Silence (22 page)

Did God really exist? If not, how ludicrous was half of his life spent traversing the limitless seas to come and plant the tiny seed in this barren island! How ludicrous the life of the one-eyed man executed while the cicada sang in the full light of day! How ludicrous was the life of Garrpe, swimming in pursuit of the Christians in that little boat! Facing the wall, the priest laughed aloud.

‘Father, what’s the joke?’ The raucous voices of the drunken guards had ceased; and one passing by the door asked the question.

And yet when morning came and the strong rays of the sun once more pierced through the bars, the priest regained some of his spirit and recovered from the loneliness of the previous night. Stretching out both feet and resting his head against the wall he whispered words from the psalms in a sorrowful voice: ‘My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast! I will sing and make melody! Awake my soul! Awake, O harp and lyre! I will awake the dawn.’ In childhood these words had always risen in his mind when he watched the wind blow over the blue sky and through the trees; but that was a time when God was not as now an object of fear and perplexity but one who was near to the earth, giving harmony and living joy.

Sometimes the officials and the guards would look at him through the bars, eyes alight with curiosity; but the priest no longer gave them so much as a glance. Sometimes he did not even touch the food offered to him three times each day.

Now it was September. One afternoon, when the air was already tinged with a certain freshness, he was suddenly paid a visit by the interpreter.

‘Today I want you to meet someone.’ The interpreter spoke in his usual jesting manner, playing with his fan. ‘No, no. Not the magistrate, not the officials. A person I think you want to meet.’

The priest remained silent, his lifeless eyes fixed on the other. He had a clear recollection of the words the interpreter had cast at him on another occasion, but strangely enough he could not hate the fellow nor even be angry with him. He felt too weary even to hate.

‘I hear you don’t eat much.’ The interpreter spoke with his usual thin smile, it would be better not to brood so much.’

With these words he cocked his head on one side, then went out, then came in again, going out and coming in several times.

‘What’s keeping that palanquin,’ he said, it’s time it was here.’

But by now the priest had no interest in whom he was going to meet. His listless eyes simply fixed themselves on the relentless figure of the interpreter, who kept running out and in.

But now the voices of the palanquin-carriers could be heard at the entrance. Next they were engaged in conversation with the interpreter.

‘Father, let’s go.’

Without a word the priest stood up, and slowly and sluggishly made his way out. The blinding rays of the sun cut his eyes, bloodshot and yellow with exhaustion. Two carriers, wearing only loincloths, stood there with the palanquin on their shoulders and stared intently at him. ‘He is heavy! He’s big and fat,’ they grumbled as the priest clambered in.

They had closed down the blind to avoid the idle curiosity of passers-by, so that he could see nothing of what was going on outside. Only all sorts of sounds and noises came to his ears. The shrieking of children; the bells of the bonzes; the noise of construction. Here and there the evening sun piercing through the blind struck his face. But not only was there noise; there were also smells of all kinds wafted to where he sat. The smell of trees and of mud; the smell of hens, of cows and of horses. Closing his eyes for a moment, the priest drew deep down into his bosom the life of these people who surrounded him. Then suddenly there rose up within him a longing to talk to others, to be like other people, to hear the words of other men, to plunge into the daily life of men. Yes, he had had enough of this—of this hiding in that charcoal hut, of the roaming through the mountains in terror of his pursuers, of the sight of Christians massacred daily before his very eyes. He no longer had the strength to put up with all this. And yet
 
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‘With thy whole heart, with thy whole soul, with thy whole mind, with thy whole strength..’ He had become a priest in order to aim at one thing, and one thing alone.

The sounds alone told him that now they had entered the town. Before it had been the clucking of hens and the mooing of cattle, but now it was the restless shuffling of feet that pierced the blind to where he was sitting—shrill voices buying and selling, the wheels of carts and voices raised in altercation.

Where he was going, and whom he would meet—these things were not important to him now. No matter who it was, the same old questions would be put, the same cross-examination of his work would go on. The questioning was all a formality. Like Herod when he faced Christ, these people put questions without any interest in the answer. Besides, why had the Lord of Chikugo refused to kill him alone and, without acquitting him, left him alive? But anyhow, to go into all this business was only troublesome and disturbing.

‘We’re here!’

Wiping away the sweat with his hand, the interpreter stopped the palanquin and raised the blind. Getting out, the priest’s eyes were suddenly struck by the evening sun, and he saw before him the guard who had looked after him in prison. Probably they had brought along this man for fear that he might break loose and try to escape during the journey.

Above a flight of stairs stood a two-storied gate, behind which was a small temple bathed in the light of the evening sun and with brown mountains and cliffs stretching out behind. In the dull and dim temple two or three cocks strutted arrogantly around. A young bonze came out; looking up at the priest with eyes that flashed hostility he disappeared from sight without so much as a word of greeting—even to the interpreter.

‘The bonzes don’t like you priests,’ said the interpreter, a note of delight in his voice as he squatted down on the floor and looked out at the garden. ‘Sitting alone all day long looking at the wall and brooding is poison for you,’ he went on. ‘Stop this nonsense; it doesn’t help anybody to cause useless trouble.’

But the priest, as usual, was paying no attention to his teasing.

What distracted him just now was that in this temple compound with its smell of incense and Japanese food, somehow his nostrils suddenly picked on an alien smell in the midst of it all. It was the smell of meat. It was meat—from which he had been forced to abstain for so long that he had become sensitive to the slightest smell of it.

Then far away he heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was approaching along the lengthy corridor.

‘Who are you going to meet? Have you guessed yet?’

This time the priest’s face stiffened; and for the first time he nodded. He felt his knees tremble involuntarily. Yes, he had known that some day he must meet this man; but never had he thought that it would be in a place like this.

‘Well, it’s time for you to meet him.’ The interpreter spoke in high delight, watching the trembling figure of the priest. ‘This is the magistrate’s order.’

‘Inoue?’

‘Yes. And the other person, he would like to meet you too.’

Following on the heels of an old monk walked Ferreira in a black kimono, his eyes cast down. The stocky little monk self-confidently puffing out his chest emphasized the servility of the tall Ferreira who, with lowered eyes, looked just like a big animal which, with a rope around its neck, is trailed reluctantly along.

The old monk came to a halt, and Ferreira without a word glanced at the priest and then sat down in a corner of the floor lightened by the setting sun. For some time there was a deathly silence.

‘Father!’ At last Rodrigues spoke in a trembling voice. ‘Father!’

Raising his bowed head a little, Ferreira glanced at the priest. For an instant there flashed into his eyes a servile smile and momentary shame; but then wide-eyed he looked down at the other deliberately and challengingly.

But Rodrigues, conscious of his priesthood, was at a loss for words. His heart was too full to speak; anything he said would be like a lie; nor did he wish to incite even more the condescending curiosity of the bonze and the interpreter who were gazing steadily at him. Nostalgia, anger, sadness, hatred—all kinds of conflicting emotions simmered within his breast. Why do you put on such a face?, he cried out in his heart. I did not come here to condemn you. I am not here as your judge. I am no better than you. He tried to force a smile to his lips; but instead of a smile a white tear fell from his eye and flowed slowly down his cheek.

‘Father, so long since we have met
 
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’ At last the trembling voice of Rodrigues broke the silence. Even as he spoke he was aware how foolish and silly the words sounded; but nothing else would come to his lips.

And yet Ferreira remained silent, the challenging smile still lingering on his lips. The priest understood very well how the weak and servile smile could give place to this challenging expression. And it was precisely because he understood, that he felt he would like to collapse on the spot like a withered tree.

‘Please
 
…
say
 
…
something.’ Rodrigues was almost panting as he spoke. ‘If you have pity for me
 
…
please
 
…
say
 
…
something.’

Suddenly he knew what he himself wanted to say; and strange words seemed to rise in his throat. You have shaved off your beard, was what he wanted to say. But he himself could not understand why such strange sentiments should come into his mind. Only that in the old days the Ferreira whom he and Garrpe had known had had such a well-groomed beard. It was something that had given to his whole appearance an air of kindness combined with gravity. But now the chin and upper lip were smooth and clean shaven. The priest felt his eyes drawn to this part of Ferreira’s face. Somehow it reflected a terrible sensuality.

‘What can I say to you on such an occasion?’, said Ferreira.

‘You’re deceiving yourself.’

‘Deceiving myself? How can I explain the part of me that is not all self-deception?’

The interpreter was now getting up on his knees to make sure that he missed nothing of the Portuguese. Two or three chickens jumped up from the ground on to the veranda and fluttered their wings.

‘Have you been living here for long?’

‘About a year, I suppose.’

‘What is this place?’

‘It is a temple called Saishoji.’

Hearing the word ‘Saishoji’ from the lips of Ferreira, the old monk who had been staring in front of him like a Buddha in stone turned his face toward them.

‘I also am in a prison somewhere in Nagasaki. Where precisely it is I do not know myself.’

‘I know it. It is in the outskirts of the city.’

‘What are you doing all day, Ferreira?’

A flash of pain crossed Ferreira’s face as he put his hand on the well-shaven chin.

‘The honorable Sawano spends his day writing.’ This time it was the interpreter who broke in, speaking in Ferreira’s stead.

‘At the magistrate’s order I am translating a book on astronomy.’ Ferreira spoke out the words rapidly as if he wanted to shut the mouth of the interpreter. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m doing. And I am of some use. I am of some use to the people of this country. The Japanese already have knowledge and learning of all kinds, but in the line of astronomy and medicine a Westerner like myself can still help them. Of course in this country there is an outstanding knowledge of medicine learnt from China; but it is by no means useless to add to it our knowledge of surgery. The same is true of astronomy. For that reason I have asked the Dutch commander to be kind enough to lend us lenses and telescopes. So I am not useless in this country. I can perform some service. I can!’

The priest stared at this Ferreira who kept persistently talking on and on. He could not understand why the man had suddenly become so eloquent. And yet he somehow felt he could understand the other’s psychology in the constant emphasizing that he was of some use to this country. Ferreira was not only talking to him. The interpreter and the bonze were there too; and Ferreira wanted them to hear. Besides, he kept prattling to justify his existence in his own eyes: ‘I am useful to this country!’

The priest blinked his eyes sorrowfully as he looked at Ferreira. Yes, to be useful to others, to help others, this was the one wish and the only dream of one who had dedicated himself to the priesthood. The solitude of the priestly life was only when one was useless to others. The priest realized that even now, after his apostasy, Ferreira had not been able to escape from the old psychological orientation that had motivated him. Ferreira seemed to be relying on his old dream of helping others like a crazy woman who offers her breast to a baby.

‘Are you happy?’, murmured Rodrigues.

‘Who?’

‘You!’

A flame again flashed into the challenging eyes of Ferreira. ‘There are all kinds of subjective factors in the concept of happiness,’ he said.

That’s not what you used to say—were the words that rose to the priest’s lips, only to be suppressed. After all, he was not here to censure Ferreira for his apostasy and betrayal of his disciples. He had no desire to irritate that deep wound that lay beneath the surface of the other’s mind and which he tried to conceal.

‘That’s so. He is helping us Japanese. He even has a Japanese name: Sawano Chuan.’ It was the interpreter who spoke from his position between the two, leering into both faces. ‘And he’s writing another book,’ he went on. ‘It’s a book to refute the teaching of Deus and to show the errors of Christianity.
Gengiroku
it is called.’

This time Ferreira had not been quick enough to stop the mouth of the interpreter. For an instant he turned his gaze to the fluttering chickens, trying to look as if he had not heard what the other had said.

‘The magistrate has read his manuscript,’ went on the interpreter. ‘He praises it. He says it is well done. You should have a look at it yourself: you have plenty of time in prison.’

Now the priest saw clearly why Ferreira had spoken so rapidly and hastily about his translation of astronomy. Ferreira—the man who, at the bidding of the Lord of Chikugo, had to sit at his desk every day. Ferreira—who was writing that this Christianity to which he had devoted his life was false. The priest felt he could almost see the bent back of Ferreira as he plied his quill.