Gai-Jin (61 page)

“Sometimes. They’re certainly warlike, always battling someone. They’ve just got a new King and his chief supporter is a big tough prince called Bismarck who’s trying to collect all German speakers into one great nation and—”

“P’rease, so sorry, Taira-san, not so fast, yes?”

“Ah gomen nasai.”
Tyrer repeated what he had said but more slowly, answering more questions, never failing to be astounded at their number and extent and range of his protégé’s enquiring mind. He laughed again. “We must have an agreement, one hour about my world in English, one hour about yours in English, and then a one-hour conversation in Japanese.
Hai?”

“Hai. Domo.”

Four horsemen going out to the racetrack overtook them, greeted Tyrer and looked Hiraga over curiously. Tyrer greeted them back. At the far end of High Street by the barrier, lines of coolies with the afternoon’s shipment of goods and foods began to clear through the Custom House under the watchful eye of the samurai guards. “We’d best hurry, don’t want to get mixed up with that lot,” he said, and crossed the road, picking his way through the horse manure, then stopped abruptly and waved. They had been passing the French Legation. Angelique was standing at her ground-floor window, the curtains pulled aside. She smiled and waved back. Hiraga pretended not to have noticed her scrutiny.

“That’s the lady Mr. Struan’s going to marry,” Tyrer said, walking on again. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Hai
. That her house, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good night, Mr. McFay. Everything’s locked up.”

“Thanks. ’Night, Vargas.” McFay stifled a yawn, continued writing his daily journal, the last job of the day. His desk was clear but for two weeks’ worth of newspapers still to be read, his In tray empty, Out tray spilling over with answers to most of today’s mail, and orders, bills of lading already completed and signed, ready for collection at sunup when business began.

Vargas absently scratched at a flea bite, a way of life in Asia, and put the key to the strong room on the desk. “Shall I bring you more light?”

“No, thanks, I’m almost finished. See you tomorrow.”

“The Choshus are due tomorrow, about the guns.”

“Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. Good night.”

Now that he was alone in this part of the ground floor McFay felt happier, always pleased to be on his own and always safe within himself. Except for Vargas, all clerks, shroffs and other staff had their own staircase and rooms far to the back of the godown. The communicating door between the two sections was locked nightly. Only Ah Tok and their personal servants stayed in this foresection that contained offices, the strong room where all guns, ledgers, safes with all specie in Mexican silver dollars, gold taels and Japanese coin were kept, and their living quarters on the floor above.

Mail day was always busy and a late night, tonight later than most because the moment he had got the last installment of
Great Expectations
from Nettlesmith, he had rushed upstairs and shared his allotted hour, page by relished page with Malcolm Struan, then had come down again delighted and satisfied that all had worked out for Pip and the girl and that a new Dickens epic would be announced in next month’s edition.

The grandfather clock was ticking pleasantly. He wrote rapidly with a fine clear hand:

There was a tap on one of the shutters. He glanced at the clock, almost ten. An hour late. Never mind, Asian time’s different to our time.

Without haste he got up, slipped the small revolver into the side pocket of his frock coat, went to his private door and unlocked it. Outside were two women muffled in hooded cloaks, with a manservant. They all bowed. He beckoned the women in, gave a few coins to the man who thanked him, bowed again and went back down the side alley towards the Yoshiwara.

McFay relocked the door. “Heya, Nemi, you all same pretty,
neh?”
He smiled and hugged one of them.

The girl beamed at him from under her hood, a sparkle to her, his
musume
for a year and kept by him for half that time. “Heya, Jami-san, you-ah gud, heya? This
musume
my sister, Shizuka. Pretty,
neh?”

Nervously the other girl moved her hood aside, forced a smile. He began to breathe again—Shizuka was as young as Nemi, as attractive and fragrant.
“Hai!”
he said, and both were relieved that she had passed initial scrutiny. This was the first time McFay had ever arranged a girl for someone else. Awkwardly, he had asked Nemi to make sure the mama-san understood the girl was for the tai-pan and therefore had to be special. Both girls were in their early twenties, barely coming up to his shoulder, both more at
ease now though completely aware the real hurdle had yet to be surmounted.

“Shizuka, I please you see. Tai-pan top man,” he said kindly, then to Nemi, patting his side where Struan’s wound was, “She understand about wound,
neh
?”

Nemi nodded, her white teeth sparkling.
“Hai
, I ’sp’rain, Jami-san!
Dozo
, ’reave coat here, or up’stair?”

“Upstairs.”

He led the way up the great staircase, well lit with oil lamps, Nemi chattering to the new girl who was all eyes. It was his custom, from time to time, to send for Nemi to spend the night here, the manservant returning just before dawn to escort her back to the little dwelling he had bought for her within the grounds of her house, the Inn of Succulent Joy. Ten gold sovereigns it had cost him for a five-year lease for the house after days of haggling. Another ten for her contract for the same period, plus extra for a new kimono each month, hairdressing, a personal maid, and saké.

“But Mama-san, what if fire burn house down, heya?” he had asked, appalled that he was agreeing to such a huge price though the extraordinarily advantageous exchange rate gave them a profit of four hundred percent most months—which meant that almost everyone could keep a pony or two, consume champagne at will, and more importantly guaranteed that Nemi’s running expenses would not amount to more than a few pounds yearly.

The mama-san was shocked. “Bui’d ’rike new. You pay ha’f price, fair,
neh
?”

Nemi, present at the final negotiation, had laughed. “P’renti fire in house, Jami-san, p’renti jig jig,
neh
?”

When McFay reached the top of the stairs he gave her another happy hug for no reason, other than she had proved to be worth every farthing, giving him so much pleasure and so much peace. On the landing was a large high-back chair. Nemi took off her cloak and hood, telling the other girl to do likewise, leaving them there. Neat and pretty kimonos underneath, hair well coiffured—chrysalis into butterfly. Pleased with himself he knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Malcolm Struan sat in his chair, a cheroot smoldering between his fingers, elegant in his dressing gown but ill at ease. “Hello, Jamie.”

“Evening, Tai-pan.” Both girls bowed with great deference, McFay quite unaware that almost everything about Malcolm Struan—as well as himself and most gai-jin—was common knowledge and the subject of constant and avid Yoshiwara gossip, his enormous wealth, that he had recently become tai-pan, the circumstances of his wound and now impending marriage.
“This’s Shizuka, she’ll stay with you. The servant’ll arrive just before dawn, everything as I told you. I’ll knock first. She may be a bit shy but, well, no problem. This’s my
musume
, Nemi. I, er, I thought it best, the first time, to bring her along to make things easier.”

Both girls bowed again. “Heya, Tai-pan,” Nemi said in complete control, delighted to meet him and confident with her choice. “Shizuka sister my, good
musume
, heya!” She nodded vigorously and gave Shizuka a little push. The girl went over to him, hesitantly, knelt and bowed again.

“I’ll be in my rooms if you need me.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

McFay closed the door quietly, went further down the corridor. His suite was tidy, masculine and comfortable. Three rooms, sitting room, bedroom, spare bedroom, all with fireplaces, and a bathroom. On the sideboard were cold cuts, fresh bread and her favorite, a freshly baked apple pie, the apples imported from Shanghai. Saké in a container of hot water, and Loch Vey whisky from Struan’s own distillery that she adored.

The moment the door was bolted she stood on tiptoe and kissed him hungrily. “No see six day, first bed-u then ba’f!” she said, reversing the usual order. His heart picked up a beat though he was in no hurry.

She took him by the hand, led him into the bedroom and half pushed him onto the bed, knelt to pull off his boots and began to undress him, all the time chattering in her half-comprehensible pidgin, telling him that the Yoshiwara was abuzz with business, the Floating World prosperous, not to worry about Shizuka, she was expensive but the best, and what was this they hear about war and please we do not want war, just business, and I have a new kimono with lucky carp all over it that was, well, a little expensive, “but
ichiban
, Jami-san, you-ah ’rike veri. Bed-u!”

Obediently he got into the four-poster. The night was perfect, neither hot nor cool. She untied her obi, let the kimono fall, then her under-kimono and slip. Quite naked, completely without guilt or shame about nudity like all
musume—
one of the many characteristics that set them apart, and one that McFay and all gai-jin found so astounding and enviable—she took the pins from her hair, shook it and let it fall to her waist and marched triumphantly to the bathroom and the first delight of the evening.

She sat on the toilet and reached up for the handle to the chain of the water closet and pulled. The water roared down into the porcelain bowl and, as always, she clapped her hands with glee.

The first time she had seen it she had not believed it. “Where wat’er go?” she asked suspiciously. He had explained and drawn pictures but she still would not believe him until he had shown her the pipes and taken her into the garden where the manhole cover of the septic tank was—all pipes, water tanks, boilers, toilet bowls, hand basins, sinks, taps and the three
baths imported from England, Hong Kong and Shanghai where many pieces were beginning to be manufactured for the vast Indian and Asian markets.

She had begged him to allow her to show her friends. Proudly he had agreed because this was the first such installation in all Japan, to Sir William’s chagrin and Norbert Greyforth’s fury, and now the pattern of the dozen or so working and nonworking copies, though not all with hot and cold water: nothing but the best and most modern, therefore British, for Struan’s.

So guided tours of the privileged few to examine the Jami-san cleansing room became one of the most sought-after sights of gai-jin Yokohama, the chattering
musume
like so many exotic birds, bowing and sucking in their breaths and pulling the chain to gasps of wonder and applause.

Nemi washed her hands. With a contented sigh, she slipped under the sheets beside him.

Phillip Tyrer was spent and almost asleep. Fujiko bore his weight comfortably, then began to ease away.

“Iyé, matsu.”
No, don’t move … wait
, he murmured.

“I just want to fetch a towel, Taira-san. Towel, do you understand?”

“Ah, ah yes. Understand towel. You stay I get …”

“Oh, no, I would lose face, it is my duty. Let me go, please…. Now do not be difficult or naughty.”

She chuckled as he nuzzled her and held on but she was deft and knew her craft well and waited. Now the small room was peaceful. Outside the night was fair. Wind rustled the trees and bushes. A few drafts from around the sliding windows, not yet cold or unpleasant. Flickering oil lamp.

In a moment she slid away without disturbing his tranquility and went to the little bathroom with its high wooden tub, filled to the brim with hot water, which was on a wooden grill to allow the water to flow away when the bung was pulled out. Scented soap and chamber pot and fresh towels. Quickly she used a damp towel and dried herself.

When she came back she brought a hot towel, sponged him then dried him. All the while his eyes were tightly closed and he was near moaning with pleasure, at the same time embarrassed that she was doing it for him, not he for her.
“Ah, Fujiko-chan, you are wonderful.”