Commodore Perry's Minstrel Show

by Richard Wiley

That comment not only meant that Lord Abe himself was getting drunk, but that Manjiro now had to concentrate. And at just that moment, just as he corralled the carrots and swept them out of sight beneath his stool, Commodore Perry stood again and walked around the table to the center of the horseshoe, directly in front of the exhausted and panting lords. This time his voice was less exclamatory, as if all that quick eating had taken some of his energy away, too.

  “In America we believe in treating guests properly, in feeding them and making them comfortable,” he said, “so tonight there will be no more speechifying, nothing in the way of politics, no more epistles from the president to read, and no more talk from me about this grand and historic moment. Instead, we have arranged a small entertainment, an amateur effort to be sure, but one prepared in earnest, through the sweat and labor of a few good members of our crew.”

  As he spoke his smile grew wider, and when Lord Abe finally heard the words he, too, tried to smile. He turned to Manjiro and said, “Tell him this in English. Say that a country’s true heart can best be judged through the endeavors of its amateurs. Tell him also that in that same spirit of amateurism, even a country’s leaders, whether traveling the world or sitting at home, should not be afraid to open their mouths and sing.”

  Lord Abe was sure of his own good singing voice and pulled Manjiro forward by his sleeve, but Manjiro had only begun to work the phrases into English when Commodore Perry strode back across the room and slapped the wall with his palm, raising a deep and hollow echo. The wall buckled into itself, as the Japanese now saw it was designed to do, and from the widening rectangle came two bizarre-looking creatures, the sight of whom made most of the Japanese lords stand out of their chairs. They were men, these creatures, that much was clear because they were clothed, but otherwise they looked more like Saru-tahiko, the monkey god, might look were he to suddenly climb out of a vat of steaming black bean paste. Their faces and arms were covered with the darkest stains and their knees seemed to come up to stab at their chins, while at the same time their hands were busy banging those knees back down. And against this dark tragedy of cindered skin their eyes and the palms of their hands were as white as bleached whale bone. Commodore Perry had called this an entertainment but it seemed to the visitors, even as the creatures grinned and shook their shoulders and pranced into the center of the room, like nothing short of a visitation by messengers from the tar pits of hell.

  Music was coming from somewhere, but not until the monkey gods stopped directly in front of Lord Abe did Manjiro understand that their high-stepping dance was connected to that music, that there was a fiendish kind of syncopation going on.

  “Mr. Bones?” said one of the monkeys. “Did you hear the news? I’m gain north on the railroad train.”

  “Why no, Mr. Buford, I didn’t know, how’d you do it, I say, how’d you do it? How’d you get away?”

  Lord Abe had recovered enough to look wide-eyed at Manjiro, clearly expecting a translation, but all Manjiro could find to mutter was, “The thin one will go north, the other is surprised.”

  “How’d I get de masta to let me go? Is that what y o askin’Mr. B.? Why, he’s dead, that’s how. Didn’t you know it, I say, didn’t you know? He’s dead and set me free in his willl”

  Now the first monkey sang, “All aboard, all aboard, train’s pullin’ out. Sit by the window, I say, sit right now.”

  “They are repeating themselves,” said a desperate Manjiro. “And the first one is telling the second to sit down.”

  But as if to call his translation into question, the second one did not sit down. Rather, both monkeys ran around the room again, somehow coming back with big black hoops in their hands, spinning black circles with torn pieces of white cloth hanging loosely down.

  “Woo woo, chug chug, woo woo, “said the thin one.

  Lord Abe stood still, completely captured by the sight. The spinning pieces of cloth allowed him to peer through the nearest wheel as if into some kind of carriage, and into the eyes of the nearest man as well.

  “All aboard,” the first monkey yelled, and to the whirling confusion they added a kind of bucking back and forth that somehow made them seem to be moving forward though in fact they didn’t go anywhere at all. It was an interesting illusion, and when the music suddenly stopped and the monkeys also quit making noise, the nearest one started singing.

  “Got my papers in my pocket and I’m headin’ north.”

  His voice was surprisingly good. “Excellent,” Lord Abe told his aide, and while the other monkey started whispering, “Big mistake, “he continued his song.

  Oh, what I’ll find there I don’t know,

  Wide boulevards? Big houses all in a row?

  Or maybe I’ll find myself on Commerce Street,

  Where the bosses will shake my hand,

  “Glad to have you, Buford,” they’ll say.

  Now the second monkey alternately whispered, “Big mistake, no mistake, big mistake, no mistake, “with such a fine and worried rhythm that Manjiro’s face lit up. “He feels unsure!” he said, too loudly. “Unsure about whether to go or stay! And the other man’s voice is meant to represent his second thoughts!”

  “But this is wonderful,” said Lord Abe. “The singing is masterful, the sense of movement convincing and strange.”

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania? Philadelphia, New York?

  I used to know them all by heart so why not now?

  ltimore, Ohio? Boston, Maine? New Bedford,

  That one I know!

  New Bedford’s in Connecticut!

  Wide boulevards? Big houses, all in a row!

  At the song’s end both monkeys repeated the last line, but with diminishing volume, as the train, moving in place for so long, finally began to move for real, chugging past the astonished lords, around the happy Americans, and back through that hole in the wall. “Woo woo, chug chug, woo woo,” they sang, before four white hands from the other side pulled the doors closed.

  “Absolutely marvelous!” said Lord Abe, looking around at the other lords. “Was that not astounding? Amateurs indeed! That is the oddest and most wonderful entertainment I have ever seen!”

  He had more to say on the matter, an unfolding revelation, Manjiro was sure, on the nature of surprise and the sudden discovery of pure delight, but before he could find the words, before he could begin to collect himself, Commodore Perry rang a small bell, smiled and bowed, and said that the evening was over, that the launches were at ship side, ready to take his guests ashore.

  After the transcendent strangeness of the show it seemed an abrupt and dissatisfying ending, but as Manjiro stood behind Lord Abe, and Ueno steadied him with discreetly placed fingers, things were brought into focus again by the introduction of Commodore Perry’s last surprise. The eight attendant American officers came forward with gifts, one each for the eight Great Council lords, and the two monkeys, the entertainers, sweating through their blackened faces and smiling like sharks, came back into the room again with similar packages for the interpreters. This was uncalled for, this was not the time for a gift exchange, but when one of the monkeys approached him Manjiro could only extend his hands and let the gift come into them, and bow.

  “I got these chocolates for you,” said the monkey, “an after-dinner treat.” Then he said, “You might not know it from what you heard just now, but ours is an abolitionist show. It’s meant to be taken with a healthy dose of irony, and I always worry that it might not be taken that way.”

  Manjiro did not know what to do. Could he speak English to this man who had been the main monkey, the best singer, without an express order from Lord Abe? He had taken the box because, from the corner of his eye, he saw the Dutch interpreter do likewise, and had quickly noticed, even in his confused state, that the box was not clean. There was a black mark on it, a grease-paint smudge on its side. The monkey saw it too and pulled out a corner of his shirt to dab the smudge away, but for reasons unclear to him Manjiro put the gift behind his back.
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br />   “Thank you for your performance,” he said. “Your voice… Your singing. Lord Abe very much liked the sound.”

  The monkey seemed about to say more, and then he stared at Manjiro as if expecting more from him, but Manjiro only rushed to find his place behind Lord Abe, where he finally noticed, as the Japanese dignitaries held their gifts in front of them, that the furious aide, Ueno, had got no gift at all.

  That pleased him more than it should have, but he managed not to smile.

  3.

  Accident upon Accident

  “I PROMISE I will wake you when she comes,” Keiko told her sister. “That is my job as elder daughter. Your job is to go to sleep immediately. It’s already late so hurry up. Do it and don’t pretend! I’m watching you! Go to sleep like you always do, with your mouth wide open and your tongue sticking out.”

  Only when she was exhausted did Keiko speak like Masako, so as Fumiko listened to her daughter she learned that Keiko was the one who would be asleep in no time. It was, after all, nearly midnight and they had all been up since dawn. Fumiko herself had spent much of the day preparing for the move back to Odawara, not exactly packing, but stepping around the workers and instructing O-bata about which items would go and which would be stored in the closets of the house. And she had spent the rest of her time out in Einosuke’s garden, not actually raking it, since that was her husbands only relaxation and greatest joy, but doing the difficult work of preparing the garden for raking, of reaching in among the boulders and snatching away the leaves and debris. There was a stand of deciduous maples in the next-door neighbor’s garden, an unruly hybrid that irritated Fumiko because it seemed to lose its foliage all year long. Even now, though it was late March, those soggy leaves were as much a disruption of nature’s ways, it seemed to her, as the American ships were of society’s.

  “I have an idea,” she told her daughters, so tired herself that she could barely keep her eyes open. “Why not ask O-bata to bring our bedding downstairs? That way no matter who falls asleep first we will all be sure to awaken when she comes. Remember, your auntie never arrives quietly, no matter what the time of day.”

  “O-bata is sleeping with the baby,” said Masako. “And all the futon are already spread out upstairs. There will be six of us in the eight-mat room, you know, because Aunt Tsune’s usual room is now taken over by Grandfather.”

  Keiko’s eyes had closed during Masako’s speech. She had slumped back in order to rest her head on the edge of the tokunoma, and had rolled onto her side, her hands tucked between her knees. But she was not asleep. She had only escaped into her thoughts, wondering how long her favorite aunt might stay and whether there might be an actual marriage arrangement, an O-miai, between Tsune and her Uncle Manjiro. Oh, she wanted it so much! And so, indeed, did her uncle, she could easily tell.

  Fumiko watched the rise and fall of Keiko’s breasts and the composure of her face, the fine structure of the bones beneath a beauty so deeply born that it refused to leave even when the muscles that held it in place flattened out into a kind of sleep of their own. She sighed and reached over to touch the flower arrangement beyond her daughter’s head, to assure herself that it was still steady on its base. This was a new arrangement of bare branches that she had done just yesterday and of which she was inordinately proud. It was a proper representation of how she often felt.

  “Masako dear,” she whispered, “don’t you think you should sleep, too? Auntie may not come for hours and no matter how little sleep you get I’m waking you both up early. You can’t skip your lessons tomorrow.”

  Masako yawned but shook her head. “Not me,” she said. “I’m not like Keiko. I can stay up all night long.”

  Because Tsune and Fumiko’s father was Lord Tokugawa’s chief retainer, Tsune had been invited to come to Edo from Mito with Lord Tokugawa himself, in order to attend the treaty-signing ceremony which was scheduled for the thirty-first of March. It had been unclear, at first, whether or not Lord Tokugawa would attend, since he was no longer in government yet remained Lord Abe’s main competitor—so Tsune’s own decision to travel had also come late. She had stayed the first nights in Lord Tokugawa’s hunting lodge, way across town, but had sent word that she would come to her sister’s house today, in plenty of time for Keiko’s dance recital and—somewhat grudgingly?—to be reintroduced to Manjiro. The girls had been waiting since noon but Fumiko knew that her sister was unreliable. She might come tonight or she might come tomorrow. It was even possible, though she would never miss the dance recital, that she might balk at such casual talk of marriage and not come to the house at all.

  I hear her!” shouted Masako, chasing her mother’s thoughts away.

  She and her mother both jumped up, but were disappointed when the voices that answered their calls were male.

  “Oh, it’s not Aunt Tsune but Grandpa and Daddy and Uncle Manjiro,” said Masako. “I hate it if I’m still awake when they come home.”

  This final disappointment made her give up her vigil. She bent down and pulled on her sister until Keiko, too, struggled to her feet, rubbing her eyes. And before the men came into the house, both girls had climbed the stairs to bed.

  “Welcome,” said Fumiko, stepping out to the entryway. She liked her father-in-law, who had arrived two days before, and tried to hide her own disappointment that he was not her sister standing there.

  “They were late in breaking up,” Einosuke explained. “In times of crisis everyone likes to hear the sound of his own voice.”

  He was talking about a Great Council meeting that their father could attend but that he and Manjiro could not. Because the brothers had waited in a bar for the meeting to end, Einosuke’s face was flushed from drink, but his mood was good. No doubt his father had endorsed his point of view while deploring Manjiro’s. Everyone now seemed to think that Japan had no choice but to show a reasonable face, that she should hear the American demands with a polite ear, agree to give shipwrecked American sailors safe harbor, for example, but otherwise ask for a year or two to think about trade, which was the true purpose of the American sojourn, and build up her navy in the meantime. Hardly anyone, save the likes of Manjiro, believed in absolute engagement with the outside world, except with the Dutch who were confined to Nagasaki, and there were not many left, either, who thought that the time was right for outright war. Moderation had won the day, and, far more than drink, moderation was the tonic that calmed Einosuke.

  “Ah, my daughter-in-law, I am tired,” said Lord Okubo, when Fumiko asked him if he would like some tea and rice. “I never sleep well my first few nights in Edo, and the meeting really was excessively long.”

  When Fumiko looked at the brothers she could see that they were as tired as she was, as tired as their father. She could have sent them to bed in an instant, but instead she surprised them by asking, “Do you suppose they worry so much about Japan in America? When Americans think of us do you suppose they wring their hands?”

  Lord Okubo was ready to climb the stairs, but the unexpected wistfulness of his daughter-in-law’s remark, on her mind since she’d made her austere flower arrangement yesterday, stopped his foot in midair. Manjiro thought it was an excellent question, but because he had now become central to everything, he could no longer easily say so. And Einosuke always waited to hear what his father would say.

  When Lord Okubo only grunted and continued up to bed, however, Fumiko followed him. She knelt and waited while he stepped behind a screen to prepare himself. She could see his futon in the center of the room, a small pillow at the top of it, one side hard, one side soft, much like her father-in-law himself. When he came back out she bowed until her forehead touched the tatami and the grassy smell of the mats entered her nose. And when she sat up again Lord Okubo, reposed now on the darkened floor, kept her another moment by reciting a favorite poem.

  Accident upon

  accident, that’s what life is,

  as it wends its way.

  He made no movement after he spoke, bu
t when Fumiko left the room he put a hand up to test the muscles of his jaw. This was his nightly habit, formed to reassure himself of his continued strength as he grew old.

  4.

  Whitman Sampler

  MANJIRO HAD NOT TOLD anyone about the chocolates, but on an extraordinary whim he brought them out and gave them to Fu-miko’s sister, Tsune, shortly after her arrival early the next morning.

  Manjiro had met this sister twice before, first many years ago at Einosuke and Fumiko’s wedding, and once more during a family cherry blossom viewing excursion to Kyoto. They hadn’t spoken at the wedding, but in Kyoto they sat together at the edge of the wooden walkway that bordered the rock garden at Ryoanji Temple, while Einosuke sketched it, even then preparing his replica. Tsune was younger than her sister by some half dozen years, but even then it was clear she would become the true family beauty, not only exquisite of face and form, but in possession of a poise and bearing surpassing even those of Fumiko.

  Because Manjiro had not known what to do with the chocolates he had hidden them in his father’s room, behind a screen and beneath a window that was kept open at night to accommodate Lord Okubo’s love of cold air. He had been afraid to speak of the unexpected gift before Tsune arrived, for neither Lord Okubo nor Einosuke had visited a foreign vessel yet, and he knew they would be angry with him for accepting the gift at all. But the presence of Tsune gave him some latitude. Until quite recently everyone had said she was destined to marry high, an opinion that, by bestowing a foreign gift like this, Manjiro, rather than promoting his own vague hopes, oddly seemed to magnify.

  “I know you remember our meeting in Kyoto, Manjiro-san,” Tsune said. She had taken the chocolate box from him and placed it on the tatami. “I know you remember the occasion, but do you remember our conversation? I do. I remember what we talked about that day, but I think you do not.”

  In fact Manjiro remembered every second of his time with Tsune, not only what they had said, but that he had hoped against hope that when they got older there might be a marriage arrangement for them. Einosuke had talked with him about it once or twice several years ago, but with the advancing wealth and stature of Tsune’s clan, the possibility had grown slight. So Manjiro’s tendency was to dismiss this small resumption of such talk now, wondering only what had changed to once again make him a more likely candidate. That Einosuke had successfully married her sister meant little because Einosuke was Lord Okubo’s eldest son and heir.