, as the two young men from Tokyo bowed, apologising for the intrusion, but simply honoured to meet Mokichi.
Mokichi came out from behind his desk, dismissed their apologies and any honour they felt, and offered the three of them seats. Mokichi then left his visitors sitting silently in his office, walked across the corridor and asked one of his staff to bring in tea. Mokichi then walked back into his office, sat back down behind his desk, looked across his piles of work at Nagami and his two celebrated guests from Tokyo, both in their fashionable Western suits, one rather plump and bespectacled, the other rather gaunt and foppish, and Mokichi wondered what on earth to say to these two Literary Young Turks.
The embarrassed silence lasted until the plump Kikuchi said again, ‘It really is the greatest of privileges to meet you, Sensei.’
‘It truly is,’ agreed the gaunt Akutagawa.
‘Surely,’ said Mokichi, but with a sigh he somehow could not suppress, ‘surely any man should be grateful and impressed to be able to welcome two men such as yourselves, two of our brightest young literary stars.’
‘Well,’ said Nagami, ‘since arriving here in Nagasaki, they have talked of little else but the prospect of meeting you, Sensei.’
Mokichi smiled a somewhat sardonic and sceptical smile, and said, ‘You flatter me. I am sure I am the very least this place has to offer. And so, gentlemen, I trust your host has been giving you a full and thorough tour.’
‘He has indeed,’ said Kikuchi. ‘Why, only today we have visited so many stimulating places. Actually, we began our day in the Nagasaki Prefectural Library, where, by chance, sheer chance, we met Mr Kunio Yanagita.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mokichi. ‘My wife mentioned he was here.’
‘How is your wife,’ asked Nagami. ‘I trust she is well.’
‘I presume so,’ said Mokichi. ‘She left for Tokyo this morning.’
There was another silence in the office now, a silence only broken by the arrival of the tea and Mokichi finally asking, ‘How was the esteemed folklorist?’
‘Most charming,’ said Akutagawa, ‘and very friendly.’
Mokichi looked across his desk at this gaunt and foppish young star, smiled, raised an eyebrow, then turned to Kikuchi and asked, ‘And where then?’
‘Where have we not visited,’ laughed Kikuchi. ‘The temples of Sōfukuji, Daionji and Kōfukuji, the churches of Urakami and Nakamichi …’
‘Mr Akutagawa is most interested in and taken with the Christi
an history of the city and its legacy, Sensei,’ said Nagami.
‘I am not surprised,’ said Mokichi, but with deliberate disdain.
Akutagawa now sat forward in his seat, looked across the desk piled high with papers and with work, and stared at Mokichi as he said, sincerely said, ‘Sensei, I will never forget the night I first read the opening of Shakkō, the first three tanka of your sequence – running and running, along this dark road, and my unbearable remorse, dark, dark, running too / that faint firefly glow, of itself, out of itself, I crush on my dark road / nothing, nothing to be done, the light’s gone out, and in my palm this crushed firefly – I was living in Shinjuku; it was the year after the death of the Emperor, the suicides of General Nogi and his wife, and I was blind, I was but a blind youth. But when I read Shakkō, when I read your tanka, I was no longer blind, no longer but a blind youth, for I could see, I could see the light of poetry.’
There was silence again; silence while Mokichi bowed his head, silence until Mokichi said, ‘Thank you, sincerely, Akutagawa-sensei. Forgive me; I am in a wretched mood, I know. In truth, I have not found this city as conducive as I had hoped, either for my research or for my poetry. Maybe you’ve all heard that Hakushū-sensei has declared he will retire from writing tanka. And though his declaration fills me with great regret, at least I know he can continue to display his power in other forms of poetry or prose. Sadly, that is not the case with me. But I do not need to publicly declare an end to my tanka; as any reader can sense, my tanka is dying by itself, like a demented person who dies quietly and leaves no will.’
‘No,’ protested Kikuchi. ‘You cannot say that, please do not say that, Sensei! Why, only on the train from Tokyo, Akutagawa and I were quoting your last lines from Aratama, your tanka on first arriving here in Nagasaki: At daybreak the great steam horn sounds from the ship, its echo lingering: the mountains arrayed … Such poignancy, such …’