Gai-Jin (39 page)

“Attack!” Katsumata shouted, and again he whirled his horse from feigned flight. At once his seemingly scattered cavalry joined into violent phalanxes and burst through their opponents who were sent reeling back in disorder, the cold, wet air heavy with the smell of sweat and fear and blood burning his nostrils. Men died to the left and right, his and theirs, but he fought his way through and now the path was almost clear to Ogama but once more he was foiled so he broke off and fled—really retreated this time—those alive following him. Of the hundred only twenty remained.

“Bring up our reserve! Five hundred koku for Katsumata’s head,” Ogama shouted, “a thousand for Lord Sanjiro!”

“Sire!” One of his most experienced captains was pointing upwards. Un noticed in the excitement, the storm clouds had taken most of the sky and threads reached out for the moon. “So sorry, but the road back to Kyōto is difficult and we don’t know if those cunning dogs have another ambush waiting.”

Ogama thought a moment. “Cancel the reserve! Take fifty horsemen and harry them to death. If you bring me either head, I will make you a general, with ten thousand koku. Break off the battle!”

Instantly his captains hurried away, shouting orders. Ogama sourly peered into the gathering dark where Katsumata and his men had vanished. “By my ancestors,” he muttered, “when I’m
tairō
, Satsuma will be a Choshu protectorate, the Treaties will be cancelled and no gai-jin ship will ever pass my Straits!” Then he turned his horse and, with his personal guards, spurred gladly for Kyōto. And destiny.

That same evening in the French Legation at Yokohama the party and recital Seratard had arranged in Angelique’s honor was a great success. The
chef had surpassed himself: fresh bread, platters of stewed oysters, cold lobster, shrimps and prawns, baked local fish spiced with ginger and garlic served with leeks from his own garden, and tarte aux pommes, the dried apples from France only used on special occasions. Champagne, La Doucette, and a Margaux from his home village of which he was very proud.

After dinner and cigars, great applause had heralded André Poncin, an accomplished though reluctant pianist, more applause after each piece, and now, almost midnight and after three encores, there was a standing ovation as the last lovely chord of a Beethoven sonata died away.

“Marvelous …”

“Superb …”

“Oh, André,” Angelique said breathlessly in French from her place of honor near the piano, her mind cleansed of the lurking misery by his music. “It was beautiful, thank you so very much.” Her fan fluttered charmingly, eyes and face perfection, new crinoline over hooped petticoats, low-cut, shoulders bare, the fine green silk cascading in gathered tiers accentuating her wisp of waist.

“Merci
, Mademoiselle,” Poncin replied. He got up and raised his glass, his eyes barely veiled.
“À toi!”

“Merci
, Monsieur,” she said, then once more turned back to Seratard, surrounded by Norbert Greyforth, Jamie McFay, Dmitri and other traders, everyone in evening dress with ruffled silk shirts, vivid waistcoats and cravats—some new but most old, crumpled and hastily pressed because she was to be there. Some French army and naval officers, uniforms heavy with braid, dress swords added to the unaccustomed splendor, British military equally like peacocks.

Two of the other three women in the Settlement were in the crowded, oil-and candle-lit room, Mabel Swann and Victoria Lunkchurch. Both stout, in their early twenties and childless, wives of traders, both cross-eyed with jealousy, their husbands tethered sweatily beside them. “Tis time, Mr. Swann,” Mabel Swann said with a sour sniff. “Yus. Prayers n’bed with a nice English cup of tea.”

“If you’re tired, my dear, you and Vic—”

“Now!”

“Thee, too, Barnaby,” Victoria Lunkchurch said, her Yorkshire accent as heavy as her hips, “and put dirty thoughts out of thy head, lad, afore I belt thee proper!”

“Who me? Wot thorts?”

“Those thorts, thee’n that foreign baggage there, may God forgive thee,” she said with even more venom. “Out!”

No one missed them or knew they had left. All were concentrating on
the guest of honor, trying to get nearer, or if they were within the circle, to stop being elbowed out.

“A splendid evening, Henri,” Angelique was saying.

“It’s only because of you. By gracing us you make everything better.” Seratard mouthed gallant platitudes while he was thinking, what a pity you’re not already married and therefore ripe for a liaison with a man of culture. Poor girl to have to endure an immature bovine Scot, however rich. I would like to be your first real lover—it will be a joy to teach you.

“You smile, Henri?” she said, suddenly aware that she had better be careful of this man.

“I was just thinking how perfect your future will be and that made me happy.”

“Ah, how kind you are!”

“I think th—”

“Miss Angelique, if I may be so bold, we’re having a race meet this Saturday,” Norbert Greyforth broke in, furious that Seratard was monopolizing her, disgusted that the man had the rudeness to speak French, which he did not understand, detesting him and everything French, except Angelique. “We’re—there’s going to be a new race, in, er, in your honor. We’ve decided to call it the Angel Cup, eh, Jamie?”

“Yes,” Jamie McFay said, both of them Stewards of the Jockey Club, equally under her spell. “We, well, we decided it will be the last race of the day and Struan’s are providing prize money: twenty guineas for the cup. You’ll present the prize, Miss Angelique?”

“Oh, yes, with pleasure, if Mr. Struan approves.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” McFay had already asked Struan’s permission, but he and every man within hearing wondered about the implications of that remark, though all bets against an engagement were off. Even in private, Struan had given him no clue though McFay had felt duty bound to report the rumors.

“None of their rotten business, Jamie. None.”

He had agreed but his disquiet increased. The captain of an incoming merchantman, an old friend, had slipped him a letter from Malcolm’s mother asking for a confidential report:
I wish to know everything that has happened since this Richaud woman arrived in Yokohama, Jamie. Everything—rumor, facts, gossip—and I need not stress that this is to be a serious secret between us
.

Bloody hell, Jamie thought, I’m committed by holy oath to serve the tai-pan whoever he is and now his mother wants … but then a mother has rights, doesn’t she? Not necessarily, but Mrs. Struan has because she’s Mrs. Struan and, well, you’re used to doing what she wants. Haven’t you done her bidding, her requests and suggestions, for years?

For the love of God, stop fooling yourself, Jamie, hasn’t she truly been running Culum and Struan’s for years, and neither you nor anyone has ever wanted to face the fact openly?

“That’s right,” he muttered, shocked by the thought he had been afraid to bring to the front of his mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hastily covered his lapse, but everyone was still concentrating on Angelique.

Except Norbert. “What’s right, Jamie?” he asked under the buzz of conversation, his smile flat.

“Everything, Norbert. Great evening, eh?” To his great relief, Angelique diverted them both.

“Good night, good night, Henri, gentlemen,” she said over general protests. “I’m sorry but I must see my patient before I sleep.” She held out her hand. With practiced elegance, Seratard kissed it, Norbert, Jamie and the others awkwardly and before anyone else could volunteer, André Poncin said, “Perhaps I may escort you to your home?”

“Of course, why not? Your music transported me.”

The night was cool and overcast but pleasant enough, her woolen shawl decoratively around her shoulders, the bottom ruffle of her wide, hooped skirt dragging carelessly in the dirt of the wooden sidewalk—so necessary during the summer rains that transformed all roads into bogs. Only one small part of her mind dragging with it.

“André, your music is wonderful—oh, how I wish I could play like you,” she said, meaning it.

“It’s only practice, just practice.”

They strolled along towards the brightly lit Struan Building, speaking companionably in French, André very aware of the envious glances of the men streaming across the street to the Club—boisterous, packed, and inviting—warmed by her, not with lust or passion or desire, just with her company and happy chattering that hardly ever required an answer.

Last night at Seratard’s “French” dinner in a private room in the Yokohama Hotel, he had sat beside her and found her youth and seeming frivolity refreshing; her love and knowledge of Paris, the restaurants, theatres, the talk of her young friends, laughing about them and strolling or riding in the Bois, all the excitement of the Second Empire filling him with nostalgia, reminding him of his university days and how much he, too, missed home.

Too many years in Asia—China and here.

Curious this girl is so much like my own daughter. Marie’s same age, birthdays the same month, July, same eyes, same coloring …

He corrected himself:
Perhaps
like Marie. How many years since I broke with Françoise and left the two of them in her family pension, near the Sorbonne, I boarded in? Seventeen. How many years since I last saw them?
Ten.
Merde
, I should never have married, Françoise enceinte or not. I was the fool, not her, at least she remarried and runs the pension. But Marie?

The sound of the waves took his vision to the sea. A stray gull cawed overhead. Not far offshore were the riding lights of their anchored flagship and that broke the spell, reminding him and concentrating his mind.

Ironic, this slip of a girl now becomes an important pawn in the Great Game, France versus Britain. Ironic but life. Do I leave it until tomorrow, or the next day, or deal the cards as we agreed, Henri and I?

“Ah,” she was saying, her fan fluttering, “I feel so happy tonight, André, your music has given me so much, has taken me to the Opéra, has lifted me until I can smell the perfume of Paris…. ”

In spite of himself he was beguiled. Is it her, or because she reminds me of what Marie might have been? I don’t know, but never mind, Angelique, tonight I’ll leave you in your happy balloon. Tomorrow is soon enough.

Then his nostrils caught a suggestion of her perfume, Vie de Camille, reminding him of the phial he had acquired from Paris with such difficulty for his
musume
, Hana—the Flower—and sudden rage swept away his impulse to kindness.

There was no one within hearing distance, most of the High Street empty. Even so, he kept his voice down. “Sorry to tell you, but I’ve some private news you should have. There’s no way to break it easily but your father visited Macao some weeks ago and gambled heavily, and lost.” He saw the swift pallor. His heart went out to her but he continued as he and Seratard had planned. “Sorry.”

“Heavily, André? What does that mean?” The words were barely audible and he saw her staring at him wide-eyed, rigid in the lee of a building.

“He has lost everything, his business, your funds.”

She gasped. “Everything? My funds too? But he can’t!”

“Sorry, he can, and has. He’s within the law. You’re his daughter, an unmarried woman—apart from being a minor—he’s your father with jurisdiction over you and everything you possess, but of course you know that. Sorry. Do you have other money?” he asked, knowing she did not.

“Sorry?” She shivered and fought to make her mind work clearly, the suddenness of knowing that the second of her great terrors was now a reality and common knowledge tore asunder her carefully self-generated cocoon. “How—how do you know all this?” she stammered, groping for air. “My—my funds are mine … he promised.”

“He changed his mind. And Hong Kong’s a village—there are no secrets in Hong Kong, Angelique, no secrets there, or here. Today a message arrived from Hong Kong, couriered from a business partner. He sent the details—he was in Macao at the time and witnessed the debacle.” He kept his voice friendly and concerned as a good friend should be, but telling only half the
truth. “He and I, we own some of your father’s paper, loans from last year and still unpaid.”

Another fear slashed into her. “Doesn’t … my father doesn’t pay his bills?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

In anguish she was thinking of her aunt’s letter and knew for certain now that her uncle’s loan had not been repaid either and he was in jail because … perhaps because of me, she wanted to shout, trying to keep her balance, wishing this was all a dream, oh God, oh God what am I going to do?

“I want you to know if I can help, please tell me.”

Abruptly her voice became shrill. “Help me? You’ve destroyed my peace—if what you say is true. Help me? Why did you tell me this now, why why why when I was so happy?”

“Better you should know at once. Better I tell you, than an enemy.”

Her face twisted. “Enemy, what enemy? Why should I have enemies? I’ve done nothing to anyone, nothing nothing noth—” The tears began flooding. In spite of himself, he held her for a moment, compassionately, then put both hands on her shoulders and shook her.

“Stop it,” he said, letting his voice sharpen. “My God, stop it, don’t you understand, I’m trying to help you!” Several men were approaching on the other side of the street but he saw that they were weaving and concerned only with themselves. No one else nearby, only men making for the Club well down the street behind them, he and she protected by the building’s shadow. Again he shook her and she moaned, “You’re hurting me!” but the tears ceased and she came back to herself.

Partly to herself, he thought coldly, this same process repeated a hundred times before with varying degrees of twisted truths and violence, with other innocents he needed to use for the betterment of France, men so much easier to deal with than women. Men you just kicked in the balls or threatened to cut them off, or stuck needles … But women? Distasteful to treat women so.

“You’re surrounded by enemies, Angelique. There’re many who don’t want you to marry Struan, his mother will fight you every way she—”

“I’ve never said we were going to be married, it … it’s a rumor, a rumor, that’s all!”