Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Get out while you can, he thought, and went for the door. Then he heard footsteps. He rushed back to his cushion. The shoji was flung open. Raiko was shoved on her knees in front of him, Hiraga towering menacingly in the doorway.
“Oh, so sorry, Taira-sama,” Raiko said, stumbling over the words in abject haste to apologize and placate him. “Oh, so sorry, I made a terrible mistake…. ”
Her words were a fountain. Tyrer understood little of them though he got their message clearly. “Enough,” he said firmly. “Bring contract now. I sign.”
Meekly she brought out the scroll from her sleeve and offered it.
“Wait,” Hiraga ordered. “Give it to me!”
She obeyed instantly and put her head down again. He scanned the short document, grunted. “This as agreed, Taira-sama, you sign ’rater,” he said in English again. “This person …” he pointed angrily at Raiko, “says make mistake, says Fujiko begs honor to see you now, so sorry for the mistake. Her mistake. Baka!” he snapped at her, adding in Japanese, “Treat this lord properly or I’ll destroy this Teahouse! Make sure Fujiko is ready, very ready. Now.”
“Hai, Hiraga-sama!” Mumbling profuse apologies, she fled.
Once safely away, she chortled, delighted with her performance, with Hiraga’s ploy, and that the deal was done.
Tyrer, elated, thanked Hiraga, too happy to worry about how his obvious friend had changed her so quickly. We’ll never understand some things about these people. “I’ll sign the contract and bring it back tomorrow.”
“Take time, keep woman dog waiting.” Hiraga smiled and gave him the scroll. “Now I take you Fujiko. Ikimasho.”
“Domo arigato gozaimashita.” Tyrer bowed as a Japanese would bow to someone owed a considerable favor.
“Friend he’rp friend,” Hiraga said simply.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Later that evening Tyrer awoke, completely satisfied. His timepiece read 9:20. Perfect, he thought. He lay beside Fujiko who was fast asleep, the futons and feather coverlets as clean and sweet-smelling as she was, warm and comfortable—so much better than his bed, rough straw mattress and heavy woolen blankets with their dank smell. The sheen of her skin was golden in the candlelight, the tiny room golden and snug, with the wind worrying the roof and shoji walls and flames.
Another short nap, he thought, and then I’ll leave.
Don’t be silly. There’s no need to go back tonight. All papers for tomorrow’s Yoshi meeting are ready, a copy of the Treaty in Japanese and English in Wee Willie’s briefcase and double-checked this afternoon. The agreed battle plan against Sanjiro of Satsuma is ready in the safe for his and Ketterer’s signature. I’ll be up with the dawn, bright as a mint-new golden guinea—after the Hiraga shock-u and Raiko’s bigger shock-u I deserve a treat. He smiled, shock-u, sounding so Japanese. A contented sigh, good old Nakama, I mean Hiraga. He yawned and closed his eyes. And nestled closer. Fujiko did not awaken but opened herself to him.
In another part of the gardens Hinodeh waited impatiently for André, due any moment now, Raiko had warned, almost ill with anticipation.
Raiko was slouched in her own quarters, drinking saké. Soon she would turn to brandy and to oblivion, the drink swilling away all bad thoughts: her fear and loathing for Hiraga and her hopes for him, her terror over Meikin and esteem for her revenge intermingled with each emptied cup.
Across the garden, hidden in his safe house, Hiraga sat in the classic Lotus position meditating to clear the foul headache that the Katsumata news and Tyrer had caused. Soon Akimoto would return. Then he would decide about Takeda.
Over the next fence in a garden house of the Teahouse of Cherries, Akimoto was saké drunk. Lolling across from him, Takeda belched and quaffed his beer. Another saké flask was emptied blearily until it slid from Akimoto’s fingers. His head drifted to his arms. He began to snore. Takeda smiled, not nearly as drunk as he had pretended.
When he was sure Akimoto was asleep, he slid the shoji open and closed it after him. The night was cold, the wind strong from the south. It whipped around him, ruffling his thatch of uncomfortable, stubbled hair. He scratched vigorously, checking the part of the gardens he could see. A maid with a tray hurried from a bungalow to the main building. In the distance he heard men singing drunkenly and a samisen. Somewhere a dog barked. When the maid had vanished, he put on his dark padded jacket, stuck his swords in his belt, stepped into his straw sandals and darted down the path, turned onto another, then another until he was near the fence. His cache was under a bush. Five bombs that he and Hiraga had made, with fuses of various lengths.
The bombs were constructed from two sections of giant bamboo tied together, a third of a yard long, half that wide, the hollows of one packed tightly with Katsumata’s extra gunpowder, the other with oil, and plugged. Quickly he fused three bombs using the longest fuses he had, about a candle of time each—nearly two hours. The fuses were made of cotton rope, impregnated with a gunpowder solution and allowed to dry. He armed the remaining two with fuses for half that time.
A last look at the sky. Clouds raced with the wind. Good. He picked up two long-fused bombs and was gone, melding nicely with the night, through the secret fence door into the garden of the Three Carp that was south of the Cherries and headed for the southernmost garden house, like all of them, raised half a yard on low pilings. It was occupied and illuminated. Warily he crawled under it. He lit the fuse with a flint, the noise deadened by the wind. The fuse caught. A woman’s footstep sounded above and he froze. Sound of the shoji being opened. After a moment it closed again.
Errant leaves heaped over the spluttering fuse concealed it almost completely and once more he was away, a shadow amongst shadows—to duck into the shrubbery, seeing a gai-jin coming down the path. The man passed without noticing him, then again he was in motion, running for the main Teahouse building. Another fire bomb was settled there neatly.
Now back through the fence, avoiding a servant, waiting for a portly old maid to trundle by, reaching the cache, there to collect the last of the long-fuse bombs and hastening away again. This he lit and placed under his own house, Akimoto’s snores rumbling above. Takeda’s lips drew back with his smile. A last time he darted back to the cache, sweating and euphoric. So far, all according to Ori’s plan. Hiraga was gai-jin infected. So was Akimoto. He was not. He would do it alone.
With the remaining bombs he went across the garden and over the fence to the next and to the next and there was the secret well head. Quickly he went down into it, replacing the cover, no need to fear that Hiraga was below.
In the tunnel and safe he began to breathe again and lit the oil lamp. Scattered around were Hiraga’s bed and few possessions. Katsumata’s knapsack with the metal-cased bombs was under a blanket. He added his own two, shouldered the bag and hurried down the tunnel. Soon the water barrier was ahead. Quickly he was out of his clothes, tying them into a bundle.
The freezing water made him struggle for breath. When he reached the narrowest part where the roof sank toward the water, his head was just below it and the water not quite to his chin. With difficulty he managed to hold the lamp and knapsack above the surface. On the other side he dressed hurriedly, shivering and cursing, still so much to do. Never mind, he had begun. Soon he would be finished and then would live forever. His fervor warmed him and drove the cold away.
At the far end where iron bars led upwards and the well vanished below, he stopped to collect his breath. Now upwards. Once he slipped, almost fell but regained his hold and held on until his heart stopped racing. Up again. With great care he moved the broken cover aside and peered out. No Man’s Land was empty. Drunk Town was busy with slavering and shouts and drunken singing, a few men reeling along alleys not far away, dogs barking at them.
Drunk Town was south of the village and the Settlement that hugged the coast on a south-north line, as the Yoshiwara was generally southwards of Drunk Town. Ori first, then Katsumata and Hiraga had planned where to plant the fire initiato
He left the knapsack in the weeds, and secreted one short-fused bomb against a rickety godown, the other behind a hovel. Rubbish covered the smoking fuses.
Hurrying back for the remaining bombs, he had to slump into hiding near a pile of rubbish. Approaching from the village a patrol of soldiers was making their nightly rounds. Their route went from the British Legation, along High Street, through the village, across No Man’s Land, down through Drunk Town and back along the promenade again. Twice nightly. When they reached the alley, thirty yards from him, they stopped in the lee of the godown for a smoke and to relieve themselves.
Takeda cursed, pinned down.
More than three quarters of a candle had passed since lighting the first fuse.
“Good evening, Hinodeh,” André said earlier when he had arrived at their garden sanctuary. “Sorry I late.”
“Good evening, Furansu-san. You are never late. Whatever you do is correct.” Smiling at him. “Will you take saké?”
“Please.” He sat opposite and watched her pour, his legs in the space under the table where a small brazier warmed the air, the heat kept in by the eiderdown that was spread over the table and wrapped around them. Her grace was ever more pleasing, hair like glistening jet held with decorative pins, a touch of rouge to her lips, her long sleeves held delicately away from the flask.
Tonight she wore a kimono he had never seen before, a glorious shade of green, his favorite color, with cranes, the symbol of long life, embroidered in silver thread all over, the edge of a sheer under-kimono peeping out enticingly. With a bow she handed him the cup and then, to his surprise, poured for herself from another flask that contained warm saké—his was cold as he preferred. It was rare for her to drink.
With a special smile, she lifted her cup. “A ta santé, chéri, je t’aime.” She copied his accent as he had taught her.
“A ta santé, chérie, je t’aime,” he said, an ache in his heart, not believing that she did, how could she?
They clinked cups and she drained hers, choked a little, at once poured for him again and for herself. The same smile and she offered her cup to touch his. They drained them and again she poured.
“Mon Dieu, Hinodeh, you careful, yes?” he said with a laugh. “Not used to saké. Careful, no become drunk!”
She laughed, sparkling white teeth, voluptuous lips. “Please, Furansu-san, tonight is special. Drink and be merry. Please.” She sipped this time, looking at him over the lip, her eyes alight and flashing in the dance of candle flames, eyes he always found fathomless, always keeping him off balance—part of her fascination.
“Why special, Hinodeh?”
“Today is Sei-ji-no-Hi, Coming of Age Day—for all persons who have reached twenty years—you have reached twenty, neh?” she said happily, then pointed to the big candle on the table. “This candle I dedicated to my village god Ujigami for you.” Then she motioned to the door shoji. Just above it was a bouquet of pine and bamboo. “That is a Kadamatsu, symbolizing stability.” A shy smile and she poured and drank again. “I hope you approve.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Hinodeh,” he said, warmed.
A few weeks ago he had discovered it was her birthday and brought iced champagne with a golden bracelet. She wrinkled her nose against the bubbles and said it was wonderful, but drank it only when he insisted. He had finished most of the bottle and that night his lovemaking had been frenzied.
Over their time together he had noticed that the violence of his thrusts did not disturb her, she responded equally whatever he did and, at length, lay back with him, as drained. But how much she really enjoyed their joining he could never fathom, nor could he savor her and leave it at that, leave her to her pretense if that’s what it really was—and forget the enigma she had become. One day he would penetrate that enigma. He was convinced. It only required patience, that was all. He would wear away the shell of the enigma and then their loving and his frantic, insatiable passion would be calmed and he could live in peace.
She was still everything to him. Nothing else mattered. This afternoon he had humbled himself with Angelique and cajoled and begged and pleaded and menaced until she had given him a brooch in lieu of money. Raiko had accepted it.
Angelique’s stupid. Why is she wavering? Of course she should accept Tess Struan’s offer, buying her off, and quickly before it’s withdrawn. The offer’s generous, overgenerous, more than I expected considering her untenable position: no will in her favor and anyway no estate to claim against! Five hundred guineas as a down payment in three weeks! Wonderful—a gift from God! She can spare four hundred of that and I’ll arrange moneylenders to advance another thousand against her trust, two thousand, whatever I need. Skye’s a fool. She’ll settle after I’ve talked to her, and gratefully accept any advance when I suggest it. I’m saved!
Looking at Hinodeh, he beamed, so joyously.
“What?” She fanned herself against the rising alcoholic flush, the tip of her tongue between her teeth.
In French he said, “I’m home free, my love, soon you’re paid for and all mine forever.”
“So sorry, I do not understand.”
Reverting to Japanese he said, “Tonight I just happy, and say, you mine. You so pretty, you mine.”
She bowed her head at his praise. “You are handsome too and I am glad when you are happy with me.”
“Always.” But this was not true. Frequently he was angry and stormed away. Always the same problem, a chance remark, leading to asking, then taunting, pleading, demanding, begging, shouting: “We don’t need darkness! We’re lovers and we don’t need the dark anymore, we’re friends as well as lovers, I am committed to you forever. Forever! I love you, you can never know how much I love you, you can’t know, I keep asking and asking and asking but you just sit there …”
Always the same patient, abject response, head to the floor, her voice soft, with or without tears, and absolute: “Please excuse me but you agreed, so sorry, but you agreed.”
Again she drank and he saw the increasing blush in her cheeks, watched her pour again, her fingers unsure and a drop spilled. She caught her breath with a chuckle. “Oh, so sorry.” His cup filled again, and hers, quickly drained, her tipsiness making her even more alluring. “Oh, that’s very good, very very good, rieh,, Furansu-san?”
Long fingers with perfect nails shaking the flask and finding it empty, at once gracefully to her feet, the overlong kimono trailing, making her seem to glide to the brazier where other flasks sat in simmering water, and, on a ledge outside the tiny window, where others cooled. Wind came into the room momentarily, and with it an unexpected odor. Gunpowder smoke, faint but unmistakable. “What’s that?” he said in French.
She looked at him startled. “Please?”
Now that the window was back in place the odor had vanished. “Nothing, I thought …” Tonight everything about her enticed him. “Nothing, please sit. Here.”
Obediently she sat beside him, bumping him, chuckling. Unsteadily she poured again. Amused, he drank with her, the saké warming but not as she was warmed. Under the blanket her leg touched his. His hand went to her, the other around her waist and they kissed, her lips whisper soft and moist, her tongue sensuous. His hand went higher, she broke from the embrace, laughing. “Wait, wait, not here, tonight …”
Like an excited schoolgirl she pushed away, lifted herself and went for the bedroom and its single lamp, as always to blow it out and then, when she was ready in the darkness, to invite him in. But tonight she stopped at the doorway, steadied herself against it, then turned, eyes glowing. “Furansu-san.”
Watching him, she hummed as she removed the long pins in her hair and let it cascade to her waist. Now she loosed her obi and let it fall. A chuckle. Then her kimono and let that fall. All at once he was breathless, transfixed. The gold of her under-kimono shimmered with the candle flames, the sheer silk revealed but did not. Again the tip o
His heart was pounding as never before. He forced himself to remain seated. Now he could see her chest rising and falling, the nipples of her small breasts hard against the silk. Then she sighed. With perfect grace she let this covering slowly slide away and stood there in all her purity.
For him time stopped. Hardly breathing, he gloried in her gift, so unexpected and given so freely. When he could endure the waiting no longer he got to his feet. His arms were gentle and he kissed her with all the passion he possessed, strong against her, she limp in his arms. Easily he lifted her and laid her on the futons in the bedroom and tore off his clothes. And knelt beside her, gazing at her in ecstasy in the light. “Je t’aime, je t’aime.”
“Look, Furansu-san,” she said, lying there with her lovely smile. Her fingers were pointing at the inside of her thigh. For a moment he did not understand. Then he saw the abrasion. His heart almost leapt out of his chest, bile flooding into his mouth. “Look,” she said again, so softly, smile constant, eyes so dark in the small light. “It has begun.”
“It—it nothing,” he said, his voice choked. “Nothing.”
“It is everything.” She looked up at him. “Please give me the knife.”
His head reeled, his eyes blind but for the sight of the sore that filled the world. With a gigantic effort he shook his head to clear it. And forced his eyes to see. But this did not take away the vile, sick, sour taste. “It’s nothing, it is just, it’s nothing, nothing at all,” he croaked. The closer he looked the less important the blemish appeared. “Just a chafe mark, that’s all.”
“Please? You must speak Japanese, Furansu-san, so sorry.”