The Blonde Samurai (11 page)

My husband took my hand and brushed it with his lips. A sign of possession. “It seems you have a protector, my dear wife. I never would have expected it of you.” James stood up straighter, his handsome face twisted into a snarl. He didn’t wear his jealousy well. “You surprise me.”

“Appearances are often deceiving, my dear husband, as we have both discovered.” My emotions still hurt from his treatment of me in London. “I assure you, Mr. Mallory and I are merely old friends, nothing more. When you so rudely interrupted our conversation, I was trying to convince him to take
up employment with you.” I smiled at the American, who understood my ploy and nodded. “He’s looking for a position.”

Mr. Mallory continued, “Her ladyship said you’re involved in the building of the railway.”

James laughed. “What are your qualifications, Mr. Mallory, besides your
friendship
with my wife?”

Mr. Mallory explained how he was a telegraph clerk and also had accounting experience.

“He has other talents, as well—” I began.

“I don’t doubt it,” James said, sizing up his competition.

“Yes,” I said with an innocence I enjoyed flaunting in front of him. “He speaks the native language fluently.”

“You expect me to believe that?” My husband grabbed my arm and held it tight. “I’m not a fool.”

Mr. Mallory pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. I could see his mouth tightening, his senses sharpening, as if he was biding his time before going into action. I warned him with my eyes not to come to my aid. I knew that was exactly what James wanted, any excuse to tear him down and show him that
he
was in control.

I pulled away from my husband when the shop owner handed me my silk embroideries wrapped up in yellow cloth, giving Mr. Mallory the opportunity to complete the transaction with the shop owner in Japanese. James listened, clearly impressed. I have no idea how proficient the American’s language skills were, but I imagine that wasn’t as important to his lordship as keeping Mr. Mallory out of my bed.

“Come around to my club at three tomorrow afternoon,” James said, writing down the information on his visiting card and handing it to Mr. Mallory. “I’ll speak to the head manager about putting you on.”

“Thank you, James,” I said, meaning it. A tenseness in my belly subsided, but I had no idea then how my husband’s obsessive jealousy would force my hand in the months to come.

“My man will find a place for him in Ōzaka,” my husband continued after Mr. Mallory had left, getting in one final barb toward me. “Where he’ll be far away from you.”

“You don’t relent, do you, James?” I said. I began to see then my husband had no redeeming qualities, a hurt inside him so deep I didn’t believe I could ever plumb it.

“I told you once, my dear wife, you belong to me. You’ll never escape me.
Never.
”

The Irish have a saying that when the air is sweet with the smell of lacy apple blossoms and the green grass dotted with shiny buttercups, somewhere a storm is brewing, ready to darken the greens and golds with clouds and rain.

I was in for a drenching downpour, but I didn’t see it coming. I was living in my own enchanted emerald land, shedding the cloak of a mere mortal and allowing my soul to become part of it, its beauty and strangely spiritual hold descending upon me. I went about my business over the next few days, noting the arrival of spring with a lightness to my step I had previously not enjoyed, learning local phrases (with the help of my tourists’ guide), riding down the road into Native Town, though I avoided the bank manager, deeming it wise to wait until Mr. Fawkes returned from Tokio to again take up my request to have full access to my husband’s accounts. I explored the silk and curio shops, amazed at the old swords and daggers and strange-looking spears inlaid with mother-of-pearl sold for a pittance since they were considered no longer useful.

Remembering Mr. Fawkes’s words about the strict code
of the samurai, I picked up a sword and noted its heaviness as well as its sharpness. It lay in my hand, molding to my palm as if it were alive and refused to be tossed away. “The living sword of the samurai whispers many secrets,” I would hear Shintaro say when he placed the sword in my hand, his fingers entwined over mine, “if one has the courage to listen.” I did listen, though I admit, while I was fascinated by its beauty and strength, I was also fearful of its power.

I smile as I write this memoir, remembering how the shop owner went into a tirade, proclaiming in broken English I must not touch the swords, so fearful was he of losing face if I hurt myself.
Whoever heard of a foreign lady with a sword?
(I not only learned how to use the sword, dear lady reader, but wielded it against assassins at the side of my samurai.) He insisted I would be better off purchasing classic scroll pictures or ivory buttons or decorated rice bowls.

I allowed him to select several curios for me, but I wouldn’t relent on buying a dagger. I told the shop owner it was a present for my husband, but the truth was I bought it for protection, hoping I would never need it. I didn’t trust James, but my female logic insisted I had less to fear from him if we remained apart. Something he acquiesced to with little prodding from me. I reminded him I could at any time send word back to my father about his infidelity and he would be cut off from additional funds. I have to admire his brazen attitude toward me. He didn’t believe I had the courage nor the will to disengage my marital status
nor
the funds due him. He insisted he had fulfilled all that was required of him and I had no reason to complain about our arrangement.
I had gotten what I wanted, hadn’t I?
he chided me, sneering. I didn’t try to explain to him my need for love or companionship, something he couldn’t give me. He wouldn’t understand,
though I still didn’t know what had driven him to his madness. Each day I looked upon our relationship as if I were afloat upon a great ocean heading toward the horizon, an ever-changing demarcation line I could never hope to reach.

Content to be on my own, I took long walks in the late afternoon on the Bluff, strolling through dusky gardens with paths and stone lanterns warmed by the deepening sunset, a unique shimmer upon them glowing like tiny sparks among gray ashes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the season for the delicate maple trees with their seven-pointed red leaves, but that didn’t stop me from wishing I’d find an eight-lobed maple leaf, thought to be as lucky to the natives as a four-leaf shamrock is to the Irish.

At night, I set my mind to learn how to sit native style on my calves and heels on a square of green silk round the fire pit built into the floor. Wearing my kimono and drinking tea and eating sweetmeats, I’d imagine what it would be like to share my experiences in Yokohama with a lover. I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Mallory, dear lady reader. A fine gentleman he is with stalwart ideals and I’d not change that about him. I am pleased to say that within a fortnight of our meeting in the silk shop, he sent me a formal thank-you note for helping him secure a position in Ōzaka as a clerk with the railway.

No, my heart reached out to find someone unknown to me. I longed for an overpowering love to parch my thirst, soothe my brow and stroke my ardor with his indescribable strength.

A maudlin homesickness seeped through the layers of my silken kimono and made me yearn for the times when I was a girl back home in our white frame house surrounded by woods, Da and Mother and my little sister, Elva, gathered around the wood fire on cold nights, eating cream cakes and
listening to my father tell tall stories about what it was like back in Ireland when he was a young man during the potato famine some thirty years ago. The small market towns, the bogs, the deep hunger that lived in his bones. How he met my mother after trekking miles and miles through a wide green valley to find food at a landowner’s manor house, only to be turned away—and how he rescued a pretty, young girl from the hands of the laird of the house, the devil himself. He married his Ida and together they came to America to build a new life. Such a grand tale it was, God bless him, told with all the melancholy and angst and picturesque squalor as only an Irishman can tell it. It oft brought tears to my eyes, but more so tonight as I write, an ingrained want for the comfort of those times taking hold of me and in doing so, showing me a truth that lay hidden under the folds of memories covering my soul. Yes, I’m writing my memoir about Japan, but I believe the spirit of these two lands is linked by their similar traditions of family and ghosts, greenery and rain, gods and rebellion. It was the latter I identified with the most, this rising up from oppression and fighting for the very blood of your soul to find the truth, no matter how painful. What truths did I seek, dear lady reader? An answer comes quickly to mind. I yearned to shed that part of me that hovered in the shadows, waiting to experience life, so hungry was I for a physical love, my body and imagination aroused.

I had been sitting so long, my mind infused with thoughts deep and fine, pining for the old times, wishing for the new, my legs cramped. When I got to my feet, I noticed a wetness between my legs staining the kimono. A big spot it was, angular and smelling sweet like the plucked dew from the petals of a pink rose. I scraped the skin on my knuckles raw trying to wash it out, but I could not. I lit another oil lamp
and held the kimono up to the light. By the holy sainted sisters, the sight of it made me gasp. I swear to you the stain was shaped like an eight-lobed maple leaf. Smiling and humming an Irish ditty to myself, I hung the kimono over the standing screen to dry, then went to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep until—

I was awakened around 5:00 a.m. by a loud boom, a terrifying noise like the sound of artillery then a violent shaking as the bungalow lurched from side to side, nearly tossing me onto the floor. Groggy with sleep, I was dreaming I was aboard ship, the timbers creaking, the sea swelling with a great intensity, but I was soon wide-awake with the realization of what was happening.

Earthquake.

I jumped up out of bed and tried to grab onto the bedpost, my senses reeling with the feeling of dizziness akin to seasickness. I heard the oil lamp rattling on the small black lacquer table, and tiny porcelain items on the vanity crashing to the floor. The china clock on my nightstand stopped. Darkness invaded the room with the barest of a murky gray dawn seeping in through a broken wooden slat on the window, making it difficult to get my bearings before another shaking slammed me against the wall and knocked the breath out of me.

Hugging the wall, my fingers traced a long, winding crack that ran from floor to ceiling. Before I could move, another shock hit, then another, the constant shaking making it impossible for me to stand up. I flattened my body onto the floor and crawled in the dark until I found the door. I tried to push down the lever, but it was jammed tight from the shaking and wouldn’t open. Trying to catch my breath, I pounded on the door with my fists, ripping the silk covering with my nails,
wishing it was a sliding oiled-paper door instead of the strong European style, when I heard shuffling feet and excited voices echoing in the hall. The housekeeper and maid were calling my name. I yelled back to them, but a ringing of bells drowned out my voice and crushed any semblance of what to do next out of my head.
Fire bells.
When the ringing stopped, I called out for help in what little of the native language I knew, shaking, trembling, knowing that if another tremor shook, the brick chimney could come crashing down through the roof, crushing me.

I listened, but heard nothing. Where was Fusae, Yuko? Were they hurt? Or…no, I couldn’t think that—wouldn’t. I crawled on my hands and knees, my cotton chemise tearing, until my fingers found the outline of the smooth standing screen, which had collapsed onto the floor. Shivering and half-naked, I felt around until the rush of silk filled my palm.
My kimono.
I grabbed the robe and dared to stand up, hoping the shaking had stopped, then made my way over to the window, tripping on the long kimono under my feet. I was afraid of stepping on broken glass from the shattered window, but I
had
to get out of here. I banged on the wooden slats covering the window frame, managing to smash through a broken one. I gave out a loud moan when I realized I couldn’t open the shutters. Since the bungalow was built European-style, it wasn’t equipped like native wooden houses with small escape doors to slip out through during an earthquake. What was I going to do? I’d never experienced such a feeling of helplessness, knowing that if I did get out of the house and run, I could be hit by falling tiles and killed. Or what if there was a tidal wave sweeping across the port city with an unstoppable force?

The bungalow started shaking again. I crouched on the floor under the folded screen with my arms covering the back of my neck. Long rolling motions followed by short jolts with low rumbling noises seemingly underneath me. The natives believed earthquakes were a fearsome dragon uncoiling his tail in defiance of the gods. But it was no mythical creature that shook the bungalow so hard the wall crumbled, splattering me with debris and making it impossible for me to get out. I lay under the folded screen for what seemed like hours, saying Hail Marys and praying God hadn’t abandoned me, all the while defying the gods and swearing no damn moving and shaking of the earth was going to get the better of Katie O’Roarke.

But it wasn’t the gods I had to fear.

It was my husband.

“You’re alone,” was all James said when he broke down the door and found me covered by debris, hiding under the fallen screen and choking on the air filled with dust. I should have known he would come looking for me. His lordship had wasted no time in making his way up to the Bluff as soon as the road was clear, bringing two coolies with him. It didn’t take the natives long to remove the crumbling plaster and broken glass covering the screen and keeping me prisoner.

Shaken but not hurt, I let James help me to my feet. He would have been here sooner, he said, but a fire had broken out in Native Town, clogging the area with babbling natives trying to save the wooden structures, the walls with rotted timbers split open by the quake. Chaos reigned. Frightened children crying, many separated from their parents. Small animals cowering under rocks and fallen tree branches. Frantic firemen going from house to house, searching for survivors
buried under the timbers. But that didn’t stop James from barging through the pall of billowing black smoke and burning embers to get to me. I had no doubt it was merely to protect his financial interests with little thought to my personal well-being.