by Will Thomas
Tatsuya offered a boneless hand to the Guv, who accepted it gingerly.
“Ah!” he said, sliding down into his seat.
“How are you finding London, sir?” I asked.
“It’s amazing, gentlemen. I have stereopticon slides back in Tokyo, but they don’t do your fair city justice!”
Tatsuya was trying so hard to fit in, he only succeeded in standing out. His language and his clothing were mere approximations of our true speech and manner, but Barker did not care what one wore or how one spoke, as long as one answered his questions. As for me, well, I found him rather entertaining.
We had not intended to eat there, but Tatsuya ordered a tray of various cakes and tea all around. He lifted his teaspoon by the very tip of the handle, like a plumb line, and let it dangle carefully into his tea before stirring it. Then he availed himself of the sweetmeats.
“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Barker?” he asked, wiping icing from his mouth.
“I have some general questions, if I may,” my employer said, avoiding the sweets, which he almost never consumed, save at the insistence of our chef.
“Don’t be shy, Mr. Barker. Ask me anything!”
I glanced over and noticed that every other table was watching us. The waiter looked as if he were debating whether to throw a certain foreigner out into the street. Most people in London had never seen a Japanese person before.
“How were you chosen as the subambassador to the arts, if I may ask?”
“Of course. I am a professor at the University of Tokyo on the subject of Western culture. I’ve given lectures all over Japan discussing art and literature. I have memorized all of your major streets and your Underground system. Having received a letter of introduction from Lord Diosy, I’ve been visiting all of your museums, as well as Liberty’s of London, and taken a tour of some of your art galleries. I’m having such a wonderful time, but really, every minute is accounted for. I wouldn’t have been able to come now if one of my appointments had not canceled.”
“Have you made many purchases?” Barker asked him.
I knew the Guv. He had no interest in someone’s purchases.
“Enough to fill a ship, sir! Bolts of Orkney tweed, tartan wool, china, paintings, sculptures. Everything down to penny postcards to mail to my acquaintances while I am here.”
“Have you purchased works of art?”
“Yes, I did buy a Turner at auction just yesterday.”
Barker turned to me. “Turner?”
“A landscapist, sir, around the middle of the century,” I said.
“Have you been given an adequate budget?” Barker asked Tatsuya.
“Oh, scads of yen. Pounds, if you prefer. Not only has the government contracted me to make purchases, but several prominent families have paid me to find something for their homes. I can’t say why a traditional paper-walled home would need a painting of Venus coming out of the water, but I’ll do my best to secure it.”
“What about your compatriots? Have they the same budget as you?”
Tatsuya chuckled.
“‘Compatriots.’ I love English. I’ve never heard the word pronounced before. To be honest, none of us have discussed our budgets with one another. You’d call it bad form. I suspect, however, that my budget is the smallest of all. Our trade minister will be purchasing all sorts of goods, while the general and admiral will be looking at ships and modern military equipment. I overheard the three of them the other evening discussing the feasibility of contracting a drawbridge to be built, similar to London Bridge, in Tokyo. Oh, yes, we have been sent here to purchase, and purchase, we shall.”
Barker poured himself a cup of tea from a samovar by the front door and I took a gooseberry tart while he wasn’t looking. I like a sweet myself from time to time. He returned, inspected me visually as if I were a child about to get into trouble, and sipped his tea.
“May I assume you are shown about these museums and companies on some kind of private tour?” he asked our guest.
“Oh, yes. They whisk me in and out and point out everything. To be truthful, sir, I’m but a humble professor without much money, but a great fondness for your country. They almost treat me like royalty here.”
“Have you been interviewed by reporters?”
“Yes, and photographed wherever I go. I am to appear in the Woman’s World. They asked my opinions about everything. It has been bloody marvelous, as you would say.”
I tried to keep from laughing. Barker wouldn’t have said it in a thousand years. I marveled at the minister, babbling what I would imagine were state secrets, while Barker was taking it all in.
“What is Lord Diosy’s place in all this?”
“He’s the one who makes all the appointments and tours for us. He knows simply everyone and has exquisite taste. His collection is first-rate for a Westerner. There are a few pieces I, as a Japanese, wish were in museums in Tokyo.”
“Do you have a bodyguard who travels with you?” the Guv asked, finishing the last sip of his tea.
“Yes, though he’s a bit of a dullard, I’m afraid. He’s in the cab there. Spends all his time at swordplay. Very serious. Bushido, and all that. I say, that was the past and this is the present. One must change when it is necessary, as Japan has learned to adapt.”
“I’m sure the general would agree with you. Have you had much chance to talk to him?”
“We don’t get along, I’m afraid. He believes all men should be soldiers. I don’t care about his opinions. I have a wife and four sons.”
“What is your opinion of the bodyguards?” my employer asked.
“A mixed lot. Some of them are young. Kito is a guard in the Imperial Palace, and is vain about it. Ohara was near mad over the loss of Toda Ichigo. He vowed to avenge his death and ran off. Poor chap. The man took his disgrace very hard.”
“Isn’t he rather heavy for a guard?” I asked.
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? With my own eyes, I have seen him turn a cartwheel, and land as gently as a rabbit. I suspect he is the most dangerous of all the bodyguards. Some of the young rakes use a sword, I’ll give them that, but Ohara Kogoro, he’s far more than a fat man.”
“I understand. Was he not with the rest of the guards hired by the general?”
“No. The general desired another man for the role, but Toda insisted. Ohara was his own personal bodyguard, I believe.”
“Was the general always interested in bodigado?”
“You clever fellow! You speak Japanese, but you haven’t told us. I must tread carefully around you, Mr. Barker!”
“Pray answer the question,” the Guv rumbled.
“Oh, rather,” the minister exclaimed. “He picked them as if they were thoroughbreds. He fussed over them, and when he chose his men, he drilled them unmercifully. I swear Ohara was two stone heavier when he was chosen. His sumo weight.”
“Sumo?” I asked.
“Japanese wrestling among the heaviest of men,” Barker explained.
“You mean there are more like him?”
“Oh, aye. It is the national sport of Japan.”
“Imagine that.”
I was hoping that this was a country in which I might possibly be considered tall. Kito, for example, was no taller than I. The thought that there was also a race of giants there rather dampened my enthusiasm.
“You said the admiral told you about the general’s past. Are the two of you confidants?”
“He’ll listen to me, unlike the general or the minister of trade. He’s not much of a talker, however.”
“Do the general and the admiral get along?”
“Just barely. There’s no love lost between them, but they were shipmates once and are now living in the same house. One must learn to be civil.”
“What of the minister of trade?”
“Akita? He’s all right. He’s younger than the rest of us, and understands he must perform his duties well. I don’t think he has looked up from his orders, save to visit a fac
tory or two. He hasn’t seen Big Ben or Westminster Abbey. Hasn’t passed Buckingham Palace. I imagine he has not read about them or taken any interest whatsoever. He might just as well be in Yokohama. He’s everything I fight against, in a way. Traditionally, the samurai class was required to learn other things besides the use of a sword. They wrote poetry or painted. They arranged flowers. They appreciated the beauty of nature around them. The general, the admiral, Mr. Akita, they concentrate so much on what they must do that they never notice the beauty that is all around them.”
“I see,” my employer said.
“I came for another reason today, Mr. Barker: to apologize to you. Your garden is sublime, the ambassador told me. He was most impressed, and when I returned from an appointment he chided me for not coming to see it. I am sorry, sir, that I did not come. The number of hours you must work to create such beauty, it is a great sacrifice. Bravo, I say!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Barker turned to me.
“Have you any questions for Mr. Tatsuya?”
I cudgeled my brain for a question that would not embarrass Barker in front of a guest.
“What is your impression of the general himself?” I asked.
Barker nodded. It was a fair question.
“I could write a book. He keeps to himself when he doesn’t need something. He’s a nationalist. Japan first. He wants to restore our ‘self-respect,’ whatever that means. I love Japan, I really do, but it isn’t everything. If he could rewind the course of history, he would return to 1853, when the Americans arrived, and fight them to the death. Even if he died, it would have been a noble cause. I feel a nobler cause would be feeding starving children and tending to the elderly. However, there is no glory in that, is there?”
“There is,” Barker said. “But few see it. Thank you, Mr. Tatsuya, for speaking so openly with me.”
“I liked the ambassador. He gave you the feeling that when he talked to you, whatever you had to say was both important and worthwhile. None of these other chaps will give me the time of day. An arts minister is completely unnecessary to them.”
He rose in a fit of pique.
“I have come thousands of miles from my wife and four sons. I am taking art back to Tokyo which will revolutionize textiles, painting, ceramics, fashion, architecture, and design. What are they doing? They are playing at war.”
He bowed formally, his bowl-cut hair hanging from his head. Then he left, heading back toward Whitehall Street.
“Unusual fellow,” Barker said, once he was gone. “I suspect he feels outnumbered.”
“Yes. I suppose even Japan can have its Anglophiles. He must be having the time of his life, at the government’s expense.”
“You think him harmless?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t!” Barker chided. “Just because a fellow seems a certain way, don’t assume he is. Tatsuya didn’t merely come to chat and have tea. He was warning us. Every message has a message within it.”
“But sir, if he’s come to warn us, why suspect him?”
“Because we don’t know why he is warning us. It may be to cloak his own activities.”
“Or it might be that he is warning us because we need warning.”
Barker shook his head. “Why should a Japanese, who only just met us, choose to warn a pair of complete strangers against his own countrymen?”
“I can think of two reasons,” I said.
“Two? Very well, what are they?”
“Number one, he is an Anglophile. He cares about our country as much as his.”
“I don’t like it,” the Guv said, frowning. “There is a difference between liking a country’s culture and giving government secrets away. And the other reason?”
“Because Ambassador Toda is dead, and he fears he shall be next. He is the odd man out.”
Barker pointed a finger at me. “Now that is possible. Until new knowledge comes to light, let us consider that. Do you suppose he is naturally guileless, or he deliberately wishes us to know what Mononobe and the admiral are doing?”
I considered the question, weighing my answer. Barker would not want a platitude or an off-the-cuff opinion. When he asked me what I thought, he actually expected me to think.
“Tatsuya certainly threw some opinions about. Mononobe is taking the embassy in an entirely different direction. Toda would have helped the poor and visited schools. He would have toured Whitechapel as well. Instead, Mononobe will only be touring Sandhurst or the Royal Armory in Leeds.”
“I agree. There was no reason for the minister of arts to come here and talk openly to a pair of enquiry agents. Our opinions would not be of interest to him, unless we can pass the information on to someone, or watch closely what is going on. Tatsuya would not have spoken to us unless he was concerned.”
“You think not? He wasn’t merely being loquacious?”
“You must understand, lad, that Japan is a very subtle country.”
“To them, then, we must be rather gauche.”
“They do not have a high opinion of the rest of the world, save in terms of technology.”
“They want what we have, but not to be like we are.”
“Well put, Thomas.”
“Thank you. But you were around them for a time. I hardly know anything about them that you don’t tell me or that I can glean from Mr. Grant’s books.”
“How do we know anything without asking?”
“Seek, and ye shall find; knock and the door will be opened unto you.”
Barker smiled.
“Well, well,” he said. “So he can quote scripture.”
“As Shakespeare said, ‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.’”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London is full of grocers, public house owners, and restauranteurs quite willing, for a small remuneration, to deliver food to one’s door. In fact, one could say there is an entire reticulum expressly set up to deliver a product to the consumer. Messages and telegrams are dispatched; stores deliver goods to the homes of customers who are too important to be seen carrying parcels; and fresh, hot food is taken to hardworking clerks and members of Parliament in Whitehall. It is not necessary in this advanced year of 1891 to have to go on foot and fetch meals from a pub the way one did in 1501. But just try explaining that to Cyrus Barker, Esq., and see how far it will take you.
Perhaps he thinks he is doing a favor by keeping me active, or perhaps he prefers his pork pie to be as hot as possible. In either case, I was expelled the next day near lunchtime, to bring back sustenance. Not pâté de foie gras, mind you, but a humble pork pie, working man’s food. I ask you, is that any way for a wealthy man to eat?
There are dozens of public houses and restaurants within walking distance and I knew them all well. That was the problem, you see. One served the best fish, another the best chips, a third the best meat on a bun, and therefore I had to go far and wide if one of us had a craving, such as the Arms in Charing Cross, which served an incomparable pork pie. One might wonder why I waste time discussing what we had for lunch, rather than something pertinent to the case. Because in this instance, it was pertinent to the case.
I was coming back from the Arms, with a greasy paper sack containing three pies, including one for Jeremy Jenkins, and I was passing through Trafalgar Square. I didn’t bother to look up to where Lord Nelson was standing, one hundred and fifty feet above the pavement, because I was not a tourist and had seen Nelson’s Column practically every day since I arrived in London.
No, I was walking for a purpose, which was to get the pies back to Craig’s Court as quickly as possible while they were still hot. I had folded the paper over twice to retain the heat and was holding the sack close to my body the way a forward holds a rugby ball under his arm. Nothing was going to dissuade me from my mission. That is, practically nothing. Ahead of me, I saw a Japanese fellow standing among the pigeons, as unmoving as old Nelson himself. I was not so simpleminded as to think his presence was
merely a coincidence.
I hadn’t noticed this fellow at the embassy. He wore a bowler hat like the rest of them, along with a long, European-made coat though it was hot. As I approached, he reached into his coat and drew a sword.
I looked about. It was a little after noon and a samurai was standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square about to attack, yet nobody seemed to be paying any attention. The square was nearly empty at that time of day.
Fair enough, I thought; if he wants to fight me, I’m ready. I was no beginner any longer, and was the best pupil of Mr. Vigny, who sometimes taught at our Barjutsu studio in Soho. I’m not good with a pistol, but a piece of hickory, such as the fighting stick I held in my hand made for me especially, was my forte. Of course, it would be useless against a samurai sword. However, as I drew near, I saw that it was not a sword in his hand at all. It was a bokken, a wooden practice sword. It could cause a bruise or break a bone, but it could not kill me. The chances were good that we would be evenly matched.
I set down my parcel of pork pies and circled him, raising my stick in my right hand while my left came out wide, balancing my right. It was exactly how my ancestors fought with sword and buckler. My adversary glared at me and raised his blade so that the unsharpened side rested on his right shoulder, ready to strike. I am normally cautious on the street, but this somehow felt as if we were in our training school and I am aggressive there. I attacked.
I swiped the ball of my stick at his head, but he ducked just barely in time and deflected it with his curved stick. In turn, he tried to rake me across the ribs. He might have succeeded in breaking one had I not circled my stick around in time to block his attack. Thrust, parry, and riposte. Tit for tat, if you prefer.
He gave one of those bellows Japanese fighters give and struck down at me with an overhead attack. It set the pigeons about us flying up into the sky, so for a moment we were encircled with them. I raised my stick and caught the strike squarely. He brought it back and, as if as an afterthought, he flicked it out again. It smacked across the knuckles of my free left hand. Pain bloomed. Had he carried a real sword my fingers would be littering the pavement. I frowned and shook off the pain. A look of smug satisfaction crossed his features.