Gai-Jin (53 page)

She stared at him, unnerved by the change. “But Malcolm, I am comfortable where I am, and near in case you need me.”

“Oh yes, I need you.” His mouth moved with the shadow of an ironic smile. “I’ll ask Jamie to make the arrangements.”

She hesitated, off balance, not sure how to proceed. “If that’s what you want,
chéri.”

“Yes, it’s best. As you said, being so close is difficult for each of us. Good night, my love, I’m so glad you enjoyed your party.”

A chill passed through her, but whether from outside or inside she did not know. She kissed him, ready to return his passion, but there was none. What had changed him? “Sleep beautifully, Malcolm, I love you.” Still nothing.

Never mind, she thought, men are so moody and difficult. Smiling as
though nothing were wrong she unbolted his door, blew him a tender kiss and went into her own room.

He watched their door. It was slightly ajar. As usual. But everything in their world was no longer as usual. The door and her nearness no longer tempted him. He was feeling different, somehow refashioned. He did not know why but he was very sad, very old, some instinct telling him that however much he loved her, however much he tried physically, she would never in their whole life together ever completely satisfy him.

Using his stick, he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled as quietly as he could to the bureau. In the top drawer was the small bottle of the medication that he had secreted away against nights when the idea of sleep became impossible. He swigged the last of it. Heavily, he shuffled to his bed. Gritting his teeth, he lay down and sighed as most of the pain left him. That he had consumed the last of the peace-giver did not bother him in the least. Chen, Ah Tok or any of the servants could supply him with more, whenever he wanted. After all, didn’t Struan’s supply part of China?

On her side of the door, Angelique was still leaning against the wall, in turmoil, unsure whether to go back or to leave well enough alone. She had heard him go to the bureau and the drawer open, but did not know why, heard the bed springs creak and his long-drawn-out sigh of relief.

It was just the pain and because we can’t, not now, she thought, reassuring herself again, stifling a nervous yawn. And also because he had to sit still at the dance when he is as fine a dancer as I’ve ever had—wasn’t it that that had first attracted me to him in Hong Kong from all the others?

Not wrong that he wants to make love—and not my fault he was hurt. Poor Malcolm, he’s just overwrought. Tomorrow he will have forgotten all about it and everything will be fine—and it’s better I move now, there’s the other to consider. All
will
be well.

She slipped into bed and into easy sleep but her dreams were quickly peopled by strange monsters with twisted baby faces, shrieking with laughter and tugging at her, “Mamma … Mamma,” writing on the sheets with her own blood that leaked from the tip of her finger she used as a pen, tracing and retracing those characters—the ones from the counterpane imprinted deeply in her mind that she had not yet had the courage to ask André or Tyrer about.

Something jerked her out of sleep. The nightscapes vanished. Uneasily awake, she glanced at the door, half expecting to see him there. But he was not and she heard, faintly, his heavy, regular breathing, so she settled back in her pillows and thought, It was the wind or a banging shutter.

Mon Dieu
, I’m tired, but what a lovely time I had at the dance. And what a lovely ring he gave me.

* * *

Humming the polka and envious of John Marlowe’s success, and quite sure he could have done as well, Phillip Tyrer half danced up to the door of the House of the Three Carp in the tiny, deserted little alleyway and knocked with a flourish. Here the Yoshiwara seemed to be slumbering, but not far away the houses and bars on Main Street were bubbling, the night young with the noise of men laughing and raucous singing, the occasional twang of samisen and laughter and pidgin mixed with it.

The door grille opened. “Mass’er, wat?”

“Please speak Japanese. I am Taira-san and I have an appointment.”

“Ah, is that so?”
the burly servant said.
“Taira-san, eh? I will inform the mama-san.”
The grille closed.

As he waited Tyrer’s fingers drummed on the old wood. Yesterday and last night he had had to spend all his time with Sir William, explaining about Nakama and the Legation, arranging a modus vivendi for his newfound teacher—guilty he had not revealed the vital truth that the man could speak some English. But he had sworn, and an Englishman’s word was his bond.

Sir William had finally agreed “Nakama” could be openly samurai-sons of samurai families had been attached to the French and British Legations for short periods in the past, just as Babcott had Japanese assistants. But Sir William had ordered he was not to wear or have swords within the Settlement fence. This same rule applied to all samurai, except Settlement guards under an officer on their rare, and prior-sanctioned patrols. Further that Nakama was not to dress ostentatiously or go anywhere near the Customs House or guard house, and to keep out of sight as much as possible, that if he was discovered and claimed by the Bakufu it would be his fault and he would be handed over to them.

Tyrer had sent for Nakama and explained what Sir William had agreed. By this time he was too tired for Fujiko. “Now, Nakama, I need to send a message, and I want you to deliver it. Please write the characters for: ‘Please arrange …’”

“’range, p’rease?”

“To fix or to make. ‘Please make an appointment for me tomorrow night with …’ Leave a blank for the name.”

It had taken Hiraga a little time to understand exactly what was required of him and why. In desperation, Tyrer had found himself giving the name Fujiko and the House of the Three Carp. “Ah, Three Carp?” Hiraga had said.
“So ka!
Give message mama-san, no mistake, arrange you see
musume
tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes, please.”

Nakama had shown him how to write the characters and Tyrer copied them, very pleased with himself, and signed the message carefully with the signature Hiraga had developed for him and now he was here at the gate.

“Come on, hurry up,” he muttered—ready, willing and able.

In time the door grille opened again. By Raiko.
“Ah, good evening, Taira-san, you want us to speak Japanese, certainly,”
she said with a smile and a little bow, and followed with a flood of lilting Japanese which he did not catch, except the name of Fujiko several times, ended with,
“So sorry.”

“What? Oh,
You sorry? Why sorry, Raiko-san? Good evening, I have appointment Fujiko … with Fujiko. ”

“Ah, so sorry,”
she repeated patiently,
“but Fujiko is not available this evening, and will not be free even for a short time. So sorry, but there is nothing I can do, she sends her regrets of course and, so sorry, but all my other ladies are equally occupied. Very sorry.”

Again he did not understand everything. The gist reached him. Crestfallen, Tyrer understood that Fujiko was not there, but not the reason.
“But letter, yesterday—my message man, Nakama, he bring, yes?”

“Oh, yes! Nakama-san brought it and as I told him I thought everything would be perfect but, so sorry, it is not now possible to accommodate you. So sorry, Taira-san, thank you for remembering us. Good night.”

“Wait,” Tyrer shouted in English as the grille began to close, then pleading, “you said she isn’t there—here, yes?
Wait, please, Raiko-san. Tomorrow—sorry—tomorrow, Fujiko, yes?”

Sadly Raiko shook her head.
“Ah, so sorry, tomorrow is not possible either, it really distresses me to have to say so. I do hope you do understand, so sorry.”

Tyrer was aghast.
“No tomorrow? Next day, yes?”

She hesitated, smiled, made another little bow:
“Perhaps, Taira-san, perhaps, but, so sorry, I can promise nothing. Please ask Nakama-san to come here during the day and I will tell him. You understand? Send Nakama-san. Good night.”

Blankly Tyrer stared at the door, cursed bitterly, bunched his fists, wanting to smash something. It took him a moment to recover from his immense disappointment, then, despondently, he turned away.

Hiraga had been watching through a spy hole in the fence. When Tyrer vanished around the corner he went back along the meandering stone path through the garden, deep in thought. The garden was deceptively spacious with small bungalows, always with verandas, nestling in their own shrubbery.

But he avoided all of them, went into the shrubbery and knocked on a panel of fence. It swung open noiselessly. The servant bowed and he nodded and went along a path, heading for a similar dwelling. Most Inns or
Houses had secret exits and hiding places, or connections with the one next door, and those that dared to cater to shishi paid special attention to security—for their own safety. This part of the House of the Three Carp was for very special guests with different cooking facilities, maids but the same courtesans. On the veranda he kicked off his
geta—
clogs—slid back the shoji. “What did he do?” Ori asked.

“Meekly walked away. Weird.” Hiraga shook his head in wonder and sat opposite him, nodded a brief acknowledgment of Fujiko’s deep bow. Yesterday, after delivering Tyrer’s letter—with Raiko’s amused compliance he had hired Fujiko for tonight.

“May I ask why, Hiraga-san?” Raiko had said.

“Just to annoy Taira.”

“Eeee, I think he left his virginity here, with Ako. Then he tried Mieko, then Fujiko. Fujiko made his eyes cross.”

He had laughed with Raiko, liking her, but when he saw Fujiko he was bewildered that his enemy found the girl attractive. She was ordinary, hair ordinary, everything about her ordinary except her eyes that were unfashionably large. Nonetheless he hid his opinion and had complimented Raiko that she had acquired such a flower, who looked sixteen though she was thirty-one and fifteen years a courtesan.

“Thank you, Hiraga-san.” Raiko had smiled. “Yes, she’s an asset, for some reason gai-jin like her. But please, don’t forget the Taira is our client and that gai-jin are not like us. They tend to attach themselves to one lady only. Please encourage him, gai-jin are rich, and I hear he’s an important official and may be here for some years.”

“Sonno-joi.”

“That is for you to arrange. You take their heads, but promise me not here, meanwhile I take their wealth.”

“You will permit Ori to stay?”

“Ori-san is a curious youth,” she had said hesitantly, “very strong, very angry, very unsettled—a tinderbox. I’m afraid of him. I can hide him for a day or two but … but please, curb him while he’s my guest? There is trouble enough in the Willow World without seeking it.”

“Yes. Have you any news of my cousin, Akimoto?”

“He’s safe at Hodogaya, Teahouse of the First Moon.”

“Send for him.” Hiraga had slid a gold oban from his secret pocket. He noted how her eyes glinted. “This will pay for any messenger, or expenses while Akimoto and Ori are here, and for Fujiko’s services tomorrow of course.”

“Of course.” The coin, quite a generous payment, vanished into her sleeve.
“Ori-san may stay until I think it is time for him to move on, so sorry, then he leaves, you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Next, so sorry, shishi, but I must tell you it is very dangerous for you here. This is being sent to every barrier.” Raiko unfolded a woodcut poster, a portrait, about a foot square. Of him. The caption read:
The Bakufu offers Two Koku reward for the head of this murdering Choshu ronin who goes under many aliases, one of which is Hiraga
.

“Baka!”
Hiraga said through his teeth. “Does it look like me? How is it possible? I’ve never had a portrait painted.”

“Yes and no. Artists have long memories, Hiraga-san. One of the samurai at the fight perhaps? Unless someone closer to you is the betrayer. Bad also is that important people are seeking you. Anjo of course, but now Toranaga Yoshi.”

He was chilled, wondering if the courtesan Koiko was betrayed or was the betrayer. “Why him?”

Raiko shrugged. “He’s the head of the snake, like it or not.
Sonno-joi
, Hiraga-san, but do not lead the Bakufu enemy here, I want my head on my shoulders.”

All night Hiraga had worried about the poster and what to do about it. He accepted a refill of saké from Fujiko. “This Taira amazes me, Ori.”

“Why waste time on him? Kill him.”

“Later, not now. Watching him and them, testing, trying to guess their reactions is like a game of chess where the rules keep changing constantly, it is fascinating—once you get over their stench.”

“Tonight we should have done what I wanted to do: kill him and dump his body near the guard house and let them be blamed.” Irritably Ori ran his right hand over the stubble already covering his shaven pate and face, his left shoulder bandaged and arm still in a sling. “Tomorrow I’ll be shaved clean again and feel more like a samurai again—Raiko has a barber she can trust, but clean or not, Hiraga, this forced laziness is sending me mad.”

“And your shoulder?”

“The wound’s clean. It itches but it’s a good itch.” Ori lifted his arm about halfway. “Can’t go further but I force it a little every day. It would be difficult to use in a fight. Karma. But that gai-jin Taira, if we had killed him, there would have been no risk to us or the House, you said he was so secretive he wouldn’t have told anyone he was here.”

“Yes, but he might have, and that’s what I do not understand. They are unpredictable. They keep changing their minds, they say one thing and then do the exact opposite but not with calculation, not like we do, not like us.”

“Sonno-joi!
Killing him would have driven the gai-jin mad. We should do it the next time he comes here.”

“Yes, we will, but later—he’s too valuable for the moment. He will reveal their secrets, how to humble them, kill them by the hundreds or thousands—after we have used them to humble and break the Bakufu.”
Hiraga held out the cup again. Instantly Fujiko filled it, smiling at him. “I was even in the office of the Leader of all the Ing’erish, within five paces of him. I’m in the center of gai-jin authority! If only I could speak their language better.” He was much too cautious to reveal to Ori the true extent of his knowledge, or how he had persuaded Tyrer to smuggle him out—let alone in front of this girl.