Free Autumn Bridge by Takashi Matsuoka Page B

broaden his diet to include more Western foods was a complete failure. Admittedly, she had not been any more successful in adapting herself to Japanese cuisine. So much of it involved bizarre sea creatures, many times in uncooked form sliced right from the living animal. The mere thought of it tainted the flavor of the cucumber in her mouth. She had to fight a wave of nausea in order to swallow, and quickly chased it with tea.
    “Is something wrong?” Genji asked.
    “Not at all,” Emily said, putting down her sandwich. “I’m just not very hungry today.”
    “Neither am I,” he said, clearly relieved to follow her lead.
    They were both silent then for some time. She tried to imagine what he might be thinking. Perhaps he was doing the same with her. It was an amusing conceit, and no doubt entirely imaginary. There was no profit in such fantasizing. She turned her attention to another subject, one possibly more amenable to inquiry.
    Emily said, “I have a question about the
Suzume-no-kumo
scrolls. A matter of curiosity rather than an issue relating to translation. Are the supposed visions of the future always conveyed in dreams?”
    “You have read several hundred years’ worth of predictions, many of which have come to pass, and you can still refer to them as ‘supposed’?”
    “As I have said many times, only the prophets of the Old Testament—”
    “—were able to see the future,” Genji said, finishing her statement for her. “Yes, you have indeed said so many times. I can’t understand how you reconcile that belief with what you have read in the scrolls.”
    “If you prefer not to answer my question, just say so,” Emily said, rather more petulantly than she had intended.
    “Why would I have such a preference? The answer is yes. Every glimpse of the future has come in a dream.”
    “Never brought by an unexpected visitor?”
    “A visitor?” This might have been the first time Emily had seen Genji looking baffled.
    “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps a messenger.”
    “What messenger would know anything about the future?”
    “Well, he wouldn’t, of course. But an otherwise mundane report might somehow be interpreted in a special way by the visionary.”
    “I have read the entirety of
Suzume-no-kumo
several times,” Genji said, “and no messenger is ever mentioned.”
    “You’re right, I’m sure,” Emily said. “I’ll double-check with the dictionary again.”
    Rapid footsteps approached their doorway. That was always a sign of trouble.
    Genji’s chief bodyguard, Hidé, appeared and bowed. “Lord, there has been another attack on outsiders. Englishmen.”
    “Fatalities?”
    “Not among the outsiders. They were armed with revolvers. Five Yoshino samurai were killed. Nevertheless, the English ambassador has lodged a formal protest with both the Shogun and the Great Lord of Yoshino.”
    “What a fool. Does the man never learn? I thought Lord Saemon had talked him into exercising restraint until the full council can meet.”
    “Apparently not.”
    “You still have doubts about Lord Saemon’s trustworthiness.”
    “No, my lord, I have no doubts at all,” Hidé said. “I am certain he is
not
trustworthy.”
    “On what basis have you arrived at this conclusion?”
    “He is the son of Kawakami the Sticky Eye.” Hidé mouthed the name as if he would spit it out if he could. “It is not possible for the son of such a father to be a man whose word has weight.”
    “We must learn to transcend that kind of thinking,” Genji said. “If Japan is to be accepted among the Great Powers of the world, it must abandon an overemphasis on bloodlines and concentrate on individual merit. Sons should not automatically be condemned for what their fathers were.”
    “Yes, lord,” Hidé said, utterly without conviction. Six years ago, he had been one of the few survivors of Kawakami’s treacherous ambush at Mushindo Monastery. By training and inclination, Hidé was a samurai of the old school.