Gai-Jin by James Clavell
To Tyrer it was very plausible. Very. Again a Satsuma, one of Sanjiro’s devils.
At the lip of the well, Hiraga pointed upwards. “Same as other. First I see.” He handed Tyrer the lamp and climbed to the top, the bricks still hot. Warily he peered out. What he saw made his head reel. Where once No Man’s Land was hemmed in, now he could see clear to the sea, past the space that was once Drunk Town, past the other space that was once the village, right up to the north end. Many gai-jin buildings there were untouched but that did not worry him. All in all, Yokohama had ceased to be. He returned below.
“What’s happened, Hiraga-sama?”
“You go see. I stay. You go now, friend. Hiraga not go, cannot—samurai still search, neh?”
Tyrer saw the brown eyes watching him, this strange alien who had certainly risked his life to save him. And had saved him for the second time. What more can a friend do than risk his life for his friend? “Without you, I know I’d be dead. I owe you a life. To thank you is not enough.”
Hiraga shrugged, silently.
“What will you do?”
“P’rease?”
“If I want to see you, to contact you.”
“I here. Taira-sama, not forget Yoshi price my head, neh? P’rease, not say about tunn’er. Bakufu and Yoshi want me bad. If Taira-sama say, soon dead, can nowhere to run.”
“I won’t tell anyone. How can I get you a message?”
Hiraga thought about that. “Sunset time, come here, speak down. I here sunset time. Understand?”
“Yes.” Tyrer stuck out his hand. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell and I’ll try to help.” Hiraga’s grip was as firm.
* * *
“Phillip! Phillip, my boy, thank God you’re safe!” Sir William’s face was alight with relief and he hurried towards him to grip him on both shoulders. “The rumor said you’d been swallowed up in the Yoshiwara, come and sit down, you poor chap.” He helped him to the best chair in his office by the fire. “Good God, you look terrible, what on earth happened, you need a drink! Brandy coming up!”
Tyrer relaxed into the tall chair, feeling much better. After the initial horror of the damage and meeting a few people on the waterfront, seeing bandages and burns—no one spoke of deaths—seeing the Legations, Struan’s and Brock’s and important parts untouched—along with the army encampment and the fleet—all this took away most of his tension. No one seemed to know who was lost, or how many, so he had hurried here. He took a large swallow of the drink. “I was caught in the Yoshiwara all right. I was with, er, with my girl and, well, she died.” His unhappiness rushed in again like a tidal wave.
“My God, sorry about that. Strange, your other friend, Nakama, Hiraga, whatever his real name is, he’s dead too.”
“Sir?”
“Yes,” Sir William said, and sat in the chair opposite and ran on happily. “Definite identification. A patrol spotted him in No Man’s Land at the beginning of the fire in Drunk Town, at first they thought he was a looter and gave chase but recognized him, shot the bugger, wounding him, to stop him, but can you imagine, the madman got up and hurled himself into a blazing building—the old oil depot. A few moments later the Sergeant said there was a terrific explosion and the place seemed to blow up.”
“That’s not possible be—”
“I agree it’s unlikely, throwing yourself into an inferno, ridiculous, no one would do that. Sorry to say two of the lads were killed trying to catch him—caught by the explosions. Damned shame! Nakama certainly could have been the arsonist, if there was one, rather far-fetched if you ask me. In any event, oil barrels were exploding all over.” He saw Tyrer’s agitation and pallor and felt bad for him. “Sorry for you, Phillip, sorry that he’s dead, because I know you liked him, but not sorry otherwise—he was an assassin and it gets us out of a dreadful hole with Yoshi, doesn’t it?” He waited expectantly for him to agree but there was only a hollow face in front of him. “Sorry, must be a shock on top of the … the other—it must have been awful.”
Tyrer was unbalanced, difficult to assimilate Hiraga’s mistaken death. “The Yoshiwara, yes—yes, it was,” and just as he was about to correct Sir William he was overridden again.
“Have to tell you, Phillip, we’ve been incredibly lucky. Army’s intact, Navy, only one of our community was lost so far, though we’re still checking. Did you see any of our chaps last night in the Yoshiwara?”
“No, sir, not one of ours, no.” Tyrer could not get his mind working properly. “Not a soul. You see I w—”
“Damn! Difficult trying to track everyone down, can’t get an accurate count. Drunk Town’s hopeless, but even there they say only half a dozen vagrants, no one with any name but Charlie or Tom or George. Glad to say Mrs. Fortheringill’s young ladies are all safe. Astounding we all escaped—if the wind hadn’t dropped … but then it did and thank God for that … Did you see Holy Titties escaped too? Of course, damages will run into hundreds of thousands of pounds. Thank God for insurance, what? Well, drink up and take a nap. When you think about it, you’ll see how fortunate we were with Nakama, he was developing into a major diplomatic disaster. I’m off, just going to discuss a plan with the community. Why don’t you lie down until I’m back an—”
A knock. Bertram said, “The shoya’s here, Sir William.”
“Perfect timing, show him in. Phillip, before you go you can translate for me. Come in, come in, Mr. Shoya.”
The shoya bowed deferentially, on guard.
“My Master greet you, Shoya,” Tyrer translated, still dazed, his mind elsewhere, desperate to lie down and think this all through. “Please to say how many lose in fire?”
“Please thank him for his kindness in asking but please do not be concerned about our problems.” The shoya found the question astonishing for it was no business of the gai-jin. What trap are they setting for me? he wondered.
“My Master says want know how many lost?”
“Oh, so sorry, I am not sure of a final count, but five fishermen and two families have gone onwards,” the shoya said politely, making up a figure as the gai-jin leader had asked pointedly, “how many lost,” thus expecting figures. Actually they had lost none of their people or children or boats, having had plenty of warning.
“My Master say, so sorry. Can he help village?”
“Ah! Ah, yes—yes, please thank the Great Lord, the families could use some bags of rice and a little money, any help with food or …” The shoya left it hanging to allow them to make up their own minds. Is this another trap?
“My Master says that he send foods for village. Please say how fire start.”
The shoya was thinking how totally mad of them to expect an answer to that. Dangerous to be involved in politics, even worse between shishi and Bakufu. While he greatly regretted the loss of all the profit when the gai-jin left their shores tomorrow or the next day, all was not lost because all his books and receipts and bullion were safe, and because of his agreement with the Jami gai-jin, which had become even more important now. I’m sure my stoku kompeni won’t suffer.
At the same time he was pleased with shishi daring to drive them out, blaming the vile Bakufu. Sonno-joi. We’re better off without gai-jin here. Better they are locked up in Nagasaki’s little Deshima as in the past. I will open a branch in Nagasaki and be ready for their return. If ever.
“So sorry, but probably oil in a kitchen,” he said with a humble bow. “Only the Yoshiwara cooks at night, we do not, please excuse me, that is all I know.”
“My Master say, this man Nakama, or Hiraga, the shishi Lord Yoshi want, he seen by soldiers who try catch him. He run away and dead in fire. You know him?”
The shoya’s foreboding tripled, though the death, to his delight, had also been reported. “Please excuse me,” he croaked, “I only know him as client, never shishi. Dead? How wonderful the assassin’s dead. Wonderful!”
Sir William sighed, tired of the questions and answers. “Thank him and dismiss him, Phillip.”
“Sir?”
“For Kanagawa, the Yoshi meeting. You didn’t forget?”
Tyrer was flabbergasted. “Surely he won’t be expecting us now,” he said weakly, the idea of a lengthy meeting translating the Treaty’s nuances filling him with nausea. “Surely not!”
“That’s why we’re going.” Sir William beamed. “Keep him off balance, eh? We’re British, not a bunch of lily-white twits. We’ve just had a minor contretemps, a slight hitch.” He put on his coat. “See you at noon, in best bib and tucker.”
“But he won’t turn up, not after this.”
“Yes. If he doesn’t, then he loses face, we don’t.”
“I can’t, Sir William, not as interpreter. I’m…I’m just exhausted and just can’t, not today, sorry.”
“’Fraid you’ll have to. Stiff upper lip and all that.”
Tyrer saw the thin smile, the coldness returning. And inflexibility. “Sorry, I can’t, sir. I’ve had it. Please let André do it, he’s better than I am.”
“You have to do it,” Sir William said, no humor in him now. “André Poncin’s dead.”
Tyrer almost fell. “He can’t be … How?”
“In the Yoshiwara. I heard just before you came in, that’s why I was so relieved to see you safe.” Saying that suddenly reminded Sir William of the sealed envelope André had left with him in the Legation safe, to be opened in the event of his death. “Henri identified him, as much as one could identify such a corpse. His signet ring was still on…. Well,” he said, sickened at the thought, “poor fellow was burnt to a cinder in his garçonière. I understand it’s only a few yards from yours in the same Teahouse. I’d say you were extremely lucky, Phillip. Be ready at noon.”
He walked out and down the street, heading for the Club. Men were streaming from all directions. Passing Struan’s he glanced at the building, thankful it was safe, with Brock’s—a good omen, he thought, one of them’s certainly the Noble House and Brock’s is a bloody sight better with Gornt than with Norbert. He noticed Angelique at her window and waved. She waved back. Poor Angelique, wonder if Henri’s told her about André. Then, hearing the tumult from inside the Club even this far away, the usual shouting, cursing and clinking glasses, he sighed and put his mind to the business of the Settlement.
Silence fell as he entered. The Club was crammed, an overflow on the steps outside. A narrow path opened up for him through the packed, sweating ranks and he walked to his usual place near the bar to greet the other Ministers, Seratard, Erlicher and Zergeyev, who had part of his face bandaged from burns and his arm in a sling. Anyone of importance was present, and many who were not, many bandaged, some with broken bones but all faces flushed. Already a few drunks were laid out.
“’Morning. I’m happy to report we’ve been tremendously lucky—”
Catcalls interrupted him, shouts of “Balls, I’m ruined” … “Wot’re you talking about, for God’s sake” … “Let him talk” … “He’s full of wind, hasn’t he seen” … “Oh, for God’s sake, shut up … !”
He waited and then continued, tougher in tone: “We really have been lucky, only André Poncin’s been confirmed dead”—an audible murmur of grief, for his music was greatly appreciated—“no one else of the community. Mr. Seratard identified the body and the funeral will be tomorrow. Unfortunately we lost two soldiers, their funeral’s tomorrow also. In Drunk Town a few are still unaccounted for but no one we know by name. Our Army’s intact, all firearms, shells, munitions intact, Navy’s intact—we are very lucky indeed and I propose we should give thanks to God.” In the dead silence he added, “I’m asking the padre to hold a special evensong at dusk, all are invited. Any questions so far?”
“What about our firms?” Lunkchurch said. “I’m burnt out.”
“That’s what we all have fire insurance for, Mr. Lunkchurch.” A bellow of laughter stopped him. “What?”
Heavenly Skye, Yokohama’s forwarding insurance agent to Hong Kong, where all policies were accepted, said, “Sorry to say, Sir William, Barnaby’s policy lapsed last week and, to save money, he refused to renew until the first of the month.” The rest of what he said was again drowned in laughter and jeers.
“I’m sorry to hear that. In any event, by tonight’s packet, to the Governor of Hong Kong, I’m formally declaring the Settlement a disaster area for all …” Roars of agreement and “Good Old Willie” greeted that, for such a pronouncement made sure all claims would be dealt with expeditiously. “… a disaster area for all legitimate claims, all of which must be substantiated, requiring my signature to be valid and …”
Another roar, this time of fury, for he was known to be punctilious, unlike certain officials in the Hong Kong Government, and the fire had automatically been considered by many to be a Heaven-sent opportunity to inflate inventories.
When there was sufficient quiet, he added sweetly, “No exceptions will be considered and the sooner claims are on my desk the sooner they’ll be approved, signed and dispatched …” A general movement for the door began and he bellowed with a voice huge for such a thin man, “I haven’t finished, by God! Next, certain ill-advised, foolish people believe the wisest course is to abandon our foothold here. Her Majesty’s Government has no intention of leaving. None-what-so-ever.” Arguments to the contrary began but he overrode them coldly. “Next, you are required to assist each other like British gentlemen and …”
“Wot about the bloody Yanks?” someone shouted to jeers and cheers for and against.
“Them too,” he called back, his humor returned. “A few of them are, and many more could be.” More laughter. “So act like gentlemen and rebuild as fast as possible. That’s important. We must confirm our position here because, last, most seriously, there are rumors the fire was arson.”
“That’s right, my musume said it were.”
“One likely report is that the arsonist was the samurai, Nakama, the fellow wanted by the Bakufu as a revolutionary, though Mr. Tyrer and I—and Mr. McFay, I believe—found him pleasant, no threat and a vast source of information.”
“That’s right,” Jamie said, refreshed by Maureen’s tenderness. “I don’t believe he could be an arsonist, least that’s what I think.”
“Be that as it may, we know for a fact he’s dead and he was caught in suspicious circumstances. Everyone must be on their toes in case it was arson—personally I’m not convinced—but if the fire was an act of violence against us there will be others, if an Act of God, well, that’s His privilege …”
“Amen,” many said, so thankful to be alive.
“So be aware of possible danger but let us act as normal and get back to work. Thank you, good day.”
“What about the Yoshiwara, an’ Mrs. Fortheringill’s?”
Sir William blinked. Good God, I must be getting old, he thought, the problem of the Yoshiwara had not occurred to him, when it was what made Japan bearable, even desirable to most men. “Mrs. Fortheringill’s will certainly be well covered by insurance. As to the first…We’ll start a fund right now. For one week. I’ll open it with twenty guineas and, well, because it’s part of our disaster area, Her Majesty’s Government will match, pound for pound, all contributions.”
To more cheers and backslapping he chatted briefly with the other Ministers, telling them, to their surprise, the Yoshi meeting was on, that he and Seratard would deal with Yoshi, but asked would they dine with him tonight for a private meeting. On the promenade he mopped his brow. Satisfied, he started for home.
“Hey, look!” someone called out behind him. He turned, and watched in wonder, and envy, with others leaving the Club.
In the desolate area where the village had been, now the whole location swarmed with industrious men, women and children, working and cleaning up with an antlike zeal towards the same goal; to re-create that which had disappeared. Two houses, roofed and shoji-walled, were already erected, others half up. Man
Pity our fellows aren’t as quick off the mark, he thought, awed, and saw, on the other side of the moat, across the repaired bridge, the Bridge to Paradise, more activity, and a temporary gateway already up, swaying in the breeze.
From here he could read the cherished, well-remembered Chinese characters on it—the English translation already scrawled there too, looking somehow quaint in calligraphy: Lust cannot wait, it must be satisfied.
That afternoon, the sea fair, sky uneasy, the Struan cutter turned for her Yokohama berth, returning from the Kanagawa-Yoshi meeting. Sir William’s pennant fluttered from the masthead. Those in the cabin, Sir William, Seratard, and Tyrer, dozed—Tyrer like a dead man. The Bosun tooted his whistle to ask cutters crowding their dock to move out of the way, but there were loud shouts of “Wait your bloody turn,” with a variety of profanity as punctuation.
Sir William opened his eyes, called up to the Bosun, “Drop us at the Brock wharf,” and when the Bosun suggested that Mr. MacStruan wouldn’t like that at all, Sir William bellowed, “Do what you’re told!” The others jerked out of sleep. Except Tyrer who mumbled and drifted off again.
Seratard stretched and stifled a yawn. “Grand lunch, William, good fish,” adding in French without noticing it, “I would have preferred a garlic, butter and parsley sauce. Never mind, your chef is English, so what can he do?”
“He’s Chinese,” Sir William said good-naturedly.
The meeting had gone exactly as he had planned. There had been none. They had arrived on time, waited half an hour, then sent for the local Governor, Tyrer saying they could not understand where Lord Yoshi had got to: “Is he sick?”
“Ah, so sorry I don’t know Lord …”
“My Master says, Ask after the health of Lord Yoshi, say we here as asked. As soon as well, please make new day.” Deliberately Tyrer had dropped all real pleasantries. The Governor had flushed, bowed as to superiors, apologized again and hurried off disgusted that the gai-jin were still in place—naturally every civilized person from here to Yedo had seen the fires and presumed the gai-jin, those left, would be licking their burns, boarding their ships to join the exodus and sail away.