He attempted to speak, but only a groan escaped. The girl’s face changed to show her fright, and she stumbled back and ran into the house.
Before long, he saw her returning with an older woman, who looked to be in her early forties. She was as slender as the girl, and dressed in Western clothes. The girl’s mother, perhaps? Her pastel-colored dress was simple and unostentatious, but evidently order-made. This was clearly a well-to-do family.
Seeing Sherlock prostrate on the grass, the older woman looked astonished. She spoke in Japanese. She took the girl by the hand and pulled her into the house again.
Stay, thought Sherlock hazily. I need but a moment. They were treating him like they’d just found a fox in the henhouse. How would he ever tell them the reason for his arrival if they did not stay?
By the time the two women returned, this time with a man in tow, Holmes’ mind had grown distant once more. The man appeared to be around 50 years old and he was dressed in a hakama—the only one of the three dressed in Japanese clothing. He carried a wooden sword. Sherlock wondered if he had been in the middle of fencing practice. His expression was severe—it was clear he’d rushed outside as soon as he’d heard of the intruder. There was a mole on the right side of his nose.
Sherlock recognized him. It was Hirobumi Ito. Ito, however, did not appear to immediately recognize Sherlock. Perhaps it was his overgrown beard that made him look like a stranger?
But the Japanese man’s eyes soon grew wide. “Sherlock? Can it be you?” he asked in English. “Mr. Holmes, I should say! But what are you doing here?”
At this, Sherlock was overcome with a flood of emotion. A bitter laugh escaped his lips, and tears welled into his eyes. The confusion only lasted a moment, however, before the world began hurtling away. The last bit of strength left him, perhaps because he knew he was finally safe, and his vision grew dark.
8
Sherlock returned to consciousness in spurts. First, he appeared to be leaning on someone’s shoulder. At some point he had been lifted onto his feet and was shuffling forward. Then he had the impression that the household kept multiple servants. Several men and women in a chaotic jumble were propping him up as they attempted to carry him into the house. The servants were all much smaller than he. It was like an episode from Gulliver’s Travels, he thought vaguely.
He lost consciousness again. Eventually, his eyes fully opened. He was lying on his back. The wooden slatted ceiling above him clearly belonged to a Japanese-style room. The wallpaper, however, was Western in style. And lifting his head, he could see that the furniture and appointments were German in make. He was also lying on a bed rather than on the floor. The room was decorated with items gathered from throughout Europe, and yet it retained a sense of Japanese style.
Sherlock sat up and put both feet on the floor. He felt carpeting. His feet were bare, without shoes. He stood up slowly, bracing himself against the dizziness. Through the window, it was dark outside. The Japanese garden drifted dimly beneath the pale light of the moon.
He must be inside the Ito estate. Opening the door, he was greeted by a Western-style bathroom. It had both a shower and a bathtub. He turned on the faucet, and hot water instantly poured from the tap.
Sherlock felt grateful. This had to be a Western room for guests. He removed his clothes and washed himself thoroughly. His earlier bath in well-water had been far from adequate in removing the filth that had adhered to his body over his grueling four months at sea. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than a bath.
Afterwards, he returned to the room and dried himself with a towel, and realized his trunk was missing. His shaving things and other clothing were in that trunk.
But there was a shallow wooden chest. He opened it and found a kimono. He draped it over his body, and further confirmed his earlier assessment: The kimono had certainly been provided for foreign guests. The sleeves were sufficiently long, and the hem reached his ankles. Sherlock had to rely on memory in tying the sash, trying to recall the knots on the kimonos he’d seen in town. He stood in front of the looking glass, peering at his reflection. It would have to do.
He was interrupted by a woman’s voice, speaking in English. “Excuse me.”
A portion of what Holmes had thought was a wall slid open, revealing a kneeling woman dressed in Japanese clothes. No, not kneeling. It was a sitting posture, known as seiza. She was the older woman he’d seen in the garden earlier. She delicately placed the fingers of both hands against the floor and bowed her head. She spoke again in English. “Thank you for coming so far to visit us. My name is Umeko. I am Ito’s wife.”
Abashed, Sherlock attempted to imitate how she sat on the floor. He prostrated himself in the Moslem fashion he had once learned. A quiet, restrained laugh escaped Umeko’s lips. It seemed his pose was incorrect.
Sherlock lifted his gaze and attempted to regain his composure. “I should be thanking you. You are very kind to welcome me in this manner, despite my abrupt arrival.”
Umeko smiled at him. “My husband hopes you will join him for supper.”
“It would be my honor.”
“Please.” Umeko stood up gracefully. Her movements were like a dancer’s.
Sherlock rose to his feet as well. She must have heard the bath running and timed her appearance to coincide with when he would finish dressing. Almost like a detective. What impressive sensibilities. He couldn’t help but mark the contrast with Mrs. Hudson, who made a habit of barging into his rooms while he was still asleep in order to prepare breakfast.
They came onto a wooden slatted hallway facing onto the garden. According to a book he had once read on Japanese architecture, this area was called the engawa. It was a type of veranda, or exterior hallway. On the engawa, Umeko assumed the seiza posture once more. She muttered something in Japanese, before opening another sliding door at the end.
She gestured for him to enter the room. Sherlock stepped through the door and immediately hit his head against the beam.
When he recovered, he saw a girl dressed in Japanese clothing, sitting in seiza on the tatami. She giggled. It was the young girl from the garden. Another young girl, also dressed in Japanese clothing, sat beside her. This second girl looked to be in her early twenties, and resembled Umeko in appearance. She whispered to the first girl, reprovingly: “Asako!”
So the first girl’s name was Asako. The two girls sat side by side, close to the wall. Hirobumi Ito was sitting near the front of the room, with his back to the sliding door Sherlock had entered from, rather than further in where he might be expected. In front of him there was a zen—a small, tray-like dining table which Sherlock had also read about, on which all courses in a meal were compactly arrayed.
Deeper in the room there was a second zen, below an alcove hung with a decorative scroll. A sitting cushion had been placed before it. Apparently this was to be his seat. But in the West, such a prominent place was reserved for the head of the house. Was this where guests sat in Japan? Sherlock made his way to the table and attempted a seiza position in imitation of Ito.
“Please, relax,” his host smiled. “You must find it painful to sit in that manner.”
“Hardly. As they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans.” Sherlock bent his legs underneath his hips and sat upon his calves.
“Well! You are very flexible, but you will lose feeling in your legs if you sit like that for long. If you will excuse me…” Ito shifted his position and sat cross-legged.