Silence (5 page)

‘We go first,’ said Garrpe to console Marta. ‘We’ll prepare the way so that you can come afterwards when you get better.’

But can anyone predict what will happen? Perhaps he will live a safe and happy life, while we like so many other Christians will be captured by the infidel.
 
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Marta remained silent, his cheeks and chin covered with a thick stubble; and he stared at the window. What was in his mind? You who have known him for so long can certainly understand his feelings. The day when we boarded ship, received the blessing of Bishop Dasco and sailed out of the River Tagus was followed by the long terrible journey. Our ship had been visited by thirst and sickness. And why did we endure all this? Why did we make our way to this crumbling town in the Far East?

We priests are in some ways a sad group of men. Born into the world to render service to mankind, there is no one more wretchedly alone than the priest who does not measure up to his task. Marta in particular since our arrival in Goa had a very special devotion to Saint Francis Xavier. Every day, while praying at the shrine of the saint in India, he had prayed that he might go to Japan.

Every day we keep praying that his health may be restored as soon as possible. But he makes no progress. Yet God bestows upon man a better fate than human knowledge could possible think of or devise. Our departure draws near. Only two weeks remain. Perhaps God in his omnipotence will miraculously make all things well.

The repair of the ship is proceeding rapidly. The new boards we put in after the trouble from the white ants make it look completely different. It looks as if the twenty-five sailors that Valignano found for us will bring us to the sea near Japan. These Chinese look thin and wasted like sick men who have not eaten for months; but the power of their wiry hands is incredible. With these thin arms they can lift the heaviest food boxes with ease.

Their arms look like iron pokers. Anyhow, we are only waiting for a suitable wind to set sail.

As for our Japanese, Kichijirō, he mingles with the Chinese sailors, carries baggage and helps with the mending of the sail; but we are missing no chance of watching closely the character of this Japanese upon whom our whole future fate may depend. By now we have come to realize what a cunning fellow he is. And his cunning comes from weakness of character. Listen to what happened the other day. When the eyes of the Chinese overseer were upon him he made a show of working with all his might, but when the overseer went away he immediately began to idle. At first the other sailors said nothing, but at length they were able to put up with it no longer and beat him soundly. That in itself is not too important, but what astonished us was that when he was struck down and severely kicked by three sailors he grew deadly pale and, kneeling on the sand where he had fallen, pleaded for pardon in the most ugly way you could imagine.

Such conduct is pretty far from anything you could call Christian patience, but this weakling’s cowardice is just like that. Raising his face that had been buried in the sand he shouted out something in Japanese. His nose and cheeks were covered with sand and a dirty spittle ran down from his mouth. Now we get some idea of why he suddenly shut up like a clam when we first mentioned the Japanese Christians. Perhaps whenever he speaks he has a dreadful fear of his own words. Be that as it may, this one-sided fight was brought to an end when we finally intervened on his behalf, and so all became quiet. Since that time Kichijirō greets us with a servile grin.

‘Are you really a Japanese? Honestly, are you?’ It was a typical Garrpe question, and not without a touch of bitterness. But Kichijirō, with a look of astonishment, asserted emphatically that he was. Garrpe had too credulously taken at its face value the talk of so many missionaries about ‘this nation whose people don’t even fear death’. It is true, of course, that there are Japanese who have endured torture for five days on end without wavering in their fidelity; but there are also cowardly weaklings like Kichijirō. And it is to such a man that we have to entrust ourselves after reaching Japan. He has promised to put us in touch with Christians who will give us shelter; but now that I see his way of acting I wonder how much he can be trusted. But don’t think that because I write in this way we have lost our energy and enthusiasm. On the contrary, when I reflect that I have entrusted my future to a fellow like Kichijirō I cannot help laughing. When you come to think of it, Our Lord himself entrusted his destiny to untrustworthy people. In any case, in our present circumstances there is no alternative but to trust Kichijirō. So let’s do so.

Only one thing is really disconcerting. He is a terrible drunkard. After his day’s work he uses every penny he has received from the overseer on sake. His way of acting when drunk is unspeakable. I can only conclude that he has some haunting memory, something that he is trying to forget by drinking.

In the night of Macao there echoes out the sad, long-drawn-out sound of the bugle from the lips of the soldier guarding the fortress. Here, as at home, in our monastery after supper there is benediction in the chapel; and then the priests and brothers, candles in hand, retire to their rooms in accordance with the rule.

The servants have just marched through the court-yard. In the rooms of Garrpe and Santa Marta the light is extinguished. Truly this is the end of the earth.

Beneath the light of the candle I am sitting with my hands on my knees, staring in front of me. And I keep turning over in my mind the thought that I am at the end of the earth, in a place which you do not know and which your whole lives through you will never visit. A throbbing sensation fills my being, and behind my eyelids arises the memory of that long and terrible sea journey so that my breast is filled with pain. Certainly my being in this utterly remote and unknown Oriental town is like a dream. Or rather, if I begin to reflect that it is not a dream I feel like shouting out that it is a miracle. Is it true that I am in Macao? Am I not perhaps in a dream? I cannot believe this whole thing.

On the wall is a great big cockroach. Its rasping noise breaks the solemn silence of the night.

‘Go into the whole world and preach the gospel to every creature. He who believes and is baptized will be saved; he that does not believe will be condemned’. Such were the words of the risen Christ to the disciples assembled for supper. And now as I obey this injunction the face of Christ rises up before my eyes. What did the face of Christ look like? This point the Bible passes over in silence. You know well that the early Christians thought of Christ as a shepherd. The short mantle, the small tunic; one hand is holding the foot of the lamb while the other clasps a staff. This figure is familiar in our countries, for we see it reflected in many of the people whom we know. That was how the earliest Christians envisaged the gentle face of Christ. And then in the eastern Church one finds the long nose, the curly hair, the black beard. All this was creating an oriental Christ. As for the medieval artists, many of them painted a face of Christ resplendent with the authority of a king. Yet tonight for me the face is that of the picture preserved in Borgo San Sepulchro. There still remains fresh in my memory the time when I saw this picture as a seminarian for the first time. Christ has one foot on the sepulchre and in his right hand he holds a crucifix. He is facing straight out and his face bears the expression of encouragement it had when he commanded his disciples three times, ‘Feed my lambs, feed my lambs, feed my lambs
 
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’ It is a face filled with vigor and strength. I feel great love for that face. I am always fascinated by the face of Christ just like a man fascinated by the face of his beloved.

At last our departure is only five days away. We have absolutely no luggage to bring to Japan except our own hearts. We are preoccupied with spiritual preparation only. Alas, I feel no inclination to write about Santa Marta. God did not grant to our poor companion the joy of being restored to health. But everything that God does is for the best. No doubt God is secretly preparing the mission that some day will be his.

Chapter 2

(Letter of Sebastian Rodrigues)

The peace of God.

Glory to Christ.

WITHIN the space of one short letter I don’t know how to speak about the innumerable events that have crowded into my life in the past two months. Moreover, in my present state I do not even know if this letter will ever reach you. But my mood is such that I just cannot keep from writing; for I feel the duty of leaving you something written down.

For eight days after leaving Macao our ship was blessed with extraordinarily fine weather. The sky was clear and blue; the sail bellied out in the wind; we could see the shoals of flying fish gleaming like silver as they leapt out of the waves. Every morning Garrpe and I offered Mass on board ship, giving thanks to God for our safe passage, but it was not long until we hit up against our first storm. It was May 6th when a strong wind began to blow from the southeast. The sailors were men of experience. They took down the sail and put up a smaller one in the front of the ship. But now it was dead of night, and the only thing possible was to abandon our ship to the winds and the waves. Meanwhile in the front of the ship a great rift was opened and the water began to pour in. For almost the whole night long we worked at stuffing cloth into the rift and bailing out the water.

Just as dawn was breaking the storm ceased. The sailors, as well as Garrpe and myself, in utter exhaustion could only throw ourselves down between the bales of luggage and stare up at the thick black rainclouds floating off to the east. There arose in my heart the thought of Saint Francis Xavier. He also, in the calm which followed such a storm, must have looked up at the milky sky. And then for the next eighty years how many missionaries and seminarians had sailed around the coast of Africa, passed by India, and had crossed over this very sea to preach the gospel in Japan. There had been Bishop Cerqueira; there had been Organtino, Gomes, Lopez, Gregorio.
 
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If one began to count them there was no limit. And among them there were some, like Gil de Mata, who met their fate in a sinking ship with their eyes fixed on Japan. Now I have some idea of the tremendous emotion that filled their breasts and enabled them to endure this awful suffering. All these great missionaries gazed at both the milky clouds and the thick black rain clouds floating away to the east. What thoughts filled their minds at such times? This also I can well imagine.

Beside the ship’s baggage was Kichijirō. I could hear his voice. During the storm this pitiful coward made almost no attempt to help the sailors and now, wretchedly pale, he lay between the baggage. Splashed all around him was white vomit; and he kept muttering something in Japanese.

With the sailors we looked at the fellow with contempt. We were too exhausted to be interested in his stammering Japanese. But quite by accident jumbled in with his sentences I caught the words ‘gratia’ and ‘Santa Maria’. This fellow who was just like a pig that buried its face in its own vomit had without a doubt uttered twice the words, ‘Santa Maria’.

Garrpe and I exchanged glances. Was it possible that he was of our faith—this wretch who all through the journey not only failed to help but was even a positive nuisance. No. It was impossible. Faith could not turn a man into such a coward.

Raising up his face filthy with his own vomit, Kichijirō turned on us a glance of pain. And then with his usual cunning he made a pretence of not understanding the questioning looks we fixed on him. He smiled his cowardly smile. He has the most fawning, obsequious laugh you could possibly imagine. It always leaves a bad taste in our mouths.

‘I am asking a question,’ said Garrpe raising his voice. ‘Give me a clear answer. Are you, or are you not, a Christian?’

Kichijirō shook his head vigorously. The Chinese sailors from their place between the bales of luggage looked at the whole affair with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. If Kichijirō were a Christian, why did he go so far as to conceal the whole affair even from us priests? My guess was that this cowardly fellow was afraid lest on returning to Japan we might give him over to the officials, revealing the fact that he was a Christian. On the other hand, if he was not really a Christian how explain the terror with which the words ‘gratia’ and ‘Santa Maria’ rose to his lips. Anyhow, the fellow intrigues me. I feel sure that bit by bit I will come to learn his secret.

Until this day there was no sign of land, no trace of an island. The grey sky stretched out endlessly and sometimes the rays of the sun struck the ship so feebly as to be heavy on the eyelids. Overcome with depression we just kept our eyes fixed on the cold sea where the teeth of the waves flashed like white buds. But God did not abandon us.

Quite suddenly a sailor who had been lying like dead in the stern of the ship raised a loud cry. There from the horizon towards which his finger pointed, a bird came flying. And this tiny bird which flew across the ocean came to rest on the sail, rent and torn by the storm of the previous night. Next, countless twigs came floating along the surface of the water. This indeed was proof that the land for which we longed so ardently was not far away. But our joy quickly changed to alarm
 
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If this was really Japan we must make sure not to be seen even by the smallest vessel. The sailors on such a ship would doubtless hasten at once to tell the officials that a junk containing foreigners was drifting on the waves off the coast.

Garrpe and I crouched amidst the luggage like a couple of dogs as we waited for darkness to come. The sailors put up a small sail in front of the ship and they made a brave attempt to keep clear of the pieces of land that looked like mainland.

Midnight came. The ship moved forward noiselessly. Fortunately there was no moon; the sky was jet black; no one found us. The mainland rose up before us. We noticed that we were entering right into a harbor on both sides of which steep mountains arose. And now we could also see clumps of houses huddled together beyond the strand. Kichijirō was the first to wade ashore; next came myself; and last of all Garrpe got into the icy cold water. Was this Japan? or was it an island belonging to some other country? Frankly, none of us had any idea.