The chrysanthemum falls— No wind, no rain, Only the weight of the name.
“So you will do it properly,” the old man said. “Seppuku. Not the vulgar word.” harakiri y seppuku
“You will have a second?” the old man asked. The chrysanthemum falls— No wind, no rain, Only
Kazuo’s lips twitched. “Drowning is for merchants who have lost fortunes. Not for us.” Not the vulgar word
“Then speak it one last time,” Kazuo replied. “And after I am gone, you may forget it. But I will not forget it. I will carry it through the gate.” At the second hour of the morning, Taro arrived. He wore a clean cotton kimono, his hair pulled back in a severe knot. Under his arm, wrapped in a faded blue cloth, was a katana. He did not bow to Kazuo. He did not need to. They had been boys together, had stolen persimmons from the shrine garden, had watched Kazuo’s father die in a toolshed because no one would grant him the dignity of a quick end.
Us. The old man felt the word like a splinter. There was no us anymore. The samurai class had been dismantled, its bones ground into the dust of a rebuilding Japan. But Kazuo’s father had been the last sword-bearer to Lord Tokugawa’s grandson. And Kazuo had been raised on stories.
“Then write one now,” said the old man, who had seated himself on the veranda, his legs numb from the cold.