David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

‘ “With Beauty shall you Sleep, on Pleasure shall you Dine,

By the Crane and the Turtle and the Goyô Pine…” ’

A log cracks open in the hearth and half the women jump.

‘The three tokens of good fortune,’ says Blind Minori.

‘So thought the pawnbroker,’ continues Hatsune, ‘but to the spruce and bushy stranger he complained that the market was flooded with these Dutch novelties. He asked whether the skull would sing for anyone or just the stranger? In his silky voice, the stranger explained that it would sing for its true owner. “Well,” grunted the pawnbroker, “here’s three koban: ask for one mon more, and the deal’s off.” The stranger said not a word but bowed, placed the skull on its box, took his payment and left. The pawnbroker lost no time in deciding how best to turn his magical acquisition into money. He clicked his fingers for his palanquin, and rode to the den of a certain masterless samurai, a dissolute sort of ronin given to strange wagers. Being a cautious man, the pawnbroker tested his new purchase as he rode and ordered the skull, “Sing!” And sure enough, the skull sang,

‘ “Wood is Life and Fire is Time,

By the Crane and the Turtle and the Goyô Pine!” ’

‘Once in the samurai’s presence, the pawnbroker produced his new acquisition and asked for a thousand koban for a song from his new friend, the skull. Quick as a blade, the samurai told the pawnbroker that he’d lose his head for insulting his credulity if it didn’t sing. The pawnbroker, who had expected this response, agreed to the wager in return for half the samurai’s wealth, if the skull did sing. Well, the crafty samurai assumed that the pawnbroker had lost his wits… and saw an easy fortune to be had. He objected that the pawnbroker’s neck was worth nothing and claimed all his visitor’s wealth as a prize. Delighted that the samurai had taken the bait, the pawnbroker raised the stakes again: if the skull sang, his rival must pay all his wealth… unless, of course, he was losing his nerve? In reply, the samurai bade his scribe draw up the wager as a blood-oath, witnessed by the ward headman, a corrupt fellow well used to such shady goings-on. Then the greedy pawnbroker placed the skull on a box and ordered: “Sing!” ’

The women’s shadows are the uneasy shades of slanted giants.

Hotaru is the first to crack. ‘What happened, Sister Hatsune?’

‘Silence was what happened, Sister. The skull uttered not one squeak. So the pawnbroker raised his voice a second time. “Sing. I command you. Sing!” ’

Housekeeper Satsuki’s busy needle has fallen still.

‘The skull said not a word. The pawnbroker turned pale. “Sing! Sing!” But still the skull was mute. The blood-oath lay there on the table, its red ink not yet dry. The pawnbroker, in despair, shouted at the skull – “Sing!” Nothing, nothing, nothing. The pawnbroker expected no mercy, nor received any. The samurai called for his sharpest sword whilst the pawnbroker knelt there, trying to pray. Off came the pawnbroker’s head.’

Sawarabi drops a thimble: it rolls to Orito, who picks it up and returns it.

‘Now,’ Hatsune nods, ponderously, ‘too late, the skull chose to sing…

‘ “Ribbons for kisses, from all the young misses!

Ribbons for kisses, from all the young misses!” ’

Hotaru and Asagao stare wide-eyed. Umegae’s mocking smile is gone.

‘The samurai,’ Hatsune leans backwards, brushing her knees, ‘knew cursed silver when he saw it. He donated the pawnbroker’s money to Sanjusandengo Temple. The spruce and bushy stranger was never heard of again. Who knows that he wasn’t Inari-sama himself, come to avenge the wickedness committed against his shrine? The skull of the ribbon-seller – if his it was – is still housed in a remote alcove in a rarely visited wing of Sanjusandengo. One of the older monks prays for its repose every year on the Day of the Dead. If any of you passes that way after your Descent, you may go and see it for yourself…’

Rain hisses like swinging snakes and gutters gurgle. Orito watches a vein pulsating in Yayoi’s throat. The belly craves food, she thinks, the tongue craves water, the heart craves love and the mind craves stories. It is stories, she believes, that make life in the House of Sisters tolerable, stories in all their forms: the Gifts’ letters, tittle-tattle, recollections and tall tales like Hatsune’s singing skull. She thinks of myths of gods, of Izanami and Izanagi, of Buddha and Jesus; and perhaps the Goddess of Mount Shiranui, and wonders whether the same principle is not at work. Orito pictures the human mind as a loom that weaves disparate threads of belief, memory and narrative into an entity whose common name is Self, and which sometimes calls itself Perception.

‘I can’t stop thinking,’ Yayoi murmurs, ‘of the girl.’

‘Which girl,’ Orito wraps Yayoi’s hair around her thumb, ‘Sleepyhead?’

‘The ribbon-seller’s sweetheart. The one he planned to marry.’

You must leave the House and leave Yayoi, Orito reminds herself, soon.

‘So sad.’ Yayoi yawns. ‘She’d grow old and die, never knowing the truth.’

The fire glows bright and dim as the draught blows strong and weak.

There is a leak over the iron brazier: drips hiss and crackle.

The wind rattles the Cloisters’ wooden screens like a deranged prisoner.

Yayoi’s question comes from nowhere. ‘Were you touched by a man, Sister?’

Orito is used to her friend’s directness, but not on this subject. ‘No.’

That ‘No’ is my stepbrother’s victory, she thinks. ‘My stepmother in Nagasaki has a son. I’d rather not name him. During Father’s marriage negotiations, it was settled that he’d train to be a doctor and a scholar. It didn’t take long, however, for his lack of aptitude to betray itself. He hated books, loathed Dutch, was disgusted by blood, and was despatched to an uncle in Saga, but he returned to Nagasaki for Father’s funeral. The tongue-tied boy was now a seventeen-year-old man of the world. It was “Oy, bath!”; it was “Hey, tea!” He watched me, as men do, with no encouragement. None.’

Orito pauses as footsteps in the passageway come and go.

‘My stepmother noticed her son’s new attitude but said nothing, not yet. Until Father died, she passed as a dutiful doctor’s wife, but after the funeral she changed… or changed back. She forbade me to leave our residence without her permission, permission that she rarely gave. She told me, “Your days of playing at scholars are over.” Father’s old friends were turned away until they no longer called. She dismissed Ayame, our last servant from Mother’s time. I had to take over her duties. One day my rice was white: from the next, it was brown. What a pampered creature that must make me sound.’

Yayoi gasps slightly at a kick in her uterus. ‘They’re listening, and none of us thinks you were a pampered creature.’

‘Well, then my stepbrother taught me that my troubles had not yet begun. I slept in Ayame’s old room – two mats, so it was more of a cupboard – and one night, a few days after Father’s funeral, when the whole house was asleep, my stepbrother appeared. I asked him what he wanted. He told me that I knew. I told him to get out. He said, “The rules have changed, dear stepsister.” He said that as head of the Aibagawas of Nagasaki’ – Orito tastes metal – ‘the household’s assets were his. “This one, too,” he said, and that was when he touched me.’

Yayoi grimaces. ‘It was wrong of me to ask. You don’t have to tell me.’

It was his crime, Orito thinks, not mine. ‘I tried to… but he hit me as I’d never been hit before. He clamped his hand over my mouth, and told me…’ to imagine, she remembers, he was Ogawa. ‘He swore that if I resisted, he would hold the right side of my face over the fire until it matched the left side, and do what he wanted to do to me anyway.’ Orito stops to steady her voice. ‘Acting frightened was easy. Acting submissive was harder. So I said, “Yes.” He licked my face like a dog and unfastened himself and… then I sank my fingers deep between his legs and squeezed what I found there, like a lemon, with all my strength.’