Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Since that evil day she had beset him. The smallness of her neck, hardly feeling the blow, then rushing away instead of lighting her pyre, the nights worst of all. Lonely in bed, and cold, but no wish for a female body or for succor, all illusions gone. After her betrayal, her treason introducing the dragon woman Sumomo into his inner chambers—no excuse was acceptable for that, none, he told himself again, none. She must have known about her. No excuse, no forgiveness—not even, as he now believed, for her sacrificial charge to receive the shuriken that would have impaled him. No woman could be trusted again. Except his wife, perhaps, and consort perhaps. He had not sent for either of them, only written, telling them to wait, to guard their sons and keep their castle safe.
He felt no real joy even in his victory over the gai-jin though he was certain it was a superb step forward, and sure that when he told the Elders, they would be ecstatic. Even Anjo. How sick is that dog? Unto death I hope. Will the giant do his magic and cure him? Or is the Chinese doctor to be believed, he who Inejin says has never been wrong and whispered an early death.
Never mind. Anjo, sick or not, will listen to me now, the others will listen at last, and agree to my proposals. Why not? The gai-jin are boxed, no threat now from the fleet, Sanjiro almost done to death by gai-jin, Ogama satisfied in Kyōto. Shōgun Nobusada will be ordered back to Yedo where he belongs, once he explained the part the boy should play in the great plan. And not only returning, but returning alone, leaving his hostile wife, the Princess Yazu, to “follow in a few days,” never to follow if Yoshi had his way—no need for the others to be in his confidence. Only Ogama.
Not even Ogama to know all of it, only the part to enmesh the Princess and have her divorced by Imperial “request.” Ogama would see to it that she stayed out of the way until she was safely and permanently neutralized, content to live forever within the palace quagmire of poetry competitions, mysticism, and other world ceremonials. And a new husband. Ogama.
No, not Ogama, he thought, cynically amused, though of course I will propose the union. No, someone else, someone she will be content with—the Prince to whom she was once promised, and still honors. Ogama will be a fine ally. In many ways. Until he goes onwards.
Meanwhile there is no need to share an immortal truth I have discovered about gai-jin—with Ogama, Anjo or anyone: Gai-jin do not understand time as we do, they do not consider or think about time as we do. They think time is finite. We do not. They worry about time, minutes, hours, days—months are important to them, exact appointments sacrosanct. Not to us. Their version of time controls them. So this is one cudgel we can always use to beat them with.
He smiled to himself, loving secrets, dreaming of a thousand ways to use gai-jin time against real time to dominate them, and through them the future. Patience patience patience.
Meanwhile I still have our Gates, though Ogama’s men control my men who guard our Gates. That does not matter. Soon we will possess them entirely, and the Son of Heaven. Again. Will I live to see that? If I do, I do, if I do not, I do not. Karma.
Koiko’s laugh sent a chill down his spine: Ah, Tora-chan, you and karma! Startled, and he looked around. It wasn’t her. The laughter came from the corridor, mixed with voices.
“Sire?”
“Come in,” he said, recognizing Abeh.
Abeh strode in, leaving his others outside. The guards relaxed. With Abeh was one of the household maids, a cheerful, middle-aged woman, carrying a tray and fresh tea. Both knelt, bowed. “Put the tray on the table,” he said. The maid obeyed, smiling. Abeh stayed kneeling near the door. These were new orders: no one was to come within two metres without permission. “What were you laughing at?”
To his surprise she said merrily, “At the giant gai-jin, Sire, I saw him in the courtyard, I thought I was seeing a kami—two in fact, Sire, the other one with yellow hair and blue eyes of a Siamese cat. Eeee, Sire, I had to laugh. Imagine, blue eyes! The tea’s this season’s, as you ordered. Would like something to eat, please?”
“Later,” he said, and dismissed her, feeling calmer, her warm nature infectious. “Abeh, they are in the courtyard? What is happening?”
“Please excuse me, Sire, I do not know,” Abeh said, still furious that yesterday Anjo had ordered them all away. “The Captain of the tairō’s bodyguard came a moment ago and ordered … ordered me to conduct them back to Kanagawa. What should I do, Sire? You will of course want to see them first.”
“Where is tairō Anjo now?”
“I only know that the two gai-jin are to be taken back to Kanagawa, Sire. I asked the Captain how the examination went and he said insolently, ‘What examination?’ and left.”
“Bring the gai-jin here.” Soon there were heavy, foreign footsteps. A knock. “The gai-jin, Sire.” Abeh stood aside and motioned Babcott and Tyrer forward, knelt and bowed. They bowed standing, both unshaven and clearly tired. Immediately one of the door guards angrily shoved Tyrer to his knees, sending him sprawling. The other guard tried the same with Babcott but the Doctor twisted with uncanny speed for such a huge man, grabbed the man by his clothes near his throat, one-handed, lifting him off his feet, slamming him back against the stone wall. For a second he held the unconscious man there, then gently let him crumple to the floor.
In the shocked silence, Babcott said carelessly, “Gomen nasai, Yoshi-sama, but these twits shouldn’t pick on guests. Phillip, please translate that, and say I haven’t killed him though the ill-mannered sod will have a headache for a week.”
The other samurai were coming out of their trance and going for their swords. “Stop!” Yoshi ordered, furious with the gai-jin and furious with the guards. They froze.
Weakly, Phillip Tyrer had picked himself up, ignored the inert guard and said in his quaint, halting Japanese, “Please excuse, Yoshi-sama, but Doctor-sama and I, we bow as foreign custom. Polite, yes? No mean harm. Doctor-sama say, Please excuse, man no dead only …” He searched for the word, could not find it, so he pointed at his head, “Pain, one week, two.”
Yoshi laughed. Tension left the room. “Take him away. When he wakes bring him back.” He waved the others to their places and motioned the Englishmen to sit opposite him. When they had settled themselves awkwardly, he said, “How is the tairō, how did the examination go?”
At once Babcott and Phillip replied with simple words and gestures that they had agreed in advance, explaining that the examination went well, that the tairō had a bad hernia—a rupture—that Babcott could help relieve the pain with a truss and medication, which would have to be made and fetched from the Settlement, that the tairō had agreed he should return in a week to fit it and bring the results of tests. Meanwhile, he had given him medication that would take most of the pain away and help him sleep.
Yoshi frowned. “This ‘hern’ah,’ it is permanent?”
“Doctor-sama say that—”
“I know the doctor is talking through you, Taira,” Yoshi snapped, displeased with what he had heard, “just translate his words without ceremonial titles!”
“Yes, Sire. He says damage is per’man’nt,” a new word for him. “Tairō Anjo need … need medicine always stop pain, all time, sorry, each daytime, and also use each daytime this ‘truss.’” Tyrer used the English word and with his hands, explained the belt and pressure point. “Doctor think Tairō-sama good if has care. No can … cannot fight use sword easy.”
Yoshi scowled, the results not heartening. “How long …” He stopped and waved his guards out. “Wait outside.” Abeh stayed. “You too.” Reluctantly his Captain closed the door. Yoshi said, “The truth: How long will he live?”
“That only God says.”
“Huh, gods! How long Doctor thinks tairō will live?”
Babcott hesitated. He had expected the tairō to order him not to speak to Yoshi but once he had told him about the hernia and medicine, and had given him some of his laudanum tincture, which had relieved the pain almost at once, the tairō had chuckled and encouraged him to relate “the good ne
His fuller diagnosis, one that he had not told Anjo, or Phillip Tyrer, wanting to reserve judgment until he had made an analysis of urine and stool samples, had consulted with Sir William and made a second examination, was that he was afraid there could be a dangerous deterioration of the intestines from unknown causes.
The physical had only taken an hour or so, the verbal probing many hours. At forty-six, Anjo was in bad condition. Teeth rotten, surely septicemia from those sooner or later. Bad reactions to delicate probing of stomach and organs, obvious constrictions inside, very enlarged prostate.
Most of his diagnostic problem was due to his and Phillip’s lack of fluency, because the patient was impatient, did not trust him yet, and was not forthcoming with symptoms or clues. It had taken much diligent questioning for him to probably establish the man experienced difficulties with bowel movements, passing urine and an inability to hold erections—which seemed to concern him the most—though Anjo had shrugged and would admit none of the symptoms outright.
“Phillip, tell Lord Yoshi I think he will live about the average for a man in his condition of the same age.”
Tyrer’s headache had returned, aided by his desperation to do a good job. “He live about same as man of same age.”
Yoshi thought about that, also understanding the difficulties of probing delicate matters in a foreign language with inadequate interpretation. Therefore he must keep the questions simple. “Ask: two years, three years, one year?” He watched Babcott closely, not Tyrer.
“Difficult say, Lord. In one week perhaps know better.”
“But now? The truth. One, two or three, what think?”
Babcott had realized before he left Kanagawa that his function here was not only as a doctor. Sir William had said: “To put it bluntly, old chap, if the patient turns out to be Anjo, you’re also an important representative of Her Majesty’s Government, me, the Settlement, and a bloody spy—so, George, please don’t pong on this golden opportunity …”
For himself he was first and foremost a doctor. With doctor-patient confidentiality. No doubt that Yoshi was the enemy of the patient, a powerful enemy, but also a potentially powerful friend to H.M.’s Government. Balancing the two, Yoshi was the more important in the long run. Anjo had issued the ultimatum to evacuate Yokohama, he was the head of the Bakufu who would, unless there was a violent end to Yoshi, certainly die before him. If forced what would you answer? he asked himself. Within a year. He answered instead: “One, two or three, Yoshi-sama? Truth, sorry not know now.”
“Could it be more?”
“Sorry, not possible say now.”
“Can you say next week?”
“Perhaps say can, not more than three year next week.”
“Perhaps you know more than you say, now or next week.”
Babcott smiled with his mouth. “Phillip, tell him politely I am here at his invitation, a guest. As doctor, not magician, and I don’t need to return next week or any week.”
“Damn it, George,” Tyrer muttered guardedly, “we don’t want trouble. I don’t know what ‘magician’ is, and damned if I can cope with these nuances. For God’s sake, make it simple.”
“What did you say, Taira?” Yoshi asked sharply.
“Oh! Sire, that … difficult translate words of High Leaders when … when many meanings, and not know bet word … best word, please excuse me.”
“You should study harder,” Yoshi said testily, infuriated that he did not have his own interpreter. “You do well but not well enough, study harder! It is important you work harder! Now, what did he say, exactly!”
Tyrer took a deep breath, sweating. “He say, he doctor, not like god, Yoshi-sama, not know exact about tairō. He … he here Yoshi invite. So sorry, if not want come Yedo, Doctor-sama, not come Yedo.” He died a little more seeing Yoshi smile the insincere way Babcott had, no mistaking that meaning, and he cursed the day he decided to be an interpreter. “So sorry.”
“So ka!” Grimly Yoshi weighed his next move. The doctor had proved useful though he was hiding facts from him. If that was the case, he deduced the real facts were bad, not good. That thought pleased him. A second thought pleased him. It was based on an enlightened idea Misamoto unknowingly suggested months ago. Yoshi had at once initiated the practice through his spymaster, Inejin, for future use: one way to control barbarians was through their whores.
Inejin had been diligent as usual. So now Yoshi knew a lot about the gai-jin Yoshiwara, which were the most popular Inns, about Raiko and the whore of this strange and so ugly youth, Taira, the old one of many names now called Fujiko. And about the strange whore of Furansu-san. The gai-jin leader, Sur W’rum, had no special whore. Serata used two sporadically. Nemi was named as the consort of the chief gai-jin trader and an especially good source of information. The doctor did not visit the Yoshiwara. Why? Meikin will find out …
Ah yes, Meikin the traitoress, you are not forgotten!
“Tell the doctor I look forward to seeing him next week,” he said, his voice flat. “And thank him. Abeh!”
Abeh was in the room, kneeling, in an instant. “Escort them to Kanagawa. No, take them to the gai-jin leader personally, at Yokohama, and bring back the renegade Hiraga.”
“Hello, Jamie! It’s lunchtime! Last night you said to call for you at one o’clock!” Maureen smiled at him from his office doorway, bonnet and dressed nicely, her cheeks rosy from her brisk walk along the promenade from Struan’s. “One o’clock, you said, for lunch at this Club of yours.”
“Be right with you, lassie,” he said absently, finishing the letter to his banker in Edinburgh about the joint venture with the shoya, enclosing Tess Struan’s sight draft for deposit. Got to talk to Nakama-Hiraga somehow as soon as he’s found, he was thinking. Where the devil is he? Hope to God he hasn’t fled as everyone thinks. “Take a seat, Albert’s joining us.” He was so engrossed he missed her disappointment.
This new office was in the Guardian building, near to Drunk Town, on the High Street. It was much smaller than the one in Struan’s but it had a pleasant view of the bay, so important for the trader to be able to follow the coming and going of ships. Unfurnished except for a desk and three chairs, half a dozen filing cabinets. Piles of books and boxes, sheaves of blank paper, pens and new ledgers that he had scrounged until his order from Hong Kong arrived, were scattered everywhere. Heaped on his desk were more papers, letters, orders and a big mailing announcing the launch of his new company and requests for business. All had to be made ready for Prancing Cloud’s departure. “Did you sleep well?”
He sealed the letter, hardly hearing her. “Yes, thank you, did you?” and picked up another of the mailings.
These were being copied by two Portuguese clerks in their office down the corridor, next to the printing shop. The clerks had been lent by MacStruan until he could make permanent arrangements. “Albert’s a good fellow, isn’t he? I said we might be late,” he remarked absently. If it had been up to him he would have skipped the Club and asked one of the clerks to make him a sandwich, or ordered some of the Chinese food that they ordered daily from Drunk Town. Half an hour later he put down his pen. “All set?” he asked brightly.
“Aye.”
“What’s up?” he asked, seeing her look.
“Weel, laddie, I’d hoped we could be alone for lunch, there’s a lot to talk about—obviously there was no time last night. It was a bonny party though, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. The Cossack dancers were stunning. We’ve lots of time to talk—sorry, didn’t think it was important.”
“Angelique was stunning too, aye, and many of your friends, Marlowe and Settry!” She laughed lightly.
Relieved, his guard came down and he picked up his hat and coat and opened the door. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“You went out last night, after we’d said good night.”
His guard came up too late to prevent the guilty flush. “Yes, er, yes, I did.?
“I knocked on your door but there was no answer—I just wanted to talk, I wasn’t tired. You said you were tired.”
“Well, yes, I was, but then I wasn’t. Shall we go?”
“Aye, I’m hungry.” They went out onto the promenade. Few people were about. The day was not the best, sea choppy and wind cutting. “It’s no’ as bad as Glasgow at this time of the year,” she said pleasantly, taking his arm.
“That’s true, but the cold won’t last, soon it’ll be the best time, the spring and autumn are best.” He was breathing better now that the subject had been dropped. “Spring and autumn are the best.”
“You went to the Yoshiwara?” she asked pleasantly.
An ice pick leapt from his testicles to his heart and back again and a thousand answers presented themselves, the best of which was, If I want to go to the Yoshiwara, by God, I will go and we aren’t married and even if I was … and I told you I didn’t want to be married, at least not yet, not now that the new business has a chance. Confidently he opened his mouth to say all that but for some reason his voice came out strangled and limp: “I, er, yes, I did, but th—”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Look, Maureen. There’s some—”
“I know about the Yoshiwara, laddie, and about men,” she said matter-of-fact and kindly. “Did you have a good time?”
He stopped, rocked at the gentle voice and manner. “I, well, I suppose … but you see, Maur—”
“It’s too cold to stop, Jamie, dear.” In a friendly fashion, she took his arm again and forced him to walk on again and continued, “Good, so you had a good time. Why did you no’ tell me? And why tell a fib about being tired?”
“Well, because …” Again a dozen answers, but his mouth only issued, “Because it’s obvious, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t want …” He couldn’t say, I didn’t want to hurt you because I’d made a date, wanted to see Nemi yet didn’t want to, didn’t want you to know about her and actually I had a dreadful time.