Shōgun полностью

Then there was the horror that began three days ago. It had been a very long humid day. At sunset he had wearily ridden home and had instantly felt trouble permeating his house. Fujiko had greeted him nervously.

“Nan desu ka?”

She had replied quietly, at length, eyes lowered.

“Wakarimasen.” I don’t understand. “Nan desu ka?” he asked again, impatiently, his fatigue making him irritable.

Then she had beckoned him into the garden. She pointed at the eaves but the roof seemed sound enough to him. More words and signs and it finally dawned on him that she was pointing to where he had hung the pheasant.

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that! Watashi . . .” But he couldn’t remember how to say it so he just shrugged wearily. “Wakarimasu. Nan desu kiji ka?” I understand. What about the pheasant?

Servants were peering at him from doors and windows, clearly petrified. She spoke again. He concentrated but her words did not make sense.

“Wakarimasen, Fujiko-san.” I don’t understand, Fujiko-san.

She took a deep breath, then shakily imitated someone removing the pheasant, carrying it away, and burying it.

“Ahhhh! Wakarimasu, Fujiko-san. Wakarimasu! Was it getting high?” he asked. As he did not know the Japanese word he held his nose and pantomimed stench.

“Hai, hai, Anjin-san. Dozo gomen nasai, gomen nasai.” She made the sound of flies and, with her hands, painted a picture of a buzzing cloud.

“Ah so desu! Wakarimasu.” Once upon a time he would have apologized and, if he had known the words, he would have said, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Instead he just shrugged, eased the ache in his back, and mumbled, “Shigata ga nai,” wanting only to slide into the ecstasy of the bath and massage, the only joy that made life possible. “The hell with it,” he said in English, turning away. “If I’d been here during the day I’d’ve noticed it. The hell with it!”

“Dozo, Anjin-san?”

“Shigata ga nai,” he repeated louder.

“Ah so desu, arigato gozaimashita.”

“Dare toru desu ka?” Who took it?

“Ueki-ya.”

“Oh, that old bugger!” Ueki-ya, the gardener, the kind, toothless old man who tended the plants with loving hands and made his garden beautiful. “Yoi. Motte kuru Ueki-ya.” Good, fetch him.

Fujiko shook her head. Her face had become chalky white.

“Ueki-ya shinda desu, shinda desu!” she whispered.

“Ueki-ya ga shindato? Donoyoni? Doshité? Doshité shindanoda?” How? Why? How did he die?

Her hand pointed at the place where the pheasant had been and she spoke many gentle incomprehensible words. Then she mimed the single cut of a sword.

“Jesus Christ God! You put that old man to death over a stinking, God-cursed pheasant?”

At once all the servants rushed to the garden and fell on their knees. They put their heads into the dirt and froze, even the children of the cook.

“What the piss-hell’s going on?” Blackthorne was almost berserk.

Fujiko waited stoically until they were all there, then she too went down on her knees and bowed, as a samurai and not as a peasant. “Gomen nasai, dozo gomen na—”

“The pox on your gomen nasai! What right’ve you to do that? Ehhhhh?” and he began to swear at her foully. “Why in the name of Christ didn’t you ask me first? Eh?”

He fought for control, aware that all of his servants knew he legally could hack Fujiko and all of them to pieces here in the garden for causing him so much displeasure, or for no reason at all, and that not even Toranaga himself could interfere with his handling of his own household.

He saw one of the children was trembling with terror and panic. “Jesus Christ in heaven, give me strength. . . .” He held on to one of the posts to steady himself. “It’s not your fault,” he choked out, not realizing he wasn’t speaking Japanese. “It’s hers! It’s you! You murdering bitch!”

Fujiko looked up slowly. She saw the accusing finger and the hatred on his face. She whispered a command to her maid, Nigatsu.

Nigatsu shook her head and began to beg.

“Ima!”

The maid fled. She returned with the killing sword, tears streaming her face. Fujiko took the sword and offered it to Blackthorne with both hands. She spoke and though he did not know all the words he knew that she was saying, “I’m responsible, please take my life because I’ve displeasured you.”

“IYÉ!” He grabbed the sword and threw it away. “You think that’ll bring Ueki-ya back to life?”

Then, suddenly, he realized what he had done, and what he was doing now. “Oh, Jesus God . . .”

He left them. In despair he went to the outcrop above the village near the shrine that was beside the ancient gnarled cypress tree and he wept.