“A long time indeed. His girlfriend’s father owns a car-rental franchise at the airport. He is going to give Kioshi a job.”
“What about the forge?” asks Kern, shocked that even Kioshi would treat his inheritance so cavalierly.
“It must be admitted that this work did not suit him. He had little aptitude and less perseverance. The truth of this is obvious. Do not look so appalled. I am ninety-five years old, and a living national treasure of Japan, and if my son is no good as a smith I will say so.”
“Sorry, sensei,” says Kern, and bows.
The old man snorts. “I sometimes think you learned your manners from samurai movies. If I were killed by a ronin, if there were still such a thing as ronin, I have no doubt you would avenge me in blood.” Kern smiles politely, as though it’s a joke and not, if anything, an understatement. He’s never told the old man much about where he comes from, and the old man has never asked. “But you have a good heart, and I’ve never before discouraged an apprentice from working too hard and actually meant it, so never mind.”
Kern bows again, even deeper this time, embarrassed, murmuring something about gratitude.
The old man says, “I’ve told you before, you’re more serious than necessary. You are not Japanese, however much you admire the films of Kurosawa, and I am so entirely Japanese as to be a pillar of the idea, and, in my way, to have moved past it, so we, of all people, need not stand on ceremony.”
There’s an awkward silence in which Kern tries to stifle his hope and then the old man says, “All that to one side, now that Kioshi is gone, there will be more for you to do.”
“I still don’t see how he can just leave,” Kern says, and immediately regrets it, afraid he’s hurt the old man’s feelings.
The old man pokes at the charcoal and says, “I am the nineteenth Masamune in an unbroken line. The first smith of the name invented the samurai sword, and each of his successors has carried on that spirit. But did you know that my great-great-great-grandfather was adopted? His parents died during the first war with America—having no place to go, he wandered the ruined streets of Sakai until the forge took him in, as it took in many, then. He had a gift for the work, and, as the Masamune of the time had no suitable sons, he was adopted.”
“But that doesn’t seem the same,” says Kern.
The old man raises his eyebrows. “It is an inflexible rule that the forge is passed from father to son, but there is some flexibility in what those terms mean. What matters is continuity—of the name, of the forge, of Masamune as the one out before the others, finding the way.” He stands abruptly, suddenly distant, and slaps soot from the knees of his trousers. “Yes. Well. That’s it! Get back to work.”
He leaves. Kern waits until he can trust himself to move, then picks up the tongs and draws the glowing steel from the coals with the greatest possible care.
77
Arabescato
There had been grey in his hair, he’s sure of it. Philip has always been camera-shy, but he takes out his phone, opens up his wedding pictures—there he is with Ann-Elise, his smile fairly natural, and, there, zooming in, the grey at his temples is unmistakable. He turns his head this way and that in the bathroom mirror, trying to persuade himself the solid brown of his hair is just a trick of the light.
He sits on the toilet, stares at the intricate, indecipherable patterns in the marble of the shower stall, arabescato marble, from arabesque, what they make altarpieces from, in Italy, chosen after more pains than any bathroom is worth. His daughter Reeny calls it biscuit marble. Water drops on the side of the stall. He remembers the bottle of water down under London. Chemical aftertaste. The few days of fever, attributed to whatever spores flourished in the dark. Where is she now, and how has she shaped the world.
“You mad bitch,” he says.
The skin on his knuckles is smooth, scarcely corrugates when he flexes his hands. Standing, he notices his knees don’t creak.
“Daddy, are you in there?” Reeny calls.
“I’ll be out in a minute, sweetheart,” he says, thinking twenty more years and you won’t need me anymore, and then I’ll go. Wonders where Irina is, if he can find her.