43.
I Have Not, Particularly, Saved Myself

“DO YOU KNOW the Bunraku puppet story Shinju, ten no Amijima?” Tsune asked Manjiro. “The one where the lovers die at the end, lying head to toe on the floor of the forest? You must remember it. The woman’s hair is spread out like a fan.”

They were in an upstairs room of the inn, where they had been since their arrival, unavailable even to someone like Keiki, and two doors away from the now soundly sleeping Lord Okubo. There was a low table between them, empty but for two upside down teacups. Tsune was in earnest and had mentioned the famous double suicide drama because implicit in her question was an offer. Manjiro, however, was put off by it. He knew Keiki was in the inn, knew they must both go speak with him sooner or later, but more than that, did she think she could cajole him by this tactic, make him reconsider the manner in which he would fulfill his obligations, by threatening to join him in his death? His love for her had blinded him before, but no longer.

“That was a play,” he said, “and the players only puppets. There wasn’t any real blood, and no danger, I think, to the lives of the puppeteers.”

Tsune, herself a puppeteer of inordinate capabilities, had insisted after a week of silent suffering that she be allowed to hear directly from him whatever he had to say concerning her own culpability in the death of his brother. That was why she had come to his room and now, as she tried to delve into the deepest intentions of his heart, he was cold toward her.

She placed her fingers upon the nearest teacup and said, “Of course you know that responsibility for Einosuke’s death rests first with those who killed him.”

“Yes,” he answered, “and they will pay first. Soon, if we are lucky.”

“But who will pay second, Manjiro?” she asked. “And who will pay third and fourth? Who will go on paying? Don’t you understand that that, ultimately, is the more important question?”

That Tsune grieved for Einosuke, that she had poured that grief into daily letters to Keiki and entreaties for an earlier audience with Manjiro, was clear to all who wished to see it, but Manjiro could no longer count himself among that number. Yet neither, in the innermost chambers of his heart, did he blame her very much—if that’s what she thought she was wrong. He blamed himself; for his caprice, for his multitude of mistakes, his terminal and interminable weakness.

“No,” he finally said, “I think who pays second is of little importance…”

He gave her a regretful smile but found it impossible to say more. That he had always loved her he would make clear, he decided, in his suicide note.

“Please, Manjiro, think about how it will sit with others when this revenge of yours is done. Have you thought about what your father might do? Or your nieces and nephew, or my poor sister, your bereft and noble sister-in-law? Have you thought how things might be with her a year or two from now?”

Indeed he had, and concerning his father, though he wouldn’t say it, he felt there was no longer any danger of him ending his life prematurely, before his inevitable descent into senility and old age. At the moment of his father’s discovery that he, Manjiro, had defied Lord Abe and taken the Americans out of Edo, there had been such a danger, but now he believed it had passed. So far as his nieces were concerned he thought that time would heal them, and he had particularly considered the ironic fact that Junichiro, the toddling next Lord Okubo, would not remember his father or his ineffectual uncle at all.

“I do worry about Fumiko,” he admitted, “for she is the best person I know. But in the end I think she will find solace in her children, in her coming grandchildren, and in remembering the good husband she once had.”

Tsune shook her head, finally moving her hand from the overturned teacup to his arm. “She will not find solace in them, Manjiro, that is not the word you want, but will understand her responsibility to all of those you have mentioned, and see that responsibility to its end. She will find new strength. She will surprise you by how well she regains herself.”

Manjiro pursed his lips but would not be drawn into further discussions of Fumiko, the thought of whom still moved him to a greater despair than he could handle. He profoundly understood his own responsibility and was resolved to see it through, yet he also remembered Tsune’s great facility with reason and argument. If she was telling him that Fumiko would soon be focused upon her children once again, that was right and proper. But he didn’t want her telling him anything about himself.

He remained silent, at first thinking only how he might greet Keiki, apologize to both of the Americans for appearing to have turned on them, then go off, alone, to prepare himself, when her hand upon his arm began to move and stroke, an unfair strategy to use against one who had adored her since he was a boy. That a man at the end of his life should be buoyed by something beyond physical desire was as clear to him as the indisputable fact that Einosuke’s death had been his fault, yet despite that clarity, and despite his sense of shame, he could feel his ardor rising.

Tsune felt it too, and deftly made it the subject of their talk.

“How I had hoped there might be something permanent between us,” she said. “Lord Tokugawa hoped so, too, you know, that was the real reason I took you to his hunting lodge that day, so that he could see for himself how fine you are. Those paragraphs were my excuse, that’s certainly true, but their bearer was the target. When all this trouble began he was about to write a letter to your father, and Keiki, I have reason to believe, has brought a similar letter now. Oh, Manjiro! if we can only look upon Einosuke’s death as the act of unruly criminals and go on.”

Manjiro had one hand free that he let fall upon hers, which had not ceased stroking his arm. She turned her hand over and, grasping his wrist, pulled him slightly toward her. She only meant to speak again, to save his life through unending stealthy argument, but this time the words she spoke were not the ones she had chosen. “I am not a virgin,” she said. “Lord Tokugawa’s letter will admit as much, I’m sure, but I have not, particularly, saved myself.”

There was a pause, a fleeting sense of things reordered, before, pay third and fourth? Who will go on paying? Don’t you understand that that, ultimately, is the more important question?”

That Tsune grieved for Einosuke, that she had poured that grief into daily letters to Keiki and entreaties for an earlier audience with Manjiro, was clear to all who wished to see it, but Manjiro could no longer count himself among that number. Yet neither, in the innermost chambers of his heart, did he blame her very much—if that’s what she thought she was wrong. He blamed himself; for his caprice, for his multitude of mistakes, his terminal and interminable weakness.

“No,” he finally said, “I think who pays second is of little importance…”

He gave her a regretful smile but found it impossible to say more. That he had always loved her he would make clear, he decided, in his suicide note.

“Please, Manjiro, think about how it will sit with others when this revenge of yours is done. Have you thought about what your father might do? Or your nieces and nephew, or my poor sister, your bereft and noble sister-in-law? Have you thought how things might be with her a year or two from now?”

Indeed he had, and concerning his father, though he wouldn’t say it, he felt there was no longer any danger of him ending his life prematurely, before his inevitable descent into senility and old age. At the moment of his father’s discovery that he, Manjiro, had defied Lord Abe and taken the Americans out of Edo, there had been such a danger, but now he believed it had passed. So far as his nieces were concerned he thought that time would heal them, and he had particularly considered the ironic fact that Junichiro, the toddling next Lord Okubo, would not remember his father or his ineffectual uncle at all.

“I do worry about Fumiko,” he admitted, “for she is the best person I know. But in the end I think she will find solace in her children, in her coming grandchildren, and in remembering the good husband she once had.”

Tsune shook her head, finally moving her hand from the overturned teacup to his arm. “She will not find solace in them, Manjiro, that is not the word you want, but will understand her responsibility to all of those you have mentioned, and see that responsibility to its end. She will find new strength. She will surprise you by how well she regains herself.”

Manjiro pursed his lips but would not be drawn into further discussions of Fumiko, the thought of whom still moved him to a greater despair than he could handle. He profoundly understood his own responsibility and was resolved to see it through, yet he also remembered Tsune’s great facility with reason and argument. If she was telling him that Fumiko would soon be focused upon her children once again, that was right and proper. But he didn’t want her telling him anything about himself.

He remained silent, at first thinking only how he might greet Keiki, apologize to both of the Americans for appearing to have turned on them, then go off, alone, to prepare himself, when her hand upon his arm began to move and stroke, an unfair strategy to use against one who had adored her since he was a boy. That a man at the end of his life should be buoyed by something beyond physical desire was as clear to him as the indisputable fact that Einosuke’s death had been his fault, yet despite that clarity, and despite his sense of shame, he could feel his ardor rising.

Tsune felt it too, and deftly made it the subject of their talk.

“How I had hoped there might be something permanent between us,” she said. “Lord Tokugawa hoped so, too, you know, that was the real reason I took you to his hunting lodge that day, so that he could see for himself how fine you are. Those paragraphs were my excuse, that’s certainly true, but their bearer was the target. When all this trouble began he was about to write a letter to your father, and Keiki, I have reason to believe, has brought a similar letter now. Oh, Manjiro! if we can only look upon Einosuke’s death as the act of unruly criminals and go on.”

Manjiro had one hand free that he let fall upon hers, which had not ceased stroking his arm. She turned her hand over and, grasping his wrist, pulled him slightly toward her. She only meant to speak again, to save his life through unending stealthy argument, but this time the words she spoke were not the ones she had chosen. “I am not a virgin,” she said. “Lord Tokugawa’s letter will admit as much, I’m sure, but I have not, particularly, saved myself.”

There was a pause, a fleeting sense of things reordered, before, though her pull remained slight, he came to her as if it were insistent. She used her free arm, first to brace herself against the tatami, then to encircle his neck, thus, as she had always been able to do with words, both resisting him and pulling him down upon her at the same time.

Manjiro thought to protest as entirely too unbearable that his heart’s greatest wish should be granted only now, when the last bits of sand leaked from his hourglass, and he did try to rise above it for a moment, like a phoenix from the ashes. But when he opened his mouth to speak, all such thoughts were gone, leaving only the singular idea that there was no sight more beautiful on this failing earth than that of Tsune’s legs, bent at the knees and turning darkness into light, coming through the seams of her kimono and slowly parting.

Sex and grief! Oh, it was strange! What could they possibly have in common?

LIKE A PHOENIX from the ashes? He had learned the myth from his tutor, but was he capable of such a foreign leaning on this, the last day of his life?

She was both the most modern, the freest of women, and at the same time a throwback to another era, to the days of Prince Genji, when courtiers visited noblewomen at night or delivered, through diaphanous curtains, poems inscribed upon fans.

Come a bit nearer please.
That you might know.
Whose was the evening face
So dim in the twilight.

Such were the lines that Manjiro remembered, the lines that seemed to capture Tsune for him as he sat watching her sleep, some ninety minutes later. He had dressed again and was about to leave to find Keiki. He had continued his fast from food, at least, and had ordered his swords resharpened. He’d intended to spend these last few hours before Ueno’s arrival in seclusion and meditation, but instead all he truly wanted to do was sit where he was and watch Tsune. He reached out to pull her blanket into place, a universal gesture, but even if he survived this night he was too weak a man, he finally knew, to ever survive a life with Tsune as his wife. That it was she who had fueled his dreams when his studies forged a path through Western thought, he had always considered ironic, but now he understood that she could find her way in uncharted lands far better than he, that she might one day lie like this, sated and sleeping beside a Shogun, or even a conqueror, who in turn would sit in the muddle of his manliness, unaware that he was the one who had been unalterably conquered.

Manjiro wanted to extract himself, to expel her with a great loud sigh, reciting the names of the great men from whom he had learned—Tu Fu, Murasaki, Bash, Shakespeare, Goethe, even Niccolò—but none could find a seat at the center of his thoughts so long as Tsune’s bare shoulder refused the enticement of her covers.

He could laugh at himself, for this one moment free of that inevitable tide-pull, but he could not perform the simple act of going to speak with Keiki, without also knowing that if blood still pumped through his veins by morning, it would pump for Tsune alone.