Hokkaido Highway Blues

carving of a very flexible man who appears to be attempting self-inflicted fellatio. He looked more like a novelty act in a burlesque show than a nature lover, but Mrs. Ito bought one for me, insisting that the man was, in fact, “contemplating the Bridge of Heaven.”
    A chairlift took us up to the viewing platforms at Kasamatsu Park and, sure enough, standing on special “looking-between-your-legs” platforms, a group of sightseers filed through, bending over and admiring the view. I did the same and, yes, the bridge did kind of, sort of, almost float, but it wasn’t really worth the embarrassment and dizzying head-rush that followed. I suspect the whole idea was dreamt up by bored locals. “These tourists are so gullible, I bet we could get them to kiss their own ass. I bet we could make them stand in line to kiss their own ass.”
    Having viewed the Bridge of Heaven (which, by my estimation, comprised 8.9 percent of the beauty and not 8.2 percent as reported), we drove back around the bay to find an inn. The Itos had adopted me with the paternal instinct and affection that couples often get once their own children have grown up. I think Mrs. Ito liked me because I seemed a little devilish; she liked storms and adventures and bad boys. We dined in the hotel restaurant, overlooking the view and enjoying a meal that must have cost a small fortune, but the Itos waved away my proffered wallet. “You are our guest.” “A friend.” “A very nice boy.” We talked until nightfall, and the lights of the bay glimmered across the water. The Bridge of Heaven was now a silhouette and the Itos were saying goodbye.
    Mrs. Ito sighed and said, “It is a shame our daughter wasn’t here. I’m sure you would have much to say to her.” Later, when I checked out, I discovered that her husband had covered the cost of my room.
    When a child is born in Japan, the umbilical cord is saved and carefully stored, creating a dry fragile relic—a personal piece of archaeology—that soothsayers and psychics muse over on special occasions. Umbilical cords contain a certain visceral magic in Japan, and as I looked out across the bay from my hotel window, out to the Bridge of Heaven, it hit me in a surge of recognition: I was looking out at the lifeline itself, the connection between god and earth. I was looking at the umbilical cord of Japan.
     

5
     
    IT WAS A dark, overcast day and he was wearing sunglasses. He drove a metallic gray van and his hands were huge. He had cracked, callused knuckles, and he gripped the steering wheel with oversized fists. I don’t remember what he was wearing or whether he was bald, thinning, or decked out in a pompadour; all I remember are those large leather-skinned hands.
    His name was Shigeki Ōishi. It meant “big stone” and it suited him. ‘Any relation to Ōishi the samurai?“ I asked with a forced laugh.
    He turned and leveled his unblinking gaze at me. My laugh turned into a weak chuckle. “I’m the twelfth generation,” he said.
    “Really? The Ōishi?”
    He didn’t deign to respond.
    This was like meeting the twelfth son of Richard the Lionheart. The saga of Ōishi is Japan’s greatest epic. It’s a tale of loyalty, bloodshed, betrayal, and honor. It began in 170I with a simple breach of protocol and led, ineluctably, to a midnight assault, a brutal murder, and a mass suicide. In short, it had all the elements that make for great literature in Japan. Even better, it was a true story.
    A quick summary: Lord Asano, a naive young man from the provinces, comes to the Imperial Court as an envoy. It is the duty of Lord Kira, Master of Protocol, to train Asano in the ways of the court. But Lord Kira mocks the young man and refuses to teach him the proper behavior. Unable to take Kira’s taunts anymore, Asano explodes with anger, striking out with his sword, cutting Kira’s forehead. It is a fatal breach of etiquette; no weapons are permitted to be drawn within the Imperial Palace. At Kira’s shrill behest, the reigning shōgun orders Asano to commit ritual suicide, and he does, slitting open his belly and then bowing down to be decapitated. Lord Asano’s property is then confiscated. His manor is sold, his family evicted. His wealth is taken and his loyal retainers are scattered. They become masterless samurai, rōnin, but they are rōnin in name only, for they continue to serve the memory of their master. In secret, they plot revenge. Led by Kuranosuke Ōishi, forty-seven