Gai-Jin by James Clavell
It was nearing midnight now and she sipped champagne and hid behind her fan, fluttering it in a practiced manner, teasing those around her, then gave the glass away as though bestowing a gift, made her apologies and went gliding back to her chair that was beside Struan. Close by was an animated group of Seratard, Sir William, Hoag, other Ministers, and Poncin. “La, Monsieur André, your playing is superb. Isn’t that so, Malcolm darling?”
“Yes, superb,” Struan said, not feeling good at all, trying to cover it. Hoag glanced over at him.
In French she was saying, “André, where have you been hiding the last few days?” She looked over her fan at him. “If we were in Paris I would swear that you had given your heart to a new lady friend.”
Poncin said lightly, “Just work, Mademoiselle.”
Then, in English, “Ah, sad. Paris in the fall is especially wonderful, almost as breathtaking as spring. Oh, wait till I show it to you, Malcolm. We should spend a season there, no?” She was standing close to him, and she felt his arm go loosely around her waist, she rested her arm lightly on his shoulder and toyed with his long hair. The touch pleased her, his face handsome and clothes handsome and the ring he had given her this morning, a diamond with other diamonds surrounding it, delighting her. She glanced at it, twisting it, admiring it, wondering how much it was worth. “Ah, Malcolm, you will enjoy Paris, in season it’s truly wonderful. Could we?”
“Why not, if you’d like to.”
She sighed, her fingers discreetly caressing his neck, and said as though taken by a sudden thought, “Perhaps, do you think, chéri, do you think we could honeymoon there—we could dance the night away.”
“Your dancing is a delight, Mademoiselle, in whatever city,” Hoag said, sweating and uncomfortable in his overtight clothes. “Wish I could say the same for mine. May I sugg—”
“You don’t dance at all, Doctor?”
“Years ago, when I was in India I did, but stopped when my wife died. She really enjoyed it so much that now I can’t enjoy it at all. Marvelous party, Malcolm. May I suggest we call it a night?”
Angelique glanced up at him, her smile fading, noticed the caution on his face, looked at Malcolm and saw the exhaustion. How awful he’s so sick, she thought. Damn!
“It’s still early,” Malcolm was saying bravely, longing to lie down, “isn’t it, Angelique?”
“I must confess I really am tired too,” she said at once. Her fan closed, she put it down, smiled at him, Poncin and the others, preparing to leave. “Perhaps we could slip out and let the party continue …”
They made their quiet apologies to those around them. Everyone else pretended not to notice them leave but in her wake was emptiness. Outside at the door she stopped a moment. “Oh la la, I forgot my fan. I’ll catch you up, my darling.”
She hurried back. Poncin intercepted her. “Mademoiselle,” he said in French. “I believe this is yours.”
“Ah, you’re so kind.” She accepted her fan, delighted that her stratagem had worked and that he was as observant as she had hoped. As he bent over her hand to kiss it she whispered in French, “I must see you to morrow.”
“Legation at noon, ask for Seratard, he won’t be there.”
She was brushing her hair in front of her mirror, still humming the last waltz she had danced. Which was the best? she asked herself. The best dance? That’s easy, Marlowe and the polka, better than Pallidar and waltzes—you should waltz only with the love of your life, allowing the music to swim your head with adoration and longing, drifting you on the clouds, tingling and wanting as I am tonight, the best day of my life, engaged to a fine man and loved by him to distraction.
It should be the best day, but isn’t.
Strange that I enjoyed this evening, and can act and think calmly, when already the day has passed. I’m overdue—probably with child of a rapist. This must be ended.
She was watching her reflection as though it were another person, the brushstrokes firm, titillating her scalp and head and taking away any cobwebs, astonished that she was still alive and outwardly the same after so much agony.
Curious. Every day after the first has seemed easier.
Why is that?
I don’t know. Well, never mind. Tomorrow will solve the overdue though perhaps even now I shall begin in the night and there will have been no need for all the fear and crying and crying and more fear. Tens of thousands of women have been trapped like I am trapped and still have been made whole without hurt. Just a little drink and everything as before and no one the wiser. Except you and God! Except you and the doctor, or you and the midwife—or witch.
Enough for tonight, Angelique. Trust in God and the Blessed Mother. The Blessed Mother will help you, you are blameless. You are openly engaged to a marvelous man, somehow you will be married and live happily ever after. Tomorrow … tomorrow will begin the where and how.
Behind her Ah Soh was tidying the four-poster, picking up her stockings and underwear. The crinoline already hung on a rack with two others, and half a dozen new day dresses still wrapped in their sheaves of rice paper. Through the open window came the sound of laughter and drunken singing, and music from the Club that still showed no sign of abating.
She sighed, wanting to be back at the dance. The brush moved more vigorously.
“Miss’y wan thing, heya?”
“No. Want to sleep.”
“Night, Miss’y.”
Angelique bolted the door after her. The connecting door to Struan’s suite was closed but unbolted. By custom, as soon as she had finished her toilet, she would knock, then go and kiss him good night, perhaps chat just a little and return again, leaving the door ajar in case he had a seizure in the night. These were infrequent now, though since he had stopped the night medicine a week ago, he was very restless, hardly sleeping, but never demanding.
Again she sat at her mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her peignoir was silk and lacy and Parisian—a locally made copy of one she had brought with her: … and you cannot believe the workmanship, Colette, or the speed of the Chinese tailor, she had written this afternoon for tomorrow’s mail ship.
Now I can get anything copied. Please send me some patterns, or cuttings from La Parisienne or L’Haute Couture of the latest styles or anything wonderful—my Malcolm is so generous and so rich! He says I can order what I like!
And my ring!!!! A diamond with fourteen smaller ones around it. I asked him how on earth he had got it and where in Yokohama and he just smiled. I really must be more careful and not ask silly questions. Colette, everything is so marvelous except I’m worried about his health. He improves so slowly and walks very badly. But his ardor increases, poor man, and I have to take care …. Must dress for the party now but I’ll write more before the post. My everlasting love for the moment.
How lucky Colette is, her pregnancy a gift of God.
Stop! No more or the tears and terror will come back. Put the problem aside. You decided what to do, if it was or if it was not. It is, so the other plan—what else can you do?
An absent touch of perfume behind her ears and on her breasts, a slight adjustment of the lace. A gentle knock on his door. “Malcolm?”
“Come in—I’m alone.”
Unexpectedly, he was not in bed but sitting in his armchair. Red silk dressing gown, eyes strange. At once some instinct put her on guard. She bolted the door as usual, and went over to him. “Not tired, my love?”
“No, and yes. You take my breath away.” He held out his hands and she came closer, heart picking up a beat. His hands were trembling. He coaxed her nearer and kissed her hands and arms and breasts. For a moment she did not resist, enjoyed his adoration, wanting him, and leaned down and kissed him and allowed him to fondle her. Then, the heat mounting too swiftly, she sank on her knees beside the chair, heart pounding like his, and half broke the embrace.
“We mustn’t,” she whispered breathlessly.
“I know but I must, I want you so much…. ” His lips were thr
“What is it? Are you all right?” she said, frightened.
“Yes, yes, I think so. Christ Almighty!” It took him a moment or two to recover, the surging pain lancing his ardor, that ache remaining, the other pain making it seem more strong. His hands still held on to her, still trembling but without strength. “Jesus, sorry …”
“No sorry, my darling.” When, thankfully, she had recovered her own breath, she got up and poured some of the cold tea that he kept beside the bed, her loins restless and cramped and nervous, heart agitated, not wanting to stop either but must, a few more minutes and wouldn’t have, must find a way to be safe, him safe, us safe—a voice shouting the litany at the forefront of her mind, “a man never marries his mistress, nothing before marriage, everything permissible after,” pounded into her as soon as she could understand.
“Here,” she murmured, giving him the cup.
She knelt and watched him, eyes closed, sweat staining his face and dressing gown. In a moment, most of her own unease and disquiet slid away. She put a hand on his knee and he covered it. “Being so … so close is bad for us, Malcolm,” she said softly, liking him very much, loving him but not truly sure about love. “It’s difficult for both of us, chéri, I want you too and love you too.”
After a long time he said with difficulty, his voice low and hurting, “Yes, but—but you can help.”
“But we can’t, not before we’re married, not yet, we can’t, not now.”
Abruptly his pain and frustration crested at having to sit all evening and endure other men dancing with her, lusting after her, while he could hardly walk where a month ago he knew he was a far better dancer than any one of them.
Why not now? he wanted to scream at her, what difference does a month or two make? For Christ’s sake … but all right I’ll accept that at marriage a proper girl must be virgin or she’s a loose woman, I’ll accept that a gentleman doesn’t wrong her before marriage—I accept that! For the love of God, there are other ways.
“I know, we—we can’t now,” he said throatily, “but … Angelique, but please help me, please.”
“But how?”
Once more words choked him: For Christ’s sake, like girls in Houses do, kiss you and fondle you and finish you—do you think lovemaking is just spreading your legs and lying there like a piece of meat—the simple things these girls will do without fuss or shame and happy for you afterwards, “Hey, you now all same good-ah, heya?”
But he knew he could never tell her. It was against all his upbringing. How do you explain to the lady you love when she’s so young and artless or so selfish or just ignorant. Suddenly the truth became rancid. Something in him mutated, changed.
In a different voice he said, “You’re quite right, Angelique, it’s difficult for both of us. Sorry. Perhaps it would be best if you moved back to the French Legation until we leave for Hong Kong. Now that I’m getting better we must guard your reputation.”
She stared at him, unnerved by the change. “But Malcolm, I am comfortable where I am, and near in case you need me.”
“Oh yes, I need you.” His mouth moved with the shadow of an ironic smile. “I’ll ask Jamie to make the arrangements.”
She hesitated, off balance, not sure how to proceed. “If that’s what you want, chéri.”
“Yes, it’s best. As you said, being so close is difficult for each of us. Good night, my love, I’m so glad you enjoyed your party.”
A chill passed through her, but whether from outside or inside she did not know. She kissed him, ready to return his passion, but there was none. What had changed him? “Sleep beautifully, Malcolm, I love you.” Still nothing.
Never mind, she thought, men are so moody and difficult. Smiling as though nothing were wrong she unbolted his door, blew him a tender kiss and went into her own room.
He watched their door. It was slightly ajar. As usual. But everything in their world was no longer as usual. The door and her nearness no longer tempted him. He was feeling different, somehow refashioned. He did not know why but he was very sad, very old, some instinct telling him that however much he loved her, however much he tried physically, she would never in their whole life together ever completely satisfy him.
Using his stick, he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled as quietly as he could to the bureau. In the top drawer was the small bottle of the medication that he had secreted away against nights when the idea of sleep became impossible. He swigged the last of it. Heavily, he shuffled to his bed. Gritting his teeth, he lay down and sighed as most of the pain left him. That he had consumed the last of the peace-giver did not bother him in the least. Chen, Ah Tok or any of the servants could supply him with more, whenever he wanted. After all, didn’t Struan’s supply part of China?
On her side of the door, Angelique was still leaning against the wall, in turmoil, unsure whether to go back or to leave well enough alone. She had heard him go to the bureau and the drawer open, but did not know why, heard the bed springs creak and his long-drawn-out sigh of relief.
It was just the pain and because we can’t, not now, she thought, reassuring herself again, stifling a nervous yawn. And also because he had to sit still at the dance when he is as fine a dancer as I’ve ever had—wasn’t it that that had first attracted me to him in Hong Kong from all the others?
Not wrong that he wants to make love—and not my fault he was hurt. Poor Malcolm, he’s just overwrought. Tomorrow he will have forgotten all about it and everything will be fine—and it’s better I move now, there’s the other to consider. All will be well.
She slipped into bed and into easy sleep but her dreams were quickly peopled by strange monsters with twisted baby faces, shrieking with laughter and tugging at her, “Mamma … Mamma,” writing on the sheets with her own blood that leaked from the tip of her finger she used as a pen, tracing and retracing those characters—the ones from the counterpane imprinted deeply in her mind that she had not yet had the courage to ask André or Tyrer about.
Something jerked her out of sleep. The nightscapes vanished. Uneasily awake, she glanced at the door, half expecting to see him there. But he was not and she heard, faintly, his heavy, regular breathing, so she settled back in her pillows and thought, It was the wind or a banging shutter.
Mon Dieu, I’m tired, but what a lovely time I had at the dance. And what a lovely ring he gave me.
* * *
Humming the polka and envious of John Marlowe’s success, and quite sure he could have done as well, Phillip Tyrer half danced up to the door of the House of the Three Carp in the tiny, deserted little alleyway and knocked with a flourish. Here the Yoshiwara seemed to be slumbering, but not far away the houses and bars on Main Street were bubbling, the night young with the noise of men laughing and raucous singing, the occasional twang of samisen and laughter and pidgin mixed with it.
The door grille opened. “Mass’er, wat?”
“Please speak Japanese. I am Taira-san and I have an appointment.”
“Ah, is that so?” the burly servant said. “Taira-san, eh? I will inform the mama-san.” The grille closed.
As he waited Tyrer’s fingers drummed on the old wood. Yesterday and last night he had had to spend all his time with Sir William, explaining about Nakama and the Legation, arranging a modus vivendi for his newfound teacher—guilty he had not revealed the vital truth that the man could speak some English. But he had sworn, and an Englishman’s word was his bond.
Sir William had finally agreed “Nakama??
Tyrer had sent for Nakama and explained what Sir William had agreed. By this time he was too tired for Fujiko. “Now, Nakama, I need to send a message, and I want you to deliver it. Please write the characters for: ‘Please arrange …’”
“’range, p’rease?”
“To fix or to make. ‘Please make an appointment for me tomorrow night with …’ Leave a blank for the name.”
It had taken Hiraga a little time to understand exactly what was required of him and why. In desperation, Tyrer had found himself giving the name Fujiko and the House of the Three Carp. “Ah, Three Carp?” Hiraga had said. “So ka! Give message mama-san, no mistake, arrange you see musume tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes, please.”
Nakama had shown him how to write the characters and Tyrer copied them, very pleased with himself, and signed the message carefully with the signature Hiraga had developed for him and now he was here at the gate.
“Come on, hurry up,” he muttered—ready, willing and able.
In time the door grille opened again. By Raiko. “Ah, good evening, Taira-san, you want us to speak Japanese, certainly,” she said with a smile and a little bow, and followed with a flood of lilting Japanese which he did not catch, except the name of Fujiko several times, ended with, “So sorry.”