Gai-Jin (16 page)

Tedious, time-consuming, and complex lectures in Japanese by the Governor, put laboriously into far from fluent Dutch and retranslated into English.

“Make it blunt, Johann, exactly as I said it.”

“I have, every time, Sir William, but I’m sure this cretin isn’t interpreting accurately, either what you say or what the Jappers say.”

“We know that, for Christ’s sake, has it ever been different? Please get on with it.”

Johann put the words into an exact translation. The Japanese interpreter flushed, asked for an explanation of the word “immediate,” then carefully delivered a polite, appropriate, approximate translation he considered would be acceptable. Even then the Governor sucked in his breath at the rudeness. The silence increased. His fingers tapped a constant, irritated tattoo on his sword hilt, then he spoke shortly, three or four words. The translation was long.

Johann said cheerfully, “Without all the
merde
, the Gov says he’ll pass on your ‘request’ at the appropriate time to the appropriate authorities.”

Sir William reddened perceptibly, the Admirals and General more so. “‘Request,’ eh? Tell the bugger exactly: It’s not a request, it’s a demand! And tell him further: We demand an immediate audience with the Shōgun in Yedo in three days! Three days, by God! And I’m bloody arriving by battleship!”

“Bravo,” Count Zergeyev muttered.

Johann was also weary of the game and gave the words a fine-tuned bluntness. The Japanese interpreter gasped and without waiting began a flood of acrimonious Dutch that Johann answered sweetly with two words that precipitated an aghast, sudden silence.

“Nan ja?”
What is it, what’s been said, the Governor asked angrily, not mistaking the hostility or hiding his own.

At once, apologetically, the flustered interpreter gave him a toned-down version, but even so the Governor exploded into a paroxysm of threats and pleading and refusal and more threats that the interpreter translated into words he considered the foreigners wanted to hear, then, still rattled, listened again and translated again.

“What’s he saying, Johann?” Sir William had to raise his voice above the noise, the interpreter was answering the Governor and Bakufu officials, who were chattering amongst themselves and to him. “What the devil are they saying?”

Johann was happy now—he knew the meeting would terminate in a few moments and he could return to the Long Bar for his lunch and schnapps. “I don’t know, except the Gov repeats the best he can do is to pass on your request etc. at the appropriate etc. but there’s no way the Shōgun will grant you the honor etc. because it’s against their customs etc…. ”

Sir William slammed the flat of his hand onto the table. In the shocked silence, he pointed at the Governor then at himself.
“Watashi … me …”
Then he pointed out of the window towards Yedo.
“Watashi
go Yedo!” Then he raised three fingers. “three days, in a bloody battleship!” He got up and stormed out of the room. The others followed.

He went across the hall to his study, to the bank of cut-glass de canters and poured some whisky. “Anyone care to join me?” he said breezily as the others surrounded him. Automatically he poured Scotch for the Admirals, General and Prussian, claret for Seratard, and a significant vodka for Count Zergeyev. “I thought that went according to plan. Sorry it was drawn out.”

“I thought you were going to burst a blood vessel,” Zergeyev said, draining his glass and pouring another.

“Not on your nelly. Had to close the meeting with a certain amount of drama.”

“So it’s Yedo in three days?”

“Yes, my dear Count. Admiral, have the flagship ready for a dawn departure, spend the next few days getting everything shipshape, ostentatiously clear the decks for action, all cannon primed, drills for the whole fleet, and order them to be ready to join us in battle order if need be. General, five hundred Redcoats should be enough for an honor guard. Monsieur, would the French flagship care to join us?”

Seratard said, “Of course. I will accompany you, of course, but suggest the French Legation as Headquarters, and full dress uniform.”

“No to the uniforms, this is a punitive mission, not to present credentials—that comes later. And no to the meeting place. It was our national who was murdered and, how shall I put it? Our fleet is the deciding factor.”

Von Heimrich chuckled. “It certainly is decisive in these waters, at the present time.” He glanced at Seratard. “A pity I don’t have a dozen regiments
of Prussian cavalry, then we could partition the Japans without a hiccup and have done with all their devious stupidity and time-wasting bad manners.”

“Only a dozen?” Seratard asked witheringly.

“That would be sufficient, Herr Seratard, for all Japan. Our troops are the best in the world—of course after Her Britannic Majesty’s,” he added smoothly. “Fortunately Prussia could spare twenty, even thirty regiments for just this small sector and still have more than enough to deal with
any
problem we might encounter anywhere, particularly in Europe.”

“Yes, well …” Sir William broke in as Seratard reddened. He finished his drink. “I’m off to Kanagawa to make some arrangements. Admiral, General, perhaps a short conference when I return—I’ll come aboard the flagship. Oh, Monsieur Seratard, what about Mademoiselle Angelique? Would you like me to escort her back?”

She came out of her room in the late afternoon sunlight and walked along the corridor and down the main staircase towards the entrance hallway. Now she wore the long, bustled dress of yesterday, elegant again, more ethereal than ever—hair groomed and swept up, eyes enhanced. Perfume and the swish of petticoats.

Sentries at the main door saluted her and mumbled an embarrassed greeting, awed by her beauty. She acknowledged them with a distant smile and went towards the surgery. A Chinese houseboy gaped at her and scuttled past.

Just before she reached the door, it opened. Babcott came out and stopped. “Oh, hello, Miss Angelique. My word, but you look beautiful,” he said, almost stuttering.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Her smile was kind, voice gentle. “I wanted to ask … can we talk a moment?”

“Of course, come in. Make yourself at home.” Babcott shut the surgery door, settled her in the best chair and sat behind his desk, swept up by her radiance and the way her coiffure showed off her long neck to perfection. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was very tired. But then that’s a way of life, he thought, glorying in the sight of her.

“That drink you gave me, last night, it was a drug of some kind?”

“Yes, yes, it was. I made it fairly strong as you were—you were rather upset.”

“It’s all so vague and mixed up: the Tokaidō, then coming here and, and seeing Malcolm. The sleeping drink was very strong?”

“Yes, but not dangerous, anything like that. Sleep’s the best cure, it would have been the best kind, deep sleep, and by Jove, you slept well, it’s almost four. How do you feel?”

“Still a little tired, thank you.” Again the shadowed smile and it tore at him. “How is Monsieur Struan?”

“No change. I was just going to see him again, you can come along, if you like. He’s doing well, considering. Oh, by the way, they caught that fellow.”

“Fellow?”

“The one we told you about last night, the intruder.”

“I don’t remember anything about the night.”

He told her what had happened at her door and in the garden, how one robber was shot and the other spotted this morning but had escaped, and it took all of her will to keep her face clear and to stop from screaming aloud what she was thinking: you son of Satan with your sleeping drafts and incompetence. Two robbers? The other one must have been in my room when you were there then and you failed to find him and save me, you and that other fool, Marlowe, equally guilty.

Blessed Mother, give me strength, help me to be revenged on both of them. And
him, whoever he is!
Mother of God, let me be revenged. But why steal my cross and leave the other jewelry and why the characters and what do they mean? And why in blood, his blood?

She saw him staring at her.
“Oui?”

“I said, Would you like to see Mr. Struan now?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, please.” She got up too, once more in control. “Oh, I’m afraid I spilt the jug of water on the sheets—would you ask the maid to deal with them, please?”

He laughed. “We don’t have maids here. Against Japper regulations. We’ve Chinese houseboys. Don’t worry, the moment you left the room they’ll be tidying …” He stopped, seeing her go pale. “What’s the matter?”

For an instant her restraint had left her and she was back in her room again, scrubbing and cleaning and petrified the marks would not come out. But they had and she remembered she had checked and rechecked so the secret was safe—nothing was left to show, neither moisture nor blood, her secret safe forever so long as she was strong and kept to the plan—must—and must be clever, must.

Babcott was shocked by the sudden pallor, her fingers twisting the material of her skirt. Instantly he was beside her and held her shoulders gently. “Not to worry, you’re quite safe, you really are.”

“Yes, sorry,” she said, frightened, her head against his chest, finding the tears were flowing. “It was just, I—I was, I was remembering poor Canterbury.”

She watched herself, out of herself, allow him to comfort her, utterly sure that her plan was the only one, the wise one:
nothing happened
. Nothing nothing nothing.

You will believe it until your next period. And then, if it arrives, you will believe forever.

And if it does not arrive?

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

MONDAY, 15TH SEPTEMBER
:

“Gai-jin are vermin without manners,” Nori Anjo said, shaking with rage. He was chief of the
roju
, the Council of Five Elders, a squat, round-faced man, richly dressed. “They’ve spurned our polite apology, which should have ended the Tokaidō matter, and now, impertinently, formally request an audience with the Shōgun—the writing is foul, words inept. Here, read it for yourself, it has just arrived.”

With barely concealed impatience he handed the scroll to his much younger adversary, Toranaga Yoshi, who sat opposite him. They were alone in one of the audience rooms high up in the central keep of Yedo Castle, all their guards ordered out. A low, scarlet lacquered table separated the two men, a black tea tray on it, delicate cups and teapot eggshell porcelain.

“Whatever gai-jin say doesn’t matter.” Uneasily Yoshi took the scroll but did not read it. Unlike Anjo his clothes were simple and his swords working, not ceremonial. “Somehow we must twist them to do what we want.” He was daimyo of Hisamatsu, a small though important fief nearby and a direct descendant of the first Toranaga Shōgun. At the Emperor’s recent “suggestion,” and over Anjo’s flaring opposition, he had just been appointed Guardian of the Heir, the boy Shōgun, and to fill the vacancy in the Council of Elders. Tall, patrician and twenty-six, with fine hands and long fingers. “Whatever happens, they must not see the Shōgun,” he said. “That would confirm the legality of the Treaties, which are not yet properly ratified. We will refuse their insolent request.”

“I agree it’s insolent but we still have to deal with it, and decide about that Satsuma dog, Sanjiro.” Both were weary of the gai-jin problem that had disturbed their
wa
, their harmony, for two days now, both anxious to end this meeting—Yoshi wanting to return to his quarters below where Koiko waited for him, Anjo to a secret meeting with a doctor.

Outside it was sunny and kind, with the smell of sea and rich soil on the slight breeze that came through the opened shutters. No threat of winter yet.

But winter’s coming, Anjo was thinking, the ache in his bowels distracting him. I hate winter, season of death, the sad season, sky sad, sea
sad, land sad and ugly and freezing, trees bare, and the cold that twists your joints, reminding you how old you are. He was a greying man of forty-six, daimyo of Mikawa, had been the center of
roju
power since the dictator
tairō
Ii had been assassinated four years ago.

Whereas you, puppy, he thought angrily, you’re only a two-month appointee to the Council and a four-week Guardian—both dangerous political appointments implemented over our protests. It’s time your wings were clipped. “Of course we all value your advice,” he said, his voice honeyed, then added, not meaning it, as both knew, “For two days the gai-jin have been preparing their fleet for battle, troops drilling openly and tomorrow their leader arrives. What’s your solution?”

“The same as yesterday, official scroll or not: we send another apology ‘for the regrettable mishap’ laced with sarcasm they will never understand, from an official they will never know, and timed to arrive before the leader gai-jin leaves Yokohama, asking for a further delay to ‘make enquiries.’ If that does not satisfy him and he or they come to Yedo, let them. We send the usual low-level official, nonbinding on us to their Legation to treat with them, giving them a little soup but no fish. We delay, and delay.”

“Meanwhile it’s time to exercise our hereditary Shōgunate right and order Sanjiro to hand over the killers for punishment at once, to pay an indemnity, again through us, at once, and into house arrest and retirement at once. We order him!” Anjo said harshly, “You’re inexperienced in high Shōgunate matters.”

Keeping his temper and wishing he could send Anjo into immediate retirement for his stupidity and bad manners, Yoshi said, “If we order Sanjiro we will be disobeyed, therefore we will be forced to go to war, and Satsuma is too strong with too many allies. There’s been no war for two hundred and fifty years. We’re not ready for war. War is …”

There was a sudden, peculiar silence. Involuntarily both men gripped their swords. The teacups and teapot began to rattle. Far off the earth rumbled, the whole tower shifted slightly, then again, and again. The quake persisted for about thirty seconds. Then it was gone, as suddenly as it had arrived. Impassively they waited, watching the cups.

No aftershock.