Samurai and the Long-nosed Devils. Lensey Namioka
least. I think this is an excellent opportunity to learn more about the foreigners. I might even get some expert instruction on how to use a gun.”
“Please forget what I said,” muttered Matsuzo. “Of course I shall join you as bodyguard to the Portuguese.”
There was no time to say more, for they heard Hambei’s step on the stairs. “If you’ve finished stuffing yourselves, let’s go and find the Portuguese,” he said to the two ronin.
When they emerged from the restaurant, however, the foreigners were out of sight. “We can go directly to their residence,” suggested Hambei. “It’s slightly south of here, and I know the way. I’ve gone there on business several times.”
Now that the sun was setting, the air was cooler and Matsuzo found the walk very pleasant after the heavy meal. His interest was soon caught by some of the famous Miyako landmarks that they were passing. His family was from a remote northern province, and he had visited only castle towns with their narrow, crooked streets. The broad, straight avenues of the capital were unlike anything he had seen before.
As they walked Matsuzo tried hard to prevent himself from staring openmouthed like a country boy on his first visit to the city. But Hambei, whatever his manner towards Zenta, showed not a hint of condescension towards the younger man. Matsuzo soon lost his shyness and eagerly poured out his questions about the capital city. He learned that the major avenues of Miyako were laid out in a rectangular pattern, and that the big east-to-west avenues were numbered, from First Avenue to Ninth Avenue. They were now walking along Gojo, Fifth Avenue.
Eventually they left the broad avenue and turned into a narrow street. Ahead of them they saw two Portuguese. “There they are,” said Hambei. “That’s their residence down the street.”
At that moment, the front gate of a nearby house opened and a file of samurai emerged, escorting a sedan chair enclosed by bamboo blinds.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” said Hambei. “Those are Lord Fujikawa’s men, and there may be trouble.”
His prediction was fulfilled immediately. The Portuguese who was in half armor swung aside to make way for the sedan chair, but he had little room in the narrow street and his sword struck against the bamboo blind.
The leader of the samurai turned his head and glared. “Clumsy foreign devil!” he snarled. “You have just insulted our lady!”
His men added their voices to his. One of them made remarks about the foreigner’s blue legs, while another said something obscene about the puffed pants and what they concealed.
The priest in the long gown walked serenely on, probably unable to understand the remarks, but the armed Portuguese evidently understood Japanese well, for his face turned dusky red and his hands clenched around his gun.
“Come on,” said Zenta and began to run forward.
Matsuzo looked around, surprised to find Hambei walking rapidly away in the opposite direction.
“Hambei can’t afford to get involved in this,” explained Zenta quickly. “He is known to be Nobunaga’s henchman. He is confident that he can leave the matter to us.”
Things were reaching a critical stage. One of the samurai drew a sword, and immediately the Portuguese raised his gun into firing position. The samurai shrank back. He had obviously heard about the gun’s terrifying power.
“I will fire upon the first man who tries to attack me,” declared the Portuguese. His Japanese was perfectly understandable, for the consonants and vowels were very accurately produced. The intonation was somewhat strange, however, and to Matsuzo’s ear the speech sounded like a familiar song sung to the wrong tune. What ruined the foreigner’s speech most disastrously was that he used verb forms that were spoken only by women.
As soon as he spoke, the awe produced by his weapon vanished, and the leader of the samurai laughed with contempt. “Let’s get rid of this foreigner once and for all. He won’t have time to kill us if we all rush him at once.”
“Wait!” called Zenta as the men drew their swords. He came up to the leader of the samurai and said, “I saw the whole incident. The Portuguese meant no insult. He was trying to move aside and make room, and his sword struck the sedan chair entirely by accident. I’m sure that he will be glad to apologize.”
The leader of the samurai stared at the dusty and unshaven ronin. “How dare you meddle here? Who are you, anyway?”
Zenta placed himself in front of the foreigner who held the gun. “We are the new bodyguards for the Portuguese,” he replied.
The leader laughed. “Then you are exactly what they deserve!” Turning to his men he said, “Come on. We’ll get rid of these vagabonds first and then finish off the Portuguese.” Zenta beckoned to Matsuzo. “It seems that we shall have to teach these men a lesson,” he said. “Now remember, don’t kill anyone. Use the back of your sword whenever possible.”
Zenta had once worked as an instructor in a fencing academy, and he liked to adopt his classroom manner during actual combat. It never failed to intimidate his opponents by reducing them to the status of students. On Lord Fujikawa’s men it had the desired effect. Involuntarily they retreated a step.
The leader was bolder, however. Sensing his control of the situation slipping, he glared at his men and shouted, “What are we waiting for? Let’s sweep the streets clean of these beggars!”
“I think that the heat must have affected your brain,” Zenta said to the leader. “Let me cool your head by cutting off your topknot.”
In spite of himself the leader began to share the uneasiness of his men. But out of the corner of his eye he saw the bamboo blinds of the sedan chair twitch, and he knew that he could not retreat with the eyes of his mistress on him. “You can’t frighten me!” he cried and lunged forward, swinging his sword at the ronin’s smiling face.
Zenta easily dodged the blow. He still had not raised his sword, and his eyes were narrowed in calculation.
The leader made another slashing attack, putting all his strength behind the swing. When the ronin again evaded the blow, the leader felt a cold lump growing in his stomach. Resolved to lose his life rather than his topknot, he made a third desperate attack. His mistake was to focus his attention on the ronin’s long sword, and he didn’t see his opponent’s left hand whip out his short sword from his sash.
The leader felt only a gentle tug at the top of his head. A moment later there was a tickling sensation around his neck. In stunned silence, he looked down and stared at the small knot of hair now lying between his feet. The rest of his hair, released when the topknot was cut off, hung loose down to his shoulders.
With a loud wail of shame and anger, the leader threw himself on the ground. He tore open the front of his kimono, drew his short sword and prepared to plunge it into his abdomen. The rest of the men stood motionless, for no samurai would dare to interfere in the solemn rite of hara-kiri.
But one person did. “Kotaro!” said a voice from the sedan chair, and a delicate white hand raised the bamboo blind. “What do you think you are doing? Stop this foolishness at once and get on with our visit to the shrine!”
Kotaro, about to embark on a dramatic death to wipe out his shame, dropped his sword hastily and scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Lady Yuki, at once!” he stammered.
As Kotaro straightened his clothes and gave orders to his men, Lady Yuki leaned out to study the two ronin. Matsuzo found her pale, narrow face rather overrefined. Her expression was one of complete boredom, but when her glance rested on Zenta, it showed a glimmer of interest.
Matsuzo saw this interest and was troubled by it. They had enough complications without getting involved with a girl who looked as spoiled as Lady Yuki did.
The sedan chair was finally lifted and the bamboo blind dropped back into place. Staring after the procession, Matsuzo gave a start when he heard a voice behind him say, “Are you really our new bodyguards?”