Mandarins (14 page)

“Will he come or will he not? It is scarcely possible that he should not, and yet the moon is sinking, and still I hear no footsteps. Has he suddenly changed his mind? Oh, if he comes not, I must, like a harlot, raise my shameful face once more to the morning sun. How could I do anything so brazen, so wicked? I should be like a corpse abandoned at the side of the road, disgraced, trampled upon, and then brutally exposed to the light of day. And yet I would mutely endure it all, and were such to happen, not even death would bring an end to it. No, no, he surely will come. Looking into his eyes when we recently parted, I could not help but know that he would. He fears me. Even as he hates and despises me, that fear remains. In fact, if I were relying merely
on myself, I could not say so, but on
him
I can rely, on his egotism, or rather on the ignoble fear that springs from it. Thus, I can be sure that he will indeed steal into this chamber.

“Yet what a wretched creature I am, not to be able to depend upon myself! Until at least three years ago I could count both on myself and on my beauty, perhaps until much more recently, indeed until that fateful day, when in that room in my aunt's house I met him and saw at a glance how my ugliness was reflected in his mind's eye. He acted as though it were nothing and even flattered me with kind words. But how can a woman's heart be consoled once her own repulsiveness has been revealed to her? I felt chagrin, fear, and sadness. I remembered as a child being seized with horror when, held in my nurse's arms, I saw an eclipse of the moon. Yet this was immeasurably worse. In an instant, all the fond illusions I had ever cherished were gone. I was enveloped in loneliness as bleak as a rainy dawn and thus, trembling in forlorn despair, yielded my body to a man I do not love, to a lecher who loathes and despises me.

“Was it that I had been unable to bear the desolation of having seen my unsightly appearance revealed? In pressing my face to his breast, was I attempting in one moment of heated frenzy to dull the pain of it all? If not, was I, like him, simply driven by lewd desire? The mere thought fills me with shame, with shame, with shame! What wretchedness I felt when, having been released from his arms, I was once again mistress of my own body!

“As much as I wanted not to weep, bitterness and loneliness brought an unending flood of tears to my eyes. Yet the cause of my misery was not merely my infidelity; above all, it was the disdain he heaped upon me in committing the act, quite as though I were a leprous dog, to be loathed and abused.

“What I did next I can now only recall as a dim memory, as though
from the distant past. Yet I know that, as I was sobbing, I felt the whiskers on his upper lip touching my ear and his hot breath whispering in a low voice: ‘Let us kill Wataru.'

“Hearing his words, I felt strangely, radiantly alive, in a manner I had never known before. Alive? If moonlight may be said to be bright, then such indeed was my state of mind, though a luminous moon would still be altogether different. Yet did not his terrible words bring comfort to me? Oh, can I, a woman, rejoice at being loved by a man, though such should mean her husband's murder?

“In this moonlight state of mind, forlorn and yet euphoric, I went on weeping. But then? Then? When did I at last agree to have him strike my husband dead? It was only in that moment that I first remembered him. Yes, I must honestly say, only then, for I had been thinking solely and entirely of my own disgrace. Now I thought of him, of my reserved and diffident husband, and yet not of him: what I saw clearly before my eyes was rather his smiling face when he speaks to me. And it was perhaps precisely then, as I remembered that face, that my plan came to me: as of that very moment I knew I was determined to die. The mere fact of having made so firm a resolution filled me with joy.

“But as I ceased my weeping, looked up into his face, and saw my ugliness reflected in his heart, that same joy instantly vanished, and I remembered the darkness of the eclipsed moon that I had seen with my nurse. It was as though, for all my exaltation, a host of demons had been hiding beneath and were now released.

“By dying in my husband's place, am I really doing so out of love for him? No, no. Behind that convenient façade lies my desire to atone for the sin of yielding my body to that man. I lack the courage to die by my own hand; in this way, I shall at least show myself to the world in a better light. It is admittedly a petty motive, but for that I might be
pardoned. And yet I have been a far more miserable and monstrous creature than that. Is it not that I am feigning to die in my husband's place, so that I may take revenge on the man who has hated and scorned me and turned me into the object of his evil lust?

“I need no more proof than the loss, as I looked into his face, of that strange moonlight euphoria as my heart was instantly frozen in grief. It is for myself and not for my husband that I intend to die, for the pain of a wounded heart, for the chagrin of a body defiled. Ah, I have not only lived a useless life; I shall now die a useless death!

“Yet how much better to choose this useless death than to prolong my life! Forcing myself to smile despite my sorrow, I promised again and again that I would conspire with him. He is quick-witted enough to surmise with dread certainty the measures I will take if he should break his word. He solemnly swore an oath to me, and so indeed he will steal his way in to where I lie.

“Is that the sound of the wind? When I think that all my woe since that fateful day is now at last to end this night, I feel my anguished spirit ease. The morrow's sun will cast its chill rays on my headless corpse, and when my husband sees . . . No, I must not think of him. He loves me, but I have no strength to return that love. From long ago I have been capable of loving only one man, and that man will come tonight to kill me—me, for whom, tormented to the very end by my lover, even the glow of the lamp is now too bright.”

Kesa extinguishes her lamp. Presently the opening of a latticed shutter is faintly heard, as pale moonlight breaks into the room.

Long ago there was a boy by the name of Lorenzo, who lived in the Ecclesia of Santa Lucia, in the city of Nagasaki. He had been found prostrate at the entrance to the church one Christmas night, overcome by hunger and exhaustion. The worshippers had gone to his aid, whereupon, it appears, the padre out of sheer compassion had
resolved to take him under his wing. Yet whenever he was asked about his origins, Lorenzo would parry all questions with a guileless smile and offer only the vaguest of replies: his home, he said, was
Paraiso
, his father
Deus
. From the blue
contas
(rosary beads) encircling his wrist, one could see that his parents were not
gentios
. Thus, both the padre and the
irmãos
(monks), thinking that there was certainly no reason for suspicion, were most hospitable. For all his youth, he was so firm in the faith that the
superiors
(elders) could only marvel, and though neither his place of birth nor parentage was known, the entire community showered him with boundless affection, declaring that he was surely a heavenly guardian appearing in the guise of a child.

Moreover, his features were of a jewel-like purity, and his voice was as gentle as a maiden's. This too no doubt added to the love that he drew.

Among the Japanese monks, there was one called Simeon, who treated Lorenzo as a younger brother, so that whenever they came into or left the church, they were arm in arm. Simeon, the tallest of them all, came from a family of spearmen in service to one of the great lords. He had inherited the preternatural strength of his fore-bears and on more than several occasions had warded off the slate tiles thrown at the priest by the
gentios
. The friendship between Lorenzo and Simeon might have been likened to a dove enfolded in the wings of a fierce eagle or to a blooming vine entwined round a cedar on the slopes of Lebanon.

More than three years passed, and it was now time for Lorenzo to undergo the coming-of-age ceremony. It was then, however, that a strange rumor was heard. The daughter of the umbrella-maker living in the city not far from the church, it was said, had become intimate with Lorenzo. The father was himself a Christian, and it was his custom to bring the girl to mass with him. There, even during prayers,
she could not keep her eyes off Lorenzo, whom she could see holding an incensory in his hand. Moreover, with her hair arranged most beautifully, she would invariably fix her gaze on him whenever she entered or left the church.

This was, of course, seen by the faithful. One reported that as the young woman was passing Lorenzo, she had allowed her foot to rest on his. Another swore to having witnessed the two exchanging love missives.

The padre could not ignore the matter and so one day summoned Lorenzo. “Concerning thee and the umbrella-maker's daughter,” he said gently, chewing on his white beard, “I have heard whispered this and that, though surely none of it can be true. What sayest thou to it all?”

Lorenzo could only shake his head sadly and tearfully repeat that no such thing had taken place. The priest had to concede that in view of the lad's age and the piety that he regularly manifested, it was most unlikely that he was telling anything but the truth.

Thus, at least for the moment, his suspicions were dispelled. But the matter did not end so easily in the minds of his flock. The fraternal feelings of Simeon made him all the more concerned. At first the thought of making an open inquiry into such ignominious allegations filled him with shame, and he found himself quite incapable even of looking Lorenzo directly in the face, much less of directly interrogating him. One day, however, in the rear garden of the church, he happened to find lying on the ground an amorous letter written by the girl and addressed to Lorenzo. Thrusting it before him in a felicitous moment when they were alone in a room, Simeon pressed him for an explanation, threatening the boy one minute, cajoling him the next.

Lorenzo could only reply, a blush on his beautiful face: “She appears to have allowed her heart to be drawn to me, but I have merely received
her letters and never spoken to her.” Yet Simeon, painfully aware of public calumny, continued to interrogate him. To this Lorenzo stared sadly into the other's eyes and declared with an air of reproach: “So even thou wouldst take me to be a teller of lies!” Then like a swallow he rose and abruptly left the room.

Crestfallen at these words and ashamed at the depth of his own suspicions, Simeon was himself about to leave when Lorenzo came bursting back in. Throwing his arms around Simeon's neck, he breathlessly whispered: “I was wrong! Forgive me!” Before Simeon could reply, Lorenzo, perhaps in an effort to hide his tear-stained face, suddenly pushed him away and ran out again. Simeon was left quite mystified, not knowing whether Lorenzo had intended to express remorse for an illicit liaison with the umbrella-maker's daughter or sorrow at having treated his friend with rudeness.

Not long thereafter came the news that the girl was with child. Moreover, she openly told her father that she had been impregnated by none other than Lorenzo of the Ecclesia of Santa Lucia. The old man flew into a rage and lost no time in reporting the full particulars to the padre. Overwhelmed by the accusation, Lorenzo could offer not a word in his own defense. In the course of the day, the priest and the monks met in council and pronounced their sentence: expulsion. The verdict meant that he was driven from the presence of the padre as well, leaving him quite without any means for supporting himself. Even those who out of love for him might otherwise have offered support were obliged to consider that to keep such a sinner in their midst would do dishonor to the
Gloria
of the Lord and so with many a tear agreed to his banishment.

Simeon was, however, the most miserable of all. His sadness at seeing Lorenzo driven away was greatly exceeded by his anger at having been deceived. At the very moment that the hapless lad was leaving
the church portals, heading with heavy heart into a fierce wintry wind, Simeon clenched his fist and violently struck the side of that beautiful face. It is said that Lorenzo, felled by the powerful blow, slowly rose again, his tear-filled eyes turned toward heaven, as in a trembling voice he murmured a prayer: “Lord, forgive him, for he knows not what he does.” Utterly disheartened, Simeon could only stand in the doorway, shaking that same fist at the sky. When the other brothers had made various efforts to calm him, he stood back with arms folded, his face as ominously dark as the sky on the verge of a storm, staring after the dejected Lorenzo, quite as though he might devour him. The westering sun, shimmering in the wintry wind, was setting Nagasaki's horizon aflame, and as the bowed figure of the youth made his way from their midst, it seemed to the parishioners gathered there that for a moment the gentle lad remained transfixed, as though held in the embrace of that giant globe of fire.

The Lorenzo who once within the chancel of Santa Lucia had held the incensory was now reduced to living as a miserable beggar in a pariah's hovel outside the city. Moreover, having been a servant of the Lord, he was despised by the
gentios
as no better than a jackal. We are told that whenever he ventured into town, he was sure to be taunted by heartless children and that more than once he was subjected to blows from swords and canes, tiles and stones. Once when a terrible fever swept through Nagasaki, he spent seven days and seven nights writhing in agony by the side of the road. Yet
Deus
in His infinite mercy not only spared the life of Lorenzo but also bestowed on him His constant blessings, so that even when he was given no alms in rice or coin, he received his daily sustenance from the fruit of the mountains or the fish and clams of the sea. And for his part, Lorenzo did not neglect the morning and evening prayers he had once offered up in Santa Lucia; his rosary beads were likewise always on his wrist.
Moreover, in the stillness of the night he would stealthily leave his outcast's hut and tread the light of the moon to the beloved church and there pray that the Lord Jesus might watch over him.