Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Agreed,” Malcolm said at once, expecting harsher conditions. “But the Victoria bastards aren’t our friends, Brock started that bank and have excluded us always, so we won’t be much help there.”
“They soon will be, suh. Soon the whole Board will fart if you say fart. This all must be kept very secret, of course. What do you plan after the duel?”
Malcolm did not hesitate, finding it so strange that he could trust this man so immediately, telling him about going aboard Prancing Cloud. “This presumes I’m the winner and not hurt badly. Once I’m in Hong Kong I can simmer things down,” he said confidentially.
“What about your shooting? I mean having to use sticks?”
“One is fine to balance with, for that amount of time.” Malcolm smiled thinly. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Now, I propose a deception to avoid legal repercussions that worked well in Virginia and should do the same here, in case either of you is killed: you each write the other a letter, dated and delivered the night before the duel, saying that you have mutually agreed to call the duel off ‘at the No Man’s Land rendezvous tomorrow, and you will both accept, as gentlemen, a mutual, simultaneous apology from the other.’” Gornt smiled. “We, the seconds, will testify that tragically, while you were showing each other your pistols, one went off.”
“A fine idea. Has Norbert agreed?”
“Yes. I’ll deliver his letter to you, Tuesday, send him his by Mr. McFay, but best keep it secret, that it’s a device.”
“Tuesday” kept echoing in Malcolm’s head but he forced it aside. Gornt was saying, matter-of-factly, “After the duel—it would be best if you kill him, not wound him—I’ll come out to the clipper with you. In exchange for the written contract, I’ll lay out the details how you can utterly wreck Brock’s financial safety net, with a package of authenticated copies of letters and documents, enough for any court of law, and others that hand you a cudgel to use with the Victoria.”
Malcolm felt the glow deep within him. “Why not now, why wait till Wednesday?”
“Mr. Greyforth might kill you,” Gornt said calmly, “then the knowledge would be wasted and I would have put myself at risk for no reason.”
After a pause Malcolm said, “Say he does, or wounds me badly, how do you get the revenge you seek?”
“I’ll approach Mrs. Struan, suh, at once. I’m gambling that won’t be necessary. I gamble on you, not her.”
“I heard you did not gamble, Mr. Gornt.”
“At cards for money, no suh, never—I saw the futility of that with my stepfather. With life? To the limit.” Gornt felt eyes on him and said softly, “Someone’s watching,” and he glanced around. It was Angelique, coming out of Struan’s, across the street. She waved. Malcolm waved back and got up. The two men watched her approach.
“Hello, Angel,” Malcolm said warmly, the Admiral’s words dancing in his head. “May I introduce Mr. Edward Gornt of Rothwell’s in Shanghai? My fiancée, Mademoiselle Richaud.”
“Ma’am!” Gornt took her hand and kissed it gallantly.
“Mr. Gornt,” she murmured, reading his eyes. There was an abrupt, curious silence among the three of them, then for no apparent reason they burst out laughing.
“What is it?” she asked, her heart picking up beat.
“Joie de vivre,” Gornt said.
She looked up at him, liking what she saw, warmed by the smile, then took Malcolm’s arm, already relating the encounter in the letter she had interrupted:
I confess, dearest Colette, I spied them on the promenade so put on my best bonnet and took them by surprise, and my Malcolm’s arm (DEFENSIVELY) for this new arrival is tall and handsome with the naughtiest glint behind his eyes that I saw instantly, though Malcolm could not possibly be aware of, or he would have been more jealous than usual, poor dear! I wanted to meet this tall stranger casually. He has the slightest of Southern accents, broad shoulders, narrow waist, a fencer probably, and glorious dancer—I do hope he’ll be a friend, I need them here so much …
“La, chéri,” she said, fanning herself against the immediate and pleasing internal heat, a subconscious feline reaction to Gornt’s masculinity. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt an important conference …”
“You didn’t, Angel,” Malcolm said.
“I was just leaving,” Gornt said. No need to conceal all of his admiration. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.” He bowed. “Good day, suh, I shall be in touch.”
They watched him walk off. “Who is this Mr. Gornt?”
He told her, but nothing in fact about the real Mr. Gornt. He was fogged by the thought of Tuesday.
“More pork in black bean sauce, Younger Sister?” Ah Tok asked, chomping on a piece of fish.
“Thank you.” Ah Soh reached over with her chopsticks to replenish her bowl, then snapped up the choice quick-fried prawn she had ogled. “Please continue, Elder Sister.”
The two women were in Ah Tok’s room, their lunch spread out in a multitude of dishes, a fresh pot of jasmine tea close at hand. “Ayeeyah, it’s very difficult. Illustrious Chen gave no clear instructions.”
“That’s not like him.” Ah Soh took more of the succulent pieces of beef in oyster sauce. “Not like him, not at all.”
“I agree, but then his new concubine, the whore from Soo Chow, is sure to be taking most of his concentration.”
“Ayeeyah! Is it true she’s fourteen with no pubics?”
Ah Tok took up another bony piece of fish head and sucked it appreciatively. “It’s only the Garlic People of Chosen who don’t have pubics.” She spat the bones onto the floor and selected another part.
“Interesting. I wonder if it’s all the garlic they eat? May I reread his letter, Elder Sister?”
It said:
Greetings, Ah Tok, Sixth Cousin Twice Removed, You did very well to consult me at once. The cork of the bottle revealed clear traces of Dark of the Moon which must be the Expeller of Dog Land in the Eastern Sea. An abortion! The whore was wise and unwise to use it, the Master wise and unwise to advocate it. Until we know if he made the decision, or she did without his knowledge, you must do nothing. Cousin, listen to him sleeping—he’s always muttered in his sleep since a child—perhaps he will tell you more. Instruct Ah Soh to do likewise and both of you be like bats. Unfailingly obey.
“Ayeeyah, what does he mean, be like bats?” Ah Soh asked irritably. “Bats are silent but they squeak. Bats can fly in the dark but are blind during the light, are invisible at night, helpless by day. Their droppings are valuable but stink to Heaven. What does he mean, heya?”
“Eyes and ears and nostrils open, like a bat, and watch where you drop droppings!” Ah Tok cackled. “Ten thousand summers to Noble House Chen, without him we would not have known her Jade Gate’s hung on my son’s door!”
“How do we know it was him?” Ah Soh said with a robust belch. “How do we know it was the Master and not someone else?” She dropped her voice and looked around as though expecting alien ears and Ah Tok’s chopsticks hesitated in midair. “Someone like Long Pointed Nose, the same kind of foreign devil as she is, heya? Those two are as close as lice in a beggar’s crotch. And didn’t he sink the bottle, all the evidence in the sea, remember?”
The old Ah Tok was no longer laughing. “Fang-pi!” she said, using the rare expletive. “That’s what Illustrious Chen must have been cautioning us about! Bats weave as they fly and don’t alight on the first branch and even then they hang upside down. He’s telling us to find out which Yang possessed that Yin! Ayeeyah, yes, I agree, it’s possible … possible Long Pointed Nose made my son wear a green hat!”
“The Master cuckolded!” Ah Soh’s eyes went to Heaven. “It’s true Long Pointed Nose spent enough time in her room to …” She gasped. “Ayeeyah! Remember, weeks ago, when she sent me away and later screamed because she thought someone was climbing into her room from outside when it was only the wind banging the shutters? I remember now, I was quicker than a bat to her
“When was it, Young Sister? The day? When?”
“It was the day … the day after the Master had that native whore from the brothel across the Canal.”
Both women began calculating, minds abacus-fast. Today was twelfth month, fourth day. “That would be … that would be tenth month, eighteenth or nineteenth day, Elder Sister.”
“Not enough, perhaps not quite enough time, unless this Dark of the Moon is swallowed earlier.” Absently Ah Tok sucked more of the fish head, then spat out the bones with conviction: “They must have lain together earlier. The whore had plenty of chances, heya? She was always at that barbarian house, even before you both stayed there.”
“You’re right, you’re right as usual, Elder Sister! We must inform Illustrious Chen at once.”
“But why should she give her Jade Gate to such an ugly foreign devil when my son’s panting over it?”
Ah Soh shrugged expansively. “Barbarians! Who knows what they think? You should tell the Master!”
Weak with excitement, Ah Tok looked at her bar. Madeira, whisky, brandy. “We need strength!” She selected the whisky and poured two large tots. “To work! We must plan, plot and think how to get the whore and her paramour to reveal the truth!”
“Good, very good! Together we’ll do it!”
“But no hint to my son, unwise for us to carry dirty tidings. Until we are sure.” They clinked glasses. “By all gods great and small, no one is going to cuckold my son, make him wear the green hat. He will live a long and happy life!”
“Good evening, Father Leo,” Angelique said politely, knelt and kissed his hand, finding it hard to contain her revulsion against his strong odor. They were alone in the little church, the nave dimly lit, only a few candles burning, the dying sun coming through the small, poorly executed stained-glass window. There were few Catholics in the Settlement, the revenue miserly, even so the altar and crucifix were rich. Outside, in the sunset, Vargas waited to escort her back again.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked innocently, knowing she had missed Mass again on Sunday. Her pink bonnet had been chosen carefully, also the long Kashmir shawl over her most maidenly afternoon dress of somber silk. “How well you look, Father.”
“I’m glad to see you, senhorita, my child,” he said with his heavy Portuguese accent. “You are not at Mass again.”
“It’s the vapors, Father. I’m still recovering from the disorder … Dr. Babcott advised rest,” she replied, her mind on what she would wear for tonight’s birthday banquet for the Russian Minister, and what she could do to entertain Malcolm during the evening. “I am sure by next week I will be better.”
I’m glad, my young and not so feeble teller of lies, Leo thought, disgusted with the perfidy of humanity. It’s ungodly to dance at night and kick up your heels and show your unclothed nether parts. “Never mind, I will confess you now.”
Angelique could have yawned, he was so predictable. Meekly she followed him into the confessional, knelt and went through the motions, glad for the screen between them, parroting her litany, comforted with the pact she had made with the Virgin Mary, repeating their code fervently, as always, “… and Father, I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers.”
Her absolution was quick, a modest penance of a few Hail Marys and she felt the better for it. She began to get up—
“Now, a private matter, my child. Two days ago Mr. Struan sent for me, privately, and asked me to marry you both.”
She gasped, then smiled gloriously. “Oh, Father, how marvelous!”
“Yes, my child, yes, it is. ‘Please marry us as soon as possible,’ the young Senhor Struan said, but it is difficult indeed.” Night and day he had wrestled with the problem. An urgent letter had gone the same day to the Bishop of Macao, Catholic spiritual leader in Asia, begging for advice, equally urgently. “Very difficult for us.”
“Why, Father?”
“Because he is not a Catholic an—”
“But he has agreed our children are to be brought up in the True Church, he promised.”
“Yes, yes, my child, he has—he has. He told me the same but he is not of marrying age, not without permission, nor are you, but I wanted to tell you secretly that, even so, I have asked His Eminence for permission to conduct the ceremony for the greater Glory of God, even so—with or without your father’s … approval. I hear your father, he is missing, somewhere in French Indo-China or Siam, or somewhere.” Particulars of her father’s frauds and flight had raced around the Settlement, but in deference to her had been kept quiet, also from Struan. “If His Eminence agrees, I am sure Senhor Seratard, in loco parentis, he will agree, even so.”
The tightness in her throat did not go away. “How long will it take for His Eminence to reply, to approve?”
“By Christmas, around Christmas, before then, if he is in Macao and not travelling, visiting the Faithful in China, and if it is the will of God.” As usual he sat facing away from the screen, ear close to it for whispered privacy, but now he glanced through the mesh and could see her vaguely. “The matter I would like to discuss, privately, is the conversion of the Senhor.”
Again she gasped. “He said he would convert?”
“No, no, he has not yet seen the Light, that’s what I want to talk about.” Father Leo leaned closer to the screen, savoring her nearness, choked with a desire he knew to be unholy and Satan-sent, the same that, on his knees, daily and nightly he fought against—as, in equal torment, he had fought against for as long as he had been within the Church.
God give me strength, God forgive me, he thought, almost in tears, wanting to reach out and fondle the breasts and the rest of her that was hidden by the screen and by her shawl and by her clothes and the wrath of God. “You must help … help him embrace the True Faith.”
Angelique was as far from the screen as she could be. Painstakingly, she eased the curtains open to reduce the claustrophobia the boxlike structure gave her. Confessionals never used to be like this, she thought, shuddering. It’s only since … since that which never happened. “I will help, Father. I will do as much as I can,” she said, her nervousness increasing, and again began to leave.
“Wait!”
The violence in the voice shocked her. “Father?”
“Please … wait, please wait, my child,” the voice said nicely now, but the niceness was forced and this frightened her for it was no longer the voice of a priest and sacrosanct in a sanctified place, but of a stranger. “We must talk about this marriage, and his conversion, my child, and beware of evil influences, yes, we must, conversion is a must … a must as preparation for … for Eternity.”
“‘Must,’ Father?” she muttered. “Were you about to say, ‘must as preparation for marriage’?”
“For … for Eternity,” the voice said.
She stared at the shadow behind the screen, sure that he was lying, appalled that she could even consider it, let alone believe it. “I will help all I can,” she said, and got up and groped through the curtains for air.
But he stood in her path. She noticed sweat on his forehead and that he towered over her, in height and bulk. “It’s for his own … his own salvation. His, my child. It would be better—better before.”
“Are you saying, Father, his conversion is a must before you will marry us?” she asked, in dread.
“It is not to me the conditions, what His Eminence decides governs us, we are faithful servants!”
“In my fiancé’s Church, he has not said I must become Protestant, of course I cannot force him either.”
“He must be made to see the Truth! This is a God-sent gift, this marriage. Protestant? That heresy? Apostasy? Unthinkable, you’d be lost forever, doomed, excommunicated, your eternal soul consigned to everlasting torment in the Fire, to burn, to burn forever!”
She kept her
“They’re all mad, lost, doomed, and forever they’ll burn!” The voice hardened even more. “They will! We must convert the heathen. The Malcolm Struan must con—”
“I’ll try. Good-bye, Father, thank … I’ll try,” she mumbled, and stepped around him and hurried away. At the door she turned back a moment and genuflected and went out into the light, him standing in the aisle, his back to the altar, all the time his voice ringing in the rafters, “Be an instrument of God, convert the heathen, if you love God save this man, save him from purgatory, if you love God save him, help me save him from Hellfire, save him for the Glory of God, you must … before you marry, save him … let us save him … save him …”
That evening a samurai patrol came out of the guard house at the North Gate. Ten warriors, fully armed with swords and light battle armor, an officer at their head. He led the way over the bridge and passed the barrier into the Settlement. One man carried a tall, narrow banner with characters on it. The leading samurai held flares aloft that cast weird shadows.
The High Street and the seafront walk were still busy in the pleasant evening. Traders, soldiers, sailors, shopkeepers taking a constitutional or standing in groups, chatting and laughing, here and there, with a few singsongs and drunks and one or two wary male prostitutes. Down on the beach some sailors had lit a fire and were dancing a tipsy hornpipe around it, a transvestite amongst them, and from the distance came the noisy undercurrent of Drunk Town.
The ominous presence was noticed. People stopped in their tracks. Conversation hesitated in midsentence. Then ceased. All eyes turned northwards. Those nearest the patrol backed out of the way. Not a few felt for a revolver and cursed that it was not in the pocket or holster. Others retreated and an off-duty soldier near an alley took to his heels to summon the Marine night watch.
“What’s the matter, suh?” Gornt asked.