Lorenzo shook his head. “There is nothing to the rumors—how could there be?” he responded on the verge of tears.
The Father could not find it in himself to interrogate the boy further. Perhaps he was moved by the innocence of his age, or the consistent certitude of Lorenzo’s belief, but he decided that Lorenzo spoke the truth.
While the Father was convinced of the boy’s words, the congregation’s doubts would not be assuaged so easily. The gossip stung at Simeon’s heart more than any others. Too hurt to even look into the salacious affair, Simeon could not bare to look Lorenzo in the face. But one day, he found a love letter addressed to Lorenzo from the girl in the back garden of the Santa Lucia. He rushed to Lorenzo, sitting by himself in an empty room, and jabbed the letter at him, threatening him, imploring him for explanation. Lorenzo’s soft cheeks flushed red and he rushed to explain. “She has written such things to me but I’ve only received them! I have never even spoken to her,” he said. Heeding the censure of the public, Simeon pressed him further. Lorenzo gazed at him, eyes full of loneliness. “You would call me a liar? Here, before the Lord?” he cried and darted from the room like a sparrow. Simeon was struck with shame and regret for how he had treated his friend, but when he turned to shuffle from the room Lorenzo came running back. He threw his arms around Simeon’s neck and whispered, “I was wrong. Forgive me.” Before Simeon could say a word in response heavy sobs overtook Lorenzo. He pulled away from Simeon, hiding his tearful face with his hands, and ran away. Alone in the room, Simeon could not be sure whether Lorenzo was ashamed of his relations with the umbrella-maker’s daughter, or just ashamed of his improper behavior.
Soon, news of even greater scandal rocked the church—the umbrella-maker’s daughter was pregnant, and she had stood before her father and claimed that the child was none other than Santa Lucia’s Lorenzo. Her father flew into a rage and ran to the Father Superior to demand an explanation. Cornered into such a volatile situation, Lorenzo could no longer defend himself. The Father Superior called a meeting of the brothers, and decided that Lorenzo would be excommunicated. It was clear to everyone that excommunication at such a young age would make it very difficult for Lorenzo to earn a living, but to allow a sinner to reside amongst the brothers of the Santa Lucia would have invited dishonor and shame into the house of God. And so the brothers, holding back their tears, sent their dear friend Lorenzo on his way.
Simeon, who had loved Lorenzo like a brother, suffered the most. The sadness of seeing Lorenzo being sent away paled in comparison to Simeon’s grief over being so deceived by him. A blistery winter wind howled through the church gate when Simeon balled his hands into fists and struck Lorenzo’s sweet face. Lorenzo fell to the floor but soon crawled to his feet and, raising his tear-stained face to the sky, uttered, “Father, forgive Simeon. He knows not what he does.” Simeon fell back to the gate and swung his fists at the air in a rage until the other brothers came to restrain him. He glared at Lorenzo from the doorway, his face darkened and fierce like a growing storm. The gathered Christians still say the kind boy Lorenzo looked angelic when he turned his back to the church and, framed in the celestial glow, plodded crestfallen into the globe of the wavering sun which hung low and red in the western sky of Nagasaki.
From that point on, Lorenzo lived a life very different from the time when he tended to the incense burners at the church. He slept in a den of untouchables at the edge of town and lived as a beggar—wretched and downtrodden. Furthermore, as he had once been a brother in the name of the Lord, the heathens mocked him behind his back. He couldn’t go into town without being jeered at and spit upon by the other children. Once, overcome with a fever that was making its way through Nagasaki, he spent seven days and nights facedown in a gutter, writhing in agony and pain. But the unconditional love of God saved him then, and when none would give him food to live on he found himself delivered, by the hand of God, enough seeds, roots, and berries of the trees, and fish, clams, and crabs of the sea to see him through for another day. In turn, Lorenzo prayed every morning and evening just as he had done at Santa Lucia, and the color of his sapphire rosary remained as pure and true as his faith. Every night, after the town had gone to sleep, he snuck out from his hovel and, under the light of the moon, approached the familiar grounds of the Santa Lucia and prayed fervently for the blessings of Jesus the Christ.
The congregation prayed just as Lorenzo did, but they paid him no heed, and soon even the Father Superior had cast him from his mind. Since his excommunication they had assumed he was a heathen boy like the rest, and so they would never have expected him to have the piety to make midnight pilgrimages to the church to seek the blessings of the Lord. Lorenzo was crushed by their indifference. But his faith filled him with the conviction that it, too, was one of the innumerable mysteries of heaven.
Soon after Lorenzo was excommunicated from the church, the umbrella-maker’s daughter gave birth to a baby girl. She was the old man’s first grandchild, and he was so overcome with his love for her that he would rock her to sleep, see to her feedings, and occasionally indulge her with a gift of dolls. The outpour of love from the old man was to be expected, but to everyone’s surprise the brother Simeon took to her as well. Simeon, large as a giant and fierce as a devil, would visit the umbrella-maker’s house whenever he had a spare moment to play with the child, to hold her, and to hoist her into the air. When he held her in his arms his fearsome face would soften, and his eyes would fill with tears as he remembered the kind face of Lorenzo, whom he had loved like a baby brother. But the umbrella-maker’s daughter did not seem pleased with Simeon’s visits. She was distraught and appalled that Lorenzo himself had not appeared to see her daughter.
Time waits for no man. A year had passed when the unexpected occurred. An enormous fire overtook Nagasaki, threatening to burn half of the town to the ground. The sky was dyed the color of flame, and the shrieking of the hissing wood shot over the town like the crack of a trumpet, signaling the end times. The fire spread and quickly enveloped the umbrella-maker’s house, which was located unfortunately downwind of the flames. The family ran from the burning building, but before they could catch their breath they noticed the newly born girl was nowhere to be seen. Just before the fire roared up the daughter had set her down for a nap, and in their hurry to escape from the house she had forgotten the baby where she slept. The umbrella-maker, lost in rage, shrieked at his daughter until she flushed red and attempted to rush into the flames to collect the child. But the flames were not deterred; they roared on, reaching high as if to scorch the stars above. The townsfolk could do nothing but hold the stricken girl back.
In that moment, brother Simeon came charging through the crowd, pushing away the townspeople like dolls from his path. The young man, who had suffered under torrents of swords and arrows during his military service, leapt into the fire without a moment of hestitation. Yet even he was held back by the ferocious flames. After ducking through the clouds of smoke several times, he was soon forced to stop dead, turn his back, and run away from the flames. He fell back to the umbrella-maker and his daughter and gasped, “It is the will of the Lord, we must resign ourselves.” Then, by the side of the umbrella-maker came a high shriek: “Lord, save us!” Simeon knew the voice well. He turned to see, and yes— it was Lorenzo. His face, much thinner than before, glowed red in the fire as the fierce winds blew back his black hair, grown long through months of begging. Yet his eyes remained round and lovely as ever before. He stood before the crowd, dressed as a beggar, gazing fixedly at the burning house. But that was only for a fleeting moment. Just as a ferocious wind incited the flames ever more, Lorenzo surged into the flames, where he vanished behind the pillars and walls of fire. Sweat streaked Simeon’s whole body as he instinctively threw his arms into the air and, crossing himself furiously, called out, “Lord! Oh Lord! Save us!” Perhaps it was the wavering flames, but he suddenly recalled Lorenzo, standing crestfallen at the gate of the Santa Lucia, framed in the red globe of the
sun, so sad and so beautiful, caught in the first breeze of winter as he turned his back on the church.
While shocked by the courage of Lorenzo, the assembled congregation could not ignore his previous transgressions. A breeze of critical comments blew over the assembly as they exclaimed, “Well there you have it, a father has to save his child. He was so ashamed of his sin he wouldn’t set foot near the church, but now he attempts to redeem himself by saving the child. He’s gone diving into the flames.” The umbrella-maker seemed to share their concerns and he shouted absurdities while shaking his fists and stamping the ground. Yet his daughter could do nothing but collapse to her knees, conceal her face with her hands, and offer fervent, trance-like prayers. Sparks rained from the sky. The smoke and ash swept over the ground and stung her face. But the girl paid no heed to the world as she remained still with her head hung low, praying and praying.
Soon the feverish murmurs broke out among the crowd. Lorenzo, his hair disheveled, appeared amid the raging fire with the child in his arms. It was as if he had descended from heaven. But then one of the rafters of the house, burned through, broke in half and came crashing from the ceiling above. With a great roar, an enormous billow of smoke rushed from the house, blocking out half of the sky. In Lorenzo’s place stood a tower of flame, reaching for the sky like a twisting stalk of coral.
Simeon, the umbrella-maker, and the others were shocked to silence by the horrific scene. The daughter lost herself in her grief. Shrieking and crying she flailed as if insane until, as if struck by lightning, she fell to the ground, still and silent. For the daughter discovered her baby girl, swaddled tightly, safe in her arms. Oh, there are no words for the uncompromising mystery and wonder of the Lord! Lorenzo, while under the weight of the collapsed rafter, had used his remaining strength to toss the baby girl from the fire where she landed unharmed in her mother’s arms.
The daughter cried tears of joy, and along with them came words praising the mercy of God from the umbrella-maker. Simeon alone dashed into the flames to find Lorenzo, and the old man’s words once again became anxious words of prayer for his safety, offered solemnly to the night sky. But he was not alone in his prayer. The Christian brothers gathered around the daughter and her child, and with their faces streaked with tears, they called to the Lord, “Save us! Save us!” And then the son of Mary, the Lord Jesus Christ, heard their prayers at last. Behold! Lorenzo, covered in burns, in the arms of Simeon, delivered from the smoke and fire.
But that was not the end of the mysteries that night. The Christian brothers gathered Lorenzo in their arms and took him upwind to the gate of the Santa Lucia. Lorenzo’s breaths came in ragged gasps. The umbrella-maker’s daughter, who had not yet let go of the little girl clutched to her breast, stepped up to the gate at the foot of the Father Superior, and made a bewildering confession before the congregation: “Lorenzo is not the father of this child! She was fathered by the heathen boy next door.” The tears in her eyes and the waver in her voice convinced all of the truth of her confession. The assembled Christians caught their breath; the raging fire was already far from their minds.
The girl choked back her tears and continued. “I fell in love with Lorenzo, but he was too firm in his faith to pay me any heed,” she said. “ I soon grew bitter, and told everyone that the child I carried was his so that he would know the pain I felt at his rejection. But Lorenzo’s faith was so strong that he, knowing full well my sin, plunged into the very fires of hell to save my child this night. His mercy and compassion are as the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. At the very thought of the weight of my sin, I wish the demons of hell would tear me to shreds with their claws!” With that, she collapsed to the ground in a fit of tears.
Soon, cries of “Martyr! Martyr!” came forth in waves from the assembly. Lorenzo took the burden of the sinners on himself, walked in the footsteps of our lord Jesus Christ, and lived as a beggar. All the while not even the Father Superior, whom Lorenzo respected as a father, and his beloved friend Lorenzo, knew his heart! If this is not a martyr, there has never been one!
Listening to the confession of the daughter, Lorenzo could only faintly nod his head. His hair and skin were charred. He could no longer move his arms or legs or summon the strength to speak. Simeon and the umbrella-maker, hearts broken by the confession of the daughter, rushed to do all they could to care for the weakening Lorenzo. His breaths grew short and thin—the end was not far off. Yet even as death approached him, Lorenzo’s eyes glimmered as they always had, filled with the color of the stars scattered along the firmament so high above all.
Father Superior, his white beard swaying in the night wind, finished listening to the daughter’s confession. With the gate of the church at his back he turned to her and said, “To repent is a joyous thing—and what greater punishment could human hands deliver? You must keep the Lord’s commandments ever close, and await the coming of the final judgement.” He looked to Lorenzo and continued: “And this Lorenzo, his will to follow the deeds of our Lord Jesus Christ is a virtue so rare and singular—even among all the Christians of this land. To say nothing of his youth, he...” The Father was stunned to silence. His eyes were drawn to Lorenzo as if the boy had been bathed in the very light of heaven. How reverent a scene! The father’s hands would not stop shaking as tears streamed down his withered cheeks.
Behold, Simeon. Behold, umbrella-maker. Bathed in the light of fire darker than the very blood of Jesus, Lorenzo lay silently at the foot of the Santa Lucia. And there on the chest of the beautiful boy, from his ragged clothes, appeared two round, smooth breasts. The peace and kindness of that face, now charred and withered, could no longer be ignored. Lorenzo was a girl—Lorenzo was a girl! The realization flooded over the Christians who gathered around Lorenzo with their backs turned to the raging fire. Lorenzo, whom they had removed from the church on the charge of adultery, was a young, pure girl of this land just like the umbrella-maker’s daughter!
The scene soon filled with such reverence and awe it was as if the stars had retreated at the sound of the voice of God. The Christians assembled at the gate of the Santa Lucia all bowed down like young stalks of grain in the breeze, falling to their knees in circles around Lorenzo. All was silent, save the hissing and crackling of flames reaching to the dark sky, and the sniffling and sobbing of those gathered around. The sobs may have belonged to the Umbrella-maker’s daughter or they may have belonged to Lorenzo’s beloved Simeon. The Father Superior finally broke the forlorn silence. With his hands aloft over the body of Lorenzo, he began to recite the scriptures, filling the ears of all around him with grief. He finished his words and the young girl of this country known as Lorenzo, her eyes raised to the glory of heaven just past the dark of the night sky, breathed her last, a delicate smile on her lips.
Nothing else is known about the life of this girl. But that is no matter, for the magnificence of a person’s life is condensed into the singular moment when their spirit reaches its pinnacle of expression. A man will make his life worth living when he tosses a wave into the darkest night, breaking through the firmament of human desire that stretches over the sea, and captures in its foam the light of the moon yet to rise. Therefore, do not those who know Lorenzo’s end know the whole of her life?
2
I have in my posession a book published by the Nagasaki Church called the Legenda Aurea*. But it is not filled only with the golden legends of Europe. Along with the words and deeds of European saints there are many tales of bravery and religious devotions of the early Japanese Christians, which I assume were composed for evangelical purposes.
Consisting of two volumes, the books are printed on an old type of mino paper using a mixture of hiragana and Chinese characters in cursive style. The letters have so faded that it is hard to determine whether or not they were printed. The title-page of volume one contains the name of the book written horizontally in Latin. Underneath, in two vertical columns of Chinese characters are the words: “Printed in early March, in the year
of our Lord 1596.” There is a picture of an angel blowing a trumpet on either side of the date. The illustrations have an immature, unpolished quality about them that contain a certain measure of charm. The title-page of the second volume is identical save the printing date, which reads, “Printed in the middle of March”.
The volumes consist of sixty pages each. The first volume divides its golden legends into eight chapters while the second volume is composed of ten chapters. They both contain prefaces by an anonymous author, as well as tables of contents which are filled with a mix of Japanese and Latin characters. The preface contains stiff translations of European texts, and one can easily imagine them being penned by European missionaries.
The above text “The Martyr” was found in the second chapter of the second volume of the Legenda Aurea, and it quite possibly records an actual event from the history of the Christian Church in Nagasaki. However, even with the aid of the Nagasaki Minatogusa (Miscellanies of the Port of Nagasaki) and other references, it is impossible to ascertain if the great fire mentioned in the story ever took place, let alone its exact date of occurrence.
For the publication of this story I have taken the liberty of adding some literary embellishment to the tale, though I sincerely hope that I have not unintentionally impaired it’s simple, refined style.
August, 1919
*The source reference to the Legenda Aurea was a hoax exploited by Akutagawa and later admitted to be a fabrication.
Agni
Tucked away in a corner of Shanghai stood a dark house. It was steeped in shadows even at midday. On the second floor sat an old, sinister Indian woman and an American with a glint of money in his eye. They were deep in conversation.
The American held a match to his cigarette. “I’ve come here to ask you to read my fortune again.”