Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Christ Jesus, it’s grand to be victorious,” he said aloud in the tub.

  “Master?” Suwo said.

  “Nothing,” he replied in Japanese. “I talking—I was just think—just thinking aloud.”

  “I understand, Master. Yes. Your pardon.”

  Blackthorne let himself drift away.

  Mariko. Yes, she’s been invaluable.

  After that first night of his almost suicide, nothing had ever been said again. What was there to say?

  I’m glad there’s so much to do, he thought. No time to think except here in the bath for these few minutes. Never enough time to do everything. Ordered to concentrate on training and teaching and not on learning, but wanting to learn, trying to learn, needing to learn to fulfill the promise to Yabu. Never enough hours. Always exhausted and drained by bedtime, sleeping instantly, to be up at dawn and riding fast to the plateau. Training all morning, then a sparse meal, never satisfying and never meat. Then every afternoon until nightfall—sometimes till very late at night—with Yabu and Omi and Igurashi and Naga and Zukimoto and a few of the other officers, talking about war, answering questions about war. How to wage war. How barbarians war and how Japanese war. On land and at sea. Scribes always taking notes. Many, many notes.

  Sometimes with Yabu alone.

  But always Mariko there—part of him—talking for him. And for Yabu. Mariko different now toward him, he no longer a stranger.

  Other days the scribes reading back the notes, always checking, being meticulous, revising and checking again until now, after twelve days and a hundred hours or so of detailed exhaustive explanation, a war manual was forming. Exact. And lethal.

  Lethal to whom? Not to us English or Hollanders, who will come here peacefully and only as traders. Lethal to Yabu’s enemies and to Toranaga’s enemies, and to our Portuguese and Spanish enemies when they try to conquer Japan. Like they’ve done everywhere else. In every newly discovered territory. First the priests arrive. Then the conquistadores.

  But not here, he thought with great contentment. Never here—now. The manual’s lethal and proof against that. No conquest here, given a few years for the knowledge to spread.

  “Anjin-san?”

  “Hai, Mariko-san?”

  She was bowing to him. “Yabu-ko wa kiden no goshusseki o kon-ya wa hitsuyo to senu to oserareru, Anjin-san.”

  The words formed slowly in his head: ‘Lord Yabu does not require to see you tonight.’

  “Ichi-ban,” he said blissfully. “Domo.”

  “Gomen nasai, Anjin-san. Anatawa—”

  “Yes, Mariko-san,” he interrupted her, the heat of the water sapping his energy. “I know I should have said it differently but I don’t want to speak any more Japanese now. Not tonight. Now I feel like a schoolboy who’s been let out of school for the Christmas holiday. Do you realize these’ll be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

  “Yes, yes I do.” She smiled wryly. “And do you realize, Senhor Captain-Pilot B’rack’fon, these will be the first free hours I’ve had since I arrived?”

  He laughed. She was wearing a thick cotton bathing robe tied loosely, and a towel around her head to protect her hair. Every evening as soon as his massage began, she would take the bath, sometimes alone, sometimes with Fujiko.

  “Here, you have it now,” he said, beginning to get out.

  “Oh, please, no, I don’t wish to disturb you.”

  “Then share it. It’s wonderful.”

  “Thank you. I can hardly wait to soak the sweat and dust away.” She took off her robe and sat on the tiny seat. A servant began to lather her, Suwo waiting patiently near the massage table.

  “It is rather like a school holiday,” she said, as happily.

  The first time Blackthorne had seen her naked on the day that they swam he had been greatly affected. Now her nakedness, of itself, did not touch him physically. Living closely in Japanese style in a Japanese house where the walls were paper and the rooms multipurpose, he had seen her unclothed and partially clothed many times. He had even seen her relieving herself.

  “What’s more normal, Anjin-san? Bodies are normal, and differences between men and women are normal, neh?”

  “Yes, but it’s, er, just that we’re trained differently.”

  “But now you’re here and our customs are your customs and normal is normal. Neh?”

  Normal was urinating or defecating in the open if there were no latrines or buckets, just lifting your kimono or parting it and squatting or standing, everyone else politely waiting and not watching, rarely screens for privacy. Why should one require privacy? And soon one of the peasants would gather the feces and mix it with water to fertilize crops. Human manure and urine were the only substantial source of fertilizer in the Empire. There were few horses and bullocks, and no other animal sources at all. So every human particle was harbored and sold to the farmers throughout the land.

  And after you’ve seen the highborn and the lowborn parting or lifting and standing or squatting, there’s not much left to be embarrassed about.

  “Is there, Anjin-san?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she had said, very satisfied. “Soon you will like raw fish and fresh seaweed and then you’ll really be hatamoto.”

  The maid poured water over her. Then, cleansed, Mariko stepped into the bath and lay down opposite him with a long-drawn sigh of ecstasy, the little crucifix dangling between her breasts.

  “How do you do that?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Get in so quickly. It’s so hot.”

  “I don’t know, Anjin-san, but I asked them to put more firewood on and to heat up the water. For you, Fujiko always makes sure it’s—we would call it tepid.”

  “If this is tepid, then I’m a Dutchman’s uncle!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The water’s heat made them drowsy and they lolled a while, not saying a word.

  Later she said, “What would you like to do this evening, Anjin-san?”

  “If we were up in London we’d—” Blackthorne stopped. I won’t think about them, he told himself. Or London. That’s gone. That doesn’t exist. Only here exists.

  “If?” She was watching him, aware of the change.

  “We’d go to a theater and see a play,” he said, dominating himself. “Do you have plays here?”

  “Oh, yes, Anjin-san. Plays are very popular with us. The Taikō liked to perform in them for the entertainment of his guests, even Lord Toranaga likes to. And of course there are many touring companies for the common people. But our plays are not quite like yours, so I believe. Here our actors and actresses wear masks. We call the plays ‘Nōh.’ They’re part music, partially danced and mostly very sad, very tragic, historical plays. Some are comedies. Would we see a comedy, or perhaps a religious play?”

  “No, we’d go to the Globe Theater and see something by a playwright called Shakespeare. I like him better than Ben Jonson or Marlowe. Perhaps we’d see The Taming of the Shrew or A Midsummer Night’s Dream or Romeo and Juliet. I took my wife to Romeo and Juliet and she liked it very much.” He explained the plots to her.

  Mostly Mariko found them incomprehensible. “It would be unthinkable here for a girl to disobey her father like that. But so sad, neh? Sad for a young girl and sad for the boy. She was only thirteen? Do all your ladies marry so young?”

  “No. Fifteen or sixteen’s usual. My wife was seventeen when we were married. How old were you?”

  “Just fifteen, Anjin-san.” A shadow crossed her brow which he did not notice. “And after the play, what would we do?”

  “I would take you to eat. We’d go to Stone’s Chop House in Fetter Lane, or the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. They are inns where the food’s special.”

  “What would you eat?”

  “I’d rather not remember,” he said with a lazy smile, turning his mind back to the present. “I can’t remember. Here is where we are and here is where
we’ll eat, and I enjoy raw fish and karma is karma.” He sank deeper into the tub. “A great word ‘karma.’ And a great idea. Your help’s been enormous to me, Mariko-san.”

  “It’s my pleasure to be of a little service to you.” Mariko relaxed into the warmth. “Fujiko has some special food for you tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “She bought a—I think you call it a pheasant. It’s a large bird. One of the falconers caught it for her.”

  “A pheasant? You really mean it? Honto?”

  “Honto,” she replied. “Fujiko asked them to hunt for you. She asked me to tell you.”

  “How is it being cooked?”

  “One of the soldiers had seen the Portuguese preparing them and he told Fujiko-san. She asks you to be patient if it’s not cooked properly.”

  “But how is she doing it—how’re the cooks doing it?” He corrected himself, for servants alone did the cooking and cleaning.

  “She was told that first someone pulls out all the feathers, then—then takes out the entrails.” Mariko controlled her squeamishness. “Then the bird’s either cut into small pieces and fried with oil, or boiled with salt and spices.” Her nose wrinkled. “Sometimes they cover it with mud and put it into the coals of a fire and bake it. We have no ovens, Anjin-san. So it will be fried. I hope that’s all right.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” he said, certain it would be inedible.

  She laughed. “You’re so transparent, Anjin-san, sometimes.”

  “You don’t understand how important food is!” In spite of himself he smiled. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be interested in food. But I can’t control hunger.”

  “You’ll soon be able to do that. You’ll even learn how to drink cha from an empty cup.”

  “What?”

  “This is not the place to explain that, Anjin-san, or the time. For that you must be very awake and very alert. A quiet sunset, or dawning, is necessary. I will show you how, one day, because of what you did. Oh, it is so good to lie here, isn’t it? A bath is truly the gift of God.”

  He heard the servants outside the wall, stoking the fire. He bore the intensifying heat as long as he could, then emerged from the water, half helped by Suwo, and lay back gasping on the thick towel cloth. The old man’s fingers probed. Blackthorne could have cried out with pleasure. “That’s so good.”

  “You’ve changed so much in the last few days, Anjin-san.”

  “Have I?”

  “Oh yes, since your rebirth—yes, very much.”

  He tried to recall the first night but could remember little. Somehow he had made it back on his own legs. Fujiko and the servants had helped him to bed. After a dreamless sleep, he woke at dawn and went for a swim. Then, drying in the sun, he had thanked God for the strength and the clue that Mariko had given him. Later, walking home, he greeted the villagers, knowing secretly that they were freed of Yabu’s curse, as he was freed.

  Then, when Mariko had arrived, he had sent for Mura.

  “Mariko-san, please tell Mura this: ‘We have a problem, you and I. We will solve it together. I want to join the village school. To learn to speak with children.’”

  “They haven’t a school, Anjin-san.”

  “None?”

  “No. Mura says there’s a monastery a few ri to the west and the monks could teach you reading and writing if you wish. But this is a village, Anjin-san. The children here need to learn the ways of fish, the sea, making nets, planting and growing rice and crops. There’s little time for anything else, except reading and writing. And, too, parents and grandparents teach their own, as always.”

  “Then how can I learn when you’ve gone?”

  “Lord Toranaga will send the books.”

  “I’ll need more than books.”

  “Everything will be satisfactory, Anjin-san.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But tell the headman that whenever I make a mistake, everyone—everyone, even a child—is to correct me. At once. I order it.”

  “He says thank you, Anjin-san.”

  “Does anyone here speak Portuguese?”

  “He says no.”

  “Anyone nearby?”

  “Iyé, Anjin-san.”

  “Mariko-san, I’ve got to have someone when you leave.”

  “I’ll tell Yabu-san what you’ve said.”

  “Mura-san, you—”

  “He says you must not use ‘san’ to him or to any villagers. They are beneath you. It’s not correct for you to say ‘san’ to them or anyone beneath you.”

  Fujiko had also bowed to the ground that first day. “Fujiko-san welcomes you home, Anjin-san. She says you have done her great honor and she begs your forgiveness for being rude on the ship. She is honored to be consort and head of your house. She asks if you will keep the swords as it would please her greatly. They belonged to her father, who is dead. She had not given them to her husband because he had swords of his own.”

  “Thank her and say I’m honored she’s consort,” he had said.

  Mariko had bowed too. Formally. “You are in a new life now, Anjin-san. We look at you with new eyes. It is our custom to be formal sometimes, with great seriousness. You have opened my eyes. Very much. Once you were just a barbarian to me. Please excuse my stupidity. What you did proves you’re samurai. Now you are samurai. Please forgive my previous bad manners.”

  He had felt very tall that day. But his self-inflicted near-death had changed him more than he realized and scarred him forever, more than the sum of all his other near-deaths.

  Did you rely on Omi? he asked himself. That Omi would catch the blow? Didn’t you give him plenty of warning?

  I don’t know. I only know I’m glad he was ready, Blackthorne answered himself truthfully. That’s another life gone!

  “That’s my ninth life. The last!” he said aloud. Suwo’s fingers ceased at once.

  “What?” Mariko asked. “What did you say, Anjin-san?”

  “Nothing. It was nothing,” he replied, ill at ease.

  “I hurt you, Master?” Suwo said.

  “No.”

  Suwo said something more that he did not understand.

  “Dozo?”

  Mariko said distantly, “He wants to massage your back now.”

  Blackthorne turned on his stomach and repeated the Japanese and forgot it at once. He could see her through the steam. She was breathing deeply, her head tilted back slightly, her skin pink.

  How does she stand the heat, he asked himself. Training, I suppose, from childhood.

  Suwo’s fingers pleasured him, and he drowsed momentarily.

  What was I thinking about?

  You were thinking about your ninth life, your last life, and you were frightened, remembering the superstition. But it is foolish here in this Land of the Gods to be superstitious. Things are different here and this is forever. Today is forever.

  Tomorrow many things can happen.

  Today I’ll abide by their rules.

  I will.

  The maid brought in the covered dish. She held it high above her head as was custom, so that her breath would not defile the food. Anxiously she knelt and placed it carefully on the tray table in front of Blackthorne. On each little table were bowls and chopsticks, saké cups and napkins, and a tiny flower arrangement. Fujiko and Mariko were sitting opposite him. They wore flowers and silver combs in their hair. Fujiko’s kimono was a pale green pattern of fish on a white background, her obi gold. Mariko wore black and red with a thin silver overlay of chrysanthemums and a red and silver check obi. Both wore perfume, as always. Incense burned to keep the night bugs away.

  Blackthorne had long since composed himself. He knew that any displeasure from him would destroy their evening. If pheasants could be caught there would be other game, he thought. He had a horse and guns and he could hunt himself, if only he could get the time.

  Fujiko leaned over and took the lid off the dish. The small pieces of fried meat were browned and seemed perfect. He began to salivate at the
aroma.

  Slowly he took a piece of meat in his chopsticks, willing it not to fall, and chewed the flesh. It was tough and dry, but he had been meatless for so long it was delicious. Another piece. He sighed with pleasure. “Ichi-ban, ichi-ban, by God!”

  Fujiko blushed and poured him saké to hide her face. Mariko fanned herself, the crimson fan a dragonfly. Blackthorne quaffed the wine and ate another piece and poured more wine and ritualistically offered his brimming cup to Fujiko. She refused, as was custom, but tonight he insisted, so she drained the cup, choking slightly. Mariko also refused and was also made to drink. Then he attacked the pheasant with as little gusto as he could manage. The women hardly touched their small portions of vegetables and fish. This didn’t bother him because it was a female custom to eat before or afterward so that all their attention could be devoted to the master.

  He ate all the pheasant and three bowls of rice and slurped his saké, which was also good manners. He felt replete for the first time in months. During the meal he had finished six flasks of the hot wine, Mariko and Fujiko two between them. Now they were flushed and giggling and at the silly stage.

  Mariko chuckled and put her hand in front of her mouth. “I wish I could drink saké like you, Anjin-san. You drink saké better than any man I’ve ever known. I wager you’d be the best in Izu! I could win a lot of money on you!”

  “I thought samurai disapproved of gambling.”

  “Oh they do, absolutely they do, they’re not merchants and peasants. But not all samurai are as strong as others and many—how do you say—many’ll bet like the Southern Bar—like the Portuguese bet.”

  “Do women bet?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much. But only with other ladies and in careful amounts and always so their husbands never find out!” She gaily translated for Fujiko, who was more flushed than she.

  “Your consort asks do Englishmen bet? Do you like to wager?”