Gai-Jin (104 page)

Folklore had it that, two centuries or so ago, a Jesuit priest called Tsukku-san had written out a form of Portuguese-Japanese dictionary. Before that no dictionary of any sort had ever existed. In time, a few Dutch-Japanese ones appeared, to be zealously guarded. “No need to lock this up, Nakama,” Babcott had said yesterday to his astonishment. “That’s not the British way. Spread the word, let everyone learn, the more educated everyone is the better the country.” He had smiled. “Of course, not everyone agrees with me. In any event, next week with the help of our printing presses, I’ll—”

“Printing press, so sorry?”

Babcott had explained. “Soon we’ll start printing and if you promise to
write a history of Choshu I will promise to give you a copy of my dictionary for yourself alone.”

A week or so ago, in wonder, Hiraga had shown Akimoto a copy of the
Yokohama Guardian
. “It is the news of the day, from all over the world, and they prepare a new version every day, as many copies as they like—thousands if necessary …”

“Impossible!” Akimoto said. “Our best block printers can’t poss—”

“I’ve seen them do it! Machines do it, Akimoto. They showed me their machines! They set all the words in what they call type in lines, they read left to right, the opposite to us, right to left and down our columns of characters, column by column. Unbelievable. I saw the machine man make words out of individual symbols, called
‘roman rett’rs’—
they say that all words in any language can be written with only twenty-six of these symbols an—”

“Impossible.”

“Listen! Each rett’r or symbol always has the same sound so another person can read individual letters, or words made out of them. To make this ‘newspaper,’ the printer uses combinations of little pieces of iron with the symbol cut into the end of it—sorry, not iron but a kind of iron called
‘stee’r,’
some name like that. This man put the rett’rs in a box that somehow was inked, paper run over it and here was a new printed page that contained something I had written a moment ago. Taira read it out exactly! A miracle.”

“Eeee, but how can we do that with our language, each word is a special character with as many as five or seven different ways of saying it and our writing’s different an—”

“The Doctor Giant listens when I say a Japanese word, he writes it down in their roman rett’rs then Taira says the word just by reading them!”

It had taken Hiraga much more explanation to convince Akimoto. “Eeee,” he said, exhausted, “so many new things, new ideas, so difficult for me to understand myself, let alone explain. Ori was such a fool not to want to learn.”

“Good for us he’s dead, buried and forgotten by the gai-jin. For days I thought we were lost.”

“So did I.”

Hiraga found the English word he sought, “reparations.” The Japanese translation was: “money to be paid for an agreed crime.” This puzzled him. The Bakufu had committed no crime. Two Satsumas, Ori and Shorin, had merely killed a gai-jin, both were now dead, two for the death of one gai-jin was certainly fair. Why should they demand “re-par-at-eeons,” he said aloud, the nearest his tongue could get to the word.

He got up from the desk to ease his knees, difficult to sit like a gai-jin all day long, and went to the window. He was wearing Western clothes but soft
tabi
on his feet, English boots still very uncomfortable for him. The day was still good, the ships at anchor, fishing boats and other vessels moving back and forth. The frigate beckoned. His excitement grew. Soon they would see into its bowels, see the great steam machines Taira had told him about. He caught sight of a reproduced photograph cut out of a magazine and stuck on the wall, of the Great Ship, an enormous iron ship being built in the British capital city, London, the biggest that had ever been, twenty times bigger than the frigate in the bay. Too enormous to conceive—even “fo-to-gr-aff” for him impossible to understand, eerie, almost a form of evil magic. He shuddered, then noticed the door to the corridor was ajar and across from it Sir William’s door. As far as he knew there was no one in the Legation, everyone at the football match and not expected until later this afternoon.

Soundlessly he opened Sir William’s door. The elaborate desk had many papers on it, half a hundred books on untidy shelves, a portrait of their Queen and other paintings on the walls. Something new on a sideboard. A photograph in a silver frame. He saw only ugliness, a curiously dressed gai-jin woman with three children, and realized it must be Sir William’s family. Tyrer had mentioned they were expected soon.

How lucky I am to be Japanese, and civilized, with a handsome father and mother and brothers and sisters and Sumomo to marry if it is my karma to marry. Thinking about her safe at home warmed him, but then, standing there in front of the desk, the good feeling quickly turned sour. He remembered all the sickening, uneasy times he had stood there before the seated gai-jin leader, answering questions about the Choshu, Satsuma, Bakufu, Toranagas, the questions inquiring into every aspect of his life and Nippon’s life, now almost a daily occurrence, the fish eyes scouring the truth out of him, much as he would have preferred to lie and confuse.

He was careful not to touch anything, presuming a trap had been laid for him as he would certainly have done if he had left a gai-jin alone in such an important place. His ears caught an angry voice outside and he scurried back to peer out of Tyrer’s window. To his astonishment Akimoto was at the gate, bowing to the sentry who had him covered with his bayoneted rifle and was shouting at him. His cousin wore gai-jin laborer’s clothes and was clearly very nervous.

Hastily he went outside, put a smile on his face, and raised his hat. “Good day, sir sentry, this my friend.”

The sentry knew Hiraga by sight, that he was some sort of interpreter, also that he had a permanent Legation pass. He replied caustically with incomprehensible words, waving Akimoto away, ordering Hiraga to tell “th’s ere monkey t’pushawf or’e’ll g’t’is bloody ’ead shot awf.”

Hiraga’s smile never wavered. “I take him away, so sorry.” He took Akimoto by the arm and hurried him into an alley that led to the village. “Are you mad? To come here y—”

“I agree.” Akimoto was not over his fright at having a bayonet shoved within an inch of his throat. “I agree, but the shoya, the village elder, asked me to find you urgently.”

The shoya motioned Hiraga to sit on the other side of the low table. These private quarters, behind his deliberately drab and untidy shop, were spotless, the tatami and shoji window papers the best quality. The tabby cat sat comfortably in his lap, her eyes malevolently fixed on the intruder. White-green porcelain teacups sat around a small iron teapot. “Please, some tea, Otami-sama, so sorry to cause you inconvenience,” he said, pouring and using the name Hiraga used, then stroked the cat. Her ears twitched nervously. “Please excuse me for interrupting you.”

The tea was aromatic and noteworthy. Hiraga mentioned it politely, feeling awkward in front of the shoya in his European clothes, difficult to sit in them, and uncomfortable without swords. After the customary courtesies, the shoya nodded, half to himself, and looked at his guest, eyes flinty in the mask of graciousness. “Some news has arrived from Kyōto. I thought you should have it at once.”

Hiraga’s disquiet increased. “So?”

“It seems that ten shishi of Choshu, Satsuma and Tosa, attacked Shōgun Nobusada at Otsu. The assassination attempt failed and all were killed.”

Hiraga pretended to be uninterested but he was sick inside. Which ten and why had they failed? “When was this?”

The shoya had seen nothing to indicate if Hiraga knew of the attack or not. “Eight days ago.”

“How could you possibly know in such a short time?”

To his astonishment the shoya reached into his sleeve and brought out a tiny cylinder. Inside was a roll of very thin paper. “This arrived today. Our Gyokoyama
zaïbatsu
has carrier pigeons for important news.” It had actually arrived yesterday but he had needed time to decide how he was to deal with Hiraga. “Important to have quick, accurate information,
neh?”

“Were names mentioned?”

“No, no names, so sorry.”

“Is that all your information?”

The eyes glinted. To Hiraga’s shock he added, “The same night, in Kyōto, Lord Yoshi and Lord Ogama and their forces fell on the shishi headquarters, caught them unawares, destroyed it and them. Forty heads were spiked outside the wreckage.” The older man kept the smile from his face. “Otami-sama, would forty be a big percentage of our brave shishi?”

Hiraga shrugged and said he did not know, hoping that the shoya could not tell if he lied. His head was hurting as he wondered who was dead, who
survived, who had betrayed them, and how could it be that such enemies as Yoshi and Ogama were acting in concert? “Why are you telling me all this?”

For a moment the shoya looked down at the cat, his eyes softened and his fingers began scratching the center of her head and her eyes closed with pleasure, her claws moving in and out of their sheaths without menace. “It seems that not all those ambushed were caught,” he said quietly. “Two escaped. The leader, sometimes called the Raven, his real name is Katsumata, the trusted advisor of Sanjiro of Satsuma, and a Choshu shishi called Takeda.”

Hiraga was rocked to his core that so much could be known and his muscles coiled, ready to reach out and kill with his hands if need be. His mouth opened but he said nothing.

“Would you know this Takeda, Otami-sama?”

Anger rushed through Hiraga at this impertinence, he felt his face flush but he held on to a measure of control. “Why are you telling me this, shoya?”

“My Gyokoyama overlord ordered it, Otami-sama.”

“Why? What is all this to me? Eh?”

The shoya, to calm his own nerves—though he had a small, loaded pistol in the pocket of his sleeve—poured some more tea for both of them, knowing this was a dangerous game and this shishi was no man to fool with. But orders were orders, and standing orders of the Gyokoyama
zaibatsu
were that anything unusual, in any of their hundred branches, must be reported instantly. Particularly the Yokohama branch, more important now than Nagasaki as it was the main gai-jin base, and so the main observation post on gai-jin—and he specially chosen for the senior post. Of necessity he had carrier-pigeoned news of this man’s arrival, Ori’s death, all subsequent events and the actions he himself had taken—all of which had been approved.

“The Gyokoyama …” he began, following instructions and using great care, for he could see Hiraga was seething and unnerved by the revelations, which was their purpose. His overlords in Osaka had written:
Put this shishi, whose real name is Rezan Hiraga, off balance quickly. Risks will be great. Be armed and talk to him when he is not
…

“… my Masters thought that perhaps they could be of use to you, as you could be of great value to them.”

“Use to me?” Hiraga grated, ready to explode, his right hand nervously seeking the sword hilt that was not there. “I can order no taxes. I have no koku. What use have I for parasites, that’s what moneylenders are, what even the great Gyokoyama is!
Neh?”

“It is true that samurai believe it and have believed it forever. But we wonder if your Sensei Taira would agree.”

“Eh?” Again Hiraga was unbalanced and he stuttered, “Wh-what about Taira? What about him?”

“Maid! Saké!” the shoya called out, then to Hiraga, “I ask your patience but my superiors … I am an old man,” he added humbly, with open self-deprecation, knowing his power in the
zaibatsu
was large, his yang still functioned perfectly, and if need be he could shoot this man or cripple him and hand him over to the Bakufu Enforcers who still guarded their gates. “I am old and we live in dangerous times.”

“Yes, you do,” Hiraga said through his teeth. The saké came quickly, the maid poured quickly and fled. Hiraga quaffed some and was glad of it though he feigned otherwise, accepted more and drained that too. “So? Taira? You better make sense.”

The shoya took a deep breath, launching himself on what he knew would be the biggest chance of his life, with vast implications for his
zaibatsu
and all his future generations: “Ever since you have been here, Otami-sama, you have wondered and enquired how and why the Ing’erish gai-jin rule much of the world outside our shores when they are a small island nation, I understand smaller than ours …” He stopped, amused by the sudden blank look on Hiraga’s face. “Ah, so sorry, but you must know you have been overheard talking to your friend who is now dead, and your cousin, so sorry. I can assure you your confidences are safe, your aims and Gyokoyama aims and shishi aims are the same. It could be important to you … We believe we know a major secret you seek.”

“Eh?”

“Yes, we believe the major secret is their moneylending, banking and financ—”

He was drowned out as Hiraga was convulsed with a paroxysm of jeering laughter. The cat was torn from her tranquility and her claws dug through the shoya’s kimono into his flesh. Gingerly he eased the claws out and began to soothe her, controlling his fury, wishing he could beat some sense into the insolent young man. But that would cost him his life eventually—there would be Akimoto to deal with, and other shishi. Doggedly he waited, the task his overlords had given him fraught with hazards:
“Probe this young man, find out what his true aims are, true thoughts, true desires and allegiance, use him, he could be a perfect tool …”

“You are mad. It’s only their machines and cannon and wealth and ships.”

“Exactly. If we had those, Hiraga-sama, we could …” The instant he deliberately used the real name he saw all laughter vanish and the eyes focus, menacingly. “My superiors told me to use your name only once, and then only so you would know we are to be trusted.”

“How do they know?”

“You mentioned the Shinsaku Otami account, the code name of your honored father, Toyo Hiraga. Of course this is written in their most private books of record.”

Hiraga was filled with rage. It had never occurred to him that moneylenders would have private books, and as everyone, from the low to the highest, needed their services from time to time, moneylenders would have access to all kinds of private knowledge, recorded knowledge, dangerous knowledge that they could use as pressure or a cudgel to gain all kinds of other information they should not have—how could they possibly have found out about our shishi except by foul means—as this dog is daring to use on me! Rightfully merchants and moneylenders are despised and distrusted and should be stamped out. When
sonno-joi’s
a fact, our first request to the Emperor should be an order for their destruction. “So!”