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| 179 | RONIN OF MATSUE | 12 Ronin of Matsue Curry was undercover in my shoulder bag. My loyal envoy wisely remained hidden and silent on the train, although twice he sneezed, clearly not a human sound. I covered my mouth, smiled, and pretended to blow my nose when several passengers turned around in search of a dog. One woman was not convinced by my gestures. She watched me closely, but luckily did not report her suspicions to the conductor. Miko was in Matsue, a small city on the western coast, on the Sea of Japan. She had been invited to present her watercolor paintings at a major exhibition in the Hohoemi Art Gallery near the Lafcadio Hearn Memorial Museum. She summoned me to meet the author at his residence. She read my three books in the ruins and admired my signed copy of Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan. Actually, she knew his signature was faked. The author was dead more than two generations before my edition was published, but she appreciated my connection to the author and my imagination of his stories. Hearn was a hafu in a weird, courteous, and obscure culture. A century later he might have written about me, a hafu ronin in the ruins of Rashomon Gate. Hearn, Ronin, Oshima, Miko, Kitsutsuki, Ginkgo, Bogart, together we are the selective contradictions of Japan. Miko wisely moved the three boxes of my protest papers from the ruins, and now, once more, she encouraged me to sort out the notes, scenes, outlines, traces, and hints on hundreds of scraps and create a book of adventure stories. She convinced me, even before my march to the war museum, that any association with the memory of Lafcadio Hearn, his residence, and the manuscript collection in his name would inspire me to finish my own stories. Hearn is my hafu muse. The shinkansen train arrived on time in Okayama late in the day, too late to catch the slower train through the mountains to Matsue. So, we stayed overnight on a bench in a nearby park. Curry leaped out of my shoulder bag the minute we were clear of the train station and rushed into the bushes. The park was moist, hushed by the consent of shame. The roamers avoided each other, and not | RONIN OF MATSUE | 180 | one of them related to an animal, trouped an unusual manner, or mocked a right or a song. Curry waited in the shadows. Hibiya Park is my home. The Hakubi Line followed the moody river valleys through the mountains from Okayama to Matsue. Curry sat with me at the window . The shadows were lean, blue on the curves, and the sun was tempered by the morning mist. The great trees moved in a perfect light of ancient memory. The train stopped at every town on the way, Takahashi, Nimi, Hino, Kofu, Kishimoto near Daisen Mountain, Yanago, and at last Matsue on Lake Shinji near the Sea of Japan. Lafcadio Hearn was very perceptive in Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan . I have that book with me right now. He arrived in Matsue at about the same time, in late August, but a hundred and some years earlier. He traveled through the same valleys, admired the evergreens , the mountains, but not by train. About a year later he departed by steamer for a position as a teacher in Kumamoto in Kyushu. ‘‘It is a lovely vapory morning, sharp with the first chill of winter. From the tiny deck I take my last look at the quaint vista of Ohashigawa ,’’ the Ohashi River, he wrote of Matsue. The ‘‘beautiful fantastic shapes of the ancient hills’’ are magical, a ‘‘land where sky and earth so strangely intermingle that what is reality may not be distinguished from what is illusion—that all seems a mirage, about to vanish.’’ The Hohoemi Gallery made arrangements for Miko to stay at the Suimeisou Ryokan Inn. Curry was at my side as we entered the ryokan lobby. The clerk was very nervous about dogs. She bowed, smiled, and kindly announced my presence, and then she summoned the manager. No inu, out ryokan. Curry is a loyal diplomat. No, inu out now. I bowed, walked out of the ryokan, and turned the corner out of sight. Curry understood the rules of exclusion and jumped into my shoulder bag. I buckled the cover and returned to the hotel lobby. The manager bowed, and then apologized when he found no animal. Strange, wiry dog. [18.188.152.162] Project...

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