HEART O HEART CONVERSATION
No Honour, No Name, No Country
GOOD Morning! Haha, I startled you. You would never have guessed I might come at daytime, did you? Surprise! Today is a holiday, so yes, I can risk it. I'm sorry, no apples today. But I baked bread. See? It is still warm. I love this sort of bread, it is hard to find in France, but baking a loaf of bread only for myself is not much fun. But to share it with someone... yes, then it is worth the trouble.
No wine today. No. The hangover last time was enough, thank you. I don't need that again so soon.
I knew you would like the bread.
Living in the house of the English merchant in India was really something I liked. Of course he did show off his private little freakshow and I was somehow the most valuable piece of his collection for I was not only a curiosity from a foreign country - he assumed I was from India and did never even suspect I was a European - I was horribly disfigured and he never tired of shocking his guests with my appearance, especially after I entertained them at dinner with polite conversation and music and magic. He experimented a little with my clothing and finally came to the conclusion that if I appeared dressed like any European gentleman - looking very normal except for the mask - and then showed my face the effect was the best. Everyone expected the mask to be just for show and I would be normal underneath.
He dressed me like orchestra musicians would dress in Europe. Black tuxedo, white shirt, white necktie, shining black shoes. Reminds you of something? Really? At least I know a good idea if I see one. This was not my idea, but I liked the fact that I looked like a gentleman and with the perfect behaviour I had learned from Jose and Henry I was treated kindly by all his guests - unless the blasted unmasking was required. The other curiosities were the Chinese cook - that was the little man who was so agile - and the negro man-eater who was now "tamed" and a manservant at the dinners... Well, he was no cannibal. He had never eaten human flesh and he was no bounty hunter or whatever. He had been a slave who was bought by the Englishman, he had been enslaved under the accusation of cannibalism. The funny thing about him was that he was Christian, always had been. Someone in his country had heard him speak the words of the Holy Communion, "precious blood of Christ" and "body of Christ" and this had been mistaken for him eating a human being. Or maybe this was just a lame excuse to enslave him from the Arab slave-traders.
There were the Arabian belly dancers and the fakir. Not so large, his little freakshow, the other servants were normal people, most of them from India.
The fakir was mo real fakir. No real fakir would join a freak show, they were worshiped like saints by the natives. This was just a skinny old man who had figured out how to pose as fakir to fool stupid Europeans who couldn't tell the difference. I once tried his bed of nails. Once you know how to lie down, everyone can do so. It is not painful, unless you are heavier than 70 kilogram. I guess you better not try it.
Well, I actually wanted to tell you about this "Chinese cook". He was no cook and he was no Chinese. As he explained, all barbarians - he considered Europeans and all other people barbarians - were too stupid to tell the difference. We were sitting on my bed in our little room when we had the conversation that was my first lecture.
"Never trust your eyes, Erik, for they just show you what others want you to see," he said and I nodded. I knew that. It was the same with a magic show. "Everyone thinks I am Chinese, just because I tell them I was. I am not. I am Japanese."
I had never even heard of Japan. Of course not, it was an island like England but it forbid any foreigner to enter - at death penalty. And since they considered it the most beautiful, most civilized, most harmonic country in the world, why would anyone leave it?
"But you did," I pointed out.
"Not on my free will," he confessed, "You see, I made a grave mistake and was forced to flee." We spent the next weeks with him talking about his native country. He was a very good storyteller and he was an artist - he could draw in a way I never could. He would draw something with his pen, show it to me and explain it, then burn it. He told me to be very careful for what he was teaching me was strictly forbidden, it would cost both our lives if we were ever found out. But his sketches - he never used dividers or a ruler and yet his sketches matched the precision of any blueprint! If I had thought Ivan had been one to insist on precision and perfection, I now learned that this man had a completely different level. Perfection was the least he expected, his demands were... no one would ever accomplish such perfection. But that did not hinder him from trying.
"What is your name then, if "Chang Lee" is just an alias?" I asked. He suddenly grew very quiet.
"Erik, you have to understand that I do not have a name or a country or honor. No honor, no name, no country. I am a ghost, I am Shinobi."
As if I had known what a Shinobi might be. Of course not. He explained it like this: Shinobi are more or less spies and assassins. Some call them Ninja. He was form the Japanese province Iga and this was the heartland of this ancient art. You see, in Japan everything can be a high art. They would not just drink tea, no, you need a tea master who studied for decades before he was allowed to make tea for guests. Making tea is an art, entertaining at parties is an art, fighting is an art - just everything is art. You can't just sit in a garden, gardening is an art, arranging flowers is an art, and sitting in the garden and enjoying a nice spring day - of course they make a huge ceremony out of that. At least in the way he told me about his native land.
I guess not everyone there lived like that. But what he told me of the things a Shinobi could do - it was magic. They literally could make themselves invisible, well, not really invisible, but everyone would overlook them. He drew a sketch of a blueprint to show me how they would build a house. It looked like a small farmhouse but it was... a clever defense machine. It was full of traps, trapdoors, secret passageways, hidden storerooms for weapons of all kinds... God, that was just great. The walls seemed to be straight, but they weren't. Change the angle just one degree, normally this is overlooked by all people, and you get enough space for hiding inside a wall that seems to be far too small for even a slender cat to hide. I wondered why he told me all these things instead of starting my training - I had seen him move and wanted to learn that. So I asked him and he laughed.
"Stupid boy! This IS the training I am giving you! Fighting is all good and well, but the best fight is always the one you do NOT have to fight," he told me, not angrily, more amused. Now I understood a bit better what he was doing. He was teaching me not only how to defend myself but he was teaching me so much more - how to become invisible, overlooked, a mere ghost. And the sketches of the castles and fortresses he made, with their tactical defense system, the visible one and the invisible one, I was so excited. He made a sketch, allowed me to study it, then he burned it and told me to draw a copy. We started with simple things, a shack, a farm-cottage, a barn or something like that, and once I mastered that we moved on to larger farmhouses and their surroundings until we ended up with large fortresses. Of course this was something I learned over years of practice, but my natural ability to remember everything I saw was of great help, even if I have to admit that I often made mistakes and he would mock me or punish me for not concentrating on the lectures.
The Englishman had a riding hall behind the stable. You had to go through the stable to reach the riding hall. And at night no one would be there and the horses would warn us of anyone approaching. So we used the riding hall to practice the actual fighting skills. My first lecture was to stand upright.
"I can stand on my feet," I retorted, a bit angry.
"Really, can you?" he asked, smiling. One small movement of his hand and I was on my knees before him. "I thought you can stand?"
"You pushed me!"
"Ah yes, I did. It is easy to stand when no one tries to bring you down. But you have to remain on your feet when everyone else is trying hard to force you to your knees," he lectured. I got up and tried again, this time I was prepared for the push - and he just pulled, I stumbled, but did not fall.
"One finger," he said, holding up his index finger. And then he showed me how he could bring me down with just one finger. Again and again I fell, he knew exactly how to hurt me. He poked with one finger at a certain spot on my body, he called these spots "atemi", and it hurt like hell. But he showed me how to use them, which point would do what to the opponent. One small poke to a certain spot and the opponent would not be able to breathe for a few moments, would slow down in the movement of his arms, would lose his body tension or just fall to the ground because his leg gave way.
At daytime we slept much. We became notorious for sleeping all day, everyone considered us lazy. Of course, all they saw was that we had to work twice a month at dinner parties, or me maybe two or three afternoons translating between the Englishman and his architect and his master mason, no one knew we were up all night practicing, learning, training. Once I had understood his concept of standing, he started to stretch my muscles and tendons until I could not hold in my cries of pain.
"Die silently!" he commanded. I didn't answer, I couldn't. I was lying on my stomach, my legs turned backwards so my heels were on my back and he was standing on my legs. It hurt like hell and I could barely breathe. "Or better - now training, dying later, after the lesson," he added with a chuckle. This was his normal sense of humor.
One evening he told me that the great masters had such a concentration and strong mind, they could hear a needle fall. I obviously was not properly impressed for he snapped at me that I didn't pay attention to him teaching me.
"If it is quiet enough, everyone can hear a needle falling," I answered.
He laughed. "Stupid boy! This is a rare ability not even every master ever acquires. And you, who knows nothing at all, think you can do that? Seldom have I seen such arrogance!"
I did not back down. I knew I could hear a needle falling and told him I would prove him wrong. He got a needle and sat on the stone-floor, telling me to sit with my back to him. He blindfolded me. Then I heard him sitting down behind me, telling me to concentrate and raise my hand whenever I would hear the needle hit the floor.
I heard the needle and waived my hand. I could hear the cotton of his shirt rustle, then it was quiet again, I guess he had picked the needle up. I waited for what seemed to be hours, then I heard the needle fall again.
The third try was interrupted because someone said something in the next room.
Then I heard the needle fall again.
I have no idea how long we played that game. Finally he moved towards me, I clearly heard the light rustle of his clothes, and turned round to catch his hand as he reached out for me.
He was startled as I - still blindfolded - pushed his hand aside.
"You really heard the needle," he stated and I could tell by his voice that he could barely believe it, "You even heard me. I was right, you are a natural. It would have been a shame to waste such talent."
From that day on my exercise became even more trying and he was a really demanding teacher.
I was certainly not talented when it came to fight with bare fists and feet. I needed weeks until I was able to make a fist properly. Well, and his training... whenever I thought I would faint he told me to double body-tension, speed and precision. I do not know how many times my stomach heaved and I was retching from overexcertion. He did never allow me to sit down or to drink - oh, he had a bottle of water, but to reach it I would have to fight him. Tell him? HA! If I asked for a break or a drink of water he would only make my excercise harder. His only answer was that in a real fight I would never have any chance to ask for a little respite. I had just two options - win or die. Better get used to it. He even taught me to fight without being able to breathe. Do you know how long 30 seconds are when you have a rope around your neck and can't breathe? But it is a very good training. Really. Normally everyone just panics, I do not, I function normally for at least 30 seconds. That can be enough to save my life.
Some might say that India has a very hot climate. This is not true in autumn and winter. It can be very cold. And it was cold, especially at night in the riding hall. My teachers solution was to give me a healthy warm up that left me breathless and covered in sweat before we even begun the real training. While I was practicing whatever he told me to he would distract me with questions about trapdoors, hiding places, defense systems and so on, about masquerading and concealing the identity, about tools that could save my life one day, about strategies and mind-games. It was very hard and every morning when everyone got up I just collapsed on my bed, unable to eat breakfast, too exhausted to even think of undressing, no matter I was covered in the dust from the riding hall, you know, that normal mix of sand, horse-droppings and urine, but mostly just sand.
Well, when the weather was quite cold I started to knit a new knit cap for me, one that would look like a sack over my head with only two holes for the eyes. It was some combination between mask and knit cap. Chang - since he never told me his real name I called him Chang - watched me curiously. I always felt uncomfortable when he was doing that, so I asked why he stared at me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Knitting a woolen cap because it is cold," I answered.
He gently took the knitting needles and studied them. You see, I did not have normal knitting needles, I had a circular knitting needle, that is two needles connected with a wire. He handed them back, nodding happily.
"Knitting needles. A harmless game for little girls. And yet these make a fine garotte. This proves my master right - everything can be a weapon if you know how to use it," he mused. I have to admit that I did not understand him at that time. My head was swimming with different ways to cover trapdoors and mechanisms to open them no one would even recognize as a lock unless he knew exactly what he was looking for.
That night I had to entertain at a dinner party. The Englishman wanted to show off his special servants again. I had a terrible cough - I guess due to the training in the cold hall - and could not sing. But singing had become more and more difficult that autumn and I didn't know why. It was as if my voice no longer obeyed me. I could sing, yes, but it was incredibly hard so I was glad I had that cough and could excuse myself from singing. I was playing the piano and a belly dancer was dancing. This was nothing I had not seen before but that evening I suddenly noticed that her orange silk dress was almost transparent. It revealed much more of her muscular body than a boy my age should see. Well, not that I had never seen naked women before, but it had never bothered me the way it did that evening.
I broke into prespiration, my breathing was out of control, I was breathing hard as if I was undergoing physical exercise and sweat was tickling down my neck under my long hair, my hands were sweaty and I felt my body growing hot as if I had high fever. I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on my music, but I still could see her almost naked body and her fast moving hips with closed eyes. My fingers touched the wrong keys, the melody was interrupted and I tried to continue playing but it was impossible. My hard breathing caused a horrible coughing fit, I was sure I would suffocate. I was not even able to excuse myself, I got up and fled from the room to the next restroom. Usually we servants were not allowed to use the restrooms for the Englishman and his guests, but I was sure I was going to be sick any moment now, I had no choice.
"Erik?" I heard Chang behind me. I was kneeling next to the sink, my mask off, coughing and spitting mucus. He gently pulled back my loose hair to make it easier for me as my stomach turned and I was sick.
These coughing fits could make my stomach turn, this was normal, I was used to it. And yes, that time I had long brown hair. My hair was like a shaggy mane around my head because I could not cut it myself and I had no one who ever did it for me. Baldness was something I only got later. At the age of fourteen I had much hair, but it never was beautiful. It was a shaggy mane and no matter how much I tried it would remain shaggy.
"I guess you better go to bed, I'll give them your apologies," Chang said worriedly. I just nodded and went to bed obediently. I was not that tired, I seriously expected him to give me another training that night, but breathing was not easy and I was glad that I had been spared the humiliation of the unmasking.
Chang came to our room soon after I had covered myself with my blanket. He allowed his face to show worry as he touched my neck, checking pulse and temperature. "No fever," he observed, "But the pulse is racing."
I nodded and looked away. I had no idea what was happening to me and what caused that.
"Try to sleep," he advised and I closed my eyes.
I must have drifted off to sleep for I dreamed that I was back at the party, the girl was dancing again in that flimsy orange dress and again I stared at her. I just stood there, staring at her, taking in every detail of her body, from her dark eyes with those incredibly long lashes, the raven black hair, the full breasts... and my body grew hot again, my breathing quickened and I felt a traction in my lower abdomen. I looked down and noticed I was naked and everyone was staring at me. A horrible nightmare, I woke breathless and soaked with sweat.
For a moment I just lay there, trying to control my breathing. With a sigh I got up, I needed to go to the restroom. When I got up I noticed horrified that my pants were wet. God, I was fourteen years old, it was a few days after my birthday and it had been years since the last time I had wet the bed in my sleep. And now? Now I woke with my pants wet. And my teacher was in the upper bed, luckily he had chosen the upper one, I didn't even dare to think what might have happened if he had chosen the other bed. I didn't understand how something horrible like that could have happened again. I was so ashamed and hoped I could change the sheets without waking him up.
Of course he woke up. He lit a candle and looked at me as I stood there, clutching the sheets before my lower stomach, trying to hide the shameful wetness, my head down, red with shame. He got up and grabbed my wrist, forcing me to let go of the sheets. I was crying with shame when he saw the wetness between my legs. He didn't mock me or berate me. He just nodded and said: "Congratulations. You're no longer a child."
"WHAT?" I gasped, not understanding what was going on.
"Go wash yourself, then I explain it to you," he commanded gently.
First I cleaned myself, changed my trousers and got new sheets. You see, there was no running water in that house. There was a well in the backyard, I would have to go down there, fetch a bucket of water, go to the servant's bathroom to have a wash and the used water would run through a pipe to the streets. All dirty water just ended on the streets. The toilets were latrines, the servant's restrooms just had wooden boxes with buckets, the gentleman's were marble sinks - and the bucket would be in the room below, out of his sight. I do not know if he even knew how his toilets worked and that he needed servants to clean the buckets regularly.
When I was finished cleaning myself up, Chang and I sat on my bed and he patiently explained to me that I didn't need to worry my bed-wetting problem had returned - I was just growing up. He considered me a grown man now for I would be able to father a child.
When he said that I broke down sobbing. "I don't want to be a man!" I cried, "I don't want to be a man!"
This surprised him. Normally boys can't wait to grow up. I didn't. I told him what I knew of men and how easy it was to shut down their capacity for logic just by pretending to be a girl flirting with them. "I do not want to be a man!" I cried out, "I do not want someone else to control my thinking, I do not want to stay that small forever!" Yes, I was rather small for a fourteen years old boy and I had hoped I would grow up to be tall because my parents had been tall, or at least I remembered them to be tall.
"Stupid boy," Chang laughed, "Stupid, stupid Erik. No one can control you, you can control that urge. As long as you control it, no one can use it against you. And for your height... maybe you will grow even more now?"
"But I am a dwarf!" I cried, "Just an ugly, disgusting, deformed dwarf! No one will ever like me! What good is the ability to father a child when I am just an unloved dwarf no woman can stand my sight without being sick!" I threw the pillow against the wall in my despair.
"O my stupid Erik," he sighed and shook his head, picked up the pillow and handed it to me.
I flung myself belly down on my bed, my face pressed into the pillow, crying myself to sleep.
Another nightmare had just begun.
My body started to grow fast, weakening my health and by Christmas I had gained five centimeters in height and was bed-ridden with lung infection. I have to say that I am grateful to the Englishman. He did not throw me out although he could not use me for his Christmas Celebration as he had intended to do - I was too busy trying not to suffocate. He allowed me to stay in bed and I got three meals a day. I would not have survived the winter in Lahore without his help.
My body changed so much, and that shameful urge came back regularly. Far too often for my taste. I knew that if I had been a gypsy I would have been married by now, so that would be normal, if I had been a normal working-class boy I would have my girlfriend and if I would have been a son of a noble family I would now be introduced to the secrets of love by a woman of questionable reputation. But nothing like that for Erik. For me there was only the degrading secret self-abuse locked in the toilet for that was the only room to guarantee the necessary minimum of privacy and afterwards the gnawing shame.
O, I'm sorry. Did I offend you? Sorry. I didn't mean to. I just... I need to unburden myself somehow and I was told talking to someone helps. Please tell me if it becomes too much for you to bear. No? Thank you. I really appreciate your help. You are a very good friend, thank you.
More bread? Wow, I guess we are going to eat all of it today if we continue like that.
Soon after Christmas I got better, but my voice was gone. First I thought his was a side-effect of my illness, but it wasn't. My voice was gone and did not return, no matter what herbal teas and portions I tried. I was devastated. My voice was the only beauty I had - and now it was gone.
In retrospect I have to admire Chang's patience dealing with my crying fits. They happened far too often, as well as my temper tantrums. As a child it had been easy to obey and to do what I was told, I had been eager to please and - as unlikely as it seemed - I had accepted my fate. Not now. Now I questioned everything for everything seemed to be so useless, unimportant and not worth my time.
I guess every adolescent boy has a time when he thinks himself ugly, unloved and does not want to live any longer. But I knew for sure that I was the ugliest man in the world and no one would ever love me. My body changed for the worse, especially my skin. It started with itching pimples at my forehead. I guess I do not have to say that wearing a mask did nothing to help - on the contrary, I kept popping the pimples or just scratching them through the fabric of my mask. And then the next day I had even more of them. And more and more. And not only my forehead was covered with itching pimples, no, my neck, my shoulders, my breast and my back too.
In spring when the weather was growing warm again, the building site required more attention. It was just month before that palace - I can't call it something else because it was a palace - was finished and the Englishman needed me more often to translate something for him. He found out I could speak many languages, I could read them, but writing was almost impossible. You see, no one had ever bothered to teach me spelling. I simply did not know. I could read even Russian and with great difficulty, Arabian letters, but I could not spell correctly. I have to admit, spelling still is not my strong side.
My life was a horrible chaos then. My hygiene had improved much since I was no longer living on the streets, but my skin condition worsened with each day. Of course I was not the only boy with itching pimples, I saw many children my age, but not one had such a horrible skin as I. I was working each day as translator, I had to entertain the guests twice a month and I had to practice each night - and I asked myself what for. Why do I subject myself to so much pain? What for? Only to wake up and suffer the same torment the next day and the day after - and if I would run away, my life would be even worse. So what was I fighting for? My future looked bleak to say the least. I would never be anything but an unloved, lonely circus freak.
Maybe my life was too easy that time - I never had any time to worry about the future before, I had always been too busy to survive the day, to get some food and sleep, but now that my basic needs were no longer a problem I had time for luxury problems.
I know. Most boys think running away would make their lives better. I knew perfectly well I would end up in the streets again and that would be far worse. My clothes were suddenly too short, as well as my shoes, I was growing fast and my joints hurt with every movement. I was constantly tired and I could not find the strength to do anything. Even Chang could not cheer me up or get me interested in another lecture.
No, I did not refuse. Never. I still did as I was told to do, because I knew perfectly well that I had no choice. I dreaded the life as a street kid now that I knew the luxury of three meals a day and a warm bed to sleep in. But I started to ask myself what I was fighting for.
Chang told me it was absolutely normal for a boy my age to feel ugly and unloved, he should not have said that, for it caused another temper tantrum, I was crying and yelling at him at the same time, if he had not been such a great fighter I might even have injured him. I remember putting up quite a fight in my anger at his comment and finally lying sobbing in the sand of the riding hall, my face in his lap, his hands soothingly caressing my back.
"Why do you tell me every boy feels unloved and ugly? I know for sure that I am the ugliest boy in the world! I know for sure that I am the most hated boy in the world, no one ever loved me and no one ever will! Why should I endure hellish torment each day, only to suffer more the next? Why can't I just die?" I sobbed into the folds of his shirt.
"My stupid Erik," he sighed, "There are so many reasons to live."
"Name one," I retorted sulkily, I was sure he would not find one reason for me to live.
"Teaching," he answered, "Teaching what you know. That is much better than love, love is treacherous. Love turns men into fools. You do not need to love or to be loved to find peace."
"But what's in for ME?" I asked, calming down a bit, "I give a damn on the world or the greater good - what is in for me? What can I gain?"
A heavy sigh told me that this was almost the exact opposite of what he had wanted to hear from me. "O Erik," he sighed again, "You have a very long way to go before you understand. Do you really think anything you posses can give you the peace of mind you wish for? You only find the peace of mind if you rid yourself of all desires and accept your fate with stoic indifference."
Great. As if such wisdom would ever help a despairing fourteen year old child. But I had calmed down enough to feel ashamed of myself and the shameful display I made of my sorrow.
"O Erik, you concentrate far too much on what you do not have than on the good things you have."
"Nothing! I have nothing, I am nothing, I will never have anything and nobody will ever respect me!" I spat sulkily.
He let go of me and bowed to me. He really bowed to me. Since I was his pupil he had taught me how to bow properly to show my respect for my teacher in his culture. And now he bowed to me. My tears stopped and I sniffed, wiping my missing nose with my sleeve.
"I respect you," he said, "Am I nobody?"
I panicked, threw myself at his feet in the gesture of self-degradation he had shown me as appropriate to beg forgiveness for offending a teacher. You see, a teacher is highly respected in his culture, some are worshiped like kings, they have a nearly religious status. Being disrespectful would cost my head, had we been in his country. I didn't want him to stop my education, I have to admit that I highly respected him and, yes, that I loved him. "Forgive me, SENSEI," I whispered, for the first time using the title he had told me a teacher, a master, would be called by his pupils. And it was so easy to be disrespectful in his always-striving-for-harmony culture - every tiny gesture could be interpreted as disrespect. Voicing another opinion was disrespect, saying no a horrible offence.
"You are forgiven," he said, waiving his hand, indicating it was nothing at all, "Now, back to our lesson. Try to move through the horse stable without alarming the horses."
It was no trial. The horses knew me and did not pay attention. They were used to me coming to the stable every so often, just to caress their soft noses and feed them stale bread. I always loved horses. Horses are beautiful animals. And of course no one knew that I would sometimes get one of them out of the box and practice a bit in the riding hall at night. With the balance and body tension - kime - my teacher had trained me I was even able to stand on a horse when it moved. Well, not in gallop and surely not in trod, but in walk. But I could do it at all, which was a great achievement.
Except my sudden mood-swings and my constant feeling like the worst piece of crap my life was not bad then. It is a miracle I managed to control my emotions, which were constantly in a turmoil, when I was around the Englishman and his guests and business partners. I was a professional, I could do my magic show and my music no matter what I felt. But the unmasking was even more humiliating now that my skin condition was so bad. You see, with my face covered the only problem was the itching. But with the mask off everyone saw not only my horrible face but purulent pimple, some of them open, purulence oozing out of open wounds, sore spots where I had scratched myself too much. Yes, some of the wounds in my face, my neck and my upper torso even got infected in the heat of the summer, when the temperature was at about 45 degree Celsius and I kept myself constantly covered.
You might not believe there was something worse looking than my face is now - but there was. It was my face with infected lacerations and stinking purulence oozing out of them. Keeping my face constantly covered made it even worse, in the wetness of my sweat the infections grew worse. Chang was the first one to tell me that we needed to change something or I would lose too much of the flesh of my face to the infections. He told me I needed to clean the wounds in my face, my neck, my back and my breast and give them time to heal, keeping them dry so I would not risk re-infection. I would get nasty scars from what I already had done to myself, but if I would not allow my skin to heal I might lose pieces of flesh or worse. I might literally have my skin and my flesh rot away.
I didn't care. At that time my favourite answer to everything was "Who cares? I don't give a damn shit!". It was a quite adequate expression of my feelings at that time.
Chang slapped me. He slapped me so hard I found myself on the floor at his feet when I was woke up again. "I care, stupid boy!" he snapped, "Don't you dare question me!"
Sometimes I think he should have hit me more often. I deserved it for my really childish behaviour. Somehow I was more childish with fourteen than the year before. And I was a bit more than ten centimeters taller.
Somehow he persuaded the Englishman to send for a doctor, a European doctor, to see if he could help me. The doctor first nearly fainted when he saw me. He thought it must hurt horribly, but it was absolutely painless. It was just the itching that drove me crazy. The doctor had no real cure for me, he just told me that pimples were normal for a boy that age - I really hated this "this is normal for a boy that age" phrase for no one could even begin to understand what I was going through at that time - and I would have to expose my skin to air and keep it dry and clean. First he gave me pure alcohol to disinfect my wounds. That hurt.
I was forced to clean my skin with a cloth with pure alcohol, and I had to use a mirror to do it properly. You can't imagine what I was going through each day. After one week I did not want to live any longer. I went to the riding-hall at night, saying good-by to the horses, then I climbed up one of the roof trusses and secured a rope there. I made a noose - not a real hangman's noose, but that would do - slipped it over my head and sat at the roof-truss, ready to jump. I was crying, I was desperate, I was helpless. And somehow I thought what might happen after my death and realized with horror that no one would bemoan my death. I would just be cut down, my corpse thrown away like any animals and everyone would forget me. I didn't want this. Somehow I wanted that if I was dead at least one person would feel the loss. After some time I took off the noose, cut the rope and climbed down again to sneak back into my bed, ashamed of my cowardice. My hand touched my tattoo "Never say die", but it would have been a lie to say I didn't kill myself because I remembered my pact with Karl or anything else - it was just cowardice. Shameful, despicable cowardice.
Of course Chang found out. I have never been good in hiding anything from him. He had a different view on suicide than anyone else. To him suicide could be an honorable way to end one's life, if it was done the right way and out of the right motive. But suicide out of despair and fear was not something acceptable.
"Erik, tell me what I do wrong?" he asked to my great surprise. Of course he did nothing wrong. "But if I do nothing wrong, why do you want to kill yourself? Am I such a bad teacher?"
"It has nothing to do with you - it is just me. Chang-sensei, I am grateful for what you are doing for me but... don't you see that I can't endure any more pain? I can't! I have to see my face each day in a mirror, I can't hide it, but I am still forced to perform as a magician and musician. I... I have to play music seeing the girls dancing, knowing they will never allow me to touch them, but they are driving me mad with their bloody belly dancing! Only a week ago a woman vomited seeing my naked face. There is no hope at all my life would ever be better, no matter how hard I try, and I am so tired of trying. I am so weary, I don't want it. I just want to lie down and have peace."
"O my stupid Erik," he sighed, but this time it made me mad. I yelled at him and attacked him. I should have known better. With all the strength and agility I already possessed that time he just needed one tiny move of his hand and I was immobilized standing there, unable to move. The pen he had in his hand pressed painfully against a certain spot at my jaw.
"You call THAT an attack?" he mocked, "Come to the riding-hall! NOW! We practice!" That night he made me practice until I passed out in the sand of the riding hall.
What shall I tell you? My skin condition got better now that I kept myself clean. I had to wash trice a day, change my shirt and my mask. I would wash my clothes in boiling water to stop my wounds from constantly re-infecting. It helped, to a certain degree - the pimples did not go away.
I could not wear my old shoes now, they were too small, and my shirts and trousers were too short, but I could wear them nevertheless. Only now the Englishman noticed that I was growing. He stared at my naked ankles as I stood there, bare-footed playing the violin while he was busy with another of his collections - stones. He had so many stones, most of them simply stones, some really gem stones and some semiprecious-stone. He was constantly re-arranging his collection and he loved to have me standing there, playing the violin for him.
"Are you still growing?" he asked, a surprised undertone in his voice.
"I am," I answered, without interrupting my music. It was easy to play when no naked girls were there to distract me.
"Just how old are you?"
"In five month fifteen," I answered.
He stared at me. "You are a child," he observed. I let out an annoyed grunt. I did not like being called a child any more. "I hadn't known that," he mused, "When you play music or show your magic - you seem to be so much older."
"I am a magician - nothing is as it seems to be," I answered cryptically, trying to stay true to my role. But my voice was out of control. Voice break. I blushed with shame for my voice suddenly was high-pitched and a bit raspy.
He sighed. "I guess you need new clothes," he said. Just like that. And the next day he told a seamstess to take my measures for a new suit.
She was a young woman in a sari - you know, a sari, these long clothes women in India wear traditionally. As a pariah she was not allowed to wear a blouse under her sari, so... You can't imagine the effect it had on me. She did show disgust. She was from a Pariah family that usually earned their livelihood collecting carcasses and corpses and disposing of them or carrying buckets with human faeces out of the house. So touching a rotting carcass or touching me must have been much the same to her, but still she showed her disgust and fear quite unashamed.
As much as it hurt me to see her shuddering in disgust as she took my measures, my body surely had other plans. The delicate hands of this young woman touched my hips and I felt as if a jolt of electricity running through my hips. I winced and retreated, telling her not to touch me. She did not understand English and we were alone in that room. She stared at me, her eyes wide in fear, I backed away until my back hit the wall, and stared down at my own body. Of course I wore a mask, a shirt and my trousers. Did you think I would ever allow a woman to see me naked? My reaction was... premature to say the least. I stood there, not understanding what was happening, my physical reaction disgusting and shocking me. Of course I had seen men and women making love, even men and boys, but this... I had never expected my body would react like that to the touch of a woman, especially when I saw her disgust at having to touch me.
My... condition... did not go unnoticed. She screamed something. I didn't understand, maybe she was screaming something like "help", maybe she was just telling me to stay away from her. And I was in the middle of a terrible hubbub before I had any chance to gather my bearings. Some of the Indian servants yelled at me, some at her. The woman was a sobbing mess and I tried to explain that I had done nothing. At least my fear subdued my rebellious body.
The Englishman never knew about this. He was never to be troubled by the problems of his servants. As I was told later there was a discussion who would be to blame - the woman or I. As a gentleman I should have considered taking the blame for the misunderstanding, but... I was no gentleman at that time. I was too ashamed and too frightened to do anything. Some of the Indian servants said it was her fault - she was a Pariah, worse than that, she was a woman, of course it was her fault. But most of them said I was dangerous and should be cast out. Actually I was dangerous, but they didn't know the real reason why. I was in no way dangerous to any woman of the household, certainly not.
My life became miserable. I had been an outcast before, being just one of the private collection of freaks. But now I was considered dangerous to women. I wasn't. To be true, I was so scared of my reaction to a woman's sight that I tried to avoid them. I was too ashamed to ask my teacher for guidance. He noticed anyway. I could not hide the way I tried NOT to look at the belly dancers at dinners. I could not hide how I lost my skills in playing the violin or doing my magic tricks, how my voice quavered when the belly dancers were dancing. I guess everyone knew to my eternal shame.
I did not understand their language, but I could guess what they said about me. And this time I was scared myself. I did not know what was happening to me, I was scared I might turn out to be the monster everyone feared, the monster whose touch was so horrible, a woman could die of sheer terror. And my... inability to deal with my problem made me aggressive.
I have to thank my kind teacher for teaching me how to channel my frustration and aggression into my practice. He introduced me to weapons now. He had many weapons, he told me their names and the theory how to use them. Then we would practice. Practice, until I dropped to the ground in exhaustion. He never failed to wear me out. And when I was lying in the sand, struggling to catch my breath, he would go on lecturing me as if nothing had happened. His stamina was unbelievable. My greatest victory that time was when he was out of breath after our exercise.
He introduced me to the swords. He had two swords, called katanas. They were the finest steel and the sharpest blades I ever saw. He told me they were made of steel, folded a thousand times. A sword had a name and a soul, but not his. Like himself, his swords would never have a name and he would never tell anyone who forged them. In our training we used wooden sticks. I can tell you, these wooden sticks can hurt badly - I was black and blue all the time, arching terribly, but he didn't give me one day's rest. He had so many weapons, I would never master them all. But he taught me the basics and then watched me carefully, trying to find out which weapons I would like most. His opinion was that the weapon has to be the right partner for the fighter. It is a bit like horse-riding. I would never ride a Shetland pony, it is far too small. I need a horse that matches my height and riding skill. A beginner will never be able to ride an Arab horse. A skilled horseman might find a Noriker horse a bit too calm. The same with weapons - not everyone can master every weapon.
To his great surprise it was a weapon he called "Nagenawa". The Nagenawa is a long rope or wire with stones or metal balls at the end. Sometimes one end is just a stick and the other end a ball as large as a fist. The rope can be short, about 1,5 meters, or long, up to 3,5 meters. It is easy to produce, easy to hide and usually no one even recognizes this as a weapon. Of course the rope can be substituted with a chain, but chains tend to be noisy, so he preferred the rope, a thin rope made of catgut.
The basic principle is easy. You wield it, throw it, and it wraps itself around the neck, the legs, the arms of your opponent. When you aim for the neck very often the weight - stone or metal ball - hits the head of the opponent, knocking him down or at least causing dizziness and headache. In theory. In practice it is not that easy. This weapon fascinated me because it did not look like a weapon at all. And it was far more effective than the silkscarf-and-stone weapon some Indian thugs used. You see, that silk scarf works much the same - but you have to be far closer to the opponent and the silk scarf can only be used when you sneak up on your opponent from behind. The Nagenawa is much more versatile. You can even use it to block a sword or a spear if necessary. You can block almost every weapon with it, except guns. There is no way to block a gunshot, you can just try to evade it, but that is difficult.
And I could wear my Nagenawa openly, pretending it was just a rope I used like a belt with my caftan, or I had it openly in my hand, pretending it to be nothing but a skipping rope. Of course you can use it as skipping rope. I loved multi-purpose weapons that looked so innocent, I loved the blinding powder, the gardening-tools that were such powerful weapons. The swords - they were just for show. The real weapons where the hidden ones.
Magic. It was like a combination of magic and artistry, combined with scientific knowledge and architecture. It was... it was all that and even more.
Yes, as a fourteen year old boy this was just fascinating, even now as a grown man I wonder what I could have learned had I ever had the chance to go to Iga. And this - the knowledge that I would be able to defend myself - gave me a new confidence, a new purpose in my life. I was no longer the frightened child, I was a man and as a man even someone such as I would find some place in life.
Sometimes I think it was too good to be true. It was a stupid mistake on my part that cost me the comfortable job in the English merchant's household.
I was not even fifteen then. I wanted to take a bath and was on my way to the servants bathroom with my bucket of water. Innocent enough, that is. I opened the door - only to see a naked belly dancer standing in the tub with a bucket of water, washing herself. She screamed and I let my bucket fall to the floor. I should have turned away, should have run away, should have closed the door - but I did nothing of that sort. I just stood there, staring like the worst leech, then I reacted to her screams and instead of going away I approached her and put my hand over her mouth. That moment someone, I do not remember who it was, found us. Her screams must have alarmed everyone and now they saw me with my hands on a naked woman.
I assure you, I never even thought about doing anything to her. I just wanted her to shut up. But they did not believe me. They informed the Englishman, who was furious. He did not give me a chance to explain myself, to tell that it was just a mistake and misunderstanding, that I really had not wanted to harm that girl - I just wanted her to stop screaming. He just threw me out of the house. Better than having me arrested, I guess he was just being merciul.
It was autumn, the night bitter cold, and I had nothing but a light caftan and my mask. Everything else was in the house I was now forbidden to enter ever again. I huddled beneath the staircase, seeking shelter, crying, humiliated and ashamed. I do not know how long I had been there, when the gentle voice of my kind teacher broke me out of my crying fit.
He stood there, smiling, two sailor's kitbags in his hands. "And where do we go now?" he asked and I prostrated myself before him, crying and begging his forgiveness.
"You disgraced yourself and you made a terrible mistake," he scolded me.
"I know. Please believe me - I never even thought about harming her, really!" I tried to explain.
He shook his head. "Have you learned nothing? Have you forgotten all I ever told you? How could you be that careless? Why didn't you just go away?" I guess he did believe me that it had just been a misunderstanding. But I had no answer for him, for I did not know why I had acted that stupid.
First he beat me up as punishment for my carelessness. I tried to fight back, but against him I didn't stand a chance. When I was lying in the dust, hurt and bleeding, he held out his hand to help me up. "Where are we going now?" he asked.
I could not believe what I heard then. He was coming with me, he was willing to leave his comfortable job to join me on the streets. I bowed deeply to him, trying to express my gratitude.
"My stupid, stupid boy," he sighed - that was his favorite name for me, I was just his stupid boy - "Did you think I trained you nearly one year just to abandon you? You haven't even begun to understand anything, how could I allow you to leave?"
I had to admit that I was scared and had no idea what we could do now. He shrugged it off. "The easy life spoils us completely. We must not allow this," he handed me both bags and just went away, I tried to keep his pace, which was not easy with two heavy bags on my shoulders. "Come on, stupid boy, you have a magic show to do!" he commanded.
Why would I leave him? I owed him my life. He was such a great teacher and he... he was right. There is an emotional bond between a teacher - a master - a Sensei and his pupil. It is hard to describe, it is a bond of respect and loyalty and yes, genuine affection. It is a bit like father and son, but different. You see, no one can choose his father - or his son, that is. You get what you get. But with him - he had chosen me, as I had chosen to be his pupil. I still wish I would know his name, he never told me. To me, he was just "Chang Lee", the Chinese cook, the simple-minded, clumsy old man, as he appeared in public.
It was bitter to live in the streets again, being forced to perform at the market place, more or less begging for money again. My magic show and my music were much better than one year before. But after one year of living in luxury it was so much worse than before. After having a taste of an easy life, going back to do magic shows and play music on the streets every evening, waiting for the audience to give me coins, it was bitter and degrading. Chang never helped me. He just sat there like one of the audience, watching me closely. I had to earn enough for both of us.
We lived in a shoddy caravanserai that time. It was just one large room people shared with horses, donkeys, goats and sheep. A constantly high noise kept us awake the first nights, but then I was so exhausted I slept despite everything. I had to sleep in my mask now that we shared a room with so many other men. Hygiene? No chance! Privacy? Nice dream. We were reduced to relieve ourselves behind the house like everyone else there. You can't imagine the stench we lived in. But we were lucky to have some shelter at all. And we had food. Not enough each day, but we didn't starve.
I paid dearly for my mistake. Changs comment was just: "It's all your fault, you won't get any sympathy from me." He didn't allow me to skip the exercises he had in mind for me. We had no place now, so my training was a bit more... unusual. He told me to sneak into houses and steal something, testing my agility and stealth. And we would continue our fighting practice in the outskirts of Lahore, a bit away from the city, at night. No matter how tired I was, no matter how bad my skin condition was, no matter my body hurt so much I could not walk, sit or lie down without pain. He was a harsh master but I didn't dare complain. I was just a fifteen year old boy and I was working myself to death.
But not everything was bad that winter in Lahore. Chang was always with me. And the less I complained, the more I accepted that rigid discipline and the more I just endured the hardships I faced, I gained his respect. One night I woke, feeling his hand slowly caressing my head and heard him mumble softly: "You are such a brave boy, my poor Erik. I am proud of you. You would deserve to serve a king." I never told him that I heard his words.
I guess it was not such a bad time then. I was not alone. I had someone who genuinely cared for me. He was standing sentinel when I slept, allowing me to rest without fear. Of course he was a demanding teacher and master. But I guess this was exactly what I needed. I didn't have time for crying fits or temper tantrums or to worry about my appearance, about my loneliness or my future - I had no time. I was constantly busy and every moment of rest was precious, so precious. Those wonderful moments when I was lying on the ground in that sleeping hall, my head in his lap, and he allowed me to relax, I was... happy. Yes. Happy.
Hmmm? Sorry, I was lost in thought. Maybe I... should tell you about what happened next another day. I do not want to remember that now. I just want to remember those precious moments when I felt... save. Protected. Loved.
Sentimental fool, am I not? I dare say. Well... I must go. When I have time we see each other again.
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Surprise! I finished the chapter before Christmas!
Now I have to tell you why I wrote this chapter. I did a bit of research about Ninjutsu and suddenly everything seemed to fit Erik - the use of hidden trapdoors, hidden weapons, secret weapons, hidden defense systems, the agility and speed of noiseless movement, and one of their special weapons that is normally called a"lasso" but it is not like the usual lasso - the Nagenawa. It matches the description in Leroux's book far better than any onther weapon I ever read about. You see, a normal noose from a lasso falls down over the victim's head - coming from above holding your hand up like you were holding a gun would not help, a skilled man would hit the target nevertheless. But the Nagenawa would come from the side so holding the hand up would make it very difficult to hit with the first try. Ninja were ghost-like and they had one motto "no name, no honor, no school" (sometimes the word "school" would be replaced by "country") - doesn't Erik tell Christine that he did not have a name or a country despite the fact that he was able to inherit something from his mother and therefore must have known his name and that he was French. Rings a bell? The ability of climbing up walls at a high speed - as Erik does when Raoul shoots at him - was something Ninja were famous for. Even the trick with the reed as described by Leroux has been used by certain Ninja. The more I read about Ninja, the more I could picture Erik being one of them.
I hope you liked this chapter (I know my theory how Erik learned his skills is a bit unusual)? I'd love to get reviews!
A merry Christmas and a happy New Year!