Stephen Hunter - The 47th samurai

“I don’t know what to say. It was such a generous thing to do.”

“Well, as I told you, I don’t think I could ever be the man my father was, but I wanted to do something that would honor his memory and your father’s memory. Both were brave men. I hope I have.”

Yano held the thing, feeling its weight, its balance, but still hadn’t unwrapped it. It was as if he was forestalling the moment.

“I do want to warn you,” Bob said, “there’s not much to see. As you said, it’s a military relic, much abused, pretty grimy. The scabbard needs paint, the grip is all loose, the hilt rattles a little bit, the wrapping around the grip is pretty shabby, and it’s missing that little metal loop through the end of the handle where I believe a tassel or something went. The blade has seen hard usage too; it’s all scratched, nicked up, has a few bits missing at the edge. It’s a sword that’s been to war, not one for a parade or a court ceremony.”

“I will put it aside for now. Please, come in and rest, tell us of your journey. Sit, relax, have tea or some kind of juice. I remember that you do not drink, or I would offer you sake. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”

He gave his guest a pair of slippers. Bob put them on and followed his host up a set of stairs, down a hall, and into the living room, which was full of western furniture though on a smaller scale.

Yano spoke quickly to his wife, who answered, bowed slightly before Bob-Bob bowed back awkwardly-and asked him if he preferred bottled water, tea, coffee, or juice.

“Ma’am, the bottled water would be fine.”

She spoke quickly to the daughter Tomoe, who hustled out and returned in what seemed like seconds with a tray and various beverages.

Yano maneuvered Bob into what had to be a preferred seat and Bob knew enough to refuse twice-“No, no, really”-before acceding to the request. He was immediately to the left of an alcove in which family mementos were displayed: certificates of accomplishment, photographs of Yano in uniform at various military installations, pictures of the boys in baseball uniforms, and of the older girl at graduation-as one would find in any American officer’s home. Down in the corner, Bob saw a sepia photo of a man in a tight tunic with a military cap rigidly in place over a clean-shaven head; that had to be Mr. Yano’s father.

Bob was asked about his trip and he had one story to tell, only one, but it got a laugh.

“The worst part of the flight was getting through security.”

“Yes, it’s very bad now.”

“Well, for me it’s always an adventure. I light up a metal detector like you wouldn’t believe. Sirens go off, bells ring, guys drop down on ropes. No, I’m exaggerating, but I have a metal hip and so I always make the detectors crazy. So I’m always hauled aside and gone up one side, down the other. It makes everybody nervous. I’m sure if he knew how much trouble it was going to cause, the guy who shot me would have picked another target.”

Yano laughed, spoke quickly in Japanese to his obedient sons. Bob thought he picked out a word that had to be “Vietnam” in a Japanese accent.

Then each of the boys identified himself: Raymond, seventeen, played baseball, was going off to Chuo University next year to study electrical engineering. John, fourteen, also played baseball, was in his second year of junior high school, wasn’t sure what he’d study in college.

Tomoe, nineteen, was at Keio University, in premed. She was a grave, beautiful girl who didn’t talk at all and seemed to have been unofficially designated the hostess. It was as if the family was well drilled on jobs and responsibilities: the two boys were audience; Tomoe was staff and logistics; Suzanne, the wife and mother, was benevolent godmother; and Philip was master of ceremonies, host, and interpreter. He alone spoke English with precision, Suzanne was second, and for the older boys and Tomoe English was largely theoretical. Meanwhile, the adorable little Miko was as unself-conscious as a wood sprite, giggling and mischievous. She seemed to have conceived some unique attraction to Bob, and he noted that she sometimes stared at him. When he winked at her, she dissolved in laughter.

She whispered something to her mother.

“Swagger-san,” said Suzanne, “my daughter thinks you are the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz.”

Everybody laughed.

Swagger remembered the character from the movie he’d watched with his daughter many years ago. He saw the tall, glowing, strange-looking fellow with a gigantic tin chest and a funnel on his head. He must look like that to the child.

“Some mornings I feel like I could use some oil to get my joints working,” Bob said, “so maybe she’s onto something. Sweetie, I ain’t made of metal, just skin, like everyone else.”

But Miko had decided. Swagger was the Tin Man.

The family sat completely intent on Bob. The Japanese were well schooled in hospitality, and as they took the gaijin in, the language barrier quickly seemed to melt away.

Soon enough Miko decided she wasn’t getting enough attention. At a certain moment she assaulted her father like a linebacker seeking a quarterback and scrambled up to his lap.

Everybody laughed.

“She is a little cannonball,” said Philip Yano. “A late arrival to our family. Most unexpected. Now much loved.”

She looked over at Swagger and stuck out her tongue, then, laughing merrily, buried her face in her father’s chest, squirming mightily to find comfort until she grew bored, at which time she’d assault another family member.

Through all this, the red bundle sat on the sofa, next to Mr. Yano. Never once did he address it, glance at it, seem to relate to it at all. For all intents and purposes, it did not exist.

But at last it was time.

“Mr. Swagger, may I take you to my shop and we will examine the sword there?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Mr. Yano spoke quickly to his daughter in Japanese.

“I ask Tomoe to accompany us and take notes,” he said. “That way I have a record of my first impressions that I may later consult.”

“Of course.”

Bob followed Mr. Yano downstairs. The tiny room they entered was scrupulously neat and on one side were seven Japanese swords of various lengths and curvatures, in brightly lacquered scabbards, or saya, as the Japanese called them. On another wall were shelves with a variety of texts on swords. On the bench were stones, a small hammer, a few bottles of oil, what looked to be some sort of powder puff, various tools, and rags, all neatly folded.

“I see you’re serious about the swords.”

“I’m trying to learn the art of polishing. It’s very difficult, and I haven’t really the patience for it. But I labor on, thinking, If I know this, then I really know something.”

“I get you. Sometimes it’s best to lose yourself in the tiny. It keeps the world out; at the same time, it is the world.”

The father translated for the daughter, who replied swiftly enough.

“She says you must have been Japanese in an earlier life. It would explain much.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And so you should, and now to the sword.” He confronted the red bundle before him on the desk.

“These things have been an obsession in our country for more than a thousand years, literally,” said Philip Yano. “A westerner might say it’s just a piece of steel. But you see in it all our pathologies: our love of courage but also our love of violence. Our sense of justice but also our willingness to kill. The rigor of our society, the corruption of that rigor. Discipline, skill, but also tyranny, even dictatorship. I have been studying them hard for a year now, ever since-well, ever since retirement. Yet still I know almost nothing. There are men here who have given their lives over to the study of such things.