Gai-Jin by James Clavell
His interest quickened. “What bad times in China?”
“He said that all China was in revolt, famine everywhere, gai-jin business in Shanghai less than usual, though now that the English fleet laid waste the Mirs coast and sank many of the White Lotus pirates, the sea-lanes would be safe for a while and trade up and down the Yangtze would pick up in the spring. Eeee, Furansu-san, I hear they sank hundreds of junks and massacred thousands, many villages now in ashes.” Her fear was open. “Their killing power is terrible.”
She shuddered, knowing that though Japanese despised Chinese as weaklings, they shared the same great phobia: fear of gai-jin and an obsession to keep them forever out of their lands. “Will gai-jin fleets come against us when they return?”
“Yes, Raiko, if Bakufu not pay reparations money. War, yes. Not here, not Yokohama. Yedo.”
She studied her cup for a moment, wondering how she could further protect herself and turn this to profit, more than ever convinced that she must, somehow, quickly rid herself of Hiraga and Akimoto before it was discovered that she was implicated in the Ori disaster by harboring him and them, however righteous sonno-joi was. A wave of apprehension went through her and she fanned herself, complaining about the strength of the saké. “Karma,” she said, and shrugged off what “might be” for what “is.” “Now, some more good news: There is a girl I would like you to meet.”
André’s heart seemed to skip, and then, when it started again, it was more weak than before. “Meet when?”
“Do you wish to see her before we discuss business matters, or after?”
“Before, after, no difference. Will pay what ask, if like.” Again a Gallic shrug and the stark, naked desperation.
It touched her not at all. Why should it? she was thinking. The Yang’s hunger for the Yin is the essence of our world and without it our Floating World would float no more.
Strange that the Yang’s obsession to join with the Yin—in and out, battering at the gate, more pain than pleasure, desperate to end, desperate to continue, if to end never enough, if not to end moaning in the night—is all so transient, the Yin never so grasping. In that women are blessed, though the gods, if there are gods, have dealt all mortals a cruel hand.
Three times I have tried to go onwards, always because my Yin craved the possessor of a particular Yang—when a Yang is always more or less the same—always useless choices that brought nothing but misery, with no future and twice my passion unrequited. How foolish! Why? No one knows.
Never mind. Now the yearning of the Yin can be quenched so easily, and for a mama-san, toyed with. Easy to employ a Yang, or harigata, or to invite one of the Ladies to your bed. Fujiko, for example, who seems to enjoy the diversion and whose kiss can be celestial.
“Raiko know me, yes?” André was saying, and she thought, Indeed I do. “I know Raiko.” Indeed you do not. “We old friends. Old friends always help old friends.” True, true, but you and I are not old friends—not in its special Asian sense—and never will be. You are gai-jin.
“Furansu-san, old friend,” she said. “I will arrange a meeting, you and this Lady.”
He felt weak and tried to hide it. “Yes. Thank you.”
“It will be soon. Last, the medicine.” She reached down beside the table. The small package was carefully tied in a square of russet silk as invitingly presented as an expensive gift. “Listen carefully.” Again her instructions were explicit. She made him repeat them until she was sure he understood.
“Raiko-san. Please, say truth, medicine dangerous, yes, no?”
“Eeee, truth? Am I not a serious person? I am Raiko of the Three Carp. Have I not already told you? Of course it could be dangerous and of course not dangerous! This is an ordinary problem that happens all the time to all girls and the cure is rarely a problem. Your princess is young and strong and so it should be easy, with no problems.”
“Princess?” His features hardened. “You know who for?”
“That was easy to guess. How many women are there in the Settlement, special enough for you to help? Never worry, old friend. The secret is safe with me.”
After a pause, he said, “What problem possible?”
“Stomach pain and no result, just very sick. Then we must try a second time, with stronger medicine. If that does not work then there is another way.”
“What?”
“Time enough for that later.” Confidently Raiko patted the silk. “This should be all that is necessary.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You understand, Angelique?”
“Yes, André,” she said, her eyes on the silk-wrapped package. Her salvation sat on his desk. They kept their voices down though the office door was closed against unwanted ears.
His clock chimed 10:00 P.M.
He looked back at her uneasily. “The mama-san told me it would be best if you had your maid with you.”
“That’s not possible, André, it’s not possible to trust Ah Soh, or anyone—didn’t you tell her that?”
“Yes, but that’s what she said.” From across the corridor they could hear the muted sounds of men laughing over the dinner table that she had just left—Seratard, Vervene, Dmitri and a few French officers—saying she was tired and wanted an early night. Going to her suite, by prior arrangement, she had happened to see André in his office. “We’d … we’d best check that everything’s there.”
He made no move to undo the silk. Instead he toyed nervously with a corner. “If Ah Soh’s not there to help, who … who will dispose of … of the bottles and herbs and … you can’t leave them around, and who will clean up?”
For a moment her brain became addled for, foolishly, she had not considered this problem. “I—I won’t need help, there won’t be … nothing except the bottles and herbs … and towels. I can’t trust Ah Soh, obviously I can’t trust her, or anyone, only you. I won’t need help.” Her anxiety to begin the treatment and have done with this forever capped all the worries that swirled about her. “Don’t worry, I’ll bolt my door and … and tell her that I’ll sleep late and not to disturb me. I … it should all be over in a few hours, by dawn, yes?”
“God willing, yes, that’s what the mama-san told me. I still think you should risk Ah Soh.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, no, not at all. You’re the only one I can trust. Knock on my door early, like this.” She rapped the table thrice, then once. “I’ll open it only to you.” Impatiently she untied the silk. Inside were two small corked bottles and a packet of herbs. “I drink one bottle at once and then …”
“Mon Dieu, no,” he said, wearily interrupted her, his nerves as taut as hers. “You must do everything in the correct order, Angelique. First you put the herbs to infuse in the pot of hot water you’ve arranged. When that’s done drink one bottle, drink it quickly and don’t worry if it tastes foul, use the honeyed green tea or a sweet to take away the taste.”
“I’ve some Swiss chocolates Monsieur Erlicher gave me, will those do?”
“Yes, of course.” He used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his hands, his imagination taking him down all kinds of lurid passages. “When the infusion is tepid, say after half an hour, sip half of the brew—it won’t taste good either. Then relax and wait, go to sleep.”
“Will there be a reaction, will I feel anything yet?”
“No, I already told you, no! The mama-san said that normally nothing happens until some hours later—it should be like a—a strong stomach cramp.” The more he talked about it the less he liked being involved. What if something goes wrong? Mon Dieu, I hope there’s not a second time, he thought queasily and tried to push the bad away—and embarrassment—and be clinical.
“It should just be like a stomach cramp,” he said, sweating even more. “That’s the beginning, Angelique, a cramp. I’ll start again: Drink the first bottle, then sip half the infusion, half of it, remember you must do everything in the correct sequence—relax and try to go to sleep, the more relaxed you are the easier
“It’s cold and there’s no need to be nervous.” She uncorked one of the bottles and smelt the contents. Her nose wrinkled. “Worse than a Parisian street toilet in August.”
“You’re sure you remember the sequence?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t worry, I’ll—”
A knock on the door startled them. Hastily she scooped up the two bottles and packet of herbs and put them in her bag. “Come in,” André said.
Dr. Babcott dwarfed the doorway. “Ah, Angelique, the servant told me you were here. I just popped in on the off chance of seeing you a moment. ’Evening, André.”
“’Evening, Monsieur.”
“Ah, Doctor, I’m really all right,” she said, a sudden twinge of disquiet under his penetrating gaze. “No need t—”
“Just wanted to take your temperature, count your pulse and see if you needed a sedative. Always best to check.” When she began to protest he added firmly and kindly, “Best to check, Angelique, always safer to check, won’t take a minute.”
“Come along then.” She said good night to André and led the way down the corridor to her suite. Ah Soh was waiting in her boudoir. “Ah Soh,” Babcott said politely in Cantonese, “please come back when I call you.”
“Certainly, Honorable Doctor.” Obediently she left.
“I didn’t know you spoke Chinese, George,” Angelique said as he sat beside her and began to count her pulse rate.
“That was Cantonese, Chinese don’t have one language, Angelique, but hundreds of different languages, though only one form of writing they can all understand. Curious, what?”
How stupid to tell me what I already know, she thought impatiently, wanting to scream at him, Do hurry up! As if I haven’t been in Hong Kong, as if Malcolm, and everyone else hasn’t told me a hundred times—as if I’ve forgotten you’re the cause of all my misfortune.
“I picked it up while I was in Hong Kong,” he continued absently, feeling her brow and the pulse in her wrist, noting that her heart was racing and there was the slightest sheen of perspiration on her forehead—nothing to worry about considering her ordeal. “A few words here and there. Spent a couple of years at the General Hospital—we could certainly use such a fine place here.” He kept his fingertips lightly on her pulse. “Chinese doctors believe there are seven levels of heartbeats, or pulses. They say they can sense them probing deeper and deeper. It’s their main diagnostic method.”
“And what do you hear from my seven hearts?” she asked impulsively, enjoying the warmth of his healing hands and, in spite of her hatred, wishing she could trust him. She had never felt such hands or the good sensation that seemed to radiate from them to calm her.
“I hear nothing but good health,” he said, wondering if there was any truth to the seven pulses theory. In his years in Asia he had witnessed remarkable insights and cures by Chinese doctors—along with an abundance of superstitious nonsense. The world’s strange, but people are more strange. He looked back at her. His eyes were grey and very direct and kind. But there were shadows there and she saw them.
“Then … then what troubles you?” she asked, suddenly frightened that he had diagnosed her real condition.
He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of tissue paper. Inside the tissue was her little gold cross. “This is yours, I think.”
In violent turmoil she stared at it, her lips dry and not moving though her head had conjured up an immediate denial and shrug that were replaced in the same nauseating instant with: “I—I certainly … lost one like it. Are you sure it’s mine? Where did you find it?”
“Around the neck of the would-be interloper.”
“His neck? How … how odd,” she heard herself say, watching herself as though she were another person, her voice another person’s, forcing herself to be controlled even though she wanted to screech aloud for she knew she was again in the vise—her brain frenzied to concoct a plausible reason. “Around his neck?”
“Yes, I took it off the body. Thought nothing of it at the time, except that the man was a Catholic convert. Quite by chance, I saw the inscription—it’s hardly noticeable.” A short nervous laugh. “My eyesight is better than Hoag’s. ‘To Angelique from Mama. 1844.’”
Her mouth said, “Poor Mama, she died birthing my brother just four years later.” She saw her fingers pick up the crucifix and examine it, squinting in the oil light, unable to read the tiny writing clearly—cursing the writing. Then her instinct committed her and she said, “I lost it, or thought I lost it at—at the Tokaidō, perhaps at Kanagawa, the night I went to see Malcolm, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Bad night, very bad … bad day too.” Babcott got up hesitantly. “I, er, I thought you should have it.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, I’m glad to have it back. So very glad, but please sit down, don’t go yet,” she said, much as she wanted him to go. “Who was he, that man, and how would he have found it? And where?”
“We’ll never know, not now.” Babcott watched her. “Did Malcolm tell you we think he was one of the Tokaidō murdering devils, though neither he nor Phillip are sure?”
In spite of her dread as she squirmed in this new trap, she had an overwhelming impulse to laugh hysterically and say. He wasn’t a devil, not to me, not the first time, he left me alive the first time, and not a devil after I changed him. He didn’t kill me though I know he was going to, I know he was going to just before I made him leave…. Devil, no, but even so he deserved to die, had to die….
Mon Dieu, I still don’t even know his name, I was so enmeshed I forgot to ask … I must be going mad to think such things. “Who was he?”
“No one knows. Yet. The Satsuma king could name him now that he’s dead, but it would probably be a false name. They’re such liars—that’s not quite true, it’s just that what we call lying seems to be a way of life with them. Probably the man found the cross at Kanagawa. You don’t remember exactly when you discovered it had gone?”
“No, I don’t. It was only when I got back here …” Again she saw his probing, questioning eyes and her mind screamed: Did my pulse or pulses tell him my real condition? “It’s found. Good, thank God. I can’t thank you enough but why should he wear it or keep it, that’s what I can’t understand.”
“I agree, very odd.”
The silence grew. “What does Dr. Hoag think?”
Babcott looked at her but she could not read what he was really thinking. “I didn’t ask him,” he said, “didn’t discuss it with him, or with Malcolm.” His eyes went back to hers and seemed to take on a deeper color. “Hoag’s a Struan man and he, well … his rice bowl is with Tess Struan. I don’t know why, but I thought I should talk to you first.”
Again a silence. She looked away, not trusting herself, wishing she could truly trust him, wanting to trust someone other than André—his knowing was bad enough—but sure beyond sure it was impossible. She had to keep to the plan: she was alone, she must save herself alone.
“Perhaps …” she said, “no, surely he must have found my crucifix at Kanagawa, must have seen me there and—and perhaps …” She stopped then hurried on, leading him on, inventing as she continued, “perhaps he kept it to remind him of me, to … I don’t really know, to what?”
He said awkwardly, “To obviously do you harm, my dear, to possess you, one way or another, kill you. Sorry, but that must be the truth. At first I thought, like everyone else, that he was just one of these outlaws called ronin, but your crucifix changed all that. The moment I discovered it was yours … It must be as you say, he saw you at the Tokaidō, he and the other man must have followed Malcolm and Phillip Tyrer t
The way he said it made it clearer than ever he too was within her spell. Good, and good that he’s realized the truth, she thought, faint with relief that another hazard had been eliminated. Her mind strayed to the little bottles and to tomorrow when she would be cleansed, to start her new life, the future wonderful.
“Japanese are a curious people,” he was saying. “Different. But different in one major way, they’re not afraid to die. They almost seem to seek it. You were lucky, so lucky to escape. Well, I’ll be off.”
“Yes, and thank you, thank you.” She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You’ll tell Malcolm and Dr. Hoag? Then that will end it.”
“I’ll leave Malcolm to you.” For a second he considered asking her help with Malcolm’s opium addiction but decided it was not yet urgent, and anyway it was his own responsibility, not hers. Poor Angelique, she has enough to deal with. “As to Hoag, what does it matter to him, or to busybodies and wagging tongues in Yokohama? None of their affair, or mine, eh?”
He saw her clear eyes in the radiant face smiling up at him, pellucid skin, all of her emanating youth and health together with the magnetic, unconscious sensuality perpetually surrounding her that had, against all medical expectation, increased in power. Astonishing, he thought, filled with wonder at her resilience. I only wish I knew her secret and why some people thrive on adversities that would break most others.
Abruptly the doctor part of him fell away. I can’t blame that ronin, or Malcolm, or anyone being mad for her, I want her too. “Curious about your cross,” he said throatily, not a little ashamed. “But then, life’s a collection of curiosities, isn’t it? ’Night, my dear. Sleep well.”