The Samurai's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

profusion of fancy pillows. But Hugh wasn’t even looking at the bed—his attention was taken by the wide mahogany desk with chairs on either side that occupied the room’s center.
    â€œAn old partners desk,” Hugh said, touching its smooth surface. “This is what every junior lawyer would love to have someday. And such a gorgeous patina.”
    â€œI can find you a desk that’s similar,” my mother said with a gleam in her eye.
    I had to practically drag my mother out of Hugh’s room so that he could get going on his shower. While he washed, my mother and I had salad and sourdough toast—my favorite local treat—inthe kitchen, and by the time I’d loaded the dishwasher, Hugh had come down to telephone for a taxi.
    â€œI’ll be back by late afternoon,” he promised, kissing me at the door and giving my mother a wave.
    After he left, my mother sighed. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
    â€œI think so too.” We squeezed hands for a moment, and I thought about how I’d thought the house was too empty before. Now, with Hugh around, things seemed just right.
    My mother went back to decorating, and I slunk upstairs to my room to examine the slides I’d made from photos of some Shimura family heirlooms. The first was a close-up of a sword that was crafted for one of my ancestors during the late 1500s—the Muromachi Period, when there were still frequent wars between different feudal states. My father had said that it had been used by one of his direct ancestors, a Shimura nobleman, in defending the castle of his cousin—who happened to be the daimyo, or feudal lord, of a little-known wood-producing region. Our ancestor had lost his arm in the battle, but retained possession of the sword. I winced, as I always did when picturing this story, and began writing.
    Shinto, the ancient religion of Japan, fostered a belief that swords contained the soul of a samurai, and thus were religious objects worthy of worship at a family’s altar. In the Shimura household, a legend was told about the heroic samurai Jun Shimura, who lost an arm in the defense of a family stronghold. His sword was carefully kept in its original sheath and hung for display several times a year, times at which the family bowed down to pray before it.
    I laid down my pen. I had an antipathy to weapons. In my opinion, a rice pot that had served the family through lean and lavish times was the kind of object worthy of family worship. I’d even revere a quilt patched together from old blue-and-white robes called yukata ; my father had told me about such a quilt that his great-grandmother had made, and that he and his brother had slept under for many years, until it finally wore out. That was the problem, exactly: Crockery broke, and fabric frayed. The delicate things that I cared about perished, while the hard things like swords survived.
    I wandered down to the second floor, hoping to take a closer look at the sword, to get more excited about it than I felt. I knocked on my parents’ bedroom door and my father called for me to enter. He was sitting on a chaise with a checkbook in hand.
    â€œI thought you had to work this afternoon,” I said.
    â€œThere were a few cancellations. Now I’m sorry I rushed out of lunch. Is your friend safely arrived?”
    â€œYes, but he already had to go somewhere for a meeting. Dad, I actually came to your room to take another look at the sword.” It was hanging over a tall dresser.
    â€œWould you like me to take it down for you?”
    I shook my head. “Let’s do it later, when Hugh’s here. He might find it interesting. Anyway, since you’re here, maybe you can answer a few questions. How did you bring it into this country?”
    â€œIt was quite difficult,” my father said, sighing. “My parents wanted me to have it, but the verification of its status with the government office