The Battle of Bun’ei. Chapter Six

Why did we come here, to this village with an unpronounceable name, Sigashekuma — Shigashakuma — Hagishakuma, who knows, who cares, the helicopter pilot didn’t know either, just pointed at the snow and shrugged, as if to say, “Here, this is where dreams go to die.”

Cold, so cold, colder than my uncle’s heart when I asked for a second Lamborghini, colder than the look my wife gave me when I said I was going to Japan for “business.”

And what business is this, watching villagers in bathrobes and plastic swords shuffle around like extras in a bad samurai movie, not even a Netflix original, more like a YouTube video with three views and two dislikes. Even the monkeys in Nagano were more cheerful, at least they had the decency to bathe in hot water, not this frozen hell.

What are they doing here, these people? Why would one live like this?

Tea, only tea, not even coffee, not even a whiff of cardamom, just hot water and leaves, and the mayor kept bowing and smiling, his teeth chattering, his belly wobbling, like a sumo wrestler who lost his way. I asked for coffee, he offered me more tea… Just weak, watery tea in chipped cups. Is this hospitality? Is this culture? Is this a national festival? The sheikh would laugh. He’ll laugh. I asked for dates, mayor offered me pickled cabbage. I asked for warmth, he offered me a tent with a hole in the roof.

But Miss Ayumi, ah, Miss Ayumi, a rose among thorns, a diamond in a cabbage patch, tall and elegant, her laughter like music, her stories about the village so funny, so strange, how did she end up here, what did she do to deserve this exile, this punishment, this place cursed by Allah and all the prophets. She should be in Tokyo, in Paris, in Riyadh, not here, not with these people who think a festival is standing in the snow and pretending to fight Mongols.

And the “samurais,” what samurais, more like sleepwalkers, shuffling, yawning, one of them sneezed so hard his wig fell off, another tried to draw his sword and dropped it in the snow, and the mayor shouted, “Valor! Honor!” and the villagers just looked at him like he was mad, which he probably is.

No, the monkeys are definitely more cheerful than these “samurais.” At least the monkeys know how to enjoy a hot bath. At least the monkeys don’t try to make you drink cabbage juice. At least the monkeys don’t pretend to be something they’re not.

They would put on a better show. Their natural antics. More thrilling. More authentic. Than these “samurais” with their chattering teeth and their pathetic bamboo sticks. Is this the great spectacle? To watch a few shivering fools, pretend to fight, then jump into what looks like a giant bowl of ice cubes? And then the woman, the mayor’s… friend? She just jumps in. Madness. Utter madness. Sub-zero. For what? Some drunken villagers. No, no. This is not for me. Better to fly. Now. Before the frostbite settles in. What an absurdity.

Next year, I’m going to Switzerland. Or maybe just stay home. At least there, the coffee is good.

Chapter Seven