Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Heya, Mass’er?”
“Wait a minute, you’re not Lun!”
“I Lun Two, Mass’er, Lun One come ’night, chop chop.”
“All right, Lun Two. Dinner sunset, you make every Mass’er shipshape never mind.”
Lun Two nodded sourly, hating to be in such an isolated, indefensible place, surrounded by a thousand hidden, hostile eyes that everyone carelessly dismissed, though nearly all must sense. I’ll never understand barbarians, he thought.
That night Phillip Tyrer could not sleep. He lay on one of the straw mattresses atop a ragged carpet on the floor, wearily changing his position every few minutes, his mind unpleasantly crossed with thoughts of London and Angelique, the attack and the meeting tomorrow, the ache in his arm, and Sir William who had been irritable all day. It was cold with a slight promise of winter on the air, the room small. Windows with glass panes overlooked the spacious, well-planted back gardens. The other mattress bed was for the Captain but he was still making his rounds.
Apart from sounds of dogs foraging, a few tomcats, the city was silent. Occasionally he could hear distant ships’ bells of the fleet sounding the hours and the throaty laughter of their soldiers and he felt reassured. Those men are superb, he thought. We’re safe here.
At length he got up, yawned and padded over to the window, opened it to lean on the sill. Outside it was black, the cloud cover thick. No shadows but he saw many Highlanders patrolling with oil lamps. Beyond the fence to one side was the vague shape of the Buddhist temple. At sunset after the bagpipes had beat the retreat and the Union Jack had been ritually pulled down for the night, monks had barred their heavy gate, sounded their bell, then filled the night with their strange chanting: “Ommm mahnee padmee hummmmm …” over and over again. Tyrer had been calmed by it, unlike many of the others who shouted catcalls, telling them rudely to shut up.
He lit a candle that was beside the bed. His fob watch showed it was 2:30. Yawning again, he rearranged the blanket, propped himself up with the rough pillow and opened his small attaché case, his initials embossed on it—a parting gift from his mother—and took out his notebook. Covering the column of Japanese words and phrases he had written out phonetically, he muttered the English equivalents, then the next page, and the next. Then the same with the English and said aloud the Japanese. It pleased him every one was right.
“They’re so few, I don’t know if I’m pronouncing them correctly, I’ve so little time, and I haven’t even begun to learn the writing,” he muttered.
At Kanagawa he had asked Babcott where he could get the best teacher. “Why not ask the padre?” Babcott had said.
He had, yesterday. “Certainly, my boy. But can’t this week, how about next month? Care for another sherry?”
My God, can they drink here! They’re sozzled most of the time and certainly by lunch. The padre’s useless, and smells to high heaven. But what a stroke of luck about André Poncin!
Yesterday afternoon he had accidentally met the Frenchman in one of the Japanese village shops that serviced their needs. These lined the village main street that was behind High Street, away from the sea and adjoined Drunk Town. All the shops appeared to be the same, selling the same kinds of local merchandise from food to fishing tackle, from cheap swords to curios. He was searching through a rack of Japanese books—the paper of very high quality, many beautifully printed and illustrated from woodblocks—trying to make himself understood to the beaming proprietor.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” the stranger had said, “but you have to name the type of book you want.” He was in his thirties, clean-shaven, with brown eyes and brown, wavy hair, a fine Gallic nose and well dressed. “You say: Watashi hoshii hon, Ing’erish Nihongo, dozo—I would like a book that has English and Japanese.” He smiled. “Of course, there aren’t any, though this fellow will tell you with abject sincerity, Ah so desu ka, gomen nasai, etc.—Ah, so sorry I have none today, but if you come back tomorrow … Of course he’s not telling the truth, only telling you what he thinks you want to know, a fundamental Japanese habit. I’m afraid Japanese are not generous with the truth, even amongst themselves.”
“But, Monsieur, may I ask, then how did you learn Japanese—obviously you’re fluent.”
The man laughed pleasantly. “You are too kind. Me, I’m not, though I try.” An amused shrug. “Patience. And because some of our Holy Fathers speak it.”
Phillip Tyrer frowned. “I’m afraid I’m not Catholic, I’m Church of England, and, er, and an apprentice interpreter at the British Legation. My name is Phillip Tyrer and I’ve just arrived and a bit out of my depth.”
“Ah, of course, the young Englishman of the Tokaidō. Please excuse me, I should have recognized you. We were all horrified to hear about it. May I present myself, André Poncin, late of Paris. I’m a trader.”
“Je suis enchanté de vous voir,” Tyrer said, speaking French easily and well though with a slight English accent—throughout the world, outside of Britain, French was the language of diplomacy, and lingua franca of most Europeans, therefore essential for a Foreign Office posting—as well as for anyone considering themselves well educated. In French he added, “Do you think the Fathers would consider teaching me, or allowing me to join their classes?”
“I don’t believe any actually give classes. I could ask. Are you going with the fleet tomorrow?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“So am I, with Monsieur Seratard, our Minister. You were at the Legation in Paris before here?”
“Unfortunately no, I’ve only been to Paris for two weeks, Monsieur, on holiday—this is my first posting.”
“Oh, but your French is very good, Monsieur.”
“Afraid it’s not—not really,” Tyrer said in English again. “I presume you are an interpreter too?”
“Oh, no, just a businessman, but I try to help Monsieur Seratard sometimes when his official Dutch-speaking interpreter is sick—I speak Dutch. So you wish to learn Japanese, as quickly as possible, eh?” Poncin went over to the rack and selected a book. “Have you seen one of these yet? It’s Hiroshige’s Fifty-three Stages on the Tokaidō Road. Don’t forget the beginning of the book is at the end for us, their writing right to left. The pictures show the way stations all the way to Kyōto.” He thumbed through them. “Here’s Kanagawa, and here Hodogaya.”
The four-color woodblock prints were exquisite, better than anything Tyrer had ever seen, the detail extraordinary. “They’re marvelous.”
“Yes. He died four years ago, pity, because he was a marvel. Some of their artists are extraordinary, Hokusai, Masanobu, Utamaro and a dozen others.” André laughed and pulled out another book. “Here, these are a must, a primer for Japanese humor and calligraphy, as they call their writing.”
Phillip Tyrer’s mouth dropped open. The pornography was decorous and completely explicit, page after page, with beautifully gowned men and women, their naked parts monstrously exaggerated and drawn in majestic, hairy detail as they joined vigorously and inventively. “Oh, my God!”
Poncin laughed outright. “Ah, then I have given you a new pleasure. As erotica they’re unique, I have a collection I’d be glad to show you. They’re called shungae, the others ukiyo-e—pictures from the Willow World or Floating World. Have you visited one of the bordellos yet?”
“I … I, no … no, I—I, er, haven’t.”
“Oh, in that case, may I be a guide?”
Now in the night, Tyrer remembered their conversation and how secretly embarrassed he had been. He had tried to pretend he was equally a man of the world, but at the same time kept hearing his father’s grave and constant advice: “Listen, Phillip, Frenchmen are all vile and totally untrustworthy, Parisians the dregs of France, and Paris without doubt the sin city of the civilized world—licentious, vulgar, and French!”
Poor Papa, he thought, he’s so wrong about so many things, but then he lived in Napoleonic times and survived the bloodbath of Waterloo. How ever great the victory, it must have been terri
He flushed, remembering how he had hung on André’s words—secretly ashamed of his avid fascination.
The Frenchman explained that here bordellos were places of great beauty, the best of them, and their courtesans, the Ladies of the Floating World, or Willow World as they were called, easily the best he had ever experienced. “There are degrees, of course, and streetwalkers in most towns. But here we have our own Pleasure Quarter, called Yoshiwara. It’s over the bridge outside the fence.” Again the pleasant laugh. “We call it the Bridge to Paradise. Oh, yes, and you should know that … oh, excuse me, I interrupt your shopping.”
“Oh, but no, not at all,” he had said at once, aghast that this flow of information and rare opportunity would cease, and added in his most flowery and honeyed French, “I would consider it an honor if you would care to continue, really, it is so important to learn as much as one can and I’m afraid the people I associate with, and talk to, are … regretfully, not Parisian, mostly stodgy and without French sophistication. To return your kindness perhaps I may offer you some tea or champagne at the English Tea House, or perhaps a drink at the Yokohama Hotel—sorry, but I’m not a member of the Club yet.”
“You are too kind. Yes, I would like that.”
Thankfully he beckoned the shopkeeper, with Poncin’s help paid for the book, astonished it was so inexpensive. They went into the street. “You were saying about the Willow World?”
“There’s nothing sordid about it, as with most of our brothels and almost all those elsewhere in the world. Here, as in Paris, but more so, the act of sex is an art form, as delicate and special as great cuisine, to be considered and practiced and savored and thought of as such, with no … please excuse me, no misguided Anglo-Saxon ‘guilt.’”
Instinctively, Tyrer bridled. For a moment he was tempted to correct him and say that there was a vast difference between guilt and a healthy attitude towards morality and all good Victorian values. And to add that, regretfully, the French had never possessed any distinction with their leaning towards loose living that seduced even such august nobles as the Prince of Wales who openly considered Paris home (“a source of grave concern in the highest English circles,” the Times glowered, “French vulgarity knows no end, their wretched display of wealth and outrageous innovative dances, like the cancan where, it is reliably reported, the dancers deliberately do not and are even required not to wear any undergarments whatsoever”).
But he said none of it, knowing he would only be parroting more of his father’s words. Poor Papa, he thought again, concentrating on Poncin as they strolled the High Street, the sun pleasing and the air bracing, with the promise of a fine day tomorrow.
“But here in Nippon, Monsieur Tyrer,” the Frenchman continued happily, “there are marvelous rules and regulations, both for clients and the girls. For instance, they’re not all on show at one time, except in the very low-class places, and even then you can’t just go in and say, ‘I want that one.’”
“You can’t?”
“Oh, no, she always has the right to refuse you without any loss of face on her part. There are special protocols—I can explain in detail later if you wish—but each House is run by a madam, called mama-san, the san being a suffix meaning mistress, madam or mister, who prides herself on the elegance of her surroundings and her Ladies. They vary, of course, in price and excellence. In the best, the mama-san vets you, that’s the right word, she considers if you are worthy to grace her House and all it contains, in substance whether or not you can pay the bill. Here a good customer can have a great deal of credit, Monsieur Tyrer, but woe betide you if you do not pay or are late once the bill is discreetly presented. Every House in all Japan will then refuse you every kind of entrance.”
Tyrer had guffawed nervously at the pun.
“How word passes I don’t know, but it does, from here to Nagasaki. So, Monsieur, in certain ways this is paradise. A man can fornicate for a year on credit, if he so desires.” Poncin’s voice changed imperceptibly. “But the wise man buys a lady’s contract and reserves her for his private pleasure. They are really so—so charming and so inexpensive when you consider the enormous profit we make on the money exchange.”
“You, well, that’s what you advise?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
They had had tea. Then champagne at the Club where André was clearly a well-known and popular member. Before they parted, André had said, “The Willow World deserves care and attention. I would be honored to be one of your guides.”
He had thanked him, knowing he would never take advantage of the offer. I mean, what about Angelique? What about, what about catching one of the vile diseases, gonorrhea, or the French disease that the French call the English disease and the doctors call syphilis that George Babcott mentioned pointedly abounds, under any name, in any Asian or Middle Eastern Treaty port, “… or any port for that matter, Phillip. I see lots of cases here amongst the Japanese, not all European related. If you’re that way inclined, wear a sheath, they’re not safe, not much good yet. Best you don’t, if you know what I mean.”
Phillip Tyrer shuddered. He had had only one experience. Two years ago he had become boisterously drunk with some fellow students after their finals, in the Star and Garter public house on Pont Street. “Now’s the time, Phillip, old boy. It’s all fixed, she’ll do it for tuppence, won’t you, Flossy?” She was a bar girl, a bawdy of about fourteen, and the tumble had taken place hurriedly, sweatily, in a smelly upstairs cubbyhole—a penny for her and a penny for the publican. For months afterwards he was petrified he was poxed.
“We have more than fifty Teahouses, as they’re called, or Inns, to choose from in our Yoshiwara, all licensed and controlled by the authorities, more going up every day. But take care, go nowhere in Drunk Town.” This was the unwholesome part of the Settlement, where the low-class bars and rooming houses clustered around the only European brothel: “It’s for soldiers and sailors and seamen, and for the riffraff, ne’er-do-wells, remittance men, gamblers and adventurers who congregate there, on sufferance. Every port acquires them because we have no police yet, no immigration laws. Perhaps Drunk Town’s a safety valve but unwise to visit after dark. If you value your pocketbook and your privates don’t take them out there. Musuko-san deserves better.”
“What?”
“Ah, a very important word. Musuko means son, or my son. Musuko-san literally means Honorable Son, or Mr. My Son, but in the patois, cock or My Honorable Cock, pure and simple. Girls are called musume. Actually the word means daughter, or my daughter, but in the Willow World, vagina. You say to your girl, “Konbanwa, musume-san.” Good evening, chérie. But if you say it with the twinkle she knows you mean, How is it? How is your Golden Gully, as Chinese sometimes call man’s passage to paradise—they are so wise, the Chinese, because the sides certainly are lined with gold, the whole nourished by gold and only opened with gold, one way or another …”
Tyrer lay back, his notebook forgotten, brain churning. Almost before he realized it, the little book of ukiyo-e that he had hidden in his briefcase was open and he was studying the pictures. Abruptly he replaced it.
No future in looking at dirty pictures, he thought, consumed with disgust. The candle was guttering now. He blew out the flame, then lay back, the familiar ache in his loins.
What a lucky man André is. Obviously he has a mistress. That must be marvelous, if even half of what he says is true.
I wonder if I could get one too? Could I buy a contract? André said many here do, and rent private little houses in the Yoshiwara that can be secret and discreet if you wish: “It’s rumored all the Ministers possess one, Sir William certainly goes there at least once a week—he thinks no one knows but everyone spies him and laugh
Should I risk it, if I could afford it? After all, André gave me a very special reason: “To learn Japanese quickly, Monsieur, acquire a sleeping dictionary—it’s the only way.”
But his last thought before sleep overwhelmed him was: I wonder why André was so kind to me, so voluble. Rare for a Frenchman to be so open with an Englishman. Very rare. And strange that he never mentioned Angelique once …
It was just before dawn. Ori and Hiraga, again in all-encompassing ninja clothes, came out of their hiding place in the temple grounds overlooking the Legation and ran silently down the hill, across the wooden bridge and into an alley, down it and into another. Hiraga led. A dog saw them, growled, moved into their path and died. The deft short arc of Hiraga’s sword was instantaneous and he hurried onwards with the blade unsheathed, hardly missing a step, ever deeper into the city. Ori followed carefully. Today his wound had begun to fester.
In the lee of a hut on a protected corner, Hiraga stopped. “It’s safe here, Ori!” he whispered.
Hastily both men slipped out of their ninja clothes and stuffed them into the soft bag Hiraga carried slung on his back, replacing them with nondescript kimonos. With great care Hiraga cleansed his sword using a piece of silk cloth, carried for that purpose by all swordsmen to protect their blades, then sheathed it. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Again he led onwards into the maze, surefooted, staying under cover where he could, hesitating at every open space until he was sure they were safe, seeing no one, meeting no one, then pressing on, heading for their safe house.
They had been watching the Legation since early morning, the bonzes—the Buddhist priests—pretending not to notice them, once they were sure the two men were not thieves and Hiraga had identified himself and their purpose: to spy on the gai-jin. All bonzes were fanatically xenophobic and anti-gai-jin, to them synonymous with Jesuit, still their most hated and feared enemy. “Ah, you are shishi, then you are both welcome,” the old monk had said. “We have never forgotten Jesuits ruined us, or that the Toranaga Shoguns are our scourge.”