Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Yes, but not dangerous, anything like that. Sleep’s the best cure, it would have been the best kind, deep sleep, and by Jove, you slept well, it’s almost four. How do you feel?”
“Still a little tired, thank you.” Again the shadowed smile and it tore at him. “How is Monsieur Struan?”
“No change. I was just going to see him again, you can come along, if you like. He’s doing well, considering. Oh, by the way, they caught that fellow.”
“Fellow?”
“The one we told you about last night, the intruder.”
“I don’t remember anything about the night.”
He told her what had happened at her door and in the garden, how one robber was shot and the other spotted this morning but had escaped, and it took all of her will to keep her face clear and to stop from screaming aloud what she was thinking: you son of Satan with your sleeping drafts and incompetence. Two robbers? The other one must have been in my room when you were there then and you failed to find him and save me, you and that other fool, Marlowe, equally guilty.
Blessed Mother, give me strength, help me to be revenged on both of them. And him, whoever he is! Mother of God, let me be revenged. But why steal my cross and leave the other jewelry and why the characters and what do they mean? And why in blood, his blood?
She saw him staring at her. “Oui?”
“I said, Would you like to see Mr. Struan now?”
“Oh! Yes, yes, please.” She got up too, once more in control. “Oh, I’m afraid I spilt the jug of water on the sheets—would you ask the maid to deal with them, please?”
He laughed. “We don’t have maids here. Against Japper regulations. We’ve Chinese houseboys. Don’t worry, the moment you left the room they’ll be tidying …” He stopped, seeing her go pale. “What’s the matter?”
For an instant her restraint had left her and she was back in her room again, scrubbing and cleaning and petrified the marks would not come out. But they had and she remembered she had checked and rechecked so the secret was safe—nothing was left to show, neither moisture nor blood, her secret safe forever so long as she was strong and kept to the plan—must—and must be clever, must.
Babcott was shocked by the sudden pallor, her fingers twisting the material of her skirt. Instantly he was beside her and held her shoulders gently. “Not to worry, you’re quite safe, you really are.”
“Yes, sorry,” she said, frightened, her head against his chest, finding the tears were flowing. “It was just, I—I was, I was remembering poor Canterbury.”
She watched herself, out of herself, allow him to comfort her, utterly sure that her plan was the only one, the wise one: nothing happened. Nothing nothing nothing.
You will believe it until your next period. And then, if it arrives, you will believe forever.
And if it does not arrive?
I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MONDAY, 15TH SEPTEMBER:
“Gai-jin are vermin without manners,” Nori Anjo said, shaking with rage. He was chief of the roju, the Council of Five Elders, a squat, round-faced man, richly dressed. “They’ve spurned our polite apology, which should have ended the Tokaidō matter, and now, impertinently, formally request an audience with the Shōgun—the writing is foul, words inept. Here, read it for yourself, it has just arrived.”
With barely concealed impatience he handed the scroll to his much younger adversary, Toranaga Yoshi, who sat opposite him. They were alone in one of the audience rooms high up in the central keep of Yedo Castle, all their guards ordered out. A low, scarlet lacquered table separated the two men, a black tea tray on it, delicate cups and teapot eggshell porcelain.
“Whatever gai-jin say doesn’t matter.” Uneasily Yoshi took the scroll but did not read it. Unlike Anjo his clothes were simple and his swords working, not ceremonial. “Somehow we must twist them to do what we want.” He was daimyo of Hisamatsu, a small though important fief nearby and a direct descendant of the first Toranaga Shōgun. At the Emperor’s recent “suggestion,” and over Anjo’s flaring opposition, he had just been appointed Guardian of the Heir, the boy Shōgun, and to fill the vacancy in the Council of Elders. Tall, patrician and twenty-six, with fine hands and long fingers. “Whatever happens, they must not see the Shōgun,” he said. “That would confirm the legality of the Treaties, which are not yet properly ratified. We will refuse their insolent request.”
“I agree it’s insolent but we still have to deal with it, and decide about that Satsuma dog, Sanjiro.” Both were weary of the gai-jin problem that had disturbed their wa, their harmony, for two days now, both anxious to end this meeting—Yoshi wanting to return to his quarters below where Koiko waited for him, Anjo to a secret meeting with a doctor.
Outside it was sunny and kind, with the smell of sea and rich soil on the slight breeze that came through the opened shutters. No threat of winter yet.
But winter’s coming, Anjo was thinking, the ache in his bowels distracting him. I hate winter, season of death, the sad season, sky sad, sea sad, land sad and ugly and freezing, trees bare, and the cold that twists your joints, reminding you how old you are. He was a greying man of forty-six, daimyo of Mikawa, had been the center of roju power since the dictator tairō Ii had been assassinated four years ago.
Whereas you, puppy, he thought angrily, you’re only a two-month appointee to the Council and a four-week Guardian—both dangerous political appointments implemented over our protests. It’s time your wings were clipped. “Of course we all value your advice,” he said, his voice honeyed, then added, not meaning it, as both knew, “For two days the gai-jin have been preparing their fleet for battle, troops drilling openly and tomorrow their leader arrives. What’s your solution?”
“The same as yesterday, official scroll or not: we send another apology ‘for the regrettable mishap’ laced with sarcasm they will never understand, from an official they will never know, and timed to arrive before the leader gai-jin leaves Yokohama, asking for a further delay to ‘make enquiries.’ If that does not satisfy him and he or they come to Yedo, let them. We send the usual low-level official, nonbinding on us to their Legation to treat with them, giving them a little soup but no fish. We delay, and delay.”
“Meanwhile it’s time to exercise our hereditary Shōgunate right and order Sanjiro to hand over the killers for punishment at once, to pay an indemnity, again through us, at once, and into house arrest and retirement at once. We order him!” Anjo said harshly, “You’re inexperienced in high Shōgunate matters.”
Keeping his temper and wishing he could send Anjo into immediate retirement for his stupidity and bad manners, Yoshi said, “If we order Sanjiro we will be disobeyed, therefore we will be forced to go to war, and Satsuma is too strong with too many allies. There’s been no war for two hundred and fifty years. We’re not ready for war. War is …”
There was a sudden, peculiar silence. Involuntarily both men gripped their swords. The teacups and teapot began to rattle. Far off the earth rumbled, the whole tower shifted slightly, then again, and again. The quake persisted for about thirty seconds. Then it was gone, as suddenly as it had arrived. Impassively they waited, watching the cups.
No aftershock.
Still no aftershock.
More waiting throughout the castle and Yedo. All living creatures waiting. Nothing.
Yoshi sipped some tea, then meticulously centered the cup in its saucer and Anjo envied him his control. Inwardly Yoshi was in turmoil and he thought, Today the gods smiled on me but what about the next shock, or the next, or the one after that—any moment now, or in a candle of time or this afternoon, or later tonight or tomorrow? Karma!
Safe today but soon there will be another bad one, a killer earthquake, like seven years ago when I almost died and a hundred thousand people perished in Yedo alone in the earthquake and in the fires that always follow, not counting the tens of thousands washed out to sea and drowned in the tsunami wave that swept unheralde
He willed himself to dominate his fear. “War is completely unwise now. Satsuma is too strong, the Tosa and Choshu legions will become his allies openly, we’re not strong enough to crush them alone.” Tosa and Choshu were fiefs, far from Yedo, both historic enemy to the Shōgunate.
“The most important daimyos will come to our banner, if summoned, and the rest follow.” Anjo tried to hide the effort it took him to unlock his grip on his sword, still terrified.
Yoshi was alert and well trained, and noticed the lapse and docketed it for future use, pleased that he had seen into his enemy. “They won’t, not yet. They’ll delay, bluster, whine, and never help us smash Satsuma. They have no balls.”
“If not now, when?” Anjo’s fury spilled out, whipped by his fear and loathing of earthquakes. He had been in a bad one as a child, his father becoming a torch, his mother and two brothers cinders before his eyes. Ever since, with even the slightest quake, he relived the day and smelled their burning flesh and heard their screams. “We have to humble that dog sooner or later. Why not now?”
“Because we have to wait until we’re better armed. They—Satsuma, Tosa and Choshu—have a few modern weapons, cannon and rifles, we don’t know how many. And several steamships.”
“Sold to them by gai-jin against Shōgunate wishes!”
“Bought by them because of previous weakness.”
Anjo’s face reddened. “I’m not responsible for that!”
“Nor I!” Yoshi’s fingers on the hilt tightened. “Those fiefs are better armed than we are, whatever the reason. So sorry, we have to wait, the Satsuma fruit is not yet rotten enough for us to risk a war that by ourselves we cannot win. We’re isolated, Sanjiro is not.” His voice became sharper. “But I agree that soon there must be a reckoning.”
“Tomorrow I will ask the Council to issue the order.”
“For the sake of the Shōgunate, you and all Toranaga clans, I hope the others will listen to me!”
“Tomorrow we will see—Sanjiro’s head should be put on a spike and exhibited as an example to all traitors.”
“I agree Sanjiro must have ordered the Tokaidō killing just to embarrass us,” Yoshi said. “That will madden the gai-jin. Our only solution is to delay. Our mission to Europe is due back any day now and then our troubles should be over.”
Eight months before, in January, the Shōgunate had sent the first official deputation from Japan by steamship to America and Europe, with secret orders to renegotiate the Treaties—the roju considered them “un authorized tentative agreements”—with British, French and American Governments, and to cancel or delay any further opening of any ports. “Their orders were clear. By now the Treaties will be voided.”
Anjo said ominously, “So, if not war, you agree the time has come to send Sanjiro onwards.”
The younger man was too cautious to agree openly, wondering what Anjo was planning, or had already planned. He eased his swords more comfortably and pretended to consider the question, finding his new appointment very much to his liking. Once more I’m in at the center of power. Oh, yes, Sanjiro helped put me here but only for his own vile purpose: to destroy me by making me ever more publicly responsible for all the troubles these cursed gai-jin have brought, therefore setting me up as a prime target for the cursed shishi—and to usurp our hereditary rights, wealth and Shōgunate.
Never mind, I’m aware of what he and his running dog Katsumata plan, what his real intentions are against us, and those of his allies, the Tosa and the Choshu. He won’t succeed, I swear it by my ancestors.
“How would you eliminate Sanjiro?”
Anjo’s brow darkened, remembering his final violent row with the Satsuma daimyo only a few days earlier.
“I repeat,” Sanjiro had said imperiously, “obey the Emperor’s suggestions: Convene a meeting of all senior daimyos at once, humbly ask them to form a permanent Council to advise, reform and run the Shōgunate, quash your infamous and unauthorized gai-jin agreements, order all ports closed to gai-jin, and if they don’t go, expel them at once!”
“I keep reminding you, it is only the Shōgunate’s right to set foreign policy, any policy, not the Emperor’s, nor yours! We both know you’ve deceived him,” Anjo had told him, hating him for his lineage, his legions, his riches, and obvious, abundant good health. “The suggestions are ridiculous and unenforceable! We’ve kept the peace for two and a half cent—”
“Yes, for Toranaga aggrandizement. If you refuse to obey our rightful liege lord, the Emperor, then resign or commit seppuku. You chose a boy to be Shōgun, that traitor tairō Ii signed the ‘Treaties’—it’s Bakufu responsibility gai-jin are here and that is Toranaga responsibility!”
Anjo had flushed, driven almost mad by the sneering malevolence and baiting that had gone on for months, and he would have gone for his sword if Sanjiro had not been protected by Imperial mandate. “If tairō Ii hadn’t negotiated the Treaties and had them signed, gai-jin would have bombarded their way ashore and by now we would be humbled like China.”
“Surmise—nonsense!”
“Have you forgotten Peking’s Summer Palace was burned and looted, Sanjiro-dono? Now China is practically dismembered and government out of Chinese control. Have you forgotten the British, the main enemy, were ceded one of their islands, Hong Kong, twenty years ago and now it’s an impregnable bastion? Tientsin, Shanghai, Swatow now are permanent, self-contained gai-jin dominated and owned Treaty Ports? Say they took one of our islands in the same way.”
“We would prevent them—we’re not Chinese.”
“How? So sorry, but you’re blind and deaf, and your head’s in the heavens. A year ago, the moment the latest China war was over, if we’d provoked them they would have sent all those fleets and armies against us and overrun us as well. Only Bakufu cleverness stopped them. We could not have stood against those armadas—or their cannon and guns.”
“I agree that it’s Shōgunate responsibility we’re unprepared, Toranaga responsibility. We should have had modern cannon and warships years ago, we have had knowledge of them for years. Didn’t the Dutch advise us dozens of times about their new inventions, but you put our heads in the night buckets! You failed the Emperor. At most you could have settled for one port, Deshima—why give the American fiend Townsend Harris, Yokohama, Hirodate, Nagasaki, Kanagawa and allow them access to Yedo for their impertinent Legations! Resign and let others more qualified save the Land of the Gods …”
Remembering the clash made Anjo sweat, that and the knowledge that much of what Sanjiro said was right. He took a paper handkerchief from his voluminous sleeve and wiped the sweat off his brow and shaved pate and looked back at Yoshi, jealous of his bearing and good looks but mostly of his youth and legendary virility.
Not so long ago it was so easy to be satisfied, normal to be potent, he thought in sudden misery, the ever present ache in his loins reminding him. Not so long ago, easy to become erect without effort and be abundantly charged—now no longer possible even with the most desirable person, their most clever skills, or rarest salves and medicines.
“Sanjiro may consider himself beyond reach, but he’s not,” he said with finality. “Put your mind on it too, Yoshi-dono, our young but oh so wise Councillor, how to remove him, or your own head may be on a spike all too soon.”
Yoshi decided not to take offense, and smiled. “What do the other Elders advise?”
Anjo laughed crookedly. “They will vote as I say.”
“If you weren’t kinsman, I would suggest you resign or commit seppuku.”
“What a pity you are not your illustrious namesake and you could actually order it, eh?” Anjo got up heavily. “I’ll send a reply now, to delay. Tomorrow we take a formal vote to humble Sanjiro …” Angrily he spun on guard as the door was jerked open. Yoshi already had his sword half out of its scabbard. “I gave orders …”
The flustered sentry mumbled, “So sorry, An
Anjo’s fury vanished as a youth brushed the sentry aside and hurried into the room, closely followed by a girl, barely five feet tall, both elaborately dressed and bubbling, four armed samurai in their wake and, after them, a matron and lady-in-waiting. At once Anjo and Yoshi knelt and bowed their heads to the tatami. The entourage bowed back. The youth, Shōgun Nobusada, did not. Nor did the girl, Imperial Princess Yazu, his wife. Both were the same age, sixteen.
“That quake, it knocked over my favorite vase,” the youth said excitedly, pointedly ignoring Yoshi. “My favorite vase!” He waved the door closed. His guards stayed, and his wife’s ladies. “I wanted to tell you I’ve a wonderful idea.”
“So sorry about the vase, Sire.” Anjo’s voice was kind. “You had an idea?”
“We … I’ve decided we, my wife and I, we, I’ve decided we’ll go to Kyōto to see the Emperor and ask him what to do about the gai-jin and how to throw them out!” The youth beamed at his wife and she nodded in happy agreement. “We’ll go next month—a State Visit!”
Anjo and Yoshi felt their minds explode, both wanting to leap forward and strangle the boy for his lack of brains. But both kept their tempers, both used to his petulant stupidity and tantrums, and for the thousandth time, both cursed the day the marriage of these two had been proposed and consummated. “An interesting idea, Sire,” Anjo said carefully, watching the girl without watching, noting her concentration centered on him now and that, as usual, though her lips smiled her eyes did not. “I will put the suggestion before the Council of Elders and we will give it our full attention.”
“Good,” Nobusada said importantly. He was a small, thin young man, just five and a half feet, who always wore thick geta, sandals, to increase his height. His teeth were dyed fashionably black as Court custom in Kyōto decreed, though not here in Shōgunate circles. “Three or four weeks should be time to prepare everything.” Ingenuously he smiled at his wife. “Did I forget anything, Yazu-chan?”
“No, Sire,” she said prettily. “How could you forget anything?” Her face was delicate and made up in classic Kyōto Court style: eyebrows plucked and, in their place, high arching eyebrows painted on the whiteness of her makeup, her teeth dyed black, thick raven hair piled high and held in place with ornate pins. Purple kimono decorated with sprays of autumn leaves, her obi, the intricate sash, golden. Imperial Princess Yazu, stepsister of the Son of Heaven, Nobusada’s bride of six months, sought for him since she was twelve, betrothed at fourteen and married at sixteen. “Of course, a decision by you is a decision and not a suggestion.”