Un daimyo à l'affût

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Des hommes pâles gardent le port aujourd’hui. Ils sont toujours en rang et habillés du même costume bleu naval et coquille d’oeuf blanc. Les étrangers se tiennent si droits que je ne serais pas surpris s’ils avaient tous un long bâton dans leur corps de la tête aux pieds. Leurs fusils atteignent leurs yeux et plus loin devant leurs chapeaux bleus navaux encore et emballés de rouge grâce à leurs baïonnettes. Un régiment parmi l’armée porte des instruments: selon un livre que j’ai acheté d’un des marchands blancs, il y a des trompettes, des cors français, des trombones et des gros tambours tapés doucement par des joueurs impatients. Les autres locaux ne comprennent pas leurs coutumes : 

- Sont-ils des machines ? ils me demandent. 
- Ça dépend de votre définition, je leur réponds de même, encore et encore et encore.

Les arguments ne me plaisent pas. Si je réponds « oui » et les étrangers gagnent connaissance de ma réponse, ils vont probablement me massacrer, soit par tir de balle, soit, s’ils manquent, par bout de baïonnette, peut-être machinalement. Si je réponds non, le shogun va probablement me prendre et me pendre pour un collaborateur, peut-être machinalement. Il ne faut point affirmer n’importe quoi ; l’autrui n’aura que des rancunes. Et les rancunes ne sont que des punitions inachevées. Je ne suis pas un homme punissable. Je suis un homme de punition. Les étrangers d’habitudes également étrangères n'infiltreront jamais les terres du shogun. Ce n’est qu’un divertissement pour notre chef.

 

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