Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Namu Amida Butsu! Koiko? Koiko’s dead?”
Meikin looked at her blankly, tears pouring down her cheeks, and fainted.
“Maids!”
They came running and brought smelling salts and cold towels and ministered to her and to Raiko as she tried to collect herself, groping to discover how this would affect her. For the first time she was uncertain if Meikin was now to be trusted or had become a hazard to be avoided.
The shoya knelt motionlessly. It had been necessary, and was still necessary for him to pretend to be frightened and aghast to be the bringer of bad tidings, but he was glad to be alive to witness these amazing happenings.
He had not given them the second slip of paper. It was private to him and in code and read: Assassin was Sumomo. Koiko believed to be implicated in plot, wounded with shuriken, then beheaded by Yoshi. Prepare to close Meikin accounts. Avoid mentioning Sumomo. Guard Hiraga as a national treasure, his information is invaluable. Press him for more, his family is being refinanced as agreed. We urgently require gai-jin war plans at whatever cost.
The moment he had received the message he had checked his books for Meikin’s accounts that his branch owed her, even though he knew the amount to the hundredth part of a bronze coin. No need to worry. When she was moved onwards by Lord Yoshi, or if she wriggled out of the trap, either way the bank would profit. If she failed, another mama-san would take her place—they would use her residual wealth to sponsor the replacement. The Gyokoyama monopolized all Yoshiwara banking—an immense and permanent source of revenue.
How ironic life is, he thought, wondering what these two would think if they knew the reason for Gyokoyama’s unbreakable hold. One of the most inner secrets of their zaibatsu was that their founder was not only a mama-san, but a woman of genius.
In the early 1600s, with the enthusiastic approval of Shōgun Toranaga, she designed a walled district where, in future, all of Yedo’s Pleasure Houses, high and low, had to conduct their business exclusively—at that time brothels were spread all over the city—calling it the Yoshiwara, the Place of Reeds, after the area Toranaga had allocated to her. Next she created a new class of courtesan, geisha, those trained and qualified in the arts, who were not, routinely, available for pillowing.
Then she began moneylending, concentrating on Yedo’s Yoshiwara, soon to spread her tentacles to all others as they were institutionalized throughout the land, Shōgun Toranaga wisely having foreseen that in such districts the purveyors, and their clients, would be more easily monitored, and taxed.
Lastly, incredible in those days, somehow or another—no one still knew how—she persuaded Shōgun Toranaga to make her eldest son samurai. In short order her other sons prospered: in shipbuilding, as rice dealers, saké and beer makers, their descendants today owners or silent controllers of a vast network of businesses. In a few years she obtained permission for the samurai branch to take the name Shimoda. Now the Shimoda were hereditary daimyo of the small but affluent fief of the same name, in Izu. It was she who coined the inscription over the Yoshiwara gateway: Lust cannot wait, it must be satisfied. She was ninety-two when she died. Her mama-san name Gyoko, Lady Luck.
“Shoya,” Meikin said between broken sobs, “please advise me what I should do, please.”
“You must wait, Lady, be patient and wait,” he said hesitantly, still wearing his mask of disquiet, noticing, at once, though the sobs were loud and heartbreaking, her eyes were more pitiless than he had ever seen them.
“Wait? Wait for what? Of course wait, but what else?”
“We—we do not yet know—know all the details, Lady, of what happened. So sorry, but is there a chance the Lady Koiko would be part of the plot?” he asked, twisting a knife in the ready wound for the sake of twisting it. Though Gyokoyama had no proof, Meikin was suspected of dangerous sonno-joi affiliations and a connection with the Raven—against their oblique warnings—another reason why she had been advised to buy rice futures, not only as a wise investment but also as a bank-controlled hedge against her being accused and condemned.
“Koiko in a plot? My beauty, my treasure? Of course not,” Meikin burst out. “Of course not.”
“Meikin-san, when Lord Yoshi returns, surely as her mama-san, he will send for you. In case, so sorry, in case enemies have whispered against you, it would be wise to have … to have ready tokens of … of your respect.”
There was no reason for either woman to ask, What enemies? Success bred jealousy and secret hatreds everywhere—particularly in best friends—and in the Floating World, a world of women, more than anywhere. And both were successful.
Meikin was over her initial shock now, her mind concentrating on means of escape—in case Yoshi suspected, or Koiko had denounced her, or he had proof that both she and Koiko supported sonno-joi, shishi, and knew Katsumata. There was no real way to escape, not into another identity or to another place, Nippon was too well compartmentalized. Throughout the land, ten family heads formed the basic unit responsible for their own behavior and obedience to law, ten of these units formed another grouping equally responsible, ten of these the same and so on, up to the ultimate giver of law: the daimyo.
So she could run nowhere, hide nowhere. “What could I possibly give the great Lord Yoshi?” she asked, her voice hoarse, feeling sicker than ever before.
“Perhaps … perhaps information.”
“What kind of information?”
“I do not know, so sorry,” he said with pretended sadness. Tomorrow could be different, tonight he must still pretend, to give them face, whatever he thought of their stupidity. Stupid to embrace sedition with a penis, particularly when the shishi possessors were few, most were being scattered or killed, and they continued to commit the unforgivable sin: failure. “I do not know, Lady, but Lord Yoshi must be worried, greatly worried what the vile gai-jin fleet will do. They prepare for war, neh?”
The moment he said it he saw Meikin’s eyes become even more flinty and fix on Raiko, who flushed slightly. Ah, he thought gleefully, they already know—and so they should, bedding the loathsome gai-jin! By all gods if there be gods, what they know the Gyokoyama should of course be told quickly.
“That news might—would ease his pain,” he said, nodding wisely as a banker would. “And yours.”
Half a hundred paces away in a dwelling within the walls, snuggled into gardens, Phillip Tyrer was sitting cross-legged, bathed, replete with food and saké, naked under his yukata and in a state of rapture. Fujiko knelt behind him, her knowing hands massaging his neck muscles, finding the points of pleasure-pain. She wore a sleeping yukata, her hair loosened and now she moved closer, delicately bit the lobe of his ear, near the center, where the erotic sites lay. Her tongue increased his pleasure dramatically.
Fingers slid sensuously to his shoulders, never slowing, taking away his cares, the conferences with Sir William and Seratard, helping his chief to deal with that Frenchman and his constant, inbred devious attempts to gain a minuscule advantage when, let’s face it, he had thought, the slimy rotter has only two mediocre ships when we have a fleet of ships-of-the-line, crewed by men, not sycophants!
Taking notes and then setting out two alternate battle plans into correct diplomatic English and French for their governments, and into more ordinary orders for the Admiral and General to carry out, the time slipping away and his headache growing. But André had been an asset at the morning meeting, well prepared, and all the time suggesting ideas and dates, maneuvering the two principals into agreeing and making decisions, all four of them sworn to secrecy.
Then, at last, slipping out of the Legation and across the bridge, knocking on the door, instantly opened by Raiko herself and being bowed in and through the garden and bathed and fed, but before that Raiko had at last begun to treat him as an important official should be treated.
About bloody time, he thought, more than a little pleased, every nerve tuned to Fujiko’s fingers …
Most of her mind was concentrated on Raiko’s warning: “So
Fujiko flinched. She had never tried this before, even in the most heated embrace. Never mind, she told herself stoically, better a few queer moments of eccentric behavior—than no gai-jin pay tonight, and no pay for a year of leisure.
As her fingers moved closer and her soft murmurs began, daydream pictures of her farmhouse began to intrude, the children, her fine husband and their ripening fields of rice, so grand and kind and …
Firmly she put them away.
Until the client is asleep, she ordered herself.
Tonight you will snare the ungrateful dog forever! It’s a matter of face for the whole of the House of the Three Carp! Waylaid by a low-class person from the Lily?
Ugh!
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The clipper Prancing Cloud swung at anchor with a change in the evening tide. “She’s snug, sir,” the First Mate said. Captain Strongbow nodded and continued puffing his pipe.
They were on the quarterdeck. Wind creaked the spars and blocks above. Strongbow was a clear eyed, thick, tough man of fifty. “It’ll be a fair night, Mister, crisp but not cold.” He smiled, adding softly, “Good for our guests, eh?”
The First Mate, as tall and tough and weathered but half his age, was watching them too and grinned. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Angelique and Malcolm were on the main deck below, leaning on the gunnel close together, staring at the lights of Yokohama. Malcolm wore a topcoat over casual shirt and trousers and soft shoes, and had, for the first time, without too much discomfort, used only one stick while aboard. She wore a heavy red shawl around her shoulders and over a long, loose dress. They were near a deck cannon. The ship carried ten thirty-pounders, port and starboard, and bow and stern chasers and their gunners were as good as any in the Navy. That was Strongbow’s boast. It did not apply to all their clippers or merchantmen or steamers.
“Pretty, isn’t it, my darling wife?” Malcolm said, genuinely happy for one of the few times in his life.
“Tonight everything in the world is pretty, mon amour,” she said, nestling closer. It was after dinner and they were waiting until the stateroom, the cabin they were occupying, was cleared of dishes and prepared. The cabin was large and used the whole of the stern, normally the Captain’s quarters, unless the tai-pan was aboard—one of the many laws laid down by Dirk Struan, thirty years ago, the fleet still governed by his dictates to the last detail: best pay, cleanliness, training, and fighting readiness.
Strongbow was watching the tide, gauging it. In these waters a change in the tide could herald the coming, hours later, of a tsunami, a giant wave generated maybe a thousand miles away by a sub-ocean earthquake that would engulf anything in its path at sea, and coastal cities when it hit land.
When he felt that the shift had been normal, he looked back at Struan. He was glad to have him aboard, and new orders to sail early tomorrow with all speed for Hong Kong, knowing, as they all knew, Herself had commanded the young man home weeks ago. But he was troubled to be carrying the girl.
My God, damned if I can call her Mrs. Struan—there’s only one of them, he was thinking. Young Malcolm married? In spite of Her orders? In spite of Her opposition? He must be daft! Is the marriage legal? By sea law, yes, if they were adults but they’re not. Will it be overturned? A broken penny to a golden guinea She’ll have twenty ways to null it without as much as a how’d’you do! Christ!
What about the girl then? What will happen to her? And young Malcolm? How in the hell can he win against Her? I’m glad I wasn’t the one who married them, thank God for that. Would I if he’d asked me? Not on your Nelly! Never!
Herself will spit blood, right about them being under age, and about her being Catholic. It’s going to cause a battle royal, this time mother against son, a fight to the death with no rules and we all know she’s a hellcat when aroused—worse than my Cat—though young Malcolm’s changed, tougher than I’ve ever seen him, more determined than he’s ever been. Why? Because of the girl? Only God knows, but it’d be a welcome change to have a proper tai-pan again, a man.
No doubt in the world young Malcolm’s overboard for her and who’s to blame him? Not me! I’d wed her myself given the chance but, by God, this’s one time I’m not going to hurry to report in, to rush off to drink and bed my Cat. He chuckled. Cat was his mistress of years, a Shanghainese girl whose temper and jealousy were legend but whose passion had no rival.
“What about our change of orders, sir?”
Strongbow shrugged. Certainly no need for Malcolm to rush ashore before dawn to rush back again, not with his walking so badly—one stick or two, never mind. Any problems, things to sign, could be brought aboard by McFay. Ah yes, Jamie, what’s he hiding? Something smelly—why else the secrecy and all shore leave cancelled for the crew?
He had heard rumors of an impending duel. Just the sort of damn fool escapade Struan pride would precipitate, then to deal with it before leaving, anything to humble the Brocks when everyone knows we should be making a peace, the feud’s gone on too long, they’re in the ascendance and they’ve got our noses jammed in the bucket. Will we be flying their flag come Christmas? By God, I hope not.
The young idiot doesn’t take after his father but his grandfather. Christ, what a man! Strongbow had sailed with him several times, trading opium up the China coast as midshipman, then gunner’s mate, then as Third Mate under Stride Orlov the Hunchback—Master of the clipper fleet after the tai-pan.
He saw Malcolm put his arm around the girl and she pressed even closer and his heart went out to them. Tough growing up, tough to be tai-pan, or almost tai-pan of the Noble House, with such a grandfather—and such a mother. Pointedly he moved across the quarterdeck and looked seawards. The First Mate followed. Both gazed up into the shrouds as a few of the resting sea birds changed perches, cawing. Then one dipped off the top gallant spars and they watched him vaporize into the dark for night fishing. Another followed as silently.
Malcolm and Angelique had not moved, lost in their serenity. The half hour sand timer on the bridge emptied. At once the duty watch turned it and rang six bells, 11:00 P.M., echoed by other vessels in the bay. They came out of their reverie. “Time to go below, Angel?”
“Soon now, beloved. Chen said he’d tell us when our cabin’s ready.” She had thought about that ever since he had said, “How would you like to be married today …” She smiled and kissed his chin, prepared, and at peace. “Hello, my darling husband, we’re going to have such a wonderful life, I promise, no more pain for you and fitter than ever before. Promise?”
“A thousand times … my darling wife.”
More sea birds dipping from the rigging, and Chen came up and said everything was as the tai-pan had ordered.
Malcolm added in Cantonese, “Remember now, don’t wake tai-tai when you wake me.” Tai-tai meant Supreme of the Supreme, First Wife—who was supreme and ultimate law inside any Chinese household, as the Husband was supreme outside.
“Sleep well, Master, ten thousand sons, Missee.”
“Tai-tai,” Malcolm said, correcting him.
“Ten thousand sons, tai-tai.”
“What was that about, Malcolm?” she asked, smiling.
“He was wishing you a happy marriage.”
“Doh jeh, Chen”—thank you, she said.
Chen waited until they had bid the officers good night, and were below—Malcolm using one stick, leaning on her. Ayeeyah, he thought, going forward to the fo’c’sle gangway, all gods great and small, protect the Master and give him a night worth all the pain—past and future—but first consider me and my problems and explain to Illustrious Chen and tai-tai Tess this marriage was nothing to do with me.
From the quarterdeck
“We put hammocks in the starboard sail room. They’ll be snug unless we run into a storm.”
“Good. You want to have your tea now, Mister?”
“Yes, thanks, I’ll be back smartly.” Tonight the First Mate had the midnight to 4:00 A.M. watch and he ran down the gangway lightly. At the stern end of the corridor was the state room. The door was closed. He heard the bolt slide home. Smiling, silently whistling a jig, he headed for the galley.
* * *
Malcolm was leaning against the door, aching with anticipation, determined to walk unaided to his marriage bed. She had stopped near the bunk and was looking back at him. The stateroom was well ordered. And warm. The big dining table and sea chairs secured to the deck. So was the roomy bunk, easily enough for two, another of the tai-pan’s laws. It was high and its headboard centered against the stern bulkhead, with roped canvas guards against the tilt of the decks when reaching to windward, or tacking under full canvas. Now these were sheathed. Port was a small bathroom and toilet. Sea chest for clothes to starboard. From the beams a gimballed oil lamp cast pleasing shadows.
Both of them hesitated, unsure.
“Angel?”
“Yes, chéri?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Malcolm. I’m so happy.”
Still neither moved. Her shawl had fallen away slightly to reveal her shoulders and the pale green, high-waisted Empire-style dress, the folds of soft silk gathered under her bosom that rose and fell in time with the beating of his heart. The dress was the most advanced haute couture from the latest L’Illustration that Colette had sent, not yet in full favor, daring in its simplicity. When she had appeared at dinner, Strongbow, their guest, and Malcolm, despite themselves, had both gasped.
Her eyes were mirrors of his and now, unable to bear the waiting and his need that seemed to reach out and envelop and smother her, she hurried into his arms. Passionately. Her shawl dropped unnoticed to the deck.