Eroshenko preview Chapter 2

 Continuing with the preview of, Eroshenko, here is Chapter Two. Thanks everyone who ordered already. 

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And here's another photo of Eroshenko in 1915, with Akita Ujaku, a playwright who was one of his closest friends. Akita's father was also blind from childhood, but worked as an obstetrician. Amazing!

Chapter 2

January, 1915

Ichiko spotted Eroshenko on the platform of Shinbashi station, standing by himself, towering above the rest of the crowd. He wore a heavy, fur-collared wool overcoat that reached to his knees, thick-soled black boots, and on his head a flat wool cap, his wild mass of blond curls escaping on either side. In his right hand, he loosely gripped a bamboo cane with a curved handle. 

She skipped across the platform, dodging other passengers, her wooden sandals clattering loudly on the wood. 

“Vasily-san! Sorry to keep you waiting.” She could not bring herself to use the nickname Ero-san. It was too ridiculous. She would not mangle his name to fit Japanese sensibilities, but refer to him properly. She prided herself on mixing easily with foreigners, not shunning them from embarrassment or prejudice, as she saw so many others do. 

He bowed to her in the proper Japanese manner. “Is it Kamichika-san?”

“Yes, thank you for agreeing to an interview. I think the readers of the Daily News will be eager to read your story.”

“My pleasure. Where shall we do the interview? At a milk hall? Or the Matsushita café? I go there often.”

“No, those places are so noisy. I was thinking…” She screwed up her courage, twisting the trailing hem of her kimono sleeve around one finger. “I know the weather’s still a bit chilly, but it’s such a lovely day. I thought we might go outside the city, to Enoshima. We can do the interview on the train ride there, then enjoy some touring around as a reward after.”

He put his head to the right slightly, his brows twitching into a frown. What was he thinking? Everything about him was so foreign, it was hard to tell. And she couldn’t even make eye contact. Had he understood her words?

“Have you been to Enoshima before?” she prompted when he did not reply.

“Not yet. It’s south of here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, in Sagami Bay. It’s a lovely little island, very scenic and refreshing. And it’s not that far by train.”

“Is this not an odd way to do an interview?”

“I don’t care. I’m sick of being shut up in the stifling city. Come with me.” She reached out and put her hands on his arm. The cloth of his coat was thick and slightly rough. She gripped his arm, and rather than pulling away as she had feared, he took a step closer to her and smiled, his closed eyes turning up in half-circles.

“All right, then.”

As they rode the steam train on the Tōkaidō Main Line, seated side by side on the rattling wooden bench, Ichiko pulled her notebook and pencil from her handbag. The car was half empty, as the New Year’s festivities had ended and it was the off-season. A few solitary male passengers downed sake from private flasks despite the early hour, or threw cigarette butts in the aisle, while a group of young mothers tried in vain to quiet their restless children.

Ichiko jotted down the date in her notebook, preparing to begin the interview. 

“I was surprised to see you on the platform by yourself,” she said. “I thought Sōma-san would accompany you.”

Eroshenko stiffened, his features heavy with a frown. “Why? Sōma-san lives in Shinjuku, and I stay at a boarding house in Zoshigaya. I would never inconvenience her like that. You think that because I’m blind I can’t find my way? I have travelled on my own to London, then back to Moscow, overland across Siberia to Vladivostok, then to Siam, Burma, and India before coming to Tokyo.”

“Have you now? Please, I want to hear all about it. You’ve been to so many magnificent places.” All the locations he had just listed were shining jewels, places she longed to see for herself. Tokyo was drab, dark and constricted—jumbled together with sticks and mud, growing too fast, rickety and crowded, lagging behind the rest of the world. Ichiko herself had attempted to leave, hoping her English ability would secure her employment overseas, only to run up against the crushing disappointment of restrictive visa laws. Even in supposedly progressive Britain or the United States, no one would hire an unmarried woman, especially not an Oriental with no guarantor. 

“Why come to Japan, of all places?” 

“This is an extraordinary country. You have already experienced a revolution, replaced the shogun with the Meiji Emperor and become modern. I wanted to learn it for myself. If you were able to throw off centuries of feudalism, perhaps my country too someday…”

“But we haven’t. It wasn’t a revolution. The emperors were sleeping in the old capital all through the centuries. The so-called revolutionaries only woke one up and set him on a new throne. The samurai may have cut off their topknots, but they still have their heels on our necks. The daimyō traded their titles for marquis or count, but it’s the same old feudalism in Western garb. Behold, the Meiji Emperor died three years ago, and now we’re ruled by his incompetent son. Where’s the voice of the people in that?”

Eroshenko grinned at her breathless screed. She wasn’t sure how much he understood. 

“Nevertheless,” he said after a pause, “it is more reform than we have managed in Russia. I enrolled in the Tokyo School for the Blind just before the war began. Now, even if I wanted to leave, it seems unsafe to travel back to Europe.”

They both fell silent, thinking of the war raging half a world away. Every day, Ichiko saw in the pages of her own newspaper the worst things she had ever read, horrors beyond imagining in Belgium and France. Even Japan had joined the Allies against the Kaiser, but the war felt very far away. Perhaps his decision to remain here for now was not so strange after all.

At Ōfuna, they were obliged to change to a smaller electric train bound for Enoshima. After Eroshenko’s anger at discounting his ability to navigate on his own, Ichiko hesitated to offer him aid. But as they stood from their seats, the other passengers jostling in the aisle pushed them together. 

“Shall I--?” she suggested.

“May I?” he asked at the same moment, groping for her hand. 

She felt her cheeks flush as his large, warm hand wrapped around hers. Ordinarily, she would never allow a man she hardly knew to touch her like this in public.

The electric train was less comfortable, with a cramped bench that pressed them even closer together. This part of the journey was twice as long, over an hour. The wheels on the tracks set up a steady rhythmic clacking that made Ichiko feel as if she were being lulled to sleep, carried on rails into a strange dreamworld. Pinching herself awake, she recalled her duty—the interview. 

“Where shall we begin?” she asked. 

He smiled, showing her his white teeth but still his eyes remained closed under his heavy brows. “Long, long ago,” he said, as if he were beginning a fairy tale.

Ichiko pushed against his arm playfully. “No! It can’t be that long ago. I believe you’re younger than I am.”

“I am twenty-five years old.”

Aha, she thought, so he is three years my junior, but she did not say this aloud. As they sat side by side, he held his hand in hers, which seemed to be his habit to stay connected to the people he spoke to, rather than looking into each other’s eyes. 

“All right then,” he continued more seriously, “I was born in a tiny village called Obukhovka, near Kursk, on the border between Ukraine and Russia.”

Ichiko had to ask him many times to spell these names, and still she was not sure she transcribed them correctly. 

Eroshenko continued, “I was born with eyes wide open and clear, but at the age of four, I fell ill with measles and became blind.”

Ichiko wondered at his matter-of-fact tone. From his rote manner, she realized that he must have recounted this event many, many times. How unfair that he should be required to retell these intimate details of his life for every stranger who crossed his path. Indeed, she had been on the verge of asking this very question herself since she first set eyes on him. She regarded her notes uneasily, reconsidering how she wanted to frame the interview.

Unaware of her reaction, Eroshenko continued his narrative. “At the age of nine, I was separated from my loving family and sent to the Moscow School for the Blind. I learned to read and write Braille, and to play the violin. Now I am a special exchange student at the Tokyo School for the Blind, where I study Japanese literature, history and every other subject.”

“Your family must be very wealthy, to support all these travels.” She tried to keep the tinge of jealousy from her voice.

“No, not particularly. My father sends me money from time to time. At the blind school I study massage. I intend to earn my living like other blind people in Japan, as a masseur.”

“But your travels to London, Siam, all those other places? Your father paid for it?”

“Well no, I have been generously supported by the international community of Esperantists. I am very grateful to them. None of my travels would be possible without Esperanto.”

“Is that so?” She had not intended to cause offense, but he instantly stiffened at her lack of enthusiasm.

“It’s true! Because I cannot see, the only way I… I can…I only must talk.”

Ichiko was surprised to hear him falter, as he had spoken so smoothly until this point. But all those lines in Japanese, those must be the exact words he had said to others, over and over. At last they had arrived at an original utterance.

Giving up on Japanese, he switched to Esperanto, but she was not fluent enough to follow him completely. At her request, he switched to English. Somehow, between three languages and with many repetitions, she at last caught his meaning.

“Because I cannot see,” she transcribed in her notebook, “the only way I can connect with other people is through language, through speaking to them. But there are so many languages in the world, far more than one person can learn. The green star of Esperanto has allowed me to travel the world. I speak to everyone I meet in one language. That is my message to your readers: hope that everyone can speak together and understand each other.”

“You should attend our lessons,” he said as she finished writing.

“I will,” she promised lightly, as if returning to Ōsugi Sakae’s Esperanto school, held in his home, were a trivial decision. She did not want to think of Ōsugi at the moment. She would deal with him later.

They were both stiff and cramped as they stepped off the electric train at Enoshima. Ichiko suggested hiring one of the many rickshaws waiting outside the station, but to her surprise Eroshenko objected strenuously.

“It’s a terrible practice! How can I allow myself to be dragged in a cart by another human? It’s ex…ex…”

“Exploitation?”

“Yes, exploitation—a man forced to work like a horse. How can a civilized country allow such a thing?”

“Because in Japan we have far fewer horses than in Europe or the United States. Horses are expensive.”

“And treated with more respect than a rickshaw man who works until he drops dead.”

Ichiko conceded that he was not wrong. There were indeed cases of rickshaw pullers dying on the job, from exhaustion and malnutrition. She felt guilty hiring one, but often it was the fastest and easiest way to get about, especially on rainy days when the unpaved roads turned to mud. 

But the weather was fair if brisk. The sea breeze was a welcome change from the city and walking from the station was no great hardship. Ichiko led Eroshenko across the iron bridge to the small hilly island of Enoshima, up the winding steps to the shrine. He extended his bamboo cane in front of him, feeling each step, the other hand holding hers.

“The shrine has been here for hundreds of years,” she explained rather breathlessly as they climbed the endless steps. “Pilgrims have been coming here for ages from Tokyo, back when it was called Edo.” 

After cresting the weary steps, they passed through the red torii gate and entered the shrine compound, the gravel crunching under their feet. “It’s dedicated to the goddess Benten,” Ichiko said. “She’s the goddess of music.”

“I thought Benten was a sea goddess.” Apparently he was quite knowledgeable in Japanese folklore.

“Like all the gods, she represents lots of things. She’s always depicted playing a biwa, which is a bit like a balalaika but round instead of triangular. I suppose that’s auspicious for you. Perhaps you should make an offering and buy a charm.” She gave a short laugh.

“Do you believe such things?”

“No, not at all. It’s all feudal, superstitious nonsense, just another tool of oppression to keep the peasants in line. You don’t believe in gods, do you?”

“No, I hate superstition. It is feudal, as you say. But there is beauty in the old tales too.”

Ichiko led him right up to the main building, which was open on three sides. She passed the offertory box without throwing in any coins and up the wooden steps. Glancing around to be sure the priest was not about, she guided Eroshenko’s hands to the statue of Benten so he could feel its outline. He made a careful study of the sinuous curves with his sensitive fingertips, his face folded in concentration. She ignored the scandalized stares of the other suppliants. 

“Hey! What are you doing?” 

Ichiko jumped as a middle-aged man in white priestly robes appeared behind them. 

Eroshenko withdrew his hands and bowed. “Forgive me, but as a blind person, I must see with my fingers.”

The priest appeared stunned to hear the tall foreigner speak Japanese. 

Recovering her wits, Ichiko added, “Priest, you’re interrupting a moment of important cultural exchange. This man here is the grandson of Tsar Nicholas. Did you not realize that? He’s making a careful study of our ancient traditions. Would you have him report back that we are mere barbarians?”

“Is that so? Oh my, I had no idea. Only imagine! A relative of His Highness the Tsar! And a blind man, no less.” The priest bowed deeply. “Please forgive me, sir! By all means, continue your study!”

Eroshenko insisted that wasn’t necessary, but the priest only took that as proof of his exalted identity. Nothing would do but that they accompany him to the side building where shrine maidens were selling good luck charms. With many harsh words for the poor girls behind the counter, he pressed on them packets of purified salt and large strips of paper with bold calligraphy spelling out various hopeful messages. Ichiko slipped these charms in her handbag with thanks.

“Why did you do that?” Eroshenko burst out as they quit the main shrine compound. 

“Oh, it was only a bit of fun. You should have seen that old blowhard bowing and scraping.”

“How would you feel if I introduced you as a relative of the Taishō Emperor?”

Ichiko shuddered. “All right, point taken. I apologize. I won’t do that again.”

“I forgive you.” He grinned mischievously. “You’re not like other Japanese women, are you?”

“So I’ve been told. When I was a girl, I was called a hoyden because I liked to climb trees and swim in the ocean. I was told no man would ever love me.”

“Nonsense! Some men prefer a girl with a bit of spirit.”

Like you? she thought, sliding her eyes over to him as they walked along. It felt strange not to be able to meet his eye, to confirm his emotions. The upturned cast of his closed eyes made him seem somehow remote.

“You know,” she said, feeling emboldened, “my family has lived for generations in Nagasaki, so maybe that’s why I don’t seem Japanese. It’s possible we have some foreign ancestors mixed in. Maybe even Russian.”

“Unlikely,” he said flatly.

“You don’t know that. It could be possible.” She did not reveal how deeply she had nurtured this fantasy over the years of studying foreign literature at school. In her imagination, she fancied herself linked by secret forbears to the characters in the English and Russian novels she loved.

She led him up the packed earth path, around to a scenic overlook, a small clearing favored by tourists. She placed his hands on the wooden guardrail.

“Here. This is the highest point on the island. We’re at the end of the bluff, looking out over Sagami Bay. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Eroshenko gripped the rough wood, to her surprise seeming quite overcome with emotion. He breathed in deeply, his large nose flaring. 

“Thank you.” His voice was low.

“For what?”

“For taking me here, like a sighted visitor, instead of assuming that I would not be interested. I have met many kind people in Tokyo, but you are the first to invite me to go sightseeing.”

“Oh! I… well…” Ichiko was too flustered to answer. The truth was she had not considered that his enjoyment of the locale might be impaired. He could smell the sea air, feel the breeze on his face, could he not? She felt slightly ashamed at her thoughtlessness, but never mind, he was evidently pleased.

“My soul longs to be out in nature,” he said. “It has been my fate to live in the greatest cities in the world—Moscow, London, Tokyo. I had forgotten until just now how much I wished to breath the clear air. People think I don’t know what is beautiful, but they are wrong.”

The breeze freshened, lifting his blond curls. Ichiko stared openly into his face. As he smiled, enjoying the sea air, he seemed to glow from within, and she could not tear her eyes from him.

Slowly, she slid her hand down his arm, until her fingers were laced with his. He squeezed her hand, then leaned his head down, bringing his face close to hers. She was tall, but he was still more than a head taller than she.

“Is there anyone about?” he whispered in her ear.

Ichiko glanced behind them. There were only a few other tourists on the island and for the moment there was no one else in the clearing.

“No.”

He placed one large hand along her cheek, feeling the outline of her lips with the tips of his fingers, then leaned down and kissed her. The kiss surprised her, as if she had suddenly awoken as a character in a Russian novel. She wrapped her arm around the back of his neck, pulling him even closer to her. 

As they walked back along the iron bridge to the mainland, Ichiko stopped by one of the vendors. An aged man with a tanned, wrinkled face fanned a small ceramic hibachi topped with a metal grate. On the grate were horned turban shells as large as her fist. The mollusks were upturned, bubbling and frothing over the fire, giving off a rich scent from the sake and soy sauce that had been added to the shells.

“It’s sazae.” Ichiko licked her lips.

“What does that mean, sazae?”

Ichiko searched her memory in vain. “A kind of…sea snail…?” She used the English words. “They’re delicious. It’s a specialty here. I bet these were caught just a few hours ago.”

She handed the man a few coins and pointed to the ones set to the side, cooling. With a gap-toothed grin, he handed her two shells and stuck bamboo skewers in them.

Ichiko took Eroshenko’s hand and placed one shell in it. She watched as he felt it carefully with his fingers, examining the spiral shape with its rough protrusions at regular intervals, then the smooth lip and the soft edible interior.

“Use the skewer to pull it out,” she explained. 

Ichiko expertly drove the skewer deeply inside and pulled it out with a twist. The snail had a pleasingly fleshy texture and tasted like the ocean, salty and fresh. The black part at the end was slightly bitter, but that only added dimension to the sweeter top section. She chewed it all in one large mouthful, letting the juice drip down her chin. It was indulgent, almost decadent, and she wanted to share it with him.

Setting her empty shell in a metal bucket by the hibachi, Ichiko took Eroshenko’s hands in hers.

“Like this,” she said, skewering the snail. His fingers rested lightly on the back of her hand, noting her movements. She held up the skewer, and he took it from her, feeling the snail doubtfully. He put the entire thing in his mouth, then spit it out again after a few bites.

“Eugh!” 

Ichiko laughed. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

“It’s like fishy rubber!”

“It’s a delicacy.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand regretfully. “My village was far from the ocean. I never learned to love such flavors.”

Ichiko apologized for spoiling the mood and offered to buy some rice crackers instead, but he insisted that was not necessary. They walked hand in hand back to the train station, somewhat more subdued.