Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Hiraga and Tyrer wore loose-belted sleeping-lounging kimonos—Tyrer enjoying its unaccustomed comfort and Hiraga relieved to get out of the European clothes that he had worn all day. Both had been bathed and massaged in the nearby bathhouse. “Please eat.”
Awkwardly Tyrer used chopsticks. In Peking, the Embassy had advised against eating any Chinese foods: “… not unless you want to get poisoned, old boy. These buggers really eat dog, drink snake’s bile, spoon up insects, anything, and have an astounding but universal belief, If its back faces heaven you can eat it! Ugh!”
Hiraga corrected the way to hold the sticks. “There.”
“Thank you, Nakama-san, very difficult.” Tyrer laughed. “Will fat not get eating theses.”
“‘I will not get fat eating with these,’” Hiraga said, not yet weary of correcting Tyrer’s Japanese, for he had found he enjoyed teaching him. Tyrer was an apt pupil with a remarkable memory and happy disposition—and very important for himself, a continual fountain of information.
“Ah, sorry, I won’t get fat eating with these. What is, sorry, what are these foods?”
“This is what we call tempura, fish fried in batter.”
“So sorry, what is ‘batter’?” Tyrer listened attentively, missing many of the words but understanding the gist, just as he knew the other man would miss English words. We speak more English than Japanese, he thought wryly, but never mind. Nakama’s a great teacher and we seem to have made an accommodation which is fine—without him I wouldn’t be here, probably not alive, either, and would certainly never have all the face I gained with Marlowe, Pallidar and Wee Willie Winkie, let alone the invaluable intelligence he is supplying. Tyrer smiled. It pleased him to be able to think of Sir William now by his nickname when only a few days ago he had been petrified of him. “Oh, now I understand. Batter! We also use batter.”
“This food to your liking, Taira-san?” Hiraga asked, switching to English.
“Yes, thank you.” Whenever he could Tyrer would answer in Japanese. “Thank for everything, massage, bath, now caml, sorry, now calm and happy.”
Some of the food he found exciting, tempura and yakitori, bite-sized pieces of chicken that were grilled with a sweet and salty sauce. Unagi turned out to be grilled eel with a warm sweet-sour sauce he particularly liked. Sushi, slivers of various raw fish of different colors and textures on a ball of rice he found difficult to swallow at first, but when dipped in a mysterious salty sauce called soy or soya they became palatable. After all, he thought, Father did advise me to try everything: “My son, since you insist on this dramatic idea of becoming a Japanese interpreter, then I advise you to hurl yourself into their way of life and foods and so on—without forgetting you’re an English gentleman with obligations, a duty to the Crown, the Empire and to God …”
Wonder what the Old Man would say about Fujiko. She’s certainly part of their way of life. Tyrer beamed suddenly and pointed with a chopstick. “What’s this?”
“Oh, sorry, Taira-san, it’s bad manners to point with the thin end of a chopstick. Please use the other end. This is wasabi.” Before Hiraga could stop him, Tyrer had picked up the nodule of green paste and eaten it. At once his sinuses caught fire and he gasped, eyes watering, almost blinded. In time the conflagration passed, leaving him panting. “My Go’d,” Hiraga said, copying Tyrer and trying not to laugh. “Wasabi do not eat, just put ’ritt’er—sorry, word very hard for me—just put some in the soy to make spicy.”
“My mistake.” Tyrer gasped, momentarily strangled. “My God, that’s lethal, worse than chili! Next time I careful.”
“You very good for man who begin, Taira-san. And you ’rearn Japanese o’rr so quick, very good.”
“Domo, Nakama-san, domo.” Same with you in English. Pleased to be complimented, Tyrer concentrated on being more deft. The next morsel he tried was tako, sliced octopus tentacle. It tasted like slimy rubber even with a touch of soy and wasabi. “This is very tasty, I like this very much.”
I’m starving, he was thinking. I’d like triples of the chicken, another bowl of rice, twenty more of the tempura prawns, and Hiraga eats like a baby. Never mind, I’m being entertained by a samurai, it’s not a week since he helped get us out of the Yedo Legation without an international incident, not six weeks since I first met André, yet I can already talk a little Japanese, already know more about their customs than most traders who have been here since the beginning. If I can keep this up I’ll be gazetted as an official interpreter in a few months and in line for the official salary: Four hundred pounds a year! Hooray, or Banzai, as a Japanese would say. At the present rate of exchange I can easily afford another pony but before that …
His heart quickened.
Before that I’ll buy Fujiko’s contract. Nakama’s promised to help so I’ll have no trouble. He promised. Perhaps we’ll begin tonight—thank God, Fujiko’s back from visiting her grandmother. I suppose I really shouldn’t on a Sunday, but never mind. Karma.
He sighed. Between André and Nakama he had discovered that word and the marvelous way it became a panacea for all happenings, good or bad, over which you had no control. “Karma!”
“What, Taira-san?”
“Nothing. Food’s good.”
“Food’s good,” Hiraga mimicked him. “Good, thank you, I p’reased.” He called for more beer and saké. The shoji slid back and the drinks appeared on a tray carried by a merry-faced maid who beamed at Hiraga, smiled shyly at Tyrer. With hardly a thought, Hiraga caressed her rump. “How would you like it Over the Mountain?”
“Eeee, you naughty man! Over Mountain? Oh, no, not me, nor Under, but I might Play the Flute for a gold oban!”
They both laughed at the sally—one gold oban being outrageously expensive, the fee a courtesan of the first class might charge for such a service. The maid poured the saké, filled Tyrer’s mug and left.
“What she say, Nakama-san?”
He smiled. “So sorry, difficu’t exp’rain, not words enough yet. Just joke, man-woman joke, you understand?”
“Wakarimasu. Church today, you like?” With Sir William’s approval and the avid consent of the Reverend Michaelmas Tweet he had sneaked Hiraga up to the minstrels’ gallery. Dressed in his new Western clothes, made to order by the Chinese tailor with his usual unbelievable speed, and beaver top hat, Hiraga had passed as Eurasian and was hardly noticed. Except by Jamie McFay who had winked discreetly.
“Church good, and your exp’rain too,” Hiraga said, but inside he was still trying to sift Tyrer’s information into perspective, along with the astonishing sight of all these grown men, and two revolting-looking women, singing in unison, getting up, sitting down, solemnly droning out prayers, bowing their heads to their very strange God who, after the service, Tyrer had explained was actually three people, the Father, his Son who was crucified like a common criminal, and a kami. “So ka?” Hiraga had said, perplexed. “So, Taira-san, woman name Madonna who not God has son God—but she not God—and she pi’rrow with kami who not God but like hatomoto of God with wing who not husband, husband who o’rso not God, but father is, so father of her son is grandfather, neh?”
“No, there was no pillowing. You see …”
Again he listened, eventually pretended to understand so he could question Taira about the enmity of the two churches, for he had noticed that Ori’s woman was not present and had asked why. Two churches, equally powerful, constantly at war! And Ori wanted me to give up. Baka!
And when, head aching from concentration, he had discovered the reason for the schism—and the resulting scale of hatred and mass killings and universal wars—he knew for certain in some areas gai-jin were totally mad, but oh-so-vulnerable: the split was only because an old bonze called ’Ruther, three hundred-odd years before, had decided on a different interpretation of some minor point of dogma that had been invented by another bonze fourteen or fifteen centuries before him. This man, clearly another lunatic, had decreed, amongst other things, that poverty was to be sought, and no pillowing w
ith women would, after death, send you forever to somewhere called Heaven, where there was no saké, no food and no women, and you were a bird.
Barbarians are beyond belief. Who could want to go to such a place? Anyone could see at once that old bonze was like any other ambitious, disgruntled fool who, after a lifetime of pretending to be chaste, just wanted to have a wife or concubine openly like any ordinary sensible bonze or person.
“Taira-san,” he had said weakly: “Need ba’f, massage, saké, you also, then food. Fo’rrow p’rease.”
At first he had been worried that he had proffered the invitation. Now the village elder, the shoya, would discover he could speak English.
“Eeee, how wonderful to speak gai-jin, I wish I did, Otami-san!” the shoya had chortled with open admiration. “May I tell you again that I support sonno-joi, and also I have assigned the cleverest of my sons to a gai-jin bonze with orders to pretend to convert to their ridiculous beliefs so he can learn their language and their ways.”
“You will make sure the servants are safe?”
“You will be protected like one of my family. For extra safety I suggest you should hire the whole restaurant and order this Taira to speak only Japanese in the bathhouse. You say he learns quickly?”
“Very.”
“Your secrets are safe with me. Sonno-joi!”
Hiraga smiled, grimly remembering the fervor with which the shoya had echoed him, believing him not at all. I wonder what he would do if he knew of our plan to burn all Yokohama. He would shit. But before even cleaning himself he would run to the Bakufu and bash his head to the earth in his haste to serve them and betray me. Baka!
Tyrer was still eating voraciously. Though still hungry Hiraga toyed with his food, following accepted Japanese custom and training, of disciplining oneself to be satisfied with little, there being more hungry times than abundant, to bear cold and pain with fortitude, there being more bad days than good, more cold than warmth so best be prepared. Less is better than more. Except for saké. And fornication. He smiled. “Saké! Taira-san, kampai!”
This flask was soon gone. He pressed Tyrer to drink, pretending it was an important Japanese custom to toast each other. Soon Tyrer was happily telling about gai-jin wars, the extent of the British Empire, about the goods they manufactured and the amounts thereof. Because of Tyrer’s sincerity—possible sincerity—and his “I swear it’s the God’s truth!”—he decided to accept the information, however frightening or preposterous until proven false. An hour’s study of Tyrer’s school atlas and maps had truly shocked him.
“But, p’rease, how can so ’ritter country ’rike Ing’rand ru’re so many?”
“Lots of reasons,” Tyrer said, warm and loose and pleased with himself, and, forgetting for a moment to use simple words and ideas, he went on guilelessly, “lots of reasons, because of our superior education—superior learning, you understand?—a superior heritage, a wise and benevolent Queen and our unique and special form of government, our Parliament, which has given us superior laws and freedoms. At the same time we’re blessed, we’re an island fortress, the sea protects us, our fleets control the sea-lanes for trade so we’ve been able to develop better skills in peace and quiet, to invent and experiment, we trade more therefore we’ve more capital, Nakama-san, more money than anyone else … and we’re very clever at ‘divide and rule’—that’s an old Roman law …” He laughed and finished the flask. “And, most important of all, I’ve told you before, we’ve twice the number of cannon, ships and fire power than the next two countries—half the world’s ships are British, with British crews and British gunners.”
So many words and ideas I don’t understand, Hiraga thought, his head reeling. Romans? Who are they?
If half of what Taira says is true, no, a hundredth part, then it will take decades to catch up with them. Yes, he thought, but in time we will catch them. We are an island too. Better than them this is Land of the Gods, man for man we are tougher, stronger, better fighters, we’ve discipline and more courage and, most of all we must win eventually because we’re not afraid to die!
Eeee, even today I can see ways to twist them that I could not have conceived a few days ago. “Honto,” he muttered.
“‘Honto,’ Nakama-san? The truth? What’s true?”
“Just think about what you say. So much truth. P’rease, you say ear’rier… Kampai!”
“Kampai! It time visit Yoshiwara, neh?” Tyrer stifled a contented yawn, weary of questions, but feeling grand.
“I not forget, Taira-san.” Hiraga hid a smile. He had already arranged that Fujiko would not be available this evening. “Finish saké, last question, then go. P’rease, you say ear’rier about machines making machines? How is possib’re?”
Tyrer launched into another enthusiastic answer, saying the British were leaders in what was called the Industrial Revolution: “The steam engine, railways, steel and iron ships, spinning Jenny, seed planters, mass production, harvesters, are all our inventions, sixty-pounders, submersibles, anesthetics, new medicines, navigation—four years ago we laid the first telegraph wire across the Atlantic, a thousand leagues or more,” he said grandly, deciding not to mention the cable had burnt out within a month and, soon, another had to be laid in its place. “We’ve invented electric generators, gas lighting …”
Soon Hiraga was giddy from the effort of concentration, and his desperate wish to understand everything when he understood almost nothing, but also because he could not comprehend why an official as important as Taira would answer any question an enemy would ask, for of course we are enemies.
I must learn English more quickly, I must. I will.
A gentle tap on the door and the shoji slid back. “Please excuse me, Otami-san,” the maid said, “but the shoya begs a moment of your time.”
Hiraga nodded briefly, told Tyrer he would return in a moment and followed the maid out into the alley that was empty and then into the busy street. The few pedestrians who appeared to notice him bowed politely as to a merchant and not to a samurai as the shoya had ordered. Good.
The shoya was waiting in an inner room, kneeling behind the table, his arm resting comfortably on an armrest. A cat was curled beside him. He bowed. “So sorry to disturb you, Otami-san, but in case this gai-jin understands our language better than he pretends, I thought it best to speak here.”
Hiraga frowned, sat on his heels and bowed back, all attention. “Yes, Ryoshi-san?”
“There are several matters you should know, Otami-sama.” The strong-faced man poured green tea into little cups from the miniature iron teapot. The tea was superb, as rare as the eggshell cups, aromatic and delicate. Hiraga’s foreboding increased. The shoya sipped again then took a scroll from his sleeve and spread it out. It was another copy of the woodcut poster: The Bakufu offers two koku reward for this murdering revolutionary of many aliases, one of which is Hiraga …
Hiraga picked it up, pretending this was the first time he had seen it. Noncommittally he grunted and handed it back.
The older man put the edge to the candle flame. Both watched as the paper curled and became ash, both knowing that with his new haircut and rapidly thickening stubble Hiraga’s disguise was very good. “The Bakufu become fiends in pursuit of our brave shishi.”
Hiraga nodded but said nothing, waiting.
Absently the shoya stroked the cat and it purred softly. “It is said Lord Yoshi is sending an emissary to negotiate with the chief gai-jin for guns. No doubt a Lord of his high rank would offer higher prices than—than Choshu emissaries.” He added delicately, “Gai-jin will sell to the highest bidder.”
Hiraga had heard about the Choshu samurai visiting the Noble House from Raiko—almost everyone in the Yoshiwara was aware of the negotiations—and he was sure if he knew their real names he would certainly know the men personally or their families. Only a year or so ago a stepbrother, who also had gone to the same English school in Shimonoseki, had been one of the team sent to buy the first hundred guns. Curious,
Hiraga thought, that it should be to the same company owned by this tai-pan who will soon be dead, both he and his woman and this whole cesspit of evil. “Gai-jin have no honor.”
“Disgusting.” Another sip of tea. “In Yedo Castle there is much activity. They say the Shōgun and the Imperial Princess plan to leave for Kyōto in a week or two.”
“Why should they do that?” Hiraga asked, pretending uninterest that fooled neither of them.
The older man chuckled. “I do not know, Otami-san, but it is very curious that the Shōgun should leave his lair now to travel many dangerous miles to visit the lair of many enemies when, since the beginning, he has always sent a flunky.” The cat stretched and he tickled her stomach, adding thoughtfully, “The roju are increasing taxes in all Toranaga lands to pay for any amounts of cannon and weapons that can be bought—except by Satsuma, Tosa and Choshu.”
Hiraga sensed the shoya’s underlying anger, though none showed, or his own amusement: What are peasants and merchants for if not to pay taxes? “Unless the Son of Heaven can use his Heaven-granted power, the Bakufu will plunge Nippon into eternal civil war again.”
“I agree.”
Hiraga was thinking, I wonder how much you really agree, old man. He put that aside to ponder how to push the Bakufu and Toranaga Yoshi from their course. Akimoto should go at once to Yedo and the House of Wisteria, we haven’t heard from Koiko or her mama-san for days—perhaps we should go togeth—
“Last, it seems your shishi friend, Ori-san, did not leave for Kyōto as planned,” the shoya said conversationally.
Hiraga’s eyes went flat, almost reptilian. The shoya suppressed a shudder. Instantly aware, the cat was erect in one smooth movement, watching warily. Hiraga broke the silence. “Where is he?”
“In that part of the Settlement where the low-class gai-jin live, drink and fornicate.”
Near midnight André Poncin knocked on the door of the House of the Three Carp. At once the doorkeeper admitted him. Raiko welcomed him and soon they were drinking saké, discussing the latest news of the Yoshiwara and Settlement—she was a source of much intelligence for him as he was for her—in their usual mixture of Japanese and English.
Awkwardly Tyrer used chopsticks. In Peking, the Embassy had advised against eating any Chinese foods: “… not unless you want to get poisoned, old boy. These buggers really eat dog, drink snake’s bile, spoon up insects, anything, and have an astounding but universal belief, If its back faces heaven you can eat it! Ugh!”
Hiraga corrected the way to hold the sticks. “There.”
“Thank you, Nakama-san, very difficult.” Tyrer laughed. “Will fat not get eating theses.”
“‘I will not get fat eating with these,’” Hiraga said, not yet weary of correcting Tyrer’s Japanese, for he had found he enjoyed teaching him. Tyrer was an apt pupil with a remarkable memory and happy disposition—and very important for himself, a continual fountain of information.
“Ah, sorry, I won’t get fat eating with these. What is, sorry, what are these foods?”
“This is what we call tempura, fish fried in batter.”
“So sorry, what is ‘batter’?” Tyrer listened attentively, missing many of the words but understanding the gist, just as he knew the other man would miss English words. We speak more English than Japanese, he thought wryly, but never mind. Nakama’s a great teacher and we seem to have made an accommodation which is fine—without him I wouldn’t be here, probably not alive, either, and would certainly never have all the face I gained with Marlowe, Pallidar and Wee Willie Winkie, let alone the invaluable intelligence he is supplying. Tyrer smiled. It pleased him to be able to think of Sir William now by his nickname when only a few days ago he had been petrified of him. “Oh, now I understand. Batter! We also use batter.”
“This food to your liking, Taira-san?” Hiraga asked, switching to English.
“Yes, thank you.” Whenever he could Tyrer would answer in Japanese. “Thank for everything, massage, bath, now caml, sorry, now calm and happy.”
Some of the food he found exciting, tempura and yakitori, bite-sized pieces of chicken that were grilled with a sweet and salty sauce. Unagi turned out to be grilled eel with a warm sweet-sour sauce he particularly liked. Sushi, slivers of various raw fish of different colors and textures on a ball of rice he found difficult to swallow at first, but when dipped in a mysterious salty sauce called soy or soya they became palatable. After all, he thought, Father did advise me to try everything: “My son, since you insist on this dramatic idea of becoming a Japanese interpreter, then I advise you to hurl yourself into their way of life and foods and so on—without forgetting you’re an English gentleman with obligations, a duty to the Crown, the Empire and to God …”
Wonder what the Old Man would say about Fujiko. She’s certainly part of their way of life. Tyrer beamed suddenly and pointed with a chopstick. “What’s this?”
“Oh, sorry, Taira-san, it’s bad manners to point with the thin end of a chopstick. Please use the other end. This is wasabi.” Before Hiraga could stop him, Tyrer had picked up the nodule of green paste and eaten it. At once his sinuses caught fire and he gasped, eyes watering, almost blinded. In time the conflagration passed, leaving him panting. “My Go’d,” Hiraga said, copying Tyrer and trying not to laugh. “Wasabi do not eat, just put ’ritt’er—sorry, word very hard for me—just put some in the soy to make spicy.”
“My mistake.” Tyrer gasped, momentarily strangled. “My God, that’s lethal, worse than chili! Next time I careful.”
“You very good for man who begin, Taira-san. And you ’rearn Japanese o’rr so quick, very good.”
“Domo, Nakama-san, domo.” Same with you in English. Pleased to be complimented, Tyrer concentrated on being more deft. The next morsel he tried was tako, sliced octopus tentacle. It tasted like slimy rubber even with a touch of soy and wasabi. “This is very tasty, I like this very much.”
I’m starving, he was thinking. I’d like triples of the chicken, another bowl of rice, twenty more of the tempura prawns, and Hiraga eats like a baby. Never mind, I’m being entertained by a samurai, it’s not a week since he helped get us out of the Yedo Legation without an international incident, not six weeks since I first met André, yet I can already talk a little Japanese, already know more about their customs than most traders who have been here since the beginning. If I can keep this up I’ll be gazetted as an official interpreter in a few months and in line for the official salary: Four hundred pounds a year! Hooray, or Banzai, as a Japanese would say. At the present rate of exchange I can easily afford another pony but before that …
His heart quickened.
Before that I’ll buy Fujiko’s contract. Nakama’s promised to help so I’ll have no trouble. He promised. Perhaps we’ll begin tonight—thank God, Fujiko’s back from visiting her grandmother. I suppose I really shouldn’t on a Sunday, but never mind. Karma.
He sighed. Between André and Nakama he had discovered that word and the marvelous way it became a panacea for all happenings, good or bad, over which you had no control. “Karma!”
“What, Taira-san?”
“Nothing. Food’s good.”
“Food’s good,” Hiraga mimicked him. “Good, thank you, I p’reased.” He called for more beer and saké. The shoji slid back and the drinks appeared on a tray carried by a merry-faced maid who beamed at Hiraga, smiled shyly at Tyrer. With hardly a thought, Hiraga caressed her rump. “How would you like it Over the Mountain?”
“Eeee, you naughty man! Over Mountain? Oh, no, not me, nor Under, but I might Play the Flute for a gold oban!”
They both laughed at the sally—one gold oban being outrageously expensive, the fee a courtesan of the first class might charge for such a service. The maid poured the saké, filled Tyrer’s mug and left.
“What she say, Nakama-san?”
He smiled. “So sorry, difficu’t exp’rain, not words enough yet. Just joke, man-woman joke, you understand?”
“Wakarimasu. Church today, you like?” With Sir William’s approval and the avid consent of the Reverend Michaelmas Tweet he had sneaked Hiraga up to the minstrels’ gallery. Dressed in his new Western clothes, made to order by the Chinese tailor with his usual unbelievable speed, and beaver top hat, Hiraga had passed as Eurasian and was hardly noticed. Except by Jamie McFay who had winked discreetly.
“Church good, and your exp’rain too,” Hiraga said, but inside he was still trying to sift Tyrer’s information into perspective, along with the astonishing sight of all these grown men, and two revolting-looking women, singing in unison, getting up, sitting down, solemnly droning out prayers, bowing their heads to their very strange God who, after the service, Tyrer had explained was actually three people, the Father, his Son who was crucified like a common criminal, and a kami. “So ka?” Hiraga had said, perplexed. “So, Taira-san, woman name Madonna who not God has son God—but she not God—and she pi’rrow with kami who not God but like hatomoto of God with wing who not husband, husband who o’rso not God, but father is, so father of her son is grandfather, neh?”
“No, there was no pillowing. You see …”
Again he listened, eventually pretended to understand so he could question Taira about the enmity of the two churches, for he had noticed that Ori’s woman was not present and had asked why. Two churches, equally powerful, constantly at war! And Ori wanted me to give up. Baka!
And when, head aching from concentration, he had discovered the reason for the schism—and the resulting scale of hatred and mass killings and universal wars—he knew for certain in some areas gai-jin were totally mad, but oh-so-vulnerable: the split was only because an old bonze called ’Ruther, three hundred-odd years before, had decided on a different interpretation of some minor point of dogma that had been invented by another bonze fourteen or fifteen centuries before him. This man, clearly another lunatic, had decreed, amongst other things, that poverty was to be sought, and no pillowing w
Barbarians are beyond belief. Who could want to go to such a place? Anyone could see at once that old bonze was like any other ambitious, disgruntled fool who, after a lifetime of pretending to be chaste, just wanted to have a wife or concubine openly like any ordinary sensible bonze or person.
“Taira-san,” he had said weakly: “Need ba’f, massage, saké, you also, then food. Fo’rrow p’rease.”
At first he had been worried that he had proffered the invitation. Now the village elder, the shoya, would discover he could speak English.
“Eeee, how wonderful to speak gai-jin, I wish I did, Otami-san!” the shoya had chortled with open admiration. “May I tell you again that I support sonno-joi, and also I have assigned the cleverest of my sons to a gai-jin bonze with orders to pretend to convert to their ridiculous beliefs so he can learn their language and their ways.”
“You will make sure the servants are safe?”
“You will be protected like one of my family. For extra safety I suggest you should hire the whole restaurant and order this Taira to speak only Japanese in the bathhouse. You say he learns quickly?”
“Very.”
“Your secrets are safe with me. Sonno-joi!”
Hiraga smiled, grimly remembering the fervor with which the shoya had echoed him, believing him not at all. I wonder what he would do if he knew of our plan to burn all Yokohama. He would shit. But before even cleaning himself he would run to the Bakufu and bash his head to the earth in his haste to serve them and betray me. Baka!
Tyrer was still eating voraciously. Though still hungry Hiraga toyed with his food, following accepted Japanese custom and training, of disciplining oneself to be satisfied with little, there being more hungry times than abundant, to bear cold and pain with fortitude, there being more bad days than good, more cold than warmth so best be prepared. Less is better than more. Except for saké. And fornication. He smiled. “Saké! Taira-san, kampai!”
This flask was soon gone. He pressed Tyrer to drink, pretending it was an important Japanese custom to toast each other. Soon Tyrer was happily telling about gai-jin wars, the extent of the British Empire, about the goods they manufactured and the amounts thereof. Because of Tyrer’s sincerity—possible sincerity—and his “I swear it’s the God’s truth!”—he decided to accept the information, however frightening or preposterous until proven false. An hour’s study of Tyrer’s school atlas and maps had truly shocked him.
“But, p’rease, how can so ’ritter country ’rike Ing’rand ru’re so many?”
“Lots of reasons,” Tyrer said, warm and loose and pleased with himself, and, forgetting for a moment to use simple words and ideas, he went on guilelessly, “lots of reasons, because of our superior education—superior learning, you understand?—a superior heritage, a wise and benevolent Queen and our unique and special form of government, our Parliament, which has given us superior laws and freedoms. At the same time we’re blessed, we’re an island fortress, the sea protects us, our fleets control the sea-lanes for trade so we’ve been able to develop better skills in peace and quiet, to invent and experiment, we trade more therefore we’ve more capital, Nakama-san, more money than anyone else … and we’re very clever at ‘divide and rule’—that’s an old Roman law …” He laughed and finished the flask. “And, most important of all, I’ve told you before, we’ve twice the number of cannon, ships and fire power than the next two countries—half the world’s ships are British, with British crews and British gunners.”
So many words and ideas I don’t understand, Hiraga thought, his head reeling. Romans? Who are they?
If half of what Taira says is true, no, a hundredth part, then it will take decades to catch up with them. Yes, he thought, but in time we will catch them. We are an island too. Better than them this is Land of the Gods, man for man we are tougher, stronger, better fighters, we’ve discipline and more courage and, most of all we must win eventually because we’re not afraid to die!
Eeee, even today I can see ways to twist them that I could not have conceived a few days ago. “Honto,” he muttered.
“‘Honto,’ Nakama-san? The truth? What’s true?”
“Just think about what you say. So much truth. P’rease, you say ear’rier… Kampai!”
“Kampai! It time visit Yoshiwara, neh?” Tyrer stifled a contented yawn, weary of questions, but feeling grand.
“I not forget, Taira-san.” Hiraga hid a smile. He had already arranged that Fujiko would not be available this evening. “Finish saké, last question, then go. P’rease, you say ear’rier about machines making machines? How is possib’re?”
Tyrer launched into another enthusiastic answer, saying the British were leaders in what was called the Industrial Revolution: “The steam engine, railways, steel and iron ships, spinning Jenny, seed planters, mass production, harvesters, are all our inventions, sixty-pounders, submersibles, anesthetics, new medicines, navigation—four years ago we laid the first telegraph wire across the Atlantic, a thousand leagues or more,” he said grandly, deciding not to mention the cable had burnt out within a month and, soon, another had to be laid in its place. “We’ve invented electric generators, gas lighting …”
Soon Hiraga was giddy from the effort of concentration, and his desperate wish to understand everything when he understood almost nothing, but also because he could not comprehend why an official as important as Taira would answer any question an enemy would ask, for of course we are enemies.
I must learn English more quickly, I must. I will.
A gentle tap on the door and the shoji slid back. “Please excuse me, Otami-san,” the maid said, “but the shoya begs a moment of your time.”
Hiraga nodded briefly, told Tyrer he would return in a moment and followed the maid out into the alley that was empty and then into the busy street. The few pedestrians who appeared to notice him bowed politely as to a merchant and not to a samurai as the shoya had ordered. Good.
The shoya was waiting in an inner room, kneeling behind the table, his arm resting comfortably on an armrest. A cat was curled beside him. He bowed. “So sorry to disturb you, Otami-san, but in case this gai-jin understands our language better than he pretends, I thought it best to speak here.”
Hiraga frowned, sat on his heels and bowed back, all attention. “Yes, Ryoshi-san?”
“There are several matters you should know, Otami-sama.” The strong-faced man poured green tea into little cups from the miniature iron teapot. The tea was superb, as rare as the eggshell cups, aromatic and delicate. Hiraga’s foreboding increased. The shoya sipped again then took a scroll from his sleeve and spread it out. It was another copy of the woodcut poster: The Bakufu offers two koku reward for this murdering revolutionary of many aliases, one of which is Hiraga …
Hiraga picked it up, pretending this was the first time he had seen it. Noncommittally he grunted and handed it back.
The older man put the edge to the candle flame. Both watched as the paper curled and became ash, both knowing that with his new haircut and rapidly thickening stubble Hiraga’s disguise was very good. “The Bakufu become fiends in pursuit of our brave shishi.”
Hiraga nodded but said nothing, waiting.
Absently the shoya stroked the cat and it purred softly. “It is said Lord Yoshi is sending an emissary to negotiate with the chief gai-jin for guns. No doubt a Lord of his high rank would offer higher prices than—than Choshu emissaries.” He added delicately, “Gai-jin will sell to the highest bidder.”
Hiraga had heard about the Choshu samurai visiting the Noble House from Raiko—almost everyone in the Yoshiwara was aware of the negotiations—and he was sure if he knew their real names he would certainly know the men personally or their families. Only a year or so ago a stepbrother, who also had gone to the same English school in Shimonoseki, had been one of the team sent to buy the first hundred guns. Curious,
“Disgusting.” Another sip of tea. “In Yedo Castle there is much activity. They say the Shōgun and the Imperial Princess plan to leave for Kyōto in a week or two.”
“Why should they do that?” Hiraga asked, pretending uninterest that fooled neither of them.
The older man chuckled. “I do not know, Otami-san, but it is very curious that the Shōgun should leave his lair now to travel many dangerous miles to visit the lair of many enemies when, since the beginning, he has always sent a flunky.” The cat stretched and he tickled her stomach, adding thoughtfully, “The roju are increasing taxes in all Toranaga lands to pay for any amounts of cannon and weapons that can be bought—except by Satsuma, Tosa and Choshu.”
Hiraga sensed the shoya’s underlying anger, though none showed, or his own amusement: What are peasants and merchants for if not to pay taxes? “Unless the Son of Heaven can use his Heaven-granted power, the Bakufu will plunge Nippon into eternal civil war again.”
“I agree.”
Hiraga was thinking, I wonder how much you really agree, old man. He put that aside to ponder how to push the Bakufu and Toranaga Yoshi from their course. Akimoto should go at once to Yedo and the House of Wisteria, we haven’t heard from Koiko or her mama-san for days—perhaps we should go togeth—
“Last, it seems your shishi friend, Ori-san, did not leave for Kyōto as planned,” the shoya said conversationally.
Hiraga’s eyes went flat, almost reptilian. The shoya suppressed a shudder. Instantly aware, the cat was erect in one smooth movement, watching warily. Hiraga broke the silence. “Where is he?”
“In that part of the Settlement where the low-class gai-jin live, drink and fornicate.”
Near midnight André Poncin knocked on the door of the House of the Three Carp. At once the doorkeeper admitted him. Raiko welcomed him and soon they were drinking saké, discussing the latest news of the Yoshiwara and Settlement—she was a source of much intelligence for him as he was for her—in their usual mixture of Japanese and English.