Yoriaki now let his boat drift along slowly with the various flotsam and jetsam that spotted the busy river, his thoughts darkening with the waning light. How could a man as great as Nagamasa not see what even a simple ex-samurai turned food vendor could? It was widely suspected that the new king, well practiced in sycophancy, had appealed to the ego of the otherwise noble Nagamasa, offering him rulership of Ligor province far down the east coast almost to the lands of the Malays, the chance to be the first Japanese to hold such a position outside of Japan! It was surely a trick of that creeping cobra Prasat Thong but it had been too tempting for him to resist and the people of Ayutthaya and particularly Nihonmachi, watched him leave with heavy hearts. “Who?” they asked, “Who would protect us now?” While the new leader of their enclave was a good enough man he was no Nagamasa. Yoriaki had heard unsettling rumors that the Japanese welcome in their adopted kingdom wasn’t nearly as warm as it once was.
A whistle from the west shore rousted Yoriaki from his brooding. The dock bosses in the Dutch area just north of Nihonmachi were calling to him-he had almost forgotten them and would have drifted right by! Replacing his somber expression with the wide smile that sold his wares so well, Yoriaki paddled over to the float beneath the pier they waited on, his small craft dwarfed by the big Dutch merchant ships tied nearby.
“Have you anything left for us today, Yo-san?” one of the Dutchmen asked, a plump fellow called Blom whom Yoriaki had grown quite fond of. He was jesting, of course. Yoriaki had been selling to these gentlemen for several years now and always made sure he had a few of the leaf-wrapped bento meals tucked away for them at the end of the day.
“Yes, yes, here you are, my friend!” He had learned enough of the Dutch tongue to banter with these fellows, who were a jovial bunch. As he passed out the meals (Blom bought two) and collected the lumpy metal Pot Duang coins that the Europeans referred to as “bullet money,” Blom’s usually smiling face took on a thoughtful cast. The beginning of a frown formed beneath his rosy cheeks and plump nose.
“Yo-san, have you heard the news?”
“I hear much news, being as how I float all over the place like a leaf riding the stream.” Yoriaki tried to sound lighthearted but his dark eyes met Blom’s bright ones with fierce interest. This was the most serious he had ever seen the man, so the news could not be good. A knot was already tying itself in Yoriaki’s stomach as he waited for Blom to go on.
“I think you haven’t heard this news yet. Look down the river toward your home.” Blom raised his heavily fleshed arm to point toward Nihonmachi lying about half a mile downriver from them. Yoriaki turned to see a very large ship docked there, one of the great red seal junks that traded between Japan and the rest of Asia. His eyes widened to see that it belonged to Nagamasa!
“Yes, you see. They must not have heard that your former leader is now a king in the southlands and came straight here thinking to find him. I fear they have made a mistake.” Blom’s sea-blue eyes narrowed and he leaned down close to Yoriaki. “Something is up. Our employers have been conferring in their offices all afternoon, ever since that thing got here. They have doubled the watch for tonight. I like you, Yo-san, you are a good fellow. Have your eyes and ears open tonight and keep that pretty little peach of yours close by. There is contention over who owns that cargo and I fear there may be blood shed over it this night.” With that he clapped Yoriaki companionably on the arm, then gave his little boat a gentle push back out into the current before he could be questioned further.
“Thank you, Herr Blom, I will do so. You have my thanks! Go with God!” Yoriaki called back to him. With his usual friendly wave the Dutchman and his comrades headed home to eat their meal. It was nearly dark now, but the Nihonmachi docks were aglow with lanterns where the brightly painted ship with its cargo of goods from far off Japan was berthed. From the dock behind the ship’s massive bulk he heard the raucous sounds of loud argument in both the Siamese and Japanese languages. There was definitely a fight brewing; the choice of words was less than polite. Yoriaki quickly paddled farther out into the river than he usually would so as not to be noticed by the growing crowd on shore. In the distance the Islamic calls for prayer from the Moorish and Malay enclaves began, their eerie wail skirling above the cries of angry men. This drove him to paddle faster and faster, sweat growing cold on his back despite the humid warmth.
Any semblance of good humor left to him from a successful day at work was long gone now, replaced by a rapidly growing worry. Yoriaki paddled as fast as he could, passing up his usual place under the docks, tying his boat instead to an old tree growing out over the river at a stretch of grassy shore. The spot was not far from his house in the town’s quiet, mostly residential southern section. He and Momo sometimes enjoyed picnics together in its cool greeness. Yoriaki left his paddles and the few leftover bento behind in the boat. No one would bother them there and he could always retrieve them later. Trying not to break into a full run, he hurried to his home along the cobbled path, his light cotton yukata robe flapping above his softly clacking wooden geta sandals. Around him the houses all perched high on stilts taller than a man by half again to keep them safe from the occasional flood, a feature that sometimes made him feel as if he were shorter than he really was, a child dwarfed by adult-sized buildings.
Other than their unusual foundations, the houses of Nihonmachi mostly resembled those of Japan: rice paper screened windows glowed a mild white from the lanterns and candles within, peaked roofs pitched a few feet higher than in the old country in order to wick away the heat, but still crafted in the Japanese style. Most of these were thatched with grass like a Siamese house but some sported fired clay tiles of glossy red and blue. Despite its oddities Nihonmachi felt like home to Yoriaki now after seven years, but behind that feeling of warmth and belonging there was a cold fear growing, an anxiety that would not be ignored. Something was indeed up on what would otherwise be just another night in Ayutthaya, the bustling crossroads of the East and West. Something bad.
Yoriaki slipped through the row of trees that marked their modest plot, taking a shortcut through the small garden in back where Momo grew the Japanese vegetables that she used in her cooking. Despite his hurry he stepped carefully around the heads of the long, white daikon radishes and bunches of savory shiso beefsteak leaves. Reaching the front walk he charged up the steep wooden steps to his front porch three at a time, kicking off his sandals with a clatter. He burst through the door with such a wild expression on his face that it startled his wife Momo so much she dropped the tea she was carrying in from the kitchen. The ceramic cup bounced harmlessly off the springy tatami floor, woven from durable rice stalks, but its spilled contents spread across the golden fibers with a red darkness.
“Husband! What is the matter!” Her oval face was pale and her eyes wide with shock, their liquid darkness reflecting the lantern light in two bright points, making her seem like some graceful forest creature caught out in the hunter’s path. The silver cross hanging at her neck made a third point of light, flashing as it moved with each of her rapid breaths.