Bundori: A Novel Of Japan

Chapter 33

When a samurai planned to commit ritual suicide, custom required him to bid farewell to the important people in his life and express gratitude for the services they’d done him, the kindnesses they’d shown him, and the privilege of associating with them.

Sano found Dr. Ito in the Edo Jail guard compound, practicing the medical skills he’d acquired before being sentenced to lifelong service as morgue custodian. There grim, dingy barracks formed a second enclosure within the jail’s towering walls. Outside the barracks, a prison guard sat on a stool, with Dr. Ito bending over him. As Sano approached, Ito pulled down the man’s lower lip, revealing a huge, ugly blood blister surrounded by pus-engorged flesh. Upon this Ito placed a shiny brown leech. The patient winced and closed his eyes as the leech sucked the poisoned blood.

“Sano-san! What a pleasant surprise.” Dr. Ito’s stern features relaxed in a smile as he looked up. “I presumed you had received my messages about finding no clues on the murder victims’ remains, and so would have no reason to visit soon.” Then his expression altered to concern when he saw Sano’s face. “Something is wrong?”

For the first time, Sano felt awkward with his confidant and mentor. “I have to talk to you,” he blurted.

“Of course. One moment.”

Ito turned back to his patient. He waited until the leech swelled to twice its original size, and the blister had shrunk. Then he plucked the leech off the patient’s lip and sealed it inside a small ceramic jar attached to his sash.

“Rinse your mouth with saltwater every hour to prevent further festering,” he told the guard. He handed over a paper packet. “Drink this turmeric in your tea tonight, for the pain and swelling. You’ll feel much better by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Ito-san,” the patient mumbled.

Then, apparently recognizing Sano’s need for privacy, Ito said, “Come. Let’s go to my quarters.”

They left the compound and entered a passage, where Sano stopped. He didn’t want to cut short what might be their last meeting, but he must get this ordeal over with before he lost his resolve.

“I can’t stay,” he said abruptly. “I-I just want to thank you, Ito-san. For everything you’ve done for me.”

Ignoring his friend’s puzzled frown, Sano rushed on. “Your wisdom and support have guided me through times of trouble. Your courage, dedication, and integrity have been a source of inspiration to me.” Used to expressing respect with formal rituals of bowing, gift-giving, and other oblique gestures, he found this blunt speaking unbearably gauche and melodramatic. But he forced himself to continue. “It’s been an honor and a privilege to associate with you.”

He bowed deeply, as if to a superior rather than the commoner and criminal that Ito was. “Now I-I must say good-bye,” he ended in a breathless fever of shyness, embarrassment, and grief.

“ ‘Good-bye’?” Though he shook his head in confusion, Dr. Ito obviously recognized this as no ordinary parting. “Sano-san, what is the meaning of this?”

Sano compressed his lips against the outpouring of terror that threatened to spill from them: I don’t want to die! Please, save me! If Ito offered any sympathy, he was lost. He longed to flee. But an explanation was the least he owed his friend. With frequent pauses to control his emotions, he related his plan, and its probable outcome. “I may die tomorrow, Ito-san. That’s why I came to say good-bye, and say-what needed saying.”

The lines in Dr. Ito’s face deepened. His penetrating gaze lost its edge; his eyes were dark with shock. “But why must you even consider doing this-this thing?” he demanded.

“I promised my father I would exemplify Bushido and perform a heroic deed that would secure our family a place of honor in history,” Sano recited woodenly. “When I began this investigation, I promised myself that I would deliver a killer to justice and save lives. Chamberlain Yanagisawa is corrupt, evil. If he’s also the Bundori Killer-as I believe he is-then destroying him, ridding the regime of his influence, and taking my own life will satisfy all my aims.”

Dr. Ito opened his mouth and closed it again. He raised his arms, then let them fall. For once he seemed at a loss for wisdom. Then he drew a deep breath and said, “Forgive me, Sano-san. Out of respect for you and your class, I would never say this under any other circumstances. But your Bushido is a cruel, destructive code. Can you not see that it carries honor, duty, loyalty, and filial piety to the extreme? Why, indeed, its ultimate expression is the annihilation of the self-of the very life force that harbors those virtues!”

He leaned closer, exerting upon Sano the whole force of his compelling personality. “Listen. When I became a physician, I dedicated myself to healing, to the preservation of life. Because life is precious; it makes all things possible. While you’re alive, you have the potential to accomplish many miracles. All of these may well add up to more than this one final act you are contemplating. But if you kill yourself, then what?

“Your name in history books-an empty reward. Man has a short memory; yesterday’s heroes are soon forgotten. Your body will be ashes in the wind; your soul will never live again-unless through rebirth, the occurrence of which I have seen no scientific proof. Please, Sano-san Reconsider!”

Sano turned away from the argument that called to the questioning, rebellious part of his nature. “Bushido is absolute,” he said, although he could see the truth in Dr. Ito’s impassioned plea. “I can’t repudiate it and still call myself a samurai. A promise is a promise; duty is duty.”

Dr. Ito hurried around to face him. “Your father should never have demanded such a sacrifice from you! That he did is an example of a dying man’s selfishness.” Ito’s voice was harsh; his eyes blazed with desperation. “And that consummate fool, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi-who imprisoned me, who lets the foul Chamberlain Yanagisawa rule in his place-does not deserve your sacrifice!”

To hear his own secret thoughts voiced aloud shamed and horrified Sano to the point of rage. “How dare you criticize my father and my lord!”

Ito sighed. “Ah. I see that in my effort to save you from yourself, I’ve only angered you. My apologies. But I only have your welfare at heart-as no one else seems to. You won’t listen to criticism of Bushido, or of those who command your loyalty. So I won’t argue anymore. I will simply beg you, as a friend who values and esteems you: Please. Find another way. Don’t do it.”

The clasped hands he extended to Sano trembled; for once he seemed not an imposing symbol of scientific curiosity and personal commitment, but a feeble old man.

“I’ve made my decision,” Sano said wearily. “I have no choice.”;

An expression of infinite sadness came over Dr. Ito’s face as he nodded in defeat. “I’m not a samurai; therefore, I can’t comprehend the forces that compel you. But I do know that a man must do what he believes is right. I’ve lived my own life according to that principle.” He paused, then bowed. “I will miss you, Sano-san.”

“And I you, Ito-san.” Sano bowed with equal formality. He didn’t want to leave his friend; he didn’t want to die and forsake all life’s wonderful possibilities. Unshed tears stung his eyes. Dr. Ito couldn’t save him. Only fate could-and so far, fate looked to be favoring his death.

Flaming lanterns sent Sano’s shadow leaping along the path before him as he raced wildly through the Momijiyama. “Aoi!” he called. “Where are you?”

His voice echoed off the shrine’s magnificent buildings. He was beyond caring that such crude behavior showed disrespect for his lord’s ancestors. Nor could he fear another attack. All he cared about was finding Aoi. He ran up stone steps to pound on doors. From the rooftops, carved demons leered their disapproval.

“Aoi, answer me!” he shouted.

He’d imagined that she would be waiting for him when he returned to the castle. But he’d arrived home to find no one other than his servants, who said they’d neither seen her nor taken any message explaining her absence. Disappointment had overcome the self-control Sano had maintained with Hirata and Dr. Ito; stoicism gave way to desperation.

He must spend what was probably the last night of his life with Aoi, to cram into it all the years they wouldn’t have together. He wanted to tell her that all the evidence he’d found today pointed to Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s guilt, that in all likelihood Yanagisawa would die tomorrow, and she would be free. He wanted to carry the memory of her joy with him as a reward when he met his fate tomorrow. And, like a warrior before a battle, he felt the ancient yearning to lie with a woman, to celebrate life while he still had it, and to experience his body’s last pleasure.

The shrine was deserted. Sano plunged into the pine forest. Rocks tripped him; boughs lashed his arms and legs. Remembering Aoi’s mention of the cottage where she lived, he somehow managed to find it.

The hut’s window was dark. No one answered his knock. He entered the single room to find it empty. Then he heard a rustle outside. Alarm prickled his skin; he sensed danger. Ignoring his instincts, he rushed heedlessly out the door, his heart lurching with gladness.

He heard and saw no one.

“Aoi,” he whispered brokenly. “Aoi.”

With the residual pain in his muscles underscoring his misery, Sano trudged home. There he knelt before his father’s memorial altar. He lit the candles and incense, bowed to his father’s portrait, and prayed:

“Father. Please give me courage to do what I must. Let me have the strength to bring the Bundori Killer to justice, even if it means my own death.”

His tortured voice only echoed in the empty room. The portrait gazed back at him unseeingly. In his greatest hour of need, his father’s spirit remained mute, unreachable.

Lonely to the core of his soul, Sano wept.