Castro A Graphic Novel Reinhard Kleist

Visit to download the full and correct content document:

https://textbookfull.com/product/castro-a-graphic-novel-reinhard-kleist/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

The Moth Keeper A Graphic Novel 1st Edition K. O'Neill

https://textbookfull.com/product/the-moth-keeper-a-graphic-
novel-1st-edition-k-oneill/

Graphic Artists Guild Handbook 16th Edition Graphic

Artists Guild

https://textbookfull.com/product/graphic-artists-guild-
handbook-16th-edition-graphic-artists-guild/

Studies on a Global History of Music A Balzan

Musicology Project 1st Edition Reinhard Strohm

https://textbookfull.com/product/studies-on-a-global-history-of-
music-a-balzan-musicology-project-1st-edition-reinhard-strohm/

Graphic Design School the Principles and Practices of

Graphic Design Calvert

https://textbookfull.com/product/graphic-design-school-the-
principles-and-practices-of-graphic-design-calvert/
Introducing Game Theory A Graphic Guide 2nd Edition
Ivan Pastine

https://textbookfull.com/product/introducing-game-theory-a-
graphic-guide-2nd-edition-ivan-pastine/

Cloud as a Service Understanding the Service Innovation

Ecosystem 1st Edition Enrique Castro-Leon

https://textbookfull.com/product/cloud-as-a-service-
understanding-the-service-innovation-ecosystem-1st-edition-
enrique-castro-leon/

Becoming a graphic et digital designer a guide to

careers in design Heller

https://textbookfull.com/product/becoming-a-graphic-et-digital-
designer-a-guide-to-careers-in-design-heller/

Feminist Translation Studies Local and Transnational

Perspectives Olga Castro

https://textbookfull.com/product/feminist-translation-studies-
local-and-transnational-perspectives-olga-castro/

Society - Water - Technology: A Critical Appraisal of

Major Water Engineering Projects 1st Edition Reinhard
F. Hüttl

https://textbookfull.com/product/society-water-technology-a-
critical-appraisal-of-major-water-engineering-projects-1st-
edition-reinhard-f-huttl/
 CASTRO
As America moves toward normalizing relations with

CASTRO
Cuba, this gripping, vivid graphic novel reveals the
life and times of Fidel Castro, one of the 20th century’s
most intriguing, charismatic, and divisive figures. The
book is narrated by a German journalist named Karl
Mertens, who is plunged into the searing heat of pre-
revolutionary Cuba in the mid-1950s. He first meets a g r a p h ic n o v e l
with Castro while the latter is hiding in the mountains,
then follows him through the dramatic revolution
and his ascent to the presidency that, despite the
Bay of Pigs confrontation and years of international
trade blockades, lasts for nearly fifty years. We also
witness Castro’s involvement in bloody skirmishes,
failed missions, and brutal crackdowns, as well as
his interactions with and on behalf of the Cuban
people, which reveal as much about his fallible
human qualities as they do his legend.

reinhard kleist
CASTRO is the work of acclaimed German graphic
novelist Reinhard Kleist; it is now being made avail-
able in North America for the first time. Bristling with
energy and alive with the spirit of Cuba, CASTRO has
much to offer about the complex life and politics of
one of the most enduring and controversial figures in
modern history.

Includes a foreword (updated for this English-

language edition) by Volker Skierka, author of Fidel
Castro: A Biography.

kle ist
h a r d
a
h ic
re in
grap el
nov
GRAPHIC NOVELS (Non-Fiction) | History
ISBN 978-1-55152-594-5
$22.95 USA & Canada
ARSENAL PULP PRESS
arsenalpulp.com
CASTRO
CASTRO a g r a p h ic n o v e l

rd k le ist
r e inha

Arsenal Pulp Press Vancouver

 CASTRO: A GRAPHIC NOVEL
North American English-language edition (including updated foreword)
published 2015 by Arsenal Pulp Press

Copyright text and illustrations © 2010 by CARLSEN Verlarg GmbH, Hamburg, Germany.
First published in Germany under the title Castro.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any
means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the
publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case
of photocopying in Canada, a license from Access Copyright.

ARSENAL PULP PRESS

Suite 202–211 East Georgia St.
Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6
Canada
arsenalpulp.com

Cover design by Gerilee McBride

English translation and files provided by Selfmade Hero
Translation of updated foreword by Ivanka Hahnenberger
Translation edited by Susan Safyan
Printed and bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Kleist, Reinhard, 1970–

[Castro. English]
Castro : a graphic novel / Reinhard Kleist.

Translation of: Castro.

Translated from the German.
ISBN 978-1-55152-594-5 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-55152-595-2
(epub)

1. Castro, Fidel, 1926– —Comic books, strips, etc. 2. Heads of

state—Cuba—Biography—Comic books, strips, etc. 3. Cuba—
History—1959–1990—Comic books, strips, etc. 4. Cuba—History—
1990– —Comic books, strips, etc. 5. Graphic novels. I. Title.
II. Title: Castro. English.

F1788.22.C3K5413 2015 972.91064092 C2015-903463-9

C2015-903464-7
“In taking power, the revolutionary takes on the injustice of power.”

Octavio Paz
FOREWORD
IN THE HAMMOCK WITH FIDEL CASTRO
Volker Skierka
If there is one figure in modern history
whose life especially demands to be told—
beyond the parameters of the non-fiction
book and documentary film—in the form
of a graphic novel, it’s that of Fidel Castro.
His life story seems to have been taken
from a Latin American adventure novel—
but the story is not invented, it’s true. So
true that one couldn’t invent it without it
seeming implausible.
The Cuban revolutionary leader was and
is one of the most interesting and con-
troversial figures in history, who has been
both revered and reviled; he is consid-
ered both a hero and a devil. Even Che
Guevara, the eternal pop icon, would
have been nothing without Fidel Castro.
There’s hardly been a politician in modern
times who is as intelligent, educated, and
well read; as tall and good-looking; as
charismatic and charming; and as well-
equipped with a compelling and danger-
ous instinct for machismo and power as
he. Through the power of his words, he has
been able to keep both friends and foes in
line. Only someone with his unique abilities
could take up an armed struggle against
a brutal dictatorship that collaborated
with the Mafia and was supported by the
US, instigate a victorious revolution, and
be able to remain in power for decades
afterwards. All of this in addition to surviv-
ing hundreds of murder plots against him.
Even after he dies, Castro will be ensured
a special place in history, no matter how
7
thwarted and embattled his regime may
have been. Throughout the decades,
numerous authors have been challenged
by this unique character, but now some-
one has dared to tell the story of this his-
toric leader of the people in the form of a
graphic novel.
The origins of this book date back a few
years. I met Reinhard Kleist at a café in
Berlin-Kreuzberg, not far from Schlesisches
Tor. He talked of an idea then; he was plan-
ning a trip to Cuba and asked me, as a
Castro biographer, how I viewed the politi-
cal situation there since Fidel Castro had
become ill and stepped down as head of
state. The result of Kleist’s trip was his fine
graphic novel entitled Havana (yet to be
published in English). It shows great empa-
thy in depicting the daily lives and diffi-
cult conditions of primarily young Cubans
under an outdated model of Caribbean
socialism. Havana was, in some ways,
Kleist’s “overture” to this book on Fidel
Castro and the Cuban Revolution. Only
after he had “warmed up” with Havana
and developed a feeling for the Cuban
way of life did he dare attempt the big
picture—with a biographical portrait of the
Líder Máximo who has ruled his country for
more than five decades with a stern hand.
The Jesuit student and son of a large land-
owner drew his strength and power from
the fact that he was the first Cuban cau-
dillo or ultimate political-military leader. As
his country’s “David,” he freed his nation
from its dependence on the American
“Goliath,” and for the first time in their his-
tory, helped his people acquire national
identity and dignity. Pushed from its earli-
est days into the open arms of the Soviet
Union by the narrow-minded American
government of Republican President
Dwight D. Eisenhower and his vice presi-
dent Richard Nixon—who even then liked
to occupy the gray zone of political legit-
imacy—Castro was, from then on, able
to play a leading role in international pol-
itics. With an iron will, he managed to sur-
vive generations of American presidents,
Soviet secretary-generals, heads of state,
democrats, potentates, and even God’s
representatives on Earth, until he became
the longest-ruling head of state of the
twentieth century. After the triumphant
revolution, Castro’s government confis-
cated all American property in Cuba. This
was followed by the failed Bay of Pigs inva-
sion by Cuban-exile mercenaries under the
auspices of the CIA, and it brought about
the stationing of Soviet nuclear missiles in
Cuba in 1962, almost provoking World War
III. But perhaps worst of all for the US is the
fact that Castro’s regime has survived for
decades despite the US’s lengthy and his-
torically unparalleled embargo. It seems
apparent that the Great Power of the
North will never forgive these numerous,
deep-rooted humiliations in the eyes of
history and the world—not even after his
death.
8
It was after a presentation of Havana at
Vattenfall Reading Days 2009 in Hamburg,
Germany, that Reinhard Kleist and his
editor Michael Groenewald from the
German publishing house Carlsen asked
me to assist in an advisory capacity on this
book. This I naturally did with great plea-
sure, not only because I’d been studying
the Cuban Comandante for many years
for my biography of him, but because this
was a new, completely different, and very
exciting literary form of biography. The nar-
rative form of a comic book creates room
for fictitious truths and conclusions forbid-
den to non-fiction books. Pointedly placed
quotes, dramatic pacing, and a con-
densed depiction of the course of events
can contribute to a deeply felt truth with
compelling verisimilitude.
The manner in which Reinhard Kleist has
managed to artistically and narratively
translate his ideas and our conversations
and discussions on Castro and the Cuban
Revolution is outstanding. The character
of Karl Mertens, introduced to guide the
reader through events, could come from
any developed country—Germany, the
US, Spain, England, or France. Anything but
politically astute at the start, the protago-
nist turns from journalist into idealist, quickly
giving up the political neutrality of his pro-
fession. Meanwhile, a love story unfolds.
To illustrate the crimes perpetrated by the
Batista regime of the 1950s, which Castro
fought against, Kleist employs the device
of drawing Karl Mertens’s attention to
the Cuban Revolution by using an actual
Castro interview conducted by Herbert
Matthews that appeared in the New York
Times. Karl then sets off to meet the leader,
who also grants him an interview—ranting
while lying in a hammock within his jungle
stronghold in the Sierra Maestra. This is how
Mertens falls under the spell of events, not
only succumbing to the charms of the rev-
olution and its leader, but also to those of
a young female revolutionary. Such tales
of foreigners (among them journalists and
even a rogue CIA agent) making the pil-
grimage to Cuba and, if only temporarily,
signing up for the revolution, are genuine.
Thus Kleist is accurate in disconcertingly
caricaturing that type of privileged, First
World intellectual, someone all too eager
to succumb to the social romanticism of a
radical movement in a foreign culture.
The depiction of both Castro’s physical
appearance and his character over half
a century are fascinatingly authentic
and succeed in being as exciting as they
are entertaining. As well, the representa-
tion of place, and the atmosphere of the
Zeitgeist during the various phases of the
9
revolution’s life and survival—and of its
players—demonstrate the accuracy and
painstaking precision, the sincerity and
authenticity of Kleist’s story.
One of the last friends to remain by Castro
to the end, the writer Gabriel García
Márquez, once wrote in an essay about
him, “One thing is certain: wherever he
may be, however and with whomever,
Fidel Castro is there to win. I don’t think
there’s anyone in this world who could be
a worse loser. His attitude in the face of
defeat, even in the most minimal actions
of everyday life, would seem to obey a
private logic: He does not even admit it,
and does not have a minute’s peace until
he succeeds in inverting the terms and
converting it into victory.” Just as García
Márquez characterized him, Kleist has
made his Castro accessible to us in this
book. At the same time, a soft humor ema-
nates from the speech bubbles and stories
throughout; an agreeably ironic distance
between the author and Fidel Castro reso-
nates in this narrative, thus making Castro
involuntarily distance himself from himself,
and this increases our own learning and
reading pleasure. In the end, it remains
open as to how this story will continue.
UPDATE TO THE FOREWORD
JULY 2015
It can be left up to the reader’s imagination
as to how the story plays out after the epi-
logue—whether from the point of view of the
venerable Karl Merten or of one of Castro’s
many sons or grandsons or as though the
reader stands invisibly by the side of the Líder
Máximo himself as he looks out over the sea
and murmurs through his beard, “Now every-
thing’s going to be different!” It may continue
from the perspective of Fidel’s younger brother
Raúl Castro, who took office in 2006, assuring
Cuba’s elders that he would do all he could
to preserve Castro’s revolutionary work during
his term. Since Fidel Castro’s complete with-
drawal to his retreat in the village of Siboney
in the west of Havana—except for the occa-
sional “Look, I’m still alive!” photo-op—Raúl has
made modest steps toward opening the coun-
try’s economy. Democratic reforms are still on
hold, even if the opposition is less persecuted
than before. There is also a tendency toward
filling positions in important party and govern-
ment organizations, previously held by the old
guard, with a younger generation of loyal indi-
viduals. This new guard, which has risen from
the old, is meant to keep the system more or
less on course in its post-Castro era. Whether
it succeeds or not is another matter. Since the
1990s, the military, commanded by Raúl Castro
from the time of the revolution, has successfully
played an important role in government. Active
and former military officers have been placed
in many key positions in state and state-owned
enterprises. They may have swapped their mili-
tary uniforms for jeans and a guayabera [the
cotton short-sleeved shirt worn by men], but
10
they have not changed their ethos or their well-
developed ability to maintain the benefits and
privileges of rank. It can therefore be assumed
that, in the transition from the Castro era to a
new unknown future, the military will continue
to hold tightly to the strings of political change.
This may explain why Cuba has, for quite some
time, quietly slipped into what is essentially a
military dictatorship sui generis.
While the aged “Davids” in Havana, exhausted
by endless infighting, kept themselves busy
with the rules left behind as their legacy and
with storm-proofing their life’s work for the
future, the “Goliath” in the North—in the guise
of the comparatively young President Barack
Obama—apparently felt fresh and strong
enough to press the “reset” button, as they say
in this computer age. On December 17, 2014,
nearly six years after Obama’s inauguration, a
new era in American-Cuban relations began
with a pre-Christmas bang. The day after a
forty-five minute phone call, the US President in
Washington and Raúl Castro in Havana simul-
taneously announced on television that they
were in negotiations to re-establish the diplo-
matic relations broken off in 1961.
In front of an astonished global audience,
Obama said that the fifty-year-old US policy
“has failed to advance our interests,” and that
“neither the American nor the Cuban people
are well served by a rigid policy that’s rooted
in events that took place before most of us
were born.” And then, a few weeks later, Fidel,
now aged if still revered, could only watch
from home—like millions of other TV viewers—
as his brother and the US President not only
shook hands in Panama but also sat down to
talk, using interpreters, in front of the whole
world, as cameras flashed during this carefully
staged event. Pope Francis, a “Jesuit brother”
of Fidel Castro’s, is to thank for the reason and
common sense that are finally being applied
to this absurd chapter in world politics. Since
the first papal visit in January 1998 by John
Paul II, the Catholic Church in Cuba has been
playing an increasingly influential role behind
the scenes. Further bolstered through a visit
by Pope Benedict XVI in 2012, it has subtly
supported dissidents and has become, next
to the Communist Party, one of the country’s
most important social and political and, often
discreetly, economic bodies. This is also evi-
denced by the fact that when Pope Francis
goes to Cuba in September 2015, he will be the
third pope to have visited the island in seven-
teen years.
Since the United States took Cuba off the State
Sponsors of Terrorism list at the end of May
2015—on which it had been placed by the
Reagan administration in 1982—the road was
paved for the first exchange of ambassadors
since 1961 (indeed, on July 1, 2015, the US and
Cuba announced the re-opening of embassies
in Washington and Havana) and the eventual
lifting of the more than fifty-year-old embargo.
For both sides, this embargo has always been
a blessing and a curse. It has been a curse
because it seriously affected Cuba’s eco-
nomic development and has prevented the
US and other countries from doing business
with the Caribbean island. It has been a bless-
ing for the US because it demonstrated their
moral fortitude—and who really has held the
hammer—and for Castro’s Cuba because it
was used to cover up its own mismanagement.
But in the end, it was just a weathered bulwark,
gnawed away by the ravages of time, which
had allowed both sides, for far too long, to dig
in and make themselves comfortable behind
that anachronistic policy.
Maybe these are the thoughts and insights
that the readers of Reinhard Kleist’s Castro or
even that the frail former Líder Máximo himself
would write into the end of the story. How you
feel about Fidel Castro determines how you
imagine the end of the story: will it be a happy
or a sad ending? Kleist’s graphic novel is writ-
ten so that when the reader finishes the book,
either type of ending is imaginable. In real life,
however, it’ll take longer before it is clear which
way Cuba will go. And as for Castro himself, like
the old protagonists of fairy tales: whether or
not he is dead or alive, the legend will live on.
VOLKER SKIERKA is the author of the non-fic-
tion book Fidel Castro: Eine Biografie (Rowohlt
Taschenbuch) which has been published in
several languages including English (Fidel
Castro: A Biography; Polity Press, Cambridge).
He also co-wrote the ARD/WDR documentary
Fidel Castro— Ewiger revolutionär (Fidel Castro:
Eternal Revolutionary), which has been sold in
more than thirty countries.
11
12
Havana, 1960

13
 I had the camera pointed at
the podium for almost the
entire time.

There stood Fidel.

His words were furious

indictments, his gestures
those of a close-combat
Fighter. Before us lay the
bodies of the 75 victims who
had died in the bombing of
the La Coubre freighter
in Havana’s harbor.

14
 Che appeared Just at that moment,
only briefly. Alberto Korda, next to me,
Down below, it was took two quick photos.
possible to catch
a glimpse of him for
a fraction of a
second.

15
 Korda’s eyes
were everywhere. He
probably had some in
the back of his head, too.

No, Simone de
Beauvoir and
Sartre are here.
I wanted to get
shots of them.

Did you
see Che?

Pfff! It’s
You travelled
important they’re here.
halfway around
The eyes of the world
the world to
are on us. I want to get
take pictures
closer to the podium.
of Europeans?
I’ve only got one
roll left.

These grenades
are the proof of this
shameful sabotage. The
explosion was no accident.
No. It is yet another
imperialist attack on
the Cuban people!

16
 Brothers!
Your blood was
not spilled in vain.
The enemies of the
revolution should
not believe that we
will be cowed!

17
CHAPTER 1
 How would things have
turned out had Che been looking
the other way? Or if the man in front
of him had scratched his nose? Would
Raúl Corrales’ portrait of Che still
stare out at us from the T-shirts of
tourists? How might the course of
history have been changed by a
bullet fired in the Sierra
missing its target by
a millimetre?][

21
 A snap decision,
a moment’s hesitation,
a brief touch can change
a life, an entire country,
the whole world.

How young
we were...

22
 It was a piece
of paper that
brought me to
Havana...

A copy of an My family lived

interview with After I finished
in South America for a my apprenticeship as
rebels in the long time, so I was familiar
mountains of the a journalist I quickly set
with the continent’s history about finding a newspaper
Sierra Maestra from a young age, including
in east Cuba. that would send me to Cuba,
its tragedies. with the aim of reporting
on the rebels.

I’ve
got it here
somewhere.

As I tell
you my story, “A reporter Invaluable
I‘ll try and heed must always remain advice; something
the words of neutral, must not that was brought
an editor back judge and must never home to me through
then: become biased.” my work...

I eventually
found a magazine
willing to pay my travel
expenses and a monthly
salary. After all, I spoke
fluent Spanish.

23
 I had no idea how
quickly I’d abandon all
the rules as soon as I set
foot in this country.

And when I stepped off

the plane in October 1958,
I’d never have dreamt
that I’d never see my
homeland again.

24
 Do you know
a cheap and
clean hotel?
Get in, hom-
bre!

A lot of
soldiers
about.

The powers that

be are slowly getting
worried. The rebels
already control the east,
whatever the lies in the
papers say.

25
 If I paid you,
would you drive
me there?
To the rebels’
camp? I’m not suicidal.
The whole army
is there.

Here, call
this number. He’s
a friend of mine. He
regularly takes
people to the
east.

26
 Havana resembled an
amusement park, but
despite the glittering
faÇade, the tension in
the air was palpable
everywhere. And what
I saw on the streets
was horrendous.

I could hardly
wait to set off to
the rebels’ territory
and finally meet
Castro.

27
 We’ll send
your camera ahead
in a crate with a
false bottom. It’s
completely
safe.

How much
money do you
have?

Be at the
Enough, Scared corner of
I think. you’re gonna Avenida Bolivar
get shot? and Amistad at
Ha ha! five in the
morning,
Friday.

The driver
will take you to
Santiago. If you’re
stopped, don’t say a
Will you word. Your accent
tell them I’m will give you
coming? away.

28
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 TOM REYNOLDS AND MORIYAMA.

“Fun,” exclaimed Tom Reynolds, “You couldn’t have more fun than
I had. No boy could stand it.”
This was said to a boy-friend after Tom had come home from
Japan.
And Tom was right. He had had a splendid time.
Tom Reynolds was an American boy, whose father was engaged
in business which made it necessary for him to visit Yokohama in
Japan. It is probable that he would not have thought of taking Tom
with him on this trip if it had not been for Moriyama. This yellow
youth put the idea into Tom’s head, and Tom, who was as good a
talker as he was a walker, which is saying a great deal, managed to
convince his father that nothing would be of as great advantage to
him as a journey to Japan.
School was nothing to a trip like this, Tom argued, and he argued
so much that the end of it was he went to Japan.
Moriyama was a Japanese boy, and a first-rate fellow. He was one
of the many Japanese youths who came to America to be educated,
and he went to Tom’s school.
There these two boys became great friends. Moriyama was a very
quick, bright youth. He could speak English very well, and he was
rather better at English grammar than most of the other fellows in
that school. The other fellows explained this by saying that Moriyama
didn’t know anything about our grammar except what he had learned
from books, and of course the books were right. But they had
learned their grammar from all sorts of people, ever since they were
little bits of chaps. And so they had learned all sorts of grammar, and
had a good deal to unlearn when they came to the school.
But the fact was that Moriyama was as thoroughly in earnest about
his studies as most boys are about base-ball. So it was no wonder
that he succeeded.
He was not a large boy nor was he very young. As Tom put it, he
was a good deal smaller than he was young. There were plenty of
fellows in the school who could have whipped him, if they had
wanted to, but they didn’t want to, for two reasons. He was a quiet,
obliging boy, who seldom offended any one, and if any one had tried
to whip him they would first have had to whip Tom Reynolds, which
was no easy job. Tom had a fist as heavy as one end of a dumb-bell,
and the muscles on his arms swelled up a good deal like the other
end of a dumb-bell.

FUSI-YAMA.
Moriyama’s time at school was up, and he had to go to Japan.
Tom’s time wasn’t up, but he promised to study ever so hard when
he came back—with his mind improved by travel—and so the three
of them, Tom, Tom’s father, and Moriyama, sailed for Yokohama.
This story will not be long enough for me to tell anything about the
journey—how they sailed from New York to Aspinwall, and went
across the Isthmus of Panama by railroad, and then took another
steamship and crossed the Pacific Ocean; and how, at last they
steamed up the bay of Yedo, and saw towering up to the sky, the
great extinct volcano, Fusi-yama, the sacred mountain of Japan.
I cannot even tell about their landing at Yokohama, nor even very
much about Tom’s adventures in Japan, but I can give you some of
his experiences, and if you ever meet him, he can tell you the rest.
And he will be very apt to do it, too, if you are the right kind of a boy
or girl, for Tom is a great talker, and very sociable.
When they arrived at Yokohama Tom’s father took lodgings for
himself and his son at the house of an American merchant in the
town, but Moriyama went into the country where his family lived.
Of course it was very natural that he should want to see his father
and mother, and brothers and sisters, but Tom could not help feeling
sorry about it. It would have been such a capital thing to have had
Moriyama to take him around at the very beginning of his visit, and
tell him about all the curious things he saw.
But Tom had to do his sight-seeing pretty much by himself, at first,
for his father was very busy, and the Americans that he met did not
have much time to go about with a boy.
But Tom was not a bad fellow to take care of himself, and as his
father engaged for him a horse and a betto, as a man who attends
horses in Japan is called, he had every opportunity of going about as
much as he wanted to.
When Tom’s horse was brought out for him the first time there
were two bettos in attendance. One of them had clothes enough on,
but the other one looked as if he were just ready to take a swim.
 JAPANESE BETTOS.
This fellow was the one who accompanied Tom wherever he went.
He was a good-natured man and very ready to talk, and if Tom could
have understood a word he said, he might have been very
interesting.
But they got along capitally together, and Tom rode about
Yokohama all day, and came home at night, and asked questions of
his father. In this way he got some information about the things he
had seen, but in many cases he had to make up theories of his own
about things. And some very curious theories he made.
There was a porter who had a lodge at the door of the house
where they lived, and he used to strike on a gong every time any one
entered. Sometimes he struck once, and sometimes two or three
times, and Tom could not imagine what he did it for. He might have
asked his father about this, but he made up his mind that he would
find it out for himself.
You must not suppose that Tom’s father was not a good-natured
man, or that he objected to giving information to his son. But the
truth was that Mr. Reynolds was not only very busy all day, and very
often at night, with his merchant friends, but he did not know a great
deal about Japanese life himself.
As soon as he had got through with the most pressing part of his
business, he intended to go about and see Japan. He had never
been there before.
At first Tom thought that when he heard one crack on the gong it
meant that that was the first time he had come in. But when he heard
only one stroke the second and the third time, while some other
people got two taps the first time they came, he knew that this must
be a mistake.
Before he found out what these taps really meant Moriyama
returned to town. Tom greeted him heartily enough, and as they went
into the house together that morning the porter struck, first two taps,
then one.
“What is that banging for?” cried Tom. “I’ve been trying to find out
ever so long, but it’s too much for me.”
“Why two taps are for me and one is for you,” said Moriyama.
“How’s that?”
“He taps once for a citizen or a merchant,” said Moriyama, “and
twice for an officer or an interpreter—I didn’t tell you I had been
appointed an interpreter since I returned—and for a governor or a
consul he’d strike three times, and four times for an admiral or higher
officer.”
“Once for me and twice for you,” said Tom. “What a fool the man
must be!”
“He does what he has to do, according to our laws,” said
Moriyama.
“But anybody ought to know better than that,” cried Tom. “Look
here! I’m going to talk to him and then you can interpret what I say,
Mr. Two-taps.”
So Tom stepped up to the porter and remarked:
“I say old shaven head——how many bangs would he give for the
Prince of Wales, Moriyama?”
“Four, I think.”
“Well then, old fellow, princes belong to the set that they take kings
from, and I belong to the set that they take presidents from, and so
we’re even, and I want you to pound four times every time I come in
the house. Do you hear that? Tell him it, upside down, Moriyama.”
Moriyama, who was laughing at this speech, said something to the
porter in Japanese, but I do not think that he translated Tom’s words.
But Tom never got but one bang when he came in, though he used
to shake his fist at the porter every time he heard it.
Moriyama was very anxious that Tom should visit Yedo with him,
and so after a few days spent in further sight-seeing in Yokohama,
the two friends set off for the metropolis of Japan.
 ENTRANCE TO A JAPANESE TAVERN.

They traveled on horseback accompanied by their bettos and

other servants. They rode along the Tokaido, or great highway of
Japan, and they were by no means the only travelers, for the road
was crowded with foot passengers, men on horseback, and people
in palanquins. The whole road was one lively scene, and to Tom it
was a very interesting one. And the best of it was, that there was
nothing, no matter how curious or outlandish, that Moriyama could
not explain to him.
 They stopped on the way at a tavern, which was rather different
from anything of the kind that Tom had ever imagined.
When they reached the door they found a group of three or four
persons examining the goods of a man who seemed to be a peddler.
He was very anxious that his goods—and he did not seem to have
many of them—should be appreciated, and the bystanders were
quietly and earnestly listening to what he had to say.
But no one took notice of the newly arrived party.
After a little while, the landlord made his appearance, and though
he seemed glad to see them, and brought them a few eggs and
some other trifling refreshments, he soon went away again, and they
saw no more of him until several hours later when they took their
leave.
But their own servants cooked them a good dinner of things they
had with them, and seemed to make themselves perfectly at home in
the household of the tavern.
Tom said it was a good deal like working your passage on a ship,
but Moriyama could see no objection to it. He was sure, he said, that
he would rather be waited on by his own servants than by any one
likely to be found at a roadside tavern, and he was sure their own
provisions were better than anything likely to be found there.
This was all true enough, but Tom could not help thinking what a
row would be kicked up in an American tavern, no matter how small
and mean it might be, if the guests brought their own provisions, and
cooked them in the tavern kitchen.
They stopped at other places, at one tea-house in particular,
where there were plenty of waiters, plenty of guests, and a very
great plenty of tea.
They were two days on the road, although the distance was only
about thirty miles.
It is impossible to tell one half that these two boys did and saw in
Yedo.
 They saw all sorts of shops, with curious signs, tea-houses
thronged with customers; people at work at various trades—in
workshops that were entirely exposed to the view of passers-by, and
almost everything arranged in a different way from what Tom thought
was right and proper.

JAPANESE BLACKSMITHS.
Here were a couple of blacksmiths with scarcely a stitch of clothes
on, sitting down to their work, and one of them blowing the bellows
with his heel.
 LITTLE JUGGLERS IN STREETS OF YEDO.
Then they came upon a troupe of boy-jugglers directed by a man
who sang horribly sounding words in a rasping voice, while he
played upon a tambourine with two drum-sticks.
The boys’ heads were stuck into bags surmounted by hideous
masks, and as they twisted themselves into all sorts of distorted
positions, one of them standing on his hands on the stomach of
another, who leaned backwards until his hands touched the ground,
Tom thought they would certainly dislocate their spines.
He had turned many a handspring, and was quite expert on the
horizontal bar at the gymnasium, but he never saw such body-
twisting as this.
He would have watched these boys as long as they chose to
perform, if Moriyama had not forced him away to look at other things.
 They visited the parade ground,
where they saw the soldiers drilling
and practising with swords and
muskets. The Japanese soldiers
now use firearms, but they still carry
one or two of their old-fashioned
swords, and when they are in full
costume they wear paper hats.
Some of the fencing was very
interesting to Tom. He had fenced a
little at home, himself, but this
vigorous work with swords was new
to him.

JAPANESE SOLDIER.
 NOON SCENE ON A JAPANESE CANAL.
The weather was quite warm during Tom’s visit to Yedo, and about
the middle of the day the streets—especially the canals which take
the place of streets, presented a very peculiar scene. Scarcely a soul
was visible. Empty boats were fastened all along the shores, and all
the houses, glistening in the hot sun, seemed as if they had been
deserted. Not a sound was to be heard; and it was but very seldom
that a moving thing was to be seen.
It was very much, as Tom said, like the enchanted city in the
Arabian Nights, where all the inhabitants were changed into stone.
“But if you were to go poking about into some of those houses,”
said Moriyama, “you’d soon find that these people are not changed
into stone.”
Here and there the boys could see, between the screens that
stood at the entrances of the houses, the people inside eating their
dinners. The straw table-cloth—if there can be such a thing where
there is no table—was always spread upon the floor, and the family
sat around it eating rice. Sometimes they had meat or fish and
vegetables, but Moriyama said their principal food was rice. And
from the way they were eating it, they seemed to like it.
One night the boys went out on one of the many bridges in the
city, and saw hundreds of small boats cruising about in all directions,
with different colored lanterns hung about them; and besides these
there were rafts from which fireworks were continually set off. The
scene was charming, and Tom would have enjoyed it thoroughly had
it not been for the music. This was so unearthly and hideous that
poor Tom would have put his fingers in his ears had he not been
afraid of offending the people around him.
But before he left Japan he became used to this music, and
sometimes even fancied that he could make out some kind of a tune
from the curious sounds of the samsins and the gottos, which are
Japanese guitars and harps.
One day the boys saw a very jolly sort of a game which Tom
determined to introduce in his school when he returned to the United
States.
A long cable was stretched over one of the bridges, and two
parties were formed, with about a hundred men in each.
One of these parties went to one end of the bridge and the other to
the opposite end, and then the men seized the rope, and each party
endeavored to pull the other over the bridge.
They pulled and tugged and yelled, until one side, finding that it
was losing ground, suddenly, at a signal, let go the rope and over
backwards went every man on the other side, pell-mell in one great
kicking heap. Sometimes, Moriyama said, the rope broke and then
everybody went over backward.
When the game was finished, they all went off laughing to some of
the nearest tea-houses, and had a jolly time together, friends and
enemies, all in the same crowd.
 Among the most interesting places visited was a Japanese school.
This was the rarest school that Tom ever saw. The little shaven-
headed boys and girls were all seated on the floor, and the master
sat on the floor too. In front of him was an affair like a stunted music-
stand, on which he put his book, and the old tyrant leaned forward
and cracked the bad boys with his fan. Think of an American teacher
whipping his scholars with a fan.
Some of the youngsters were bare-footed, and some wore
stockings made something like mittens, with a separate place for the
big toe. The books were full of such a curious mixture of what
seemed to Tom like black blots and scratches that he thought the
Japanese youngsters must be extraordinarily smart to be able to
make any sense out of them.
When Tom heard that these characters were read from top to
bottom of the page instead of across he expressed the opinion that
the Japanese probably added up their letters as they stood in the
columns so as to find out what the whole thing came to.
The more he learned about the language of Japan, its different
dialects, and its two alphabets, the greater became his respect for
those who obtained a Japanese education.
“It must take you all your lives to learn how to read and write,” said
he to Moriyama.
“We believe,” said the Japanese boy, “that it takes all of a person’s
life to learn anything.”
 A JAPANESE SCHOOL.
That this was a common opinion in Japan Tom soon found out for
himself. Whatever the trade or profession in which a man was
engaged, he seemed to have been at it all his life, and ten to one his
father and his great-grandfather before him had followed the same
business, and each one of the family had given so much time and
attention to his business that he became almost perfect in it—as far
as Japanese perfection went.
 JAPANESE WRESTLERS.
For instance Tom went to a wrestling match, where the wrestlers,
great powerful fellows, all belonged to a tribe or guild that according
to their account, had existed ever since the third year of the first
Mikado, which in our chronology would be the year 658 B.C.
 JAPANESE BALANCING FEATS.

At any rate, they were men whose ancestors for hundreds of years
had been wrestlers, and they themselves gave up all their time and
thought to the attainment of perfection in their art.
 Consequently they were splendid wrestlers.
Other gymnastic performers were equally proficient in different
lines. Some of them had great long noses fitted to their faces, and on
these noses they balanced themselves and each other, and did
many other astonishing feats.
One man laid on his back supporting on one foot a fellow who
stood on his nose, while, on the prostrate man’s nose, another man
stood, balancing on his nose an umbrella, while he kept five or six
balls flying in the air, catching each one as it fell and tossing it up
again, never allowing one of them to drop.
Each of these performers, no matter what else he was doing, held
a fan in one hand, which was kept constantly in motion.
And in all the performances there was never a mishap or a
mistake. Every man was absolutely perfect in his part.
When Tom went back to Yokohama he told his father that he had
made up his mind that he was going to be absolutely perfect in some
one thing. If the Japanese could succeed in this, he was sure he
could.
He had not made up his mind what he would do, but it was to be
something.
His father commended this resolution, and suggested arithmetic.
Tom did not feel altogether certain about arithmetic, but as soon as
he could think of a good thing, he intended to commence the study
of perfection.
When his father laughed a little at his enthusiasm Tom said that
one great difficulty would be that he was afraid he could not find out
what his father and grandfather had been perfect in. If he could do
that, it would help him very much.
But we cannot mention all the curious things that Tom and
Moriyama saw in Japan.
It would require a book to tell about the wonderful processions,
such as that of the white elephant, which, by the way, Tom thought
was a real animal, until he saw that its legs did not move, and that
under each of its feet were two human legs belonging to the men
who carried the huge stuffed creature—and the many other strange
things that they saw in the streets and houses of Japan.

PROCESSION OF THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

Suffice it to say, that since Tom came home—and it has been

some years since his trip to Japan—he has earnestly endeavored to
discover what particular thing it would be best for him to learn
thoroughly and completely.
I am not sure that he has even yet made up his mind upon the
subject, but he is convinced that if his experience among the
Japanese had no better effect than to teach him that to know how to
do something perfectly well, it is greatly to be desired, and well worth
striving for—no matter how much time and toil it may require.
 LUMINOUS INSECTS.

The fire-flies that flit about so merrily on our pleasant summer

evenings, emit little sparkles of light, that seem like tiny stars, shining
among the grass and trees. Sometimes the air is full of these
twinkling lights, which are very pretty, though not sufficiently brilliant
to help us to find our way on a dark night, or to bring into our houses
to save the expense of candles or kerosene.

HUT LIGHTED BY BEETLES.

Occasionally we see, at night, in the grass by the roadside, or in a
field, a very small trail of a bright-green light; and, on stooping down
to examine into this singular appearance, we find on the ground an
insignificant little ugly worm, to which Nature has given the power of