Free Commodore Perry's Minstrel Show by Richard Wiley Page A

beyond repair,” said Einosuke, a hopeful note in his voice. “If that is the case we shall simply have to throw it away.”
    Considering that this kimono was her favorite it was odd solace, but Fumiko nodded, also hoping so. And then they wrapped themselves in their messed-up gowns, and sat back up on the porch.
    â€œLook at your poor garden,” said Fumiko, “not only have we ruined my kimono but we’ve pretty severely altered the garden’s flow.”
    â€œWe have improved it,” Einosuke replied, “by taking it out of perfection for a while.”
    That was a very fine thing to say, and after he said it they were both not only content, but proud.
    It took another fifteen minutes for the feeling to pass, and during that time, as they leaned into each other, snug in the tents they had made, the wind rose and maple leaves blew over the neighbor’s fence in bunches, and the moon went to stand behind a cloud. It appeared that the coldness of winter was returning, that the good weather had come only for the treaty signing, and when Einosuke finally said, “Why does he insist on keeping such terrible trees right at the edge of his land?” Fumiko knew his mind was on his raking again, that he’d had enough of imperfection and not only wanted to step out and pick up the leaves, but to fix the damage done by their bodies as well.
    She pushed a hand more deeply into the folds of her kimono and wrapped it around that part of him that she had thought of only moments earlier as a small baby’s arm. Oh, she was herself again, thank God! Had she known a proper poem she would have recited it, to try to keep the blessed mood for a little while longer, but, alas, the mood was at that instant strained, not by the sound of poetry, but by a rattle and a shaking, a shouting coming from the front door. They both leapt up like burglars, bolted down a narrow hallway and tore up the stairs. They were out of breath and panting, dragging their kimono behind them, but Lord Okubo had come in so angrily that, lucky for them, his voice was the only thing anyone with him could hear.
    â€œI don’t care!” he shouted. “As soon as this thing is over you will forget these barbaric languages! I was wrong to have allowed it in the first place. I’ve been soft! I should not have given you such free rein!”
    Lord Okubo was so angry that he might have ordered Manjiro out of the house right then and there, so, ruined or not, Fumiko put her kimono back on and ran down the stairs saying, “What in the world is the trouble? What’s going on?”
    And that, not the old lord’s shouting nor the sounds that had come from the garden before, brought O-bata out of the room across the hall. She was sleepy and disheveled, and didn’t seem to notice Einosuke hiding in the closet.
    She only went downstairs to ask who wanted tea or if anyone required anything from the kitchen, following her mistress’s voice like a dog.

8 .
Don’t Get Up on My Account
    THIS IS WHY Lord Okubo was so angry:
    Earlier that evening, after the last of the minstrel shows, Manjiro went in search of Ace Bledsoe and found him sitting behind that misplaced curtain at the back of the stage, peering into a hand mirror and swabbing the last of the paint from his face. Manjiro was not searching him out on his own, but had been sent to find both minstrels on Lord Abe’s order. Commodore Perry had asked for them, also.
    â€œForgive me,” he said, “but our leaders want you at the treaty house.” He was nervous to be alone with the American again, without the artificial intermediary of makeup and a show. Still, he had practiced the sentence and said it well.
    â€œMe?” asked Ace, watching himself speak the word in the mirror he held. “I’m not one of the powers around here, are you sure they don’t want someone else?”
    He had been looking at his own broad forehead and