Mandarins (15 page)

Yet the worshippers at the Ecclesia resolutely shunned him, and there was no one, not even the priest, who took pity on him. Having expelled him as guilty of the most despicable and shameless behavior, they would not have dreamt that such a youth was possessed of so deep a faith that he would make nightly journeys to the church. Such are the unfathomable ways of Divine Providence, but all this, needless to say, fell so much the harder on Lorenzo

But we must now return to the umbrella-maker's daughter, who gave premature birth to a baby girl not long after Lorenzo's banishment. Even the stubborn old man was unable to look with enmity on the face of his first grandchild and so lavished the same affection as he had on the mother, cradling the infant and giving her dolls and other playthings. Under the circumstances, this might have only been natural, but, strangely enough, Irmão Simeon, that same towering giant who might have felled
o Diabo
himself, began to come calling whenever he found the time, holding the child in his uncouth arms and allowing a flow of tears to cover his embittered face, as he remembered the delicate and graceful figure of the lad he had once regarded as a brother. As for the young mother, however, she appeared to be vexed to the point of despair that Lorenzo had not shown himself once since being expelled from Santa Lucia and at the same time somehow less than pleased at the visits of Simeon.

No border guardsman, as the proverb tells us, can halt the passage of time. One should imagine how within a twinkling of an eye, a year had come and gone. Then there was in Nagasaki a conflagration that in one night destroyed half of the city. So terrifying was the spectacle that the hair of those who witnessed it stood on end, for they might
well have believed that they had heard the trumpet of the Last Judgment thundering across the fiery sky.

To the misfortune of the old umbrella-maker, his house lay down-wind of the blaze and was quickly enveloped. The entire family fled in panic, only to realize that the grandchild was nowhere to be seen. They had clearly left her asleep in one of the rooms. The old man scuffed the ground and cursed, while his daughter attempted to rush into the inferno, only to be restrained. The wind grew all the more intense, the flames licking upward as though to engulf the very stars in the heavens. Even the townspeople who had gathered with the intention of battling the fire could do no more than mill about or attempt to calm the frantic mother. But now pushing his way hurriedly through the crowd came Irmão Simeon. A stout warrior who had survived arrow and bullet on the field of battle, he bravely entered the burning house as soon as he understood what had come to pass. Yet the flames proved too much even for him, and after two or three attempts at plunging through smoke, he turned back and hastily retreated. He came to where the grandfather and mother were lingering and said: “This too is in accordance with all that the Divine Will has ordained. To this you must resign yourselves.”

At that moment, someone to the side of the old man was heard to cry out: “Lord, help me!” Simeon turned, recognizing the voice with both wonder and certainty. One look at those pitiful, fair features was enough for him to know that this was Lorenzo. His pure, gaunt face glowing red with the fire and his dark hair, now grown beyond his shoulders, fluttering in the wind, the beggar stood in front of the crowd and stared straight ahead at the blazing house. Yet only an instant later, it seemed, he had rushed in amidst those burning pillars, walls, and beams, even as a terrible wind arose to fan the already raging flames. Simeon felt his body covered in sweat, as he made the sign
of the cross in the air and cried out, “Lord, save him!” In his mind's eye, he could see once again the beautiful, mournful Lorenzo, standing at the portals of Santa Lucia, bathed in the light of the sun, as it shimmered in the wintry wind.

The Christians gathered there looked on in amazement at Lorenzo's courage, but they seemed unable to forget his past sin. Immediately the sound of wagging tongues was borne by the wind over the din of the crowd: “A fine display of paternal love! His shame was too great for him to show his face until now that he must leap into the fire to save his own child!” There was not one among them who did not exchange such words of scorn.

The old man appeared to agree with them. He stared at Lorenzo, and then, as though to conceal the strange agitation in his heart, twisted and turned where he stood, shrieking absurdities. His daughter, now utterly distraught, knelt motionless; covering her face with both hands, she was earnestly praying. The sky rained sparks, as smoke swept over the ground and into her face. Lost to the world, she continued silently in her entreaties.

Now again there was a stirring in the multitude facing the blaze, as Lorenzo, emerging from the inferno, his hair disheveled, appeared as though descending from heaven, the infant in his arms. But suddenly a beam, apparently having been burned asunder, came crashing down with a terrifying roar, sending smoke and flames high into the night sky. All sight of Lorenzo was lost, with nothing remaining but pillars of fire, rising from the earth like branches of coral.

There was no one in the crowd of the faithful, from Simeon to the old umbrella-maker, who was not stunned and confounded by the terror and horror. The young woman uttered a shriek and jumped up, exposing her bare legs, before collapsing again, as though, they say, struck by lightning. Yet whatever the truth may be, it suddenly
and wondrously appeared to them, though when they did not know, that the infant, for all the tenuousness of earthly life, was now in her mother's firm embrace.

Oh, there are no words that can do homage to the infinite wisdom and power of
Deus
! Lorenzo had, with all his force, thrown the child forward as the burning beam fell, so that she had rolled, quite unharmed, to the very feet of her mother. The girl threw herself prostrate on the ground, her voice choked with tears of joy, while her father, standing erect, raised his arms and in solemn tones spontaneously offered up a hymn of praise to the Lord of Mercy—or rather, I should say, had just begun to do so, when Simeon moved ahead of him and with a single bound threw himself into the surging storm of fire, intent on the rescue of Lorenzo. Now the old man raised his voice again, though now directing an anxious and piteous prayer into the dark firmament. He was not, of course, alone. All of the faithful around them were in unison in their tearful entreaty: “Lord, save them!” And the Son of the
Virgem Maria
, our Savior
Jesu Cristo
, who taketh upon Himself the sufferings and sorrows of us all, at long last heard their prayer. Behold! Lorenzo, horribly burned, now emerged again from the fire and smoke in the protective arms of Simeon.

This was not, however, to be the end of the night's wondrous and terrible events. The faithful hastened to carry Lorenzo, who was struggling for breath, to the doors of the church, which was mercifully upwind of the fire. There they laid him down to rest.

As the padre came out to meet them, the umbrella-maker's daughter, who had been clutching the infant to her breast even as her tears continued to flow, suddenly knelt at his feet and before the entire assembly made a most unexpected
confissão
: “This child is not of Lorenzo's seed. In truth, she was conceived through my sinful liaison with the son of the
gentios
next door.”

The earnestness of her trembling voice and her glistening, tear-filled eyes would alone have dispelled any suspicion as to the veracity of her confession. The crowd around them could only gasp in astonishment, oblivious to the firestorm that filled the sky.

She ceased her weeping and continued:

“I pined and yearned for Lorenzo, but so fervent was he in his faith that he quite rebuffed me. I sought to tell him of the resentment that filled my heart by falsely claiming that the child in my womb was his. Yet such was his nobility of spirit that rather than despising me for my great sin, he has this night put his own life in peril by entering the flames of this veritable
Inferno
to save my daughter. His merciful and benevolent deed would seem to me to be truly like the return of our Lord
Jesu Cristo
. But knowing the grave and terrible wrongs I have committed, I could have no reason for grudge if my body were now instantly torn to pieces by
o Diabo
himself.”

No sooner had she completed her confession than she threw herself again on the ground and sobbed. From the surrounding faithful, now two or three deep, burst a wave of voices: “
M
á
rtir! M
á
rtir!
”

And what else might he have been called? Neither the padre to whom he had looked up to as a father nor the brother who had been Simeon had known what lay in his heart. Yet had he not out of pity for a sinner most admirably followed in the steps of our Lord
Jesu Cristo
, even allowing himself to be degraded to mendicancy?

As he listened to the girl's words, Lorenzo could do no more than nod his head twice or thrice. His hair burned, his skin scorched, he was unable to move his hands and feet and so close to the end of his strength as to be unable to speak. Kneeling at his side, the old umbrella-maker and Simeon, heart-stricken as they heard the daughter's confession, crouched by his side and did what little they could for him. As he drew ever-shorter breaths, it was clear that he was not
far from death. All that remained unchanged was the hue of his starry eyes, gazing into the distant heavens.

With his back to the portals of Santa Lucia and his white beard blowing in the fierce night wind, the padre listened to the confession and then solemnly declared: “Happy are the repentant. What human hand would dare inflict punishment on anyone so blessed? Henceforth be bound to God's commandments and serenely await the Day of Judgment. Ah, Lorenzo, seeking to serve the Lord by following in His footsteps . . . Rare is such virtue among all the Christians of this land—especially for a lad so young . . .”

Yet what was this? The priest suddenly fell silent and stared intently, indeed reverentially, at Lorenzo there at his feet, as though he had seen the light of
Paraiso
. The trembling of his hands too suggested that here was nothing of the ordinary, and now tears were flooding his withered cheeks.

Behold! Simeon! And you, old maker of umbrellas! As the exquisitely beautiful boy lay silently before the portals of Santa Lucia, illuminated by the reflection of the flames, redder still than the blood of our Lord, the holes in his burned upper garment revealed two pure, pearl-like breasts. Even in his fire-seared face, there was an unmistakable and now undisguised tenderness and sweetness. Ah! Lorenzo was a woman, a woman!

See now the faithful, their backs to the fierce flames, forming a fencelike circle round her! This Lorenzo, once charged with lasciviousness and banished from Santa Lucia, was as lovely a girl of this land as the umbrella-maker's daughter!

At that awe-filled moment, they say, it was as though the voice of God could be heard from beyond the starry heavens. Like heads of grain before the wind, one, then another, and finally the entire flock bowed their heads and knelt before Lorenzo. The roar of the towering
flames, reverberating through the sky, was the only sound to be heard—except now for a sobbing voice, that of the umbrella-maker's daughter perhaps or of Irmão Simeon, the elder brother. Presently amidst the desolation was also the trembling voice of the padre, his hand raised high over Lorenzo, as he intoned a solemn, mournful chant. When he had finished, he called out to her, but she now looked up into the still dark night sky and then beyond to the glory of Paradise. With a peaceful smile upon her lips, she breathed her last . . .

I have heard it said that this is all that is known about the life of this woman. But what of it? That which is most precious in a human life is indeed found in such an irreplaceable moment of ecstasy. To hurl a single wave into a void of depravity, as dark as a nocturnal sea, and capture in the foam the light of a not-yet-risen moon . . . It is such a life that is worth living. If so, is it not in knowing the end of Lorenzo's life that one knows it all?

Among my books is one published by the Jesuits of Nagasaki; despite its title,
Legenda Aurea
, it is not strictly the collection of “golden legends” known in the West. Rather it contains, along with the words and deeds of Occidental apostles and saints, a record of valiant and dedicated Japanese Christians, apparently intended to further the cause of evangelization.

Printed on
mino
paper, the two volumes are written in a mixture of cursive-style characters and the
hiragana
syllabary. The letters are so faint as to cause one to doubt whether they were, in fact, printed. On the front leaf of the first volume, the Latin title is written horizontally; below it, two vertical lines in Chinese characters note: “Imprinted in the first days of the third month in the Year of Grace 1596, the Second Year of the Keich
ō
Era.” On each side of the date is the image
of an angel blowing a trumpet; these are technically quite crude but are nonetheless possessed of a certain charm. The front leaf of the second volume is the same, though the printing date is given as the middle of the fifth month.

The volumes each contain approximately sixty pages; the “golden legends” contained in the first are eight, those of the second, ten. Each also begins with a preface by an anonymous writer, followed by a table of contents that includes words written in Roman letters.

The style of the prefaces is hardly polished, and intermittently the reader even encounters expressions that suggest literal translation from a European language. Even a cursory examination raises the suspicion that they were indeed written by an Occidental priest.