One of the many myths of the American west is that is was an enclosed society, a series of states gradually shifting from Indian to white control, one which excluded the outside world almost entirely until the settlements had reached their end and the reservations were in existence. While there is some truth to that, there were also times when the land outside of America entered into their activities and played a surprising part. One such entry formed the last occasion when my great-grandfather and General Custer would be in alliance.
President Grant was beginning the last year of his first term and was again attempting to endear himself to the voters by presenting himself not just as an American leader, but also as one who embraced dignitaries from around the world. When he received a message early in 1872 that the Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch, the son of the Russian Czar, wished to visit the prairie lands of the mid-west in order to hunt buffalo, Grant saw the perfect opportunity for a good public relations exercise. It would also be the catalyst that would lead Bill away from the prairie lifestyle for ever.
Custer and Bill were given the task of preparing a reception party for the Grand Duke and organising the hunting party which would take place over three days. The president made it clear in his briefing how important this exercise was and both men were intrigued by the task, being not a little overawed by the presence of such a dignitary within their ranks. It was agreed that the hunt would take place near the Red Willow, on the North Platte region of Nebraska, not far from where the Sioux tribe was located under the leadership of Spotted Tail. Buffalo roamed freely on the plains in that part of the country and the Sioux had been given permission by the government to hunt there during the winter months; it was agreed therefore that an emissary would be sent to Spotted Tail to seek permission to use the land – more out of courtesy than anything else – but also to invite the Indians to play a part in the visit, thus ensuring greater harmony between the two cultures. General Custer wanted to send a small troupe of enlisted men to speak to the Sioux, but to his surprise Bill volunteered for the job.
‘What worries me is that your reputation will precede you,’ he told him, mulling over the idea. ‘You’re well known for being part of the Republican movement which has moved a lot of their fellow tribes from their land. Don’t you think they might have some measure of hostility towards you?’
‘A lot of what they hear isn’t true anyway,’ countered Bill. ‘Spotted Tail will know that. He’ll be insulted if you send someone he hasn’t heard of. It must be an acknowledged leader or he will take offence. Be certain of it.’ Bill was referring to the dime novels which had been published over the previous year recounting the adventures of ‘Buffalo Bill’ on the prairies. Although they were written by a series of ghost-writers, he had sanctioned them and taken great pleasure in their success. Most of the stories were pure fiction but based, he liked to claim, on his own character, which was one of heroism and fortitude. In truth, he was attempting in his real life to become more like the character depicted in the books. Custer resented the success of these books but tried to hide his dislike; fortunately he himself remained a popular hero or a greater hostility might have arisen between them.
‘Perhaps,’ said the general. ‘But if you end up being killed, I will let it be known that you insisted on going yourself. I won’t be seen as your murderer.’
‘God forbid,’ said Bill with a smile, and the next morning he jumped on his horse Buckskin Joe and set off for the Sioux camp. It took him a day and a half to reach it and the closer he got, the more nervous he grew at what might lie ahead. The possibility of death and scalping was a strong one but he believed that if he could get to the chief before being spotted by any of the young men, whose aggression might overpower their sense, he would be able to make the trip a success. To this end, once he had the camp in view, he waited out of sight on a mountain top until late evening before creeping surreptitiously in.
The tent which Spotted Tail resided in was easy to spot as it was at the very heart of the camp and stood taller than any of the others. A fire burned within and Bill could make out the shadows of two men inside, talking animatedly. As he grew closer he could make out the harsh vowel sounds of the Lakota language, which he was not well versed in, and hoped that he would be able to identify himself and make himself understood by the tent’s occupants before he was taken for an assassin and murdered. Standing outside the tent he gave a brief cough before raising the flap and looking inside, one hand held up in a gesture of peace. The two men – one Indian, one white – stopped talking and spun around to look at him, but neither seemed overly perturbed or afraid. Immediately Bill recognised the white man as Todd Randall, who had lived with the Lakota Sioux for many years and had acted as an interpreter between the Indians and the whites on many occasions in the past.
‘Chief Spotted Tail,’ said Bill in a humble voice. ‘I apologise for calling on you so late at night. My name is Buffalo Bill Cody. I am sent by General Custer to speak with you.’ As he spoke, Randall translated in a low voice and at the mention of his name he clapped his hands together in excitement and ushered Bill inside.
‘Buffalo Bill,’ he cried with excitement – his words also being translated at speed as he spoke – ‘such a prestigious visitor! We have heard of you many times.’
My great-grandfather smiled a little. ‘My name does seem to be attracting more and more attention,’ he admitted. ‘These adventure stories written about me are mostly fabricated however,’ he added, recalling some of the anti-Indian activities which the dime novels had recorded.
‘The stories may be made up, but they’re based on your true character, are they not?’ asked Spotted Tail; Bill decided to allow the question to stand as rhetorical. He looked at the older man by the light of the fire. He was probably in his mid-forties and had the darkest black hair, shoulder length, that he had ever seen. Normally it would have been tied behind his head, but now, late at night, it sat around his shoulders giving him an almost feminine appearance. His skin was dark and lined and a scar ran from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth.
‘Again, I apologise for the lateness of my visit,’ repeated Bill. ‘I thought it was safest to come at night when I might approach you directly. I was unsure how strong the welcome your people might give me would be.’
‘You were wise,’ said Spotted Tail. ‘There are many of my people here who would have had the hair from your head had they seen you. You are not as popular with them as you are with me, you know.’
‘And am I popular with you?’ asked Bill, prepared to play the sycophant if necessary.
‘You have not harmed the Lakota Sioux as yet,’ stated Spotted Tail. ‘Until you make an enemy of me, you are my friend. And for you to be here now says to me that you want something from me. I’m always ready to listen to a man who wants something from me because in these days, I never know when I might need something in return.’
Bill nodded. He turned to look at Randall, considering whether he should include him in the conversation but decided that it would be rude not to. Randall was the translator and held no sway over their discussions. He turned back to Spotted Tail in order to state his business. ‘A great chief is visiting us from across the waters,’ he said. ‘The son of the Russian Czar.’
‘Visiting us?’ interrupted Spotted Tail. ‘Who is this us?’
‘Visiting America,’ said Bill. ‘He comes to hunt buffalo.’
Spotted Tail let out an enormous laugh and slapped his hands down on his knees heartily. ‘What kind of crazy people are these Europeans?’ he asked. ‘He comes across the world to hunt buffalo? He is either idle or stupid. Have they no buffalo of their own in Europe?’
Bill thought about it and realised such a thing had never occurred to him before. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘All I know is that he’s coming here because he’s an avid hunter but has never been able to hunt buffalo before. He wants to try it.’
‘Perhaps he has been reading your books as well?’ asked Spotted Tail with a sly grin. ‘Your legend is truly spreading far and wide, my friend.’
‘He may tell us his reasons when he gets here,’ said Bill, ignoring the question.
‘And you, why are you here now? What can I do to help you?’
‘General Custer and I wanted to speak with you of this visit,’ continued Bill, mentioning the general’s name because he knew that a message from him would be something which the chief would respect. ‘We hope to bring the Grand Duke to the Red Willow. As you know, the buffalo there number in their thousands. Even a European could hardly miss one there.’
Spotted Tail sat back and breathed heavily, tapping his chin as he considered it. ‘The Red Willow is where we hunt, Mr Buffalo Bill,’ he pointed out. ‘The Lakota Sioux. Your government has even said it should be so,’ he added, uttering that second word as if he held it in contempt anyway.
‘We’re aware of this, Chief,’ said Bill. ‘Which is why we wanted to ask your permission to hunt there. And also to invite you to join us.’ Spotted Tail looked up again, intrigued by this offer. ‘General Custer proposes that we bring together thirty men from our camp and thirty of the Lakota Sioux to guide the Grand Duke on his hunting expedition. We will hunt together, eat together and, if you agree to it, the Sioux can perform their grand war dance at a feast on the third day. We will prove therefore to our European neighbours that we are people who are living in peace and harmony alongside each other.’
‘You believe we are?’
‘I believe we could be,’ said Bill. ‘There is distrust, of course. Wrong has been committed on both sides in recent years. This could be an opportunity, however, for our two peoples to learn more about each other. I believe this could be a positive step, Chief,’ he added forcefully.
‘I think you might be right,’ agreed Spotted Tail, smiling gently, and my great-grandfather felt relieved that he had succeeded in this mission with so little effort. ‘I believe I would like to involve myself in this action. And the feast you speak of, we will sit with General Custer and this Grand Duke, yes? We will share a table.’
‘We will.’
Spotted Tail nodded. ‘Then we will accept your offer,’ he said. The bargain had been struck and without any element of discord. After agreeing to the details, Bill left the camp with as much stealth as he had approached it and returned to General Custer the following day.
In spite of what had happened, I stayed in London for almost two months. My initial fury with Isaac for the deception he had played on me had lessened when I realised that not only was his remorse genuine, but his reasons for the deceit had been rooted in love and loneliness. During a difficult conversation between us, he made it clear that he had felt that a part of him was missing without me there. We were family, he pointed out. The only family either of us had.
His business enterprise was also based on fact. He had indeed been in contact with the bank and, incredibly (it seemed to me) they were getting close to giving him a business loan in order to set up his new wild west show. However the conditions of such a loan were based on my involvement in the enterprise; no bank was going to lend such a sum to a man in his seventies, but when an enterprising young man in his twenties was on board as well, the risk did not seem so great. The house was to be used as collateral and Isaac had some savings to invest as well. He talked me through the figures and the plans and, in theory, they were reasonably interesting. He knew enough about the way these things worked to put together a good portfolio of ideas; however his belief that there was an audience for such a venture was one with which I was not entirely in agreement.
Out of respect for him, though, and knowing how little he would have to live for if I did not agree to join him in this project, I gave the matter a lot of thought. I weighed up the pros and cons and spoke to the bank myself. I took a weekend trip to Dublin with Justin and Adam to decide for sure and we spent two days getting riotously drunk, a part of us knowing that it would be our last trip together. And then I came home and told Isaac ‘no’.
His disappointment instantly turned to anger. He cursed me for an ungrateful son and stormed around the house like a demon possessed. Finally one evening, in a fit of pique, he lashed out and punched me in the face, splitting my lower lip as it crashed against my teeth so that a thin stream of blood ran down my chin and on to my shirt. Although it was a relatively minor wound, it seemed to snap something inside him and rather than become apologetic and realise how destructive once again his obsession with history and his ancestry had become, he became apoplectic with rage and demanded that I leave his home immediately. I had no choice but to agree and, packing light bags, I went to stay with Justin for a couple of days until I could organise a flight.
Throughout all those weeks, Hitomi had remained on my mind. I was torn between my love for her and my inability to destroy my father. I knew from the start I could only have one of them and it had always been so that wherever I was was the place I felt most obliged to. And so during that time I chose my father over Hitomi and when he rejected me, I felt able to return to her. We had not spoken once during our time apart. For the first two weeks she had – I assumed – been screening her calls and had never returned any of the numerous messages I had left for her. After that, the operator told me that the line had been disconnected and I assumed that in her anger with me, she had changed her number.
I wrote to her then and opened my heart in a letter in a way I had never done before. When I sat down with paper and pen, I wrote her name on the top of the page and then paused, wondering what it was I really wanted to tell her, determined that I would reveal all of myself to her and beg her to take me back. And that’s what I did. It was a love letter in the old-fashioned sense. I told her the things I’d done wrong and how much I missed her. I admitted that I had been slower to tell her that I loved her than she had ever been and that I was sorry for that and yet it was true, I did love her. In a moment of either insanity or a desire to be brutally honest, I revealed that I had been unfaithful to her while in London and then took back the words, saying that no, it had not been an infidelity, not for a moment; I had merely had sex with another girl and that was all. I laid my life in her hands and, knowing that I might be back in Kyoto before she even received the letter, asked her not to call me immediately or to write, but instead to think about my words, to question how much I also meant to her, and that I would see her soon, and we would put everything right. It was the most important piece of writing I had ever done.
Arriving back in Japan a week later, I felt a great sense of relief; I truly believed now that I was coming home. I hadn’t seen Isaac again before leaving London and that preyed on my mind slightly, but now my mind had shifted. I was back in Japan, which meant that I was more Hitomi’s lover than Isaac’s son.
A young man, a couple of years older than me and strikingly handsome, opened the door of Hitomi’s apartment when I rang the bell. My heart had been pounding inside my chest a moment before and when I saw him standing there I had to steady myself immediately, the very moment convincing me that she had found someone else.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in perfect English, an amused smile flickering around his lips. He was bigger than most Japanese men, easily as big as me, and strong too. He held a glass of red wine in his hands and it occurred to me that while Hitomi always enjoyed opening a bottle in the evening when we were there, I almost never joined her, preferring to take a cold beer from the fridge or a Coke. I stared at the glass in his hand as he gently swirled it and wondered foolishly whether that was all it would have taken to have held on to her; a simple glass of wine.
‘Hitomi Naoyuki,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Is she home?’
He frowned and shook his head. ‘Perhaps you have the wrong apartment?’ he asked and I laughed, believing that he knew exactly who I was and was simply trying to get rid of me, afraid of a fight or a rival for Hitomi’s affections.
‘I want to speak to Hitomi,’ I said firmly. ‘Tell her it’s William and tell her I want to speak to her. Tell her now, will you?’
He laughed and I could feel my blood begin to boil. ‘I told you, William,’ he said, his tone mildly insulting now. ‘There is no Hitomi here. You must have the wrong apartment.’
I was ready to shove past him and storm through to the living room when a woman appeared by his side, looking at me quizzically. ‘This is my wife,’ the man explained and I caught a flash of his wedding ring as he put an arm around her shoulder. ‘This man is looking for a Hitomi …’ He glanced towards me. ‘Narajuki?’ he asked.
‘Naoyuki,’ I said, confused now but the woman shook her head. Speaking to her husband rather than directly to me, she reminded him that Hitomi had been the previous tenant. She had moved out a week before they had moved in, and they had moved in some five weeks earlier. The husband sighed and clicked his fingers.
‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m sorry, I knew the name meant something … I couldn’t quite remember. You are a … friend of hers?’
I laughed slightly. Almost every time in the past that Hitomi and I had been out together and introduced to new people, they had asked me whether we were ‘friends’ as opposed to a couple, as if the idea of a Japanese with a Westerner, while perfectly within their limits of taste, was still slightly curious to them. ‘I’m her boyfriend,’ I said, an edge of anger coming into my voice which he detected and disliked.
‘If you are her boyfriend then you should know where she lives,’ he said. ‘And you clearly do not. Perhaps we should say goodnight.’
‘Wait,’ I said quickly, placing my hand against the door as he tried to close it. ‘An address,’ I said. ‘You have an address for where she moved to?’
‘She left no forward address,’ the woman said, addressing me now with kindness and I could tell from the way that she said it that she wasn’t lying. ‘She was gone before we arrived. A whole week. We never met her.’
There was nothing more to be said so they simply closed the door in my face. I stood there for a moment, feeling lost and confused, before leaving the building and heading for a cheap hotel that I knew of nearby, believing that a good night’s sleep would help me organise my thoughts better. It was getting late anyway; I reasoned that I could arrive at her office tomorrow and speak to her then.
However, when the morning arrived and I returned to the place where Hitomi and I had first met, the office was locked and when I looked through the glass on the door, it was obvious that there was no business in there any more as the room was entirely empty. As I walked away I noticed a sign advertising it as to let.
I stood in the middle of a busy Japanese street and felt like throwing my arms in the air. I had two choices left. The first was that I could go to her parents’ home, where I doubted very much that she would be staying, and see whether they would give me her new address or telephone number, a scenario I believed was unlikely. So I chose the second option and waited outside Tak’s architectural offices one evening until I saw him come out – alone, luckily – and ran across the road to confront him, narrowly avoiding getting run over by a car as I did so. The horn sounded long and loud and one or two people looked in my direction irritably, but not Tak, who I had to run to catch up with and who I tapped on the elbow as I finally reached him. He stopped and turned, looking at me blankly for a moment before realising who I was and then his face broke into a wide smile, which surprised me a little, for he looked genuinely pleased to see me.
‘William Cody,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you. You’ve shaved for once.’ Instinctively, I stroked my cheeks and chin. ‘I thought you were back home.’
‘I am, Tajima,’ I said with a smile, granting him his full appellation for once.
‘Back home in London,’ he said quickly. ‘You know what I meant.’
I shrugged. ‘I was,’ I admitted. ‘I just got back. I was waiting for you. I’ve been standing across there.’
‘You missed me that much, eh?’
‘Ha,’ I said without a smile. ‘Have you time for a drink?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps,’ he said after a pause. ‘I can’t stay for long. I have a date with a young lady from Nagasaki who I have been pursuing for many months. Hubba hubba. She has the longest legs I have ever—’
‘I won’t keep you long,’ I said quickly, not really wanting to hear the details of his latest paramour. ‘Let’s go to the Reu House.’ This was a bar I had been in many times before which only employed pretty, blonde American girls to wait on tables. It was a popular hangout and not far from where we were.
‘But the Reu House is where I am meeting my date,’ he said. ‘I don’t want her to arrive and find us there together. Perhaps she would get the wrong idea about where the night is heading.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re taking a date to the Reu House?’ I asked, amazed. ‘You’re the native here, Tak. That’s like holding your wedding reception in a strip club. You don’t take dates to the Reu House! You sit there gawking at the Noo Joisey hardbodies while she gets more and more fed up and leaves after two drinks. That’s lame, man.’ He looked mildly put out and I regretted having said that as, after all, I was relying on him for information. ‘Look I’ll just stay for one drink,’ I said. ‘Let’s just go there. It’s nearby. I promise I’ll leave before she arrives.’
He nodded reluctantly and we made our way there; it was conveniently close to his apartment too and I suspected that Tak had planned it that way in case the evening went particularly well. His sense of opportunity had clearly overwhelmed his sense of romance. Once there, I wasted no time in getting to the point.
‘I’ve been calling Hitomi,’ I said. ‘Her phone’s been disconnected.’
‘Really,’ he said in a non-committal tone.
‘I’ve been calling since I went back to London,’ I continued. ‘She never returns any of my messages. Then it’s disconnected. I went to her apartment and she doesn’t live there any more. I went to the office and it’s been boarded up.’
‘You’ve been busy,’ said Tak.
‘Don’t give me a hard time,’ I asked, shaking my head irritably. ‘Where is she? What’s happened to her?’
Tak laughed and leaned forward. ‘You went away, William,’ he said. ‘You left her. You went back to England. For all she knew you were never coming back.’
‘I’m back now,’ I pointed out.
‘You made a choice,’ he said. ‘And you chose England, am I right?’ I said nothing for now. ‘Hitomi has made choices too.’
‘What kind of choices? Where is she? Has she started a new job? Is she working somewhere else?’
‘I can’t tell you that, William,’ he said. ‘She asked me not to.’
I stared at him, amazed by this. ‘She what?’ I asked. ‘Why would she do that? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘She feels – I think – that your relationship was not meant to be. She believes your heart is in England and as you know, she’ll—’
‘Die if she goes to England. I know. She’s told me.’
‘So she couldn’t follow you there. She believes your choice was the right one.’
‘Tak,’ I said firmly. ‘Just tell me where she is, will you? For God’s sake, I need to talk to her.’
‘I can’t do that, William,’ he repeated in a calm voice that annoyed the hell out of me. ‘Hitomi is my sister and she gave me strict instructions on what to do if you ever contacted me. I can tell her your number if you want, but other than that…’ He shook his head, indicating he could go no further. I knew there was no way that I could convince him and so, frustrated beyond belief, I scribbled down the phone number of the hotel where I was staying, and the number of the newspaper offices where I had worked before, telling him I could be contacted at either of those for the time being. We parted quickly after that and I went straight home, believing that he would probably have called her a moment after I left the Reu House and that she might be calling even then. I was wrong. Ultimately, I was never to receive another phone call from Hitomi while I was in Japan.
Disappointed by our lack of contact and trying to find a way to keep my mind occupied while my search went on, however, I tried to re-establish my life in Tokyo, renting a new apartment and returning to work at the newspaper. My editor was delighted to see me again; strangely, my column had proved so popular that when it had ended, they had received many letters from readers demanding its return. It was a popular newspaper with both Japanese and visiting or ex-pat Westerners alike and my articles on living in a foreign culture – an innocent abroad – had clearly kept them amused and entertained.
My articles were easy to construct. Every week I would write two thousand words on what I had done over the previous seven days. More often than not the events I depicted were either entirely fictitious or based on something I had heard had happened to another. I played the role of the slightly clumsy, unlucky-in-love Englishman; the floppy-haired ex-public schoolboy attempting to become immersed in another culture. Ironically, while my Japanese readers could laugh at my foolishness for being a stupid foreigner, the Westerners also laughed at me, believing that they – who I was attempting to lampoon – were nothing like the kind of idiot portrayed in my work. As well as the column, I wrote some other pieces for the weekend magazine and had begun writing some celebrity profiles (usually of visiting Western movie stars) before my enforced return to England.
To my surprise, the return of my column provoked great approval and shortly afterwards the newspaper received an offer from the Associated Press for syndication in a range of newspapers across the Asia-Pacific region. Overnight, and with absolutely no extra work on my part, my salary increased six-fold and I found myself in the curious position of being comfortably off and a minor celebrity in the city.
This celebrity increased further when – to my fury – I began to receive copies of the other newspapers syndicating my work and saw that above my byline and beside my photograph was a line drawing of a cowboy figure blowing smoke away from the top of a large handgun. They had obviously picked up on the fact that my name was the same as the great western hero Buffalo Bill and, without even thinking for a moment that we could possibly be related, had run the picture to draw attention to the column. Soon, I found that I would get looks around town or in restaurants or bars as people realised that I was that William Cody, the idiot Englishman who wrote the funny stories, and point at me from afar. Happily, my celebrity was minor enough that I was rarely approached by anyone, but from time to time a drunken lout, having saved up his joke all night and believing that he was the first to come up with a phrase of such originality, would creep up beside me and shout ‘Stick ’em up,’ a phrase which always had the power to bring me straight back to my childhood classroom days.
I tried to enjoy my new-found fame – I wanted to enjoy my success as I had never imagined that I would have any – but it was difficult for I had never felt as lonely as I did then. My mind was on my loss twenty-four hours a day. The fact that Hitomi was out there somewhere and I could not find her left me constantly wondering what she was doing. I wanted Hitomi and believed that I had lost her, partly through Isaac’s deception, and partly through my own sense of family responsibility. I became angry with myself, embittered; I drank more, I slept around. I became complacent and caused a distance to grow between my colleagues and myself as I became more convinced of my own celebrity and importance; I was twenty-three years old and despite all the good things that were happening to me, I had never been so unhappy.
And then, one evening while getting slowly drunk on my own in (ironically) the Reu House, attempting to chat up the American waitresses with little success, for they knew me only too well and one or two had already made the mistake of coming home with me, I was approached by a young Japanese woman of my own age who had been peering at me from a bar stool for about thirty minutes before making her way over.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘It’s Wilbur, isn’t it?’
‘William,’ I said, irritated that she could read the column, commit my picture to memory, but find herself unable to remember my name correctly.
William, that’s right.’ she said apologetically. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ I squinted and tried to place her; she didn’t look familiar. ‘Mayu,’ she said, pressing a hand to her chest lightly. ‘We met once, about a year ago? At Hitomi’s birthday party?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said quickly, recovering even though I didn’t have the first clue who she was. ‘Of course. Mayu. How are you?’
‘Fine, fine,’ she replied and we stood there and stared at each other for a moment with nothing particularly to say. ‘You’re back in Kyoto,’ she said eventually, stating the obvious and I nodded.
‘Apparently,’ I said in a dry voice.
‘But are you just back on business? I can’t imagine you’d want to leave Hitomi on her own in a place like that for very long.’ She gave a laugh and I immediately perked up and put my beer down so that I might focus on her a little better. I didn’t want to make it too obvious that I was unaware of Hitomi’s whereabouts, in case she got scared and didn’t want to reveal any more. Fortunately, she hadn’t finished speaking yet. ‘All those sexy French men,’ she said, laughing a little more and her face flushed slightly. ‘I wouldn’t be able to resist them if it was me.’
‘Well, I trust her,’ I said quietly, my heart beating a little faster in amazement that such a conversation was actually taking place. We’re very happy after all. Have you ever been there, Mayu?’ I asked.
‘To Paris?’ she replied and I felt like giving a little gasp of delight but held myself in. ‘No, not yet. Someday, though, I’d love to go. I’ve always imagined it’s such a romantic city.’
‘It is,’ I said, despite the fact that I’d never been within a hundred miles of it. ‘It’s beautiful. Especially at this time of year. I’m only here to organise shipping the rest of Hitomi’s things over there. We don’t think we’ll ever leave. You should come visit us, you know.’
‘I’d love to,’ she said, a little taken aback I think by my sudden enthusiasm and generosity. ‘I’ll have to start saving.’
‘Well we could put you up,’ I said, trying not to overdo it too much. ‘Hitomi would love to see you. Just give us a call. You have our number, don’t you?’
‘No,’ she said, looking around as her friends were standing up to leave and waving for her to join them. ‘But don’t worry, I can call Tak someday and get the details. He’s got your number, yes?’
‘Don’t phone for a while,’ I said, ecstatic now and anxious to be rid of her, ignoring her last question. ‘We’re going away on a trip for about six weeks. Perhaps after that?’
She frowned and nodded. ‘Well all right,’ she said. ‘Give her my love, though, won’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, standing up and giving her a kiss on both cheeks, Parisian style. She seemed shocked now by my forwardness and walked away quickly with a wave. Her friends were staring at me and I think one of them must have recognised me for he said something as she returned and she shook her head before looking back at me, confused, as if she was wondering why someone was claiming that I was the popular young newspaper columnist in Kyoto when I was actually supposed to be living in Paris. I gave her a wave and didn’t look up again for a few minutes, until I was sure that she was gone.
Sayonara, Kyoto, I thought to myself.
Ellen Rose devoted the best part of a year to trying to persuade her parents to allow her to join the trapeze company of the Regis-Roc Circus. Her father, Russell Rose, tried everything he could think of to dissuade her but it was to no avail. Eventually it became clear that if he wanted anything resembling a peaceful life he had little choice but to train her.
‘Think about it,’ said Bessie, Russell’s wife, the evening before her first lesson. ‘Her insistence is probably based on the fact that we’ve always said no before. Maybe once she starts to learn and has to spend hours working on the routines, she’ll get bored with it and give up.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Russell, although he was not hopeful that that would indeed be the case. The trapeze company always used a net while training but removed it for the performances. The possibility of death made their act more exciting to the spectators and in their fourteen-year history, they had never suffered any serious accidents. It was agreed that Ellen would not be allowed to perform in front of spectators until all the members of their troupe were absolutely convinced that she was proficient in their art. Ellen was only five feet two inches tall; she weighed about a hundred pounds and in theory was perfect trapeze material. It was decided that she would partner Joseph Craven, a twenty-seven-year-old veteran of the troupe, who was only an inch taller and about twenty pounds heavier than her. Craven had been performing for eight years and was considered one of the most daring and inventive of the company; he was delighted to be given the task of training Ellen because it gave him an opportunity to spend time with her and he had long considered her to be the most beautiful woman he knew.
By now, Ellen was seventeen years old and still single. She suspected that her new tutor was enamoured of her but tried to discourage him, as she was not at all attracted to him, and found herself growing irritated by the look of excitement which came into his eyes whenever he had to twist her around by the ankles or throw her up in the air and catch her lengthways by the waist. Often, while in mid-air, she could see a faint line of perspiration forming on Craven’s forehead, some tiny beads along his upper lip, and felt her body grow rigid with distaste.
‘You have to be more fluid with your movements,’ he would say on those occasions, almost collapsing under her as she fell. ‘It’s like catching a dead weight. You have to try to lose all sense of your body when you’re in the air.’
‘I’ll try,’ Ellen muttered, wishing that she could change partners, but having tried so long to join this troupe, there seemed little chance that she could simply pick and choose who to work with now that she was finally in.
Russell and Bessie often watched from the bleachers as Craven taught their daughter the routines and each worried in different ways. Russell was afraid that his daughter’s idolising of him was eventually going to cause her harm, thereby making any potential accident his fault. Bessie, on the other hand, had hoped that Ellen would not stay with the circus at all but would find for herself a life outside of it. She had made her own life there and been very happy, but it was an enclosed world which she had joined from the outside. Ellen had never known anything except for it and the way things were going, she never would. This was not something she wished for her daughter and actively prayed that she would grow bored with the whole thing.
In the meantime, Craven continued to teach Ellen and continued to lust after her as she dreamed of only one thing: making it up the ladder of the Big Top for that evening when she would give her debut performance as a trapeze artist. She was convinced that she could become a star.
The Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch arrived with a large entourage a few weeks after my great-grandfather had spoken to Chief Spotted Tail and arranged that both their people would work together to present an image of harmony to their illustrious visitor. He had travelled from Paris to New York and spent several weeks there, meeting with the governor and several members of Ulysses S. Grant’s cabinet before heading southwards to a dinner engagement with the president. However, it was the appointment with the famous Buffalo Bill Cody which was most exciting to him and when he arrived at Red Willow, he greeted him effusively. General Custer was a little irritated by this since he, as ranking officer, headed the official greeting party for the Duke, but he tried not to allow his feelings to be too obviously displayed.
‘I have never seen land like this,’ the Duke told Custer through an interpreter. ‘Today, we have ridden for hours across prairies that are more open and free than anything we have at home.’
‘Don’t worry, Duke,’ said Custer quickly. ‘We hope to change all that soon. The government plans to create great cities across these lands. America can be an even greater country a hundred years from now with the work we are putting in place.’ The Duke looked aghast, Custer having misinterpreted his comments about the land as being negative ones.
‘But that would be a disaster,’ he said, looking around as if it might all be swallowed up within minutes. ‘You cannot destroy such beauty, surely?’
Custer looked a little flustered but tried to carry on as best as he could. ‘We’ll be making it better,’ he explained. ‘In the name of progress there are always sacrifices which need to be made, don’t you agree? Is your father, the Czar, not doing similar things in Russia?’
The Grand Duke snorted, his expression implying that he was merely a fortunate relative and not one given to inclusion in the plans of his mother country. ‘The Czar would never want to destroy lands like this,’ he said. ‘Even if we had such places, which we do not. It would be unforgivable. It’s lucky we came here when we did. Perhaps there would be no hunting in a few years’ time?’
Custer laughed and looked a little awkward, turning now to my great-grandfather for some assistance. ‘We plan on bringing more people to these areas,’ explained Bill, touching the Duke lightly on the elbow. ‘So that they can experience what we have come to know as one of our great natural resources. You have heard, no doubt, of how we are building great railroads across the country?’
The Duke smiled and paused for a moment, wishing to frame his response without giving offence. ‘I know that there are thousands of immigrants building your railroads. They come from very far away to this America in order to make you great, isn’t that so? From China, Japan, Tokyo. Tens of thousands of people climbing on board boats to bring themselves here for a better life and they end up building your railroads. The ones that don’t die either getting here or building them, that is. This is a clever country, I’ll give you that.’
Bill smiled but Custer could feel his anger beginning to surface. This was not a good start to three days of diplomacy. The Grand Duke, a heavy-set man with a prominent jawline and dark eyes, stared at him, silently daring him to respond to this deliberately provocative conversation, but Bill changed the subject to one concerning his reasons for being there. ‘Do you do much hunting in Russia, Duke?’ he asked politely, receiving a gruff shake of the head as a response.
‘The hunting there is nothing like what you have here,’ he replied. ‘From what I am told you have thousands of buffalo roaming free to hunt whenever you want. Where I come from, such animals would be killed and eaten immediately.’
‘We do have strict guidelines,’ pointed out General Custer. ‘It’s not as if anyone can simply come along and kill as many of the beasts as they want. This land, for instance, is reserved for hunting by the Lakota Sioux, one of the tribes common to this part of America. They have always—’
As Custer began a potted biography of the Lakota Sioux for their guest, Bill remembered that their Chief, Spotted Tail, was standing a few feet away with the leading members of his tribe and had not, as yet, been invited into the conversation. Motioning him to approach he interrupted the general and introduced him to the Grand Duke.
‘Spotted Tail has graciously allowed us to hunt with the Sioux on the Red Willow land over the next couple of days,’ Bill explained. ‘It is a great privilege for us to hunt with such brave warriors,’ he added, a true diplomat who didn’t particularly believe what he was saying, but was enjoying irritating Custer with his homely good humour. The Grand Duke stared at Spotted Tail in surprise, for he had never met a member of an Indian tribe before. The chief was dressed in his full formal attire and presented a colourful, if slightly threatening, appearance. The two men shook hands awkwardly and the group retired to the tents for refreshments and rest. The night was drawing in and a feast was planned for the evening with an early finish so that the hunt might begin properly the next morning.
Despite his enthusiasm for the hunt, the Grand Duke slept late the next day and looked a little the worse for wear when he eventually joined his three hosts at the head of the hunt. He had stayed awake too long the night before and drunk too much wine and now his head was pounding with the hangover it had produced. Spotted Tail stared at him defiantly for they had come dangerously close to trouble when the Russian had spent more than an hour flirting with the chief’s oldest daughter, a sideshow which by coincidence had kept his eyes away from the fact that my great-grandfather was busy seducing his youngest.
Although the Grand Duke was an experienced huntsman he had no experience with animals of the size of prairie buffaloes and Bill could tell that he felt a little intimidated to be riding alongside himself, Custer and Spotted Tail, any of whom could have felled half a dozen animals with little more than an angry look. Because of this, and thinking that it might give him more confidence, he had invited their guest to ride on his own horse, Buckskin Joe, whose own fame was growing alongside that of his master.
‘When I was in New York,’ the Duke told Bill as they ambled slowly along the prairies, taking in the sight of the roaming buffaloes before beginning the kill, ‘I went to see The Killer on the Prairies at one of their theatres. You have seen it, I presume?’
Bill laughed. ‘I haven’t, as yet,’ he replied. ‘Although I have read reports that it’s a popular entertainment.’
‘It’s only the finest piece of theatre I have ever had the joy of watching,’ replied the Duke. The Killer on the Prairies was the first adaptation of the Buffalo Bill dime novels to be performed on the stage and had been the hit of the season on Broadway. The well-known actor Ned Buntline had written the script and was playing the part of Bill himself in a melodramatic adventure which concerned the kidnapping by the Cheyenne of a young girl, the daughter of one of Bill’s friends, and my great-grandfather’s attempts to bring her back before she could be violated. It was playing to packed houses in New York and it was rumoured that another production would soon be going on the road and travelling across the country.
‘As it happens, I’ve never been to New York,’ said Bill contemplatively. ‘Perhaps I should go. But I’ve always felt that the big-city life may not be what I am destined for.’
‘With a fame as wide as yours, my friend, I would imagine you could go anywhere and be given a hero’s welcome. When I saw that play, the audience applauded so wildly at the end that had you been there you may well have been torn limb from limb.’
‘Well if that’s the response I can expect, then perhaps it’s best that I stay away.’
‘I exaggerate, of course,’ said the Duke quickly. ‘But it’s not everyone who has the bravery to perform such deeds. That was one of the reasons I wanted to come here, you know. I’ve read all the stories about you. I’ve followed your career with great interest. I wanted to hunt with the great Buffalo Bill Cody. Money offers us some advantages in life and I wanted to use mine for these things.’
‘Then you’re wasting your money,’ replied Bill with a laugh, although he was revelling in the compliments. ‘Those stories … they’re mostly fiction. They choose events that have taken place and spin them into some grand adventure story. Really, they’re only based on very limited information. This play, for example. None of that story ever happened. Although I did spend three weeks chasing a Cheyenne from town to town across Ohio last year for he had killed a man, a friend of mine, but there was no girl involved.’
‘And what did you do when you caught up with him?’ asked the Grand Duke.
‘I killed him, of course,’ came the reply. ‘What would you have me do? Hand him in to the authorities? An eye for an eye, Duke. That’s my motto. Perhaps not as heroic as the novelists would have you believe, or the playwrights, but there we are. The truth is not always as exciting as the reality.’
Custer chose this moment to slow down and pick up the pace with the two men. ‘Should we begin?’ he asked. ‘There’s a fine herd of buffalo just over this hill. Ripe for the plucking, I would say.’ He called to the group to stop and the three men, along with Chief Spotted Tail, rode a little forward to survey their prey. ‘As the guest of honour,’ Custer began, clearing his throat and speaking in a loud voice so that all could hear him, ‘you have the privilege of taking the first shots.’ He had addressed the Grand Duke, whose face betrayed a slight twitch when these words were uttered. He looked around nervously.
‘I do?’ he asked. ‘Do we not hunt together?’
‘Traditionally, the guest of honour rides first into the pack and only when he has killed his first buffalo do the rest of the party join in,’ said Custer. He was torn now between his obligation as host and his enjoyment of the Grand Duke’s discomfort.
‘Grand Duke,’ said Bill quickly, reaching into the side bags of his horse, an unfamiliar beast to him since he had lent his regular steed to the other man. ‘I brought something for you to aid you in your first buffalo hunt. Something which has brought me luck in the past.’ From the saddle bag he removed the Smith & Wesson gun which his father had owned before him and had given to him as a gift after he had saved his life; the same gun which Bill would one day leave to his own Sam, who would pass it on to his son Isaac, who would place it on a hook on his living-room wall and forbid me to ever touch it without his permission. ‘This was my father’s gun,’ he explained, handing it across to the Grand Duke Alexis, who examined it carefully. Bill had spent a portion of the previous evening cleaning and shining it and it looked as good as it ever had, the elegant carvings glistening in the noonday sun. ‘It shoots well and true,’ he continued. If you would like to use it today, then you are welcome to.’
The Grand Duke accepted the gun gratefully, checked that it was fully loaded and, aware that everyone was watching him, he gave a loud shout and dug his stirrups into the side of Buckskin Joe, who reared up and charged down the hill towards the buffalo below. Within moments, the Grand Duke was circling the herd and discharging his gun at will.
‘He is no hunter,’ said Spotted Tail, who sat on his horse between Custer and Bill. ‘How many times has he shot already?’
‘He better shoot one soon,’ muttered Custer in reply. ‘Or we’re all in trouble.’
Fully reloaded now, and without once looking up at his hosts, the Grand Duke circled the herd once again and began to shoot. Bill counted the bullets in his head with each discharge of the gun and when he was sure it was empty again and that nothing had been killed he kicked his own horse in the side quickly.
‘Don’t follow me,’ he said to the other two men as he began to ride off. It will only make things worse.’
Bill gave a loud shout as he galloped down towards the buffaloes. The Grand Duke looked terrified as they approached a particularly tame-looking animal.
‘Shoot,’ said Bill in a firm voice. ‘Shoot now.’
The Grand Duke lifted the Smith & Wesson and pointed it directly at the head of the beast and fired. The animal’s legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground. A huge sense of relief was felt by all and immediately Custer, Spotted Tail and their various entourages charged down the hill, causing the herd to stampede, charging away from the men as fast as they could. The adrenalin rushed through Bill’s veins for it was the sound of the hooves racing across the prairies that excited him like no other sound and, forgetting about his charge, he galloped forward and gave chase, keeping one eye on Custer at all times, aware that they would be challenging each other in an unspoken contest throughout the day.
Later that night, exhausted but happy with the day’s outcome, Bill found himself alone with the Grand Duke Alexis Alexandrovitch, both men now happily drunk and pleased with their day’s activities. The Duke had become a better killer once the first animal had been killed and had finally acquitted himself well, killing almost two dozen buffalo.
‘I think I owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘You came to my assistance today when I needed it.’
‘It was an unfamiliar horse to you,’ said my great-grandfather kindly. ‘And Buckskin Joe is not accustomed to anyone’s else’s behind but my own. You were a worthy hunter.’
‘True, but you helped me anyway when I could have embarrassed myself. All I am saying is thank you.’ Bill accepted the words of gratitude with a polite nod and said no more on the subject.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘About what you were telling me earlier. The Killer on the Prairies? The stage show?’
‘Ah yes,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘You wish to go see it now, do you? Bask in the applause which is meant for you?’
‘Not quite,’ said Bill, an idea forming in his mind which would be the genesis of the next stage in his life, the end of his careless youth and the beginning of his life in show business. ‘You said this man Buntline was good at playing me in this show, yes? He was a good actor?’
‘He was very good,’ said the Grand Duke. ‘I believe he is well known anyway. The audience seemed to appreciate him. As I told you, the theatre is full every night.’
‘Then he must be making an awful lot of money,’ said Bill. ‘I have heard of this fellow before, all right. I’ve never met him. But it seems to me he’s becoming very rich playing a part which he invents for himself every night on a stage. I begin to think that it’s time I took advantage of my celebrity a little and made a little money for myself.’
The Grand Duke nodded and thought about it. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked. ‘You want the theatre to pay you some of their proceeds?’
‘No, not that,’ replied Bill. ‘I just think I might know someone better qualified to play Buffalo Bill than Ned Buntline. Someone a little more familiar with the character.’
‘Really? And who would that be then?’ asked the son of the Czar, still a little slow on the uptake. ‘Another actor?’
Bill turned to him and smiled. ‘Of sorts,’ he replied.