The 47th Samurai

8

After a night in a hotel in a part of town called Shinjuku, which he picked at random for economy, after a shower, a western dinner, a walk, a western breakfast, he walked to the train station, through mobs that astonished him.

The city was like being inside a television set. It seemed to be comprised mostly of vertical circuitry, very complex, very miniaturized. He was suddenly transported to somebody else’s future. The reigning design principle seemed to be no wastage. Things were crammed in, built within bigger things, wedged this way and that. Even the alleyways were jammed with restaurants, stalls, and retail shops, each with a worm of neon above it and, of course, a sign. It was a literate society: writing was everywhere, in big signs that counseled certain consumer choices, in the endless series of official designations, of regulations and rulings and serial numbers, or directional indicators.

The Japanese hurtled by him; all were on schedules, no one lagged, all had destinations. The intensity of the crowds was somewhat shocking. At least in this Shinjuku place it was like New Year’s Eve in Times Square 24/7. The crowds seemed organisms of their own. A red light stilled them all, but no other force on earth could, and when the green came on, baby, it was D-day, everybody hitting the beach at once. It was all go, go, go, now, now, now. Most of the men wore suits, most of the women wore suits. He knew they were called salarymen; they worked like slaves, they made the country go, they conformed, they never let loose, they always stayed on track.

You know where that leads you. All that repression, all that discipline, all that pressure to conform, all that rigidity. It builds, it builds, it builds, and so when they blow, they blow. Examples of the blow are rife in history: thus a Nanking, a Pearl Harbor, a kamikaze. No prisoners. Australian pilots beheaded for the cameras. Killing ten enemy soldiers before you go, thus choosing death over life every damn time.

And when the wiring blew sexually, it really blew.

On the JR train to the suburbs, which arrived on the minute, probably the second, he sat next to a fellow who could have been an accountant, a salesman, a teacher, a computer designer-neat suit, horn-rimmed glasses, hair slicked down, unself-conscious, focused, driven. But Bob saw what had the fellow’s interest; it wasn’t the Wall Street Journal but some comic book about bound teen girls being violated by other teen girls with tools that were exactly what they seemed, only bigger, the drawings voluptuous and specific and amplified. It could get you arrested in some places in America; here, a fellow who looked like he understood mortgages read it casually, apparently following the story with some kind of rapture. Bob looked up and down the crowded car and saw at least two other men reading books with brightly colored, almost gaily cartoonized rape scenes on the covers. No one noticed, no one cared.

Last night he’d wandered into a sex zone, a place called Kabukicho, where all this stuff was ramped up ever higher in blue neon, on billboards and videos in store windows, in the dives where the barkers tried to entice visitors into entering. Yet no one talked to him or beckoned him; he got the sense that the Japanese may have a sexual imagination next to no one’s on earth and elaborate means of satisfying it, but it was a Yamato-only thing. No gaijin need apply. The alleyways and unknown byways and unnamed streets of the strange little empire of Kabukicho, lit by an infinite replication of vertically arrayed signs with names like Prin-Prin and Golden Gals and Club Marvel, were coagulated with flesh hunters: they wanted to see it, smell it, stroke it, lick it, suck it, fuck it, or maybe even eat it. It was a carnivore’s glee, a raptor’s urgent need, and its passion amazed him, and maybe frightened him a little.

Now he rode the train with a million or so other souls and got off at a far station, carrying his bag. He checked the instructions written out for him in painful English by the hotel’s concierge, a gentleman of much dignity and precision who had made the necessary phone calls.

He knew: leave the station, find a cab. There wasn’t going to be any driving in Tokyo’s mad traffic, even in the suburbs, made more lethal for Americans by the fact that it required driving on the left, not the right. Why didn’t MacArthur fix that?

The cab was driven by a man in white gloves and was spotless. Even the seats were lined in white doily. Commercial buildings and elaborate buses floated by, and uniformed attendants were everywhere, queuing lines, directing traffic, pointing to parking spaces; again the sense of all the room being neatly organized and partitioned, controlled by some central committee somewhere, so that no odd-shaped parcel went underutilized.

Finally, they found it. It was a big house, set back from other big houses-Yano was clearly well-off-and not nearly so jammed in as were most of the other houses in Tokyo. It was surrounded by an elaborate garden in which someone took a lot of pride.

He checked his watch: 7 p.m. Tokyo time, that seemed about right.

He paid, went to the trunk, took out the canvas travel bag, opened it, and out came the sword wrapped in a red scarf.

He headed up the walk; the big low house with all its wooden crosshatching and the precision of the garden absorbed him. He knocked on the door.

There were sounds from inside, and in a few seconds, the door slid open and there, in a kimono, absolutely astonished, was Philip Yano.

The retired officer looked the same out of a suit as in one: every hair in place, face extremely clean shaven, muscular under the blue-white pattern of his kimono. He wore white ankle socks. His right eye opened in stupefaction while the damaged one stayed flat.

“Mr. Yano, sir, remember me? Bob Lee Swagger. Sorry for barging in like this.”

“Oh, Mr. Swagger!” Yano’s mouth fell open, but he regained control in an instant. “I am honored to have you here. My goodness, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I was expecting some kind of letter. I am astonished.”

“Well, sir, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that the occasion demanded a personal visit. Both our fathers would have preferred that. It’s my pleasure.”

“Please, please, come in.”

Bob stepped into a ground-level vestibule, removed his shoes, then turned as Mr. Yano quickly summoned the family.

The first thing Bob noticed was a pair of eyes peeping out at him mischievously. A girl of about four peered around a corner. His eyes met hers, and her face dissolved into delighted laughter as she ducked back, giggling. Then she peered around again.

“Hi there, sweetie,” Bob said to the child.

Meanwhile, two strapping teenage boys in jeans and sweatshirts came in, barefoot.

“Mr. Swagger, may I present my sons, John and Raymond.”

“Hi guys,” he said, bowing.

A young woman arrived.

“My first daughter, Tomoe.”

“Ma’am.”

“And the little devil down there is named Miko.”

Again Miko giggled, then buried her face in her mother’s dress.

Bob had an immediate response to her. She was one of those dynamos. She hadn’t mastered her culture’s reticence yet and might never do so. She was, he could tell, a bold, brave child, full of beans, as the old saying went.

“Howdy, little girl,” he called, and she found that very amusing.

“And my wife, Suzanne.”

“Mr. Swagger, sir, we are so honored and pleased-”

“As I was telling your husband, the honor and the pleasure are mine. I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time.”

“No, no, no, please, do come in, it’s so nice to see you.”

There was a lot of bowing and smiling, a lot of awkward but well-meant politeness, but he felt overwhelming warmth.

Yano spoke quickly to his wife in Japanese, then turned to Bob.

“I remind her what an extraordinary man you are, how honored we are to have a marine of such accomplishments visit our humble house.”

“You’re so kind, but all that’s way past. Anyhow, I found this. I wanted it returned to your family.”

With that, he turned the bundle over to Mr. Yano.

“I think that has to be your father’s. It was in the possession of the son of the commanding officer of the unit my father was with that day. I have a later letter from him stating that my father gave him the sword on Iwo Jima, probably February twenty-seventh, nineteen forty-five, in an aid station where he was awaiting evacuation. I found that letter in some effects of an aunt and from that I traced it back to the commander’s family and located his son and heir; I traveled out there and found the sword.”

“I don’t know what to say. It was such a generous thing to do.”

“Well, as I told you, I don’t think I could ever be the man my father was, but I wanted to do something that would honor his memory and your father’s memory. Both were brave men. I hope I have.”

Yano held the thing, feeling its weight, its balance, but still hadn’t unwrapped it. It was as if he was forestalling the moment.

“I do want to warn you,” Bob said, “there’s not much to see. As you said, it’s a military relic, much abused, pretty grimy. The scabbard needs paint, the grip is all loose, the hilt rattles a little bit, the wrapping around the grip is pretty shabby, and it’s missing that little metal loop through the end of the handle where I believe a tassel or something went. The blade has seen hard usage too; it’s all scratched, nicked up, has a few bits missing at the edge. It’s a sword that’s been to war, not one for a parade or a court ceremony.”

“I will put it aside for now. Please, come in and rest, tell us of your journey. Sit, relax, have tea or some kind of juice. I remember that you do not drink, or I would offer you sake. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”

He gave his guest a pair of slippers. Bob put them on and followed his host up a set of stairs, down a hall, and into the living room, which was full of western furniture though on a smaller scale.

Yano spoke quickly to his wife, who answered, bowed slightly before Bob-Bob bowed back awkwardly-and asked him if he preferred bottled water, tea, coffee, or juice.

“Ma’am, the bottled water would be fine.”

She spoke quickly to the daughter Tomoe, who hustled out and returned in what seemed like seconds with a tray and various beverages.

Yano maneuvered Bob into what had to be a preferred seat and Bob knew enough to refuse twice-“No, no, really”-before acceding to the request. He was immediately to the left of an alcove in which family mementos were displayed: certificates of accomplishment, photographs of Yano in uniform at various military installations, pictures of the boys in baseball uniforms, and of the older girl at graduation-as one would find in any American officer’s home. Down in the corner, Bob saw a sepia photo of a man in a tight tunic with a military cap rigidly in place over a clean-shaven head; that had to be Mr. Yano’s father.

Bob was asked about his trip and he had one story to tell, only one, but it got a laugh.

“The worst part of the flight was getting through security.”

“Yes, it’s very bad now.”

“Well, for me it’s always an adventure. I light up a metal detector like you wouldn’t believe. Sirens go off, bells ring, guys drop down on ropes. No, I’m exaggerating, but I have a metal hip and so I always make the detectors crazy. So I’m always hauled aside and gone up one side, down the other. It makes everybody nervous. I’m sure if he knew how much trouble it was going to cause, the guy who shot me would have picked another target.”

Yano laughed, spoke quickly in Japanese to his obedient sons. Bob thought he picked out a word that had to be “Vietnam” in a Japanese accent.

Then each of the boys identified himself: Raymond, seventeen, played baseball, was going off to Chuo University next year to study electrical engineering. John, fourteen, also played baseball, was in his second year of junior high school, wasn’t sure what he’d study in college.

Tomoe, nineteen, was at Keio University, in premed. She was a grave, beautiful girl who didn’t talk at all and seemed to have been unofficially designated the hostess. It was as if the family was well drilled on jobs and responsibilities: the two boys were audience; Tomoe was staff and logistics; Suzanne, the wife and mother, was benevolent godmother; and Philip was master of ceremonies, host, and interpreter. He alone spoke English with precision, Suzanne was second, and for the older boys and Tomoe English was largely theoretical. Meanwhile, the adorable little Miko was as unself-conscious as a wood sprite, giggling and mischievous. She seemed to have conceived some unique attraction to Bob, and he noted that she sometimes stared at him. When he winked at her, she dissolved in laughter.

She whispered something to her mother.

“Swagger-san,” said Suzanne, “my daughter thinks you are the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz.”

Everybody laughed.

Swagger remembered the character from the movie he’d watched with his daughter many years ago. He saw the tall, glowing, strange-looking fellow with a gigantic tin chest and a funnel on his head. He must look like that to the child.

“Some mornings I feel like I could use some oil to get my joints working,” Bob said, “so maybe she’s onto something. Sweetie, I ain’t made of metal, just skin, like everyone else.”

But Miko had decided. Swagger was the Tin Man.

The family sat completely intent on Bob. The Japanese were well schooled in hospitality, and as they took the gaijin in, the language barrier quickly seemed to melt away.

Soon enough Miko decided she wasn’t getting enough attention. At a certain moment she assaulted her father like a linebacker seeking a quarterback and scrambled up to his lap.

Everybody laughed.

“She is a little cannonball,” said Philip Yano. “A late arrival to our family. Most unexpected. Now much loved.”

She looked over at Swagger and stuck out her tongue, then, laughing merrily, buried her face in her father’s chest, squirming mightily to find comfort until she grew bored, at which time she’d assault another family member.

Through all this, the red bundle sat on the sofa, next to Mr. Yano. Never once did he address it, glance at it, seem to relate to it at all. For all intents and purposes, it did not exist.

But at last it was time.

“Mr. Swagger, may I take you to my shop and we will examine the sword there?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Mr. Yano spoke quickly to his daughter in Japanese.

“I ask Tomoe to accompany us and take notes,” he said. “That way I have a record of my first impressions that I may later consult.”

“Of course.”

Bob followed Mr. Yano downstairs. The tiny room they entered was scrupulously neat and on one side were seven Japanese swords of various lengths and curvatures, in brightly lacquered scabbards, or saya, as the Japanese called them. On another wall were shelves with a variety of texts on swords. On the bench were stones, a small hammer, a few bottles of oil, what looked to be some sort of powder puff, various tools, and rags, all neatly folded.

“I see you’re serious about the swords.”

“I’m trying to learn the art of polishing. It’s very difficult, and I haven’t really the patience for it. But I labor on, thinking, If I know this, then I really know something.”

“I get you. Sometimes it’s best to lose yourself in the tiny. It keeps the world out; at the same time, it is the world.”

The father translated for the daughter, who replied swiftly enough.

“She says you must have been Japanese in an earlier life. It would explain much.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And so you should, and now to the sword.” He confronted the red bundle before him on the desk.

“These things have been an obsession in our country for more than a thousand years, literally,” said Philip Yano. “A westerner might say it’s just a piece of steel. But you see in it all our pathologies: our love of courage but also our love of violence. Our sense of justice but also our willingness to kill. The rigor of our society, the corruption of that rigor. Discipline, skill, but also tyranny, even dictatorship. I have been studying them hard for a year now, ever since-well, ever since retirement. Yet still I know almost nothing. There are men here who have given their lives over to the study of such things.

“Now you have given me the ultimate moment in my life. The studying I’ve done the past year now has formal application not merely to the nation and the culture but to the family. Really, my friend, I can’t thank you enough or honor your generosity more highly. I am eternally obligated.”

“It’s one soldier reaching out to another soldier to honor two other soldiers, who happen to be their fathers. We put in enough time in shit-holes to have earned this little moment. Let’s enjoy it.”

“And we shall.”

He opened the bundle and the object lay before him, battered, worn thin in places, drawn through history.

He spoke to his daughter, who recorded assiduously; then Yano translated for Bob.

“I see shin-gunto furniture of the ’thirty-four issue, absent tassel, but the scabbard is metal, meaning the ’thirty-nine variant, and so not original to the furnishings. Hmmm, wear on the wrappings, some grime, possibly my father’s sweat and a bit of his blood. Or someone else’s blood. Looking carefully at the peg, I see traces of some black, gummy substance, tar perhaps, perhaps ink. I see marks of recent pressure, and the seal of the gummy material has been broken. The gum or ink just under the rupture of the broken seal is of a darker texture, suggesting that it was shielded from the light until quite recently.”

“What’s that mean?” Bob asked.

“I don’t know. I have no idea. I suppose someone tried to hammer out the pin.”

“Tommy Culpepper told me that when he was a kid, he and his buddies did try to get that out; they wanted to take it apart. But they didn’t have any luck.”

Mr. Yano said nothing.

Finally, he said, “All right. The blade.”

Almost gingerly, he reached down and removed the sword from its scabbard and laid the weapon on the bench.

“Koto?” his daughter said.

“Possibly a shinto imitation of koto,” he said.

“It looks koto to me,” she said in English.

“Yes. Yes, it does. Maybe-” and he paused.

In the little room the silence grew as the man studied the sword, clearly perplexed, perhaps even disturbed. His face became mute to expression, his eyelids seemed suddenly to acquire weight and density, and his breathing became almost imperceptible.

Finally, he said, “Most provocative. Unlikely, but most provocative.”

Then he turned to Bob.

“What is it you say: the plot thickens?”

“Yes, sir. Meaning things just got more complicated.”

“Indeed. In the war, Japan needed blades. Two companies were set up to manufacture blades, in the hundreds of thousands. Those would be the blades called shin-gunto, judged today to be of no consequence except as souvenirs. I had always assumed that my father would have had such a weapon. Most did, or at least many did. He probably himself believed that.

“But at the same time, other likelihoods existed. Many older blades were turned into the military out of patriotic commitment by enthusiastic families, and they were rather cavalierly desecrated by the sword manufacturers, who after all were not artists but humble factory workers. Their exquisite koshirae-that is, their fittings, the handle, the hilt, the tsuba, and on and on-were simply dumped. It would make certain men weep to think of all that artwork, that craft and skill consigned to the dump pile. The swords were shortened from the rear to bring them to the prescribed length-that is, the tang was cut off and with it was lost much of the inscribed information from the original smith, information as to the date of smelting, the lord for whom the work was done, how the blade cut, perhaps even giving the sword a name or offering a prayer to a god of war. Part of the original lower blade was ground off to lengthen the tang, a new hole was drilled in the grip, and the military mounts were put on. The whole thing was shoved into a metal scabbard and sent to-well, wherever the Sphere was operating, be it China or Burma or the Philippines. And thus a masterpiece was effectively hidden in a wartime disguise.”

“Is that what happened here?”

“I don’t know. It’s not impossible. Clearly this is an ancestral blade, shortened for wartime use. By shape and grace, as my daughter has noted, it appears to be koto-old. Koto blades were generally thinner and more graceful and sharper, meaning livelier in the hand than shinto blades. Koto means ‘old’ as in-well, it differs, but roughly ‘old’ as in before sixteen hundred. Of course there are complexities. Possibly a shinto smith-that is, someone after sixteen hundred-merely duplicated the shape of the koto blade. It happened frequently; the swordsmiths, after all, were merchants, they did custom orders, they responded to market forces, they tried different things.”

“So you’re telling me this sword might be some kind of antique, a historical artifact. Would it be valuable?”

“Very possibly, not that we could ever sell such a piece. It is ours, it is of our blood. It is my father’s. What I’m telling you is that it might be, ah, interesting. Meaning of interest to more than just our humble Yano clan. Interesting to scholars, interesting to historians, interesting to the nation and the culture. What is far more provocative is the sword’s heritage, what we can learn of it from what’s left of its tang. If that looks promising, we might have the sword polished. I’m not good enough to attempt it. It’s a time-consuming discipline only practiced by a few at the highest level, but if the sword has secrets, a polishing will liberate them. We’ll see its soul if we polish it.”