Y Seppuku [work] - Harakiri

“A name means nothing without people to speak it,” the old man said.

“I have no death poem,” Kazuo said.

He picked up the knife. The white cloth was smooth against his palm. The room was silent, save for the soft breathing of his second, the kaishakunin , who stood behind him with the long katana raised. The second’s job was an act of mercy, severing the neck at the moment of agony to spare the samurai the indignity of a prolonged scream. But the cut had to be made. The blade had to bite. harakiri y seppuku

“You could work,” the old man whispered. “A name means nothing without people to speak

At the second hour of the morning, Taro arrived. He wore a clean cotton kimono, his hair pulled back in a severe knot. Under his arm, wrapped in a faded blue cloth, was a katana. He did not bow to Kazuo. He did not need to. They had been boys together, had stolen persimmons from the shrine garden, had watched Kazuo’s father die in a toolshed because no one would grant him the dignity of a quick end. The white cloth was smooth against his palm

“Then write one now,” said the old man, who had seated himself on the veranda, his legs numb from the cold.

He said nothing else. He walked back into the house and closed the sliding door. In the garden, Taro began the work of arranging his friend’s body for the funeral.