The Heat of the Sun

while I frittered my time away in city after city, slowly something stirred in me. Yes, I had been weak. Yes, I had been a fool. But I am a prince of samurai blood. Only for so
long could I be oppressed by a foreigner. In Manhattan, at the Blood Red Ball, I confronted the treachery that had worked against me for so long. Afterwards, I returned to my homeland and found, as
if in echo of my own turning spirit, that the passing of Taish ō had brought a new age. Under Emperor Hirohito, Japan would become a nation fit to command the world. And I would
be a part of it, shape it, direct it. My time had come.’
    Would Yamadori never shut up? I longed to rise from the pool and go. My flesh felt boiled, and in my irritation I blurted out, ‘This can’t be your time, it can’t! You spoke of
torii and sacred stairs. In China, Hirohito’s soldiers skewer children on bayonets. They rape. They murder. They fling gasoline over houses and set them blazing. Can’t you see what
you’re doing? You’re killing the Indians. You’re enslaving the Negroes. This is the logic of Meiji – the iron ships, the airplanes, the mile after mile of railroad track.
This is where they lead. You haven’t turned your back on America. You’ve become America.’
    Yamadori moved towards me through the steam. ‘Mr Sharpless, I’ve told you my story and you’ve understood not a word. Your ships in Edo Bay had dark and terrible powers. But
your empire is over and ours has begun.’ His hand, a darting fish, slithered under the scalding water, alighting on my hip. ‘I could kill you, American. You’re Sharpless, the
consul.’
    ‘His son. I was a child.’
    ‘You’ll always be a child.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘Look at you, what are you? Chicken bones, fit only to be left for the dogs! A weakling. A cripple. How can you even
pretend to be a man?’
    ‘Stop it! Keep away!’ I flailed from the side of the pool, but the darting hand was adroit, threading between my spindly legs and closing upon my testicles.
    Pain shot through me like electric volts. I shrieked and thrashed. I sank. He pushed me down, then wrenched me up, twisting and crushing with brutal, thick fingers. I floundered for the side of
the pool; I crashed through the water, down and down; I surged up, yowling; I lay on my back, kicking and writhing; and all the time Yamadori twisted.
    Then came the flash. Incandescence scythed the steamy air. There were scufflings, shouts. What was happening? I didn’t know, but the distraction was enough for me to break from Yamadori.
Outraged, he bellowed in Japanese, but not at me, and only when I had ripped myself from the water did I see Le Vol, holding his camera above the desperate servants’ heads.
    Flash! Flash! Le Vol took a second photograph, then a third, just as Yamadori whiplashed a hand over the pool’s slimy edge. Grabbing my bad leg, he gouged into the scars. I
screamed. Le Vol joined the fray and tugged me by the arms. I feared they would tear me in two.
    Le Vol had the advantage. Yamadori was half out of the pool. With a mighty splash he fell back, and I slithered like an eel towards the changing room as Le Vol flung first one, then another, of
the servants into the water. He wrenched me up, ready to hustle me away, but Yamadori, as if infused with occult power, reared up before us. Cries tore from his throat; his sumo bulk charged at Le
Vol and flipped him to the floor. The camera smashed.
    Yamadori raged. In an instant, he would be upon me. His uniform hung from the wall, and beneath it, gleaming in the steam, was the sword. I seized it, ripped it from the scabbard. Like lightning
the blade flashed – just as the door behind me burst open and a new voice rang out.
    I lowered the sword. At first I could not believe the saviour that appeared before us, dapper in Japanese military uniform: breathless, and a little astonished, but not too much, at the scene he
had encountered. My scars burned, but worse was my sudden, absurd shame at my nudity.
    ‘I’ve been entertaining our American friends,’ said Yamadori, as if he had been presiding over a tea ceremony. ‘You’ll see they’re somewhat ignorant of our
etiquette.’ Flagrantly he advanced over the tiles, feet slapping, genitals swaying, huge-nippled breasts wobbling against his sides like folds of cloth. He gestured to the new arrival.
    ‘My secretary. But perhaps you’ve met before.’
    Familiar, violet eyes looked at me, amused.
    ‘What I