James Clavell - Gai-Jin

by Gai-Jin(Lit)

  "I'm tired of being stuck in a chair and sick of hearing people say we have to wait until Sir

  William orders the fleet and army to do its job. The next time there's a meeting with the

  Bakufu I want to be there--or better still you arrange a private one for me first."

  "But, Tai-pan..."

  "Do it Jamie. That's what I want. And do it quickly."

  "I don't know how that's possible."

  "Ask Phillip Tyrer's tame samurai,

  Nakama. Better still arrange a secret meeting then Phillip won't be compromised."

  McFay had given him the information that

  "Nakama" had provided. "That's a good idea," he said, meaning it, and, seeing the jutting jaw and the fire he was warmed. Perhaps at long last, he thought, here's someone who can make things happen. "I'll see Phillip after church."

  "When's the next ship scheduled for San

  Francisco?"

  "In a week, the Confederate merchantman,

  Savannah Lady." McFay dropped his voice cautiously, a group of other traders passing by. "Our Choshu order goes with her."

  "Who could we trust to go with her for a special mission?" Struan asked, putting his plan into operation.

  "Vargas."

  "Not him, he's needed here." Again Struan stopped, his legs aching, then hobbled to the side of the promenade where there was a low wall, mostly to rest but also to keep their conversation private. "Who else? Has to be good."

  "His nephew, Pedrito--he's a sharp lad, looks more Portugee than Vargas, hardly any Chinese in his face, speaks

  Portuguese, Spanish, English and

  Cantonese--good at figures. He'd be acceptable in either the North or the Confederacy.

  What had you in mind?"

  "Book passage for him on that ship. I want him to go with the order which we're going to quadruple, also to ord--"

  "Four thousand rifles?" McFay gaped at him.

  "Yes, also send a letter to the factory via tomorrow's mail ship telling them to expect him.

  She'll connect with the California steamer out of

  Hong Kong."

  McFay said uneasily, "But we only got a down payment of gold to cover two hundred-- we'll have to cover the whole order, that's factory policy. Don't you think we'd be overextending ourselves?"

  "Some people might think so. I don't."

  "Even with a shipment of two thousand--the

  Admiral's hysterical against importation of all arms and opium... I know he can't by law," McFay said hastily, "but if he wants he can still seize a cargo on the grounds of national emergency."

  "He won't find them or hear about them until it's too late--you'll be too clever.

  Meanwhile draft a letter to go with the order, and a copy by the mail ship--do it yourself Jamie, privately--asking the factory for special service on this consignment, but also to make us their exclusive agents for Asia."

  "That's a fine idea, Tai-pan, but I strongly advise against upping the order."

  "Make it five thousand rifles, and emphasize we'll negotiate a most attractive deal. I don't want Norbert to steal a march on us." Struan began walking again, the pain worse now. Without looking at

  McFay he knew what he was thinking and said, edged, "There's no need to check with Hong Kong first. Do it. I'll sign the order and the letter."

  After a pause McFay nodded. "Just as you say."

  "Good." He heard the reluctance in

  McFay's voice and decided that now was the time.

  "We're changing our policy in Japan. They like killing here, eh? According to this Nakama many of their kings are ready to revolt against the Bakufu who certainly aren't our friends. Good, we'll help them do what they want. We'll sell them what they want: armaments, some ships, even a gun factory or two, in ever-increasing amounts--for gold and silver."

  "And what if they turn these guns on us?"

  "Once will be enough to teach them a lesson, like everywhere else on earth. We'll sell them muskets, some breech-loaders, but no machine guns, no big cannon or modern fighting ships. We're going to give the customer what he wants to buy."

  Angelique knelt and settled herself in the tiny screened confessional, as best her voluminous skirts would allow, and began the ritual, the

  Latin words running together as was normal for those who did not read or write the language but had learned the obligatory prayers and responses from childhood by constant repetition. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."

  On the other side of the screen, Father

  Leo was more attentive than usual. Normally he listened with half an ear, sadly, sure that his penitents were lying, their sins unconfessed, their level of transgression great--but no greater than in other Settlements in Asia--and the penances he ordered were merely paid lip service, or totally disregarded.

  "So, my child, you have sinned," he said in his most pleasant voice, his French heavily accented.

  He was fifty-five, corpulent and bearded, a

  Portuguese Jesuit and Believer, ordained for twenty-seven of those years and largely content with the crumbs of life he judged God permitted him. "What sins have you committed this week?"

  "I forgot to ask the Madonna for forgiveness in my prayers one night," she said with perfect calm, continuing her pact, "and had many bad thoughts and dreams, and was afraid, and forgot I was in

  God's hands..."

  At Kanagawa, the day after that night-- once she had reasoned a way out of her catastrophe--she had knelt weeping before the small crucifix she always carried with her.

  "Mother of God, there's no need to explain what has happened and how I've been sinned against grievously," she had sobbed, praying with all the fervor she could gather, "or that I've no one to turn to, or that I need your help desperately, or that obviously I can't tell anyone, even at Confession, I daren't openly confess what has happened. I daren't, it would destroy the only chance...

  "So please, on my knees I beg you, may we have a pact: when I say at Confession:

  I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers, it really means that I'm confessing and telling everything that I've told you and you've seen happen to me, together with the added little white lies

  I may, I will have to tell to protect myself. I beg forgiveness for asking, and beg your help, there's no one else I can turn to. I know you'll forgive me and know you'll understand because you are the

  Mother of God and a woman--you will understand and know you will absolve me..."

  She could see Father Leo's profile behind the screen and smell the wine and garlic on his breath.

  She sighed, thanked the Madonna with all her heart for helping her. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned."

  "Those sins don't appear to be so bad, my child."

  "Thank you, Father." She stifled a yawn, preparing to accept her usual, modest penance, then to cross herself and be absolved and to thank him and to leave. Tiffin at the Club with Malcolm and

  Seratard, siesta in my beautiful suite next to Malcolm's, dinner at the Russian Leg--

  "What kind of bad thoughts did you have?"

  "Oh, just being impatient," she said without thinking, "and not content to rest in God's Hands."

  "Impatient about what?"

  "Oh, with, impatient with my maid," she said flustered, caught unawares, "and that, that my fianc`e is not as fit, is not as well as I'd like him to be."

  "Ah yes, the tai-pan, a fine young man but grandson of a great enemy of the True Church.

  Has he told you about him? His grandfather, Dirk

  Struan?"

  "Some stories, Father," she said, even more unsettled. "About my maid I was impat--"

  "Malcolm Struan's a fine young man, not like his grandfather. You have asked him to become

  Catholic?"

  The color went out of her face. "We have discussed it, yes. Such a, such a discussion is very delicate and, and of course may not be hurried."

  "Yes, yes indeed." Father Leo ha
d heard the intake of breath and sensed her anxiety. "And I agree it is terribly important, for him and for you." He frowned, his experience telling him the girl was hiding much from him--not that that would be unusual, he thought.

  He was going to leave the matter there, then suddenly realized here was a God-given opportunity both to save a soul and have a worthwhile enterprise--life in Yokohama, unlike in his beloved and happy Portugal, was drab with little to do except fish and drink and eat and pray. His church was small and dingy, his flock sparce and ungodly, the Settlement a veritable prison. "Such discussion may be delicate but it must be pressed forward. His immortal soul is in absolute jeopardy. I will pray for your success. Your children will be brought up in Mother Church

  --of course he has already agreed?"

  "Oh we have discussed it, too, Father," she said forcing lightness, "of course our children will be

  Catholic."

  "If they are not, you cast them into the

  Eternal Pit. Your immortal soul will be at risk as well." He was glad to notice her shudder. Good, he thought, one blow for the Lord against the

  Antichrist. "This must be formally agreed to before marriage."

  Her heart was racing now, her head aching with apprehension that she fought to keep out of her voice, believing absolutely in God and the Devil,

  Life Everlasting and Eternal Damnation.

  "Thank you for your advice, Father."

  "I will talk to Mr. Struan."

  "Oh no, Father, please no," she said in sudden panic, "that would be, I suggest that would be very unwise."

  "Unwise?" Again he pursed his lips, scratching absently at the lice that inhabited his beard and hair and ancient cassock, quickly concluding the possible coup of Struan's conversion was a prize worth waiting for and needed careful planning. "I will pray for God's guidance and that

  HE will guide you too. But don't forget you are a minor, as he is. I suppose, in the absence of your father, Monsieur Seratard would legally be considered your guardian. Before any marriage could be performed or consummated permission must be granted, and these and other matters settled for the protection of your soul." He beamed, more than a little satisfied. "Now, for penance, say ten

  Hail Marys and read the letters of Saint John twice by next Sunday--and continue to pray for

  God's guidance."

  "Thank you Father." Thankfully she crossed herself, her palms sweaty, and bowed her head for his benediction.

  "In nomine Patri et Spiritu sancti, absolvo tuum." He made the sign of the cross over her. "Pray for me, my child," he said with finality, ending the ritual, in his mind already beginning his dialogue with Malcolm

  Struan.

  At dusk Phillip Tyrer was sitting cross-legged opposite Hiraga in a tiny private room in the equally tiny restaurant that was half hidden beside the house of the shoya, the village elder. They were the only customers, and this was the first real Japanese meal with a

  Japanese host Tyrer had experienced. He was hungry and ready to taste everything. "Thank you invite me, Nakama-san."

  "It is my pleasure, Taira-san.

  May l say that your Japanese accent is improving. Please eat."

  On the low table between them the maid had set many small dishes with different foods, some hot some cold, on decorative lacquered trays.

  Shoji screens, tatami mats, small sliding windows open to the descending darkness, oil lamps giving a pleasing light, flower arrangement in the nook. Adjoining was another private room and, outside these, the rest of the restaurant, not much more than a corridor with stools that opened to an alley that led to the street--charcoal cooking brazier, sak`e and beer barrels, a cook and three maids.

  Hiraga and Tyrer wore loose-belted sleeping-lounging kimonos--Tyrer enjoying its unaccustomed comfort and Hiraga relieved to get out of the European clothes that he had worn all day.

  Both had been bathed and massaged in the nearby bathhouse. "Please eat."

  Awkwardly Tyrer used chopsticks. In

  Peking, the Embassy had advised against eating any Chinese foods: "... not unless you want to get poisoned, old boy. These buggers really eat dog, drink snake's bile, spoon up insects, anything, and have an astounding but universal belief, If its back faces heaven you can eat it! Ugh!"

  Hiraga corrected the way to hold the sticks. "There."

  "Thank you, Nakama-san, very difficult." Tyrer laughed. "Will fat not get eating theses."

  ""I will not get fat eating with these,""

  Hiraga said, not yet weary of correcting

  Tyrer's Japanese for he had found he enjoyed teaching him. Tyrer was an apt pupil with a remarkable memory and happy disposition--and very important for himself, a continual fountain of information.

  "Ah, sorry, I won't get fat eating with these. What is, sorry, what are these foods?"

  "This is what we call tempura, fish fried in batter."

  "So sorry, what is "batter"?"

  Tyrer listened attentively, missing many of the words but understanding the gist, just as he knew the other man would miss English words. We speak more English than Japanese, he thought wryly, but never mind. Nakama's a great teacher and we seem to have made an accommodation which is fine--without him I wouldn't be here, probably not alive, either, and would certainly never have all the face I gained with Marlowe, Pallidar and Wee

  Willie Winkie, let alone the invaluable intelligence he is supplying. Tyrer smiled.

  It pleased him to be able to think of Sir

  William now by his nickname when only a few days ago he had been petrified of him.

  "Oh, now I understand. Batter! We also use batter."

  "This food to your liking, Taira-san?"

  Hiraga asked, switching to English.

  "Yes, thank you." Whenever he could Tyrer would answer in Japanese. "Thank for everything, massage, bath, now caml, sorry, now calm and happy."

  Some of the food he found exciting, tempura and yakitori, bite-sized pieces of chicken that were grilled with a sweet and salty sauce. Anago turned out to be grilled eel with a warm sweet-sour sauce he particularly liked.

  Sushi, slivers of various raw fish of different colors and textures on a ball of rice he found difficult to swallow at first, but when dipped in a mysterious salty sauce called soy or soya they became palatable. After all, he thought, Father did advise me to try everything: "My son, since you insist on this dramatic idea of becoming a Japanese interpreter, then I advise you to hurl yourself into their way of life and foods and so on--without forgetting you're an English gentleman with obligations, a duty to the Crown, the Empire and to God..."

  Wonder what the Old Man would say about

  Fujiko. She's certainly part of their way of life. Tyrer beamed suddenly and pointed with a chopstick, "What's this?"

  "Oh sorry, Taira-san it's bad manners point with the thin end of a chopstick.

  Please use the other end. This is wasabeh."

  Before Hiraga could stop him, Tyrer had picked up the nodule of green paste and eaten it. At once his sinuses caught fire and he gasped, eyes watering, almost blinded. In time the conflagration passed, leaving him panting. "My

  Go'd," Hiraga said, copying Tyrer and trying not to laugh, "Wasabeh do not eat, just put 'ritt'er--sorry, word very hard for me--just put some in the soy to make spicy."

  "My mistake." Tyrer gasped, momentarily strangled. "My God, that's lethal, worse than chilli! Next time I careful."

  "You very good for man who begin, Taira-san.

  And you 'rearn Japanese o'rr so quick, very good."

  "Domo, Nakama-san, domo." Same with you in English. Pleased to be complimented,

  Tyrer concentrated on being more deft. The next morsel he tried was tako, sliced octopus tentacle. It tasted like slimy rubber even with a touch of soy and wasabeh. "This is very tasty,

  I like this very much."

  I'm starving, he was thinking. I'd like triples of the chicken, another bowl of rice, twenty more of the tempura prawns, and Hiraga eats like
a baby. Never mind, I'm being entertained by a samurai, it's not a week since he helped get us out of the Yedo Legation without an international incident, not six weeks since I first met

  Andr`e, yet I can already talk a little

  Japanese, already know more about their customs than most traders who have been here since the beginning.