She leaves Nagasaki as she entered it. The same shy impudence—a superior air of indifference mingled ironically with the self-consciousness of a girl who has yet to become a woman is obvious in her bearing. The day is much like that in which I greeted her—dank and grey; the air heavy with water gradually shedding into rain. The train platform, as always, is packed with damp, short bodies dressed in dark suits, amidst which the scarlet cloak and unreasonable height stand like a poppy in a field of stones. Her head, heavy with reddish hair; coarse and twirled like unraveled rope, is held evenly, neither high nor low. The face—round, white and guileless, stares straight ahead with no emotions visible. She is not welcome here; she has never been—foreign women are accepted in such filthy places as the outskirts of Yokohama, but her arrival in Nagasaki, three months ago in the autumn of year she would number 1876, was a direct affront to the customs of this place. The Dutch have caused enough trouble here without importing their brazenly independent women—

The women of the ukiyo-e; the prints made of foreigners, were the first, and only others, I have seen. That was nine years ago, upon my own arrival to this harbor city. The line of work I was put into made contact with the Dutch—the legendary demons of my childhood tales—inevitable. There were British and Americans as well—perhaps not so innately evil as the Dutch, but equally as vile in appearance. Awkward protruding noses, strange hair and odd clothing—the last of which I was soon forced by new conventions to adopt. But no women. These were not allowed in Nagasaki.

Those that I did see were hopeless ugly beyond even the flattering stylization of the talented Yokohama artists. An oddity, another displeasing aspect of the Western cultural onslaught, but nothing more than that to me at the time. There were more important things; uglier things I had to confront. The struggle against my own will to survive for a future that held no place for me.

For now, it might. A war is brewing, and I am also leaving—not north to Yokohama, but south, to Kagoshima and Takamori Saigo. At long last, the training I received in the shigakko will be of use to someone besides bureaucrats and foreigners. All my stay here, I have been praised for my knowledge and intelligence, both unquestioned. Though I falsified the exact details of my origin for reasons ironically having less to do with politics than religion, it was obvious that I was samurai. Few others are as well-educated—or, in these times, as dispossessed.

The price for my departure would be high only if I had any intention of coming back here, to Nagasaki. Whether by victory or death, I am determined that will never have need of tally sheets and false smiles again. If only I could truly banish all intention—

As if summoned, she turns. Wide blue eyes stare at me pointedly; badly concealed by feigned apathy. She isn’t surprised to see me--of the whole city of thousands, she is the only one who definitely knows where I am headed, and is probably the only one who really cares. There are no more than five men between us, but we both stand, immobile and unspeaking. She is not traveling alone; a young woman dressed in simple dark blue kimono, holds her valise. I wonder why she is not going back to Europe, as her brother must remain here, with his business. Doubtless, she could have found sea passage from here. She must be going to Yokohama to stay, but with whom? The last time we spoke there was no mention—

As if it matters now. We spoke of too much, and it is better—better that I will not know where to seek her, and that she will think me dead. If she thinks of me at all.

A holder of the false gospel, foreign blight, materialist usurper—she is all of these. It is impossible not to hate her; from the parasol she carries like a little girl’s affectation to the gaudy kimono beneath her European cloak. This land and everything in it is merely an amusement; an exotic locale to bring forth in future conversations, while playing hostess-wife to a man gotten plump off of trading silk…raising her children to believe in imperialism and the Protestant lies about God…for these reasons, I look at her with unrepentant indifference. Kinship cannot exist between souls as naturally divided as ours, despite whatever happened here. There is no magic in friendship; only weakness that falters in the face of reality. Human attachments, like the material are only temporal…

I have only this lonely truth, but she has nothing at all to console her. Her shoulders, though covered, shiver in the cold as condensation slides like down her cheeks like tears. The group surrounding us moves forward. Her train has arrived, and I must go to seek my own.