The old woman pointed at the girl, who seemed a little frightened. “Onna.”
“No.” Blackthorne got up ill-temperedly and jerked a finger at the middle-aged woman. “This is Onna, for God’s sake! Don’t you know your name? Onna! I’m hungry. Could I have some food?” He rubbed his stomach parodying hunger. They looked at each other. Then the middle-aged woman shrugged, said something that made the others laugh, went over to the bed, and began to undress. The other two squatted, wide-eyed and expectant.
Blackthorne was appalled. “What are you doing?”
“Ishimasho!” she said, setting aside her wide waistband and opening her kimono. Her breasts were flat and dried up and her belly huge.
It was quite clear that she was going to get into the bed. He shook his head and told her to get dressed and took her arm and they all began chattering and gesticulating and the woman was becoming quite angry. She stepped out of her long underskirt and, naked, tried to get back into bed.
Their chattering stopped and they all bowed as the headman came quietly down the corridor. “Nanda? Nanda?” he asked.
The old woman explained what was the matter. “You want this woman?” he asked incredulously in heavily accented, barely understandable Portuguese, motioning at the naked woman.
“No. No, of course not. I just wanted Onna to get me some food.” Blackthorne pointed impatiently at her. “Onna!”
“Onna mean ‘woman.’ ” The Japanese motioned at all of them. “Onna—onna—onna. You want onna?”
Blackthorne wearily shook his head. “No. No, thank you. I made a mistake. Sorry. What’s her name?”
“Please?”
“What’s her name?”
“Ah! Namu is Haku. Haku,” he said.
“Haku?”
“Hai. Haku!”
“I’m sorry, Haku-san. Thought onna your name.”
The man explained to Haku and she was not at all pleased. But he said something and they all looked at Blackthorne and tittered behind their hands and left. Haku walked off naked, her kimono over her arm, with a vast amount of dignity.
“Thank you,” Blackthorne said, enraged at his own stupidity.
“This my house. My namu Mura.”
“Mura-san. Mine’s Blackthorne.”
“Please?”
“My namu. Blackthorne.”
“Ah! Berr—rakk—fon.” Mura tried to say it several times but could not. Eventually he gave up and continued to study the colossus in front of him. This was the first barbarian he had ever seen except for Father Sebastio, and the other priest, so many years ago. But anyway, he thought, the priests are dark-haired and dark-eyed and of normal height. But this man: tall and golden-haired and golden-bearded with blue eyes and a weird pallor to his skin where it is covered and redness where it is exposed. Astonishing! I thought all men had black hair and dark eyes. We all do. The Chinese do, and isn’t China the whole world, except for the land of the southern Portugee barbarians? Astonishing! And why does Father Sebastio hate this man so much? Because he’s a Satan worshiper? I wouldn’t think so, because Father Sebastio could cast out the devil if he wanted. Eeee, I’ve never seen the good Father so angry. Never. Astonishing!
Are blue eyes and golden hair the mark of Satan?
Mura looked up at Blackthorne and remembered how he had tried to question him aboard the ship and then, when this Captain had become unconscious, he had decided to bring him to his own house because he was the leader and should have special consideration. They had laid him on the quilt and undressed him, more than just a little curious.
“His Peerless Parts are certainly impressive, neh?” Mura’s mother, Saiko, had said. “I wonder how large he would be when erect?”
“Large,” he had answered and they had all laughed, his mother and wife and friends and servants, and the doctor.
“I expect their women must be—must be as well endowed,” his wife, Niji, said.
“Nonsense, girl,” said his mother. “Any number of our courtesans could happily make the necessary accommodation.” She shook her head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like him in my whole life. Very odd indeed, neh?”
They had washed him and he had not come out of his coma. The doctor had thought it unwise to immerse him in a proper bath until he was awake. “Perhaps we should remember, Mura-san, we don’t know how the barbarian really is,” he had said with careful wisdom. “So sorry, but we might kill him by mistake. Obviously he’s at the limit of his strength. We should exercise patience.”
“But what about the lice in his hair?” Mura had asked.
“They will have to stay for the time being. I understand all barbarians have them. So sorry, I’d advise patience.”
“Don’t you think we could at least shampoo his head?” his wife had said. “We’d be very careful. I’m sure the Mistress would supervise our poor efforts. That should help the barbarian and keep our house clean.”
“I agree. You can shampoo him,” his mother had said with finality. “But I’d certainly like to know how large he is when erect.”
Now Mura glanced down at Blackthorne involuntarily. Then he remembered what the priest had told them about these Satanists and pirates. God the Father protect us from this evil, he thought. If I’d known that he was so terrible I would never have brought him into my house. No, he told himself. You are obliged to treat him as a special guest until Omi-san says otherwise. But you were wise to send word to the priest and send word to Omi-san instantly. Very wise. You’re headman, you’ve protected the village and you, alone, are responsible.
Yes. And Omi-san will hold you responsible for the death this morning and the dead man’s impertinence, and quite rightly.
“Don’t be stupid, Tamazaki! You risk the good name of the village, neh?” he had warned his friend the fisherman a dozen times. “Stop your intolerance. Omi-san has no option but to sneer at Christians. Doesn’t our daimyo detest Christians? What else can Omi-san do?”
“Nothing, I agree, Mura-san, please excuse me.” Tamazaki had always replied as formally. “But Buddhists should have more tolerance, neh? Aren’t they both Zen Buddhists?” Zen Buddhism was self-disciplining; it relied heavily on self-help and meditation to find Enlightenment. Most samurai belonged to the Zen Buddhist sect, since it suited, seemed almost to be designed for, a proud, death-seeking warrior.
“Yes, Buddhism teaches tolerance. But how many times must you be reminded they’re samurai, and this is Izu and not Kyushu, and even if it were Kyushu, you’re still the one that’s wrong. Always. Neh?”
“Yes. Please excuse me, I know I’m wrong. But sometimes I feel I cannot live with my inner shame when Omi-san is so insulting about the True Faith.”
And now, Tamazaki, you are dead of your own choosing because you insulted Omi-san by not bowing simply because he said, “. . . this smelly priest of the foreign religion.” Even though the priest does smell and the True Faith is foreign. My poor friend. That truth will not feed your family now or remove the stain from my village.
Oh, Madonna, bless my old friend and give him the joy of thy Heaven.
Expect a lot of trouble from Omi-san, Mura told himself. And if that isn’t bad enough, now our daimyo is coming.
A pervading anxiety always filled him whenever he thought of his feudal lord, Kasigi Yabu, daimyo of Izu, Omi’s uncle—the man’s cruelty and lack of honor, the way he cheated all the villages of their rightful share of their catch and their crops, and the grinding weight of his rule. When war comes, Mura asked himself, which side will Yabu declare for, Lord Ishido or Lord Toranaga? We’re trapped between the giants and in pawn to both.