Hokkaido Highway Blues

samurai make a midnight pact and then disperse.
    To deflect suspicions, Ōishi becomes a drunken wreck, brawling in the streets and abandoning his wife and children. Kira grows complacent. Memories fade. And then, on a snowy winter night, the rōnin march on Kira’s manor and launch a devastating attack. They find Kira cowering in a closet and, with one sure blow, they cut off his head. Taking this as a trophy, they make their way to Asano’s grave and present it to the spirit of their late lord. The rōnin do not run or hide or become fugitives. And after a lengthy trial, they are ordered to commit suicide. One by one, they perform the ritual, cutting open their stomachs and then bowing forward for beheading.
    Vengeance, sincerity, loyalty, and an utter lack of fear when facing death: these are the core values of bushidō, the samurai code of ethics that have shaped Japan in one form or another for more than five hundred years. The tale of Ōishi is the epitome of these codes.
    Knowing this, I was now more afraid of my driver than ever. I desperately wanted him to like me. “The teachers at Minamata High School performed the story of the forty-seven rōnin at the school festival,” I bubbled breathlessly. “I played Ōishi’s right-hand man. I got to say, ‘Look! There’s Kira!’ ”
    Ōishi was not as impressed by this as I had hoped. The fact that I had performed in a high-school production about his esteemed ancestor did not create a sense of kinship between us. How, then, tō tell him that the other teachers and I had played it for laughs, that Kira’s head was a pink papier-mâché balloon we lopped off and tossed into the audience. Or that our ritualized suicide was so silly the students were hooting and laughing and calling out, “More suicides! Do it again!” How to tell this samurai descendent, with the broken knuckles and the unblinking eyes? I decided not to.
    “I have studied the martial arts of Japan for many years,” he said. “I have a third ranking in judo and in kendo.“ Kendo is Japanese fencing, the model for the light saber fights in Star Wars. That would explain his knuckles, I thought.
    He looked over at my notepad. I had been trying to jot things down surreptitiously. “I used to be a journalist,“ he said. “Based in Osaka. I traveled all over Southeast Asia, I hitchhiked as well”—he was not in awe of me and he wanted to make that clear. “I hitchhiked in Malaysia, Thailand, Indonesia. You ever hitchhiked there?”
    “Once, in Bali, I—”
    “I traveled to Singapore. I traveled to the Philippines. I traveled to Hong Kong. You ever been to Hong Kong?”
    “No, but once I was—”
    “It’s hot. Very hot. I like the heat. It disciplines the mind. The Philippines were very hot as well, and the people were kind to me. I went there as a student—1974. You probably weren’t even born yet.”
    “Actually, in 1974,I would have been nine or ten years—”
    “The Vietnam War was still going. Tensions were high. The Americans used Japan like an amusement park, like a brothel. They took shore leave in Tokyo or Okinawa.” Suddenly he said, “Look at you! You fear nothing.”
    “Well,” I said, thinking of snakes, “that’s not entirely—”
    “Japanese people study English for three years in junior high, and four years in high school, and another two to four years if they go to college. Ten years of English, and they can’t even tell a foreigner the time if he asks. We Japanese are too timid,” he said. “We need to be fearless. We no longer take chances. Japanese don’t want to make mistakes. They are too proud. They are,” he paused and then, carefully enunciated, “too shy.”
    Shyness: in Japan, it’s the universal excuse. If I am ever hauled into a Japanese court, I plan on using it as my defense.
     
    Me: Awfully sorry about the manslaughter charge, m’lord. But you see, I am very shy.
    Judge: And do you feel ashamed about what you’ve done?
    Me: Yes, Your Honor. I feel great shame. Shame and shyness.
    Judge: (to bailiff) Release this man at once!
     
    Don’t knock it. In Japan, an expression of sincere remorse will usually take years off your sentence.
    “Shyness is a form of weakness,” said Oishi, last of the samurai. Outside the window, rice fields ascended the hillsides in long, low steps. The landscape was cold and damp, with the scent of a coming storm, and static electricity lifted the hairs along my forearms.
     
    * * *
     
    We skirted