The Way of the Traitor

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Sudden doubt arose in Sano. Maybe Ohira wasn’t part of the smuggling ring and had nothing to do with Spaen’s murder, or Peony’s. Maybe, truly believing that Sano was a villain who had destroyed Kiyoshi, he wanted revenge. Maybe Governor Nagai had simply exploited this desire in order to create more evidence against Sano. Now Sano changed tactics.

  “I don’t think Kiyoshi is guilty,” he said. “By telling the truth, you may be able to save him.”

  Ohira rose and stepped off the dais. As he walked to the window, his wasted muscles quaked with the effort. “Of course Kiyoshi is guilty,” Ohira said, turning his back on Sano to look outside.

  In the rainy street, the servant stood chained to the gate, his head ducked in shame while a crowd jeered and threw horse dung at him. “Kiyoshi was caught in the act; he confessed,” Ohira said. “He must endure his punishment: It’s the law. No one can save him now.”

  Yet Sano detected a fissure of hope in his stony voice. “Are Governor Nagai and Interpreter Iishino involved in smuggling? Or are you and they following Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders to ruin me?”

  “Your accusations against Governor Nagai and Interpreter Iishino are slanderous.” Ohira gazed steadily out the window. “And I’m not privy to the chamberlain’s orders.”

  Outside, a band of ruffians set a dog upon the chained captive, whose pleas for mercy chimed plaintively between the animal’s barks. Ohira silently watched the consequences of his actions.

  “Which barbarian helped Spaen import goods illegally?” Sano asked. “DeGraeff?” Or Dr. Huygens, whispered his inner voice, which he ignored. “Who on your staff helped moved the goods off the island? Who piloted the lantern boat? Who killed Jan Spaen?”

  Slowly Ohira turned. The opposing forces of honesty and fear warred on his face. Sano spoke quietly, nudging the balance to his own advantage. “Only the truth can salvage Kiyoshi’s honor.”

  At the sound of his son’s name, the indecision in Ohira’s eyes froze to solid, impenetrable resolve. “You lost your authority in Nagasaki when you broke the law,” he said coldly, “and I am under no obligation to answer to you.” His mental armor shimmered almost visibly.

  Sano’s doubts about Ohira’s guilt wavered. “You relaxed security on Deshima,” he accused. “You ordered the guards to remove goods from the warehouse, open the water gates, and let the lantern boat approach. The police and harbor patrol are your accomplices. The townspeople didn’t interfere; they’re afraid of the mysterious lights because of the ghost stories you spread. You let barbarians leave Deshima because they insisted on accompanying the goods and collecting payment from the customers.”

  The audacity of the scheme awoke fresh outrage in Sano. He suddenly remembered the overheard conversation between Governor Nagai and Ohira on his first day in Nagasaki, and the chief saying, “This never would have happened if …” Meaning “Spaen wouldn’t have disappeared if you hadn’t ordered the smuggling”? Was crime the basis for the alliance Sano had sensed within Nagasaki’s administration?

  “And then you incriminated me to save your own corrupt skins,” he finished bitterly.

  “You destroy my son, and now you dare insult my honor?” Ohira’s eyes burned in their reddened sockets as he choked out the words. “I’ve devoted my life to upholding the law. I would never break it, and I’ll tell you why.

  “The summer I was ten, I had three best comrades. One day we formed a scheme to dive for pearls, then trade them to the Chinese merchants for fireworks. Even though this is illegal, there was little risk involved. Security is weak around the Chinese settlement, and deals are often made over the walls.

  “As it happened, my grandmother died and I couldn’t leave home, so my friends went without me.” Memory darkened Ohira’s face. “One drowned while diving for the pearls. The other two, who were brothers, sold the pearls to the Chinese. The next night they burned to death when their house caught fire. Only I, who had no part in the scheme, was spared. I took this as a sign from the gods that it should thereafter be my vocation to obey the law and deter others from doing wrong. And I can assure you that I’ve fulfilled my vocation. Anyone who says otherwise will pay in blood!”

  He reached for his sword. Sano grabbed Ohira’s hand before the chief could unsheathe the blade. The conviction in Ohira’s voice made him wonder again whether Ohira might be innocent. The chief was strict with his staff, his civilian subjects, and the Dutch. Sano knew that clever subordinates often worked illicit schemes right before an unsuspecting superior’s eyes. Still, he didn’t believe that Ohira, who seemed able and intelligent, could have been totally unaware of what was happening on Deshima.

  Sano tightened his grip on Ohira. The chief’s bony, feverish fingers possessed a determination that compensated for physical weakness. Locked together, their hands shuddered on the hilt of the sword.

  “Where were you when Jan Spaen disappeared?” Sano demanded.

  Ohira strained to pull the sword free. “Let go, and fight like a samurai!”

  Sano grabbed Ohira’s other hand before it could reach his short sword. “Did Peony see something that made her dangerous to you?” He shoved the chief against the wall, savoring the release of anger. He was sick of his countrymen’s treachery, which made them no better than the barbarians they despised and with whom they had conspired. “Did you kill her?”

  “Peony committed suicide.” As Ohira struggled, his breath exuded the sour reek of illness. “And I never go near that disgusting pleasure quarter.”

  “Did you order the Deshima guards to shoot me? Where were you last night?”

  “Traitor! Coward! Are you afraid to fight without your foreign allies to help you?”

  Goaded by the worst insults anyone could inflict upon a samurai, Sano felt combat lust assail him like a typhoon. He wanted to draw his sword and do battle. Then he saw the sick, gloating triumph in Ohira’s eyes: The chief wouldn’t mind dying in a duel, ending his misery. However, killing one of his accusers would land Sano in jail for murder, depriving him of the chance to exonerate himself and Hirata, to serve truth and justice.

  Sano tore the swords from Ohira’s waist. He threw them across the room, and the chief to the floor. “Answer me!” he shouted while he fought his anger. One more day until the Dutch captain’s deadline; two more days of freedom. Could he keep temper from overcoming wisdom for that long?

  Ohira fell with a crash that must have hurt, but when he rose, his icy dignity betrayed no pain and acknowledged no defeat. “I was in my office on Deshima on the occasions you mention, surrounded by my staff. And I can assure you I gave no orders to shoot you.”

  Just then the curtains parted. In walked the Deshima second watch commander. “Honorable Chief,” Nirin said, “we must talk.” He did not appear to notice that his superior wasn’t alone; the room was dim, and Ohira stood between Sano and the door. “What happened last night changes everything, and I need new orders about—”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Ohira snapped. “Get out!”

  Nirin glanced at Sano and frowned, then said, “Sorry to interrupt, but this can’t wait. We have to tighten Deshima security at night to prevent future thefts. I need your permission to assign more troops to the warehouses.” He touched his sword. “Is the sōsakan-sama giving you trouble?”

  “I was just leaving,” Sano told them.

  As he walked out the door, a sense of vindication energized him. The second watch commander had dissembled quickly, but Sano guessed that what he’d really meant to ask Chief Ohira was how they would continue smuggling now that their operation had been exposed.

  Then despair eclipsed Sano’s elation. He mounted his horse and stared at the rain.

  Even if Ohira was guilty of treason as Sano now believed—and possibly of murder, too—he would never confess, because it wouldn’t save Kiyoshi. The law demanded that a criminal’s entire family share his punishment for these serious offenses. Should Ohira admit his crimes, he would condemn himself, Kiyoshi, his wife
, and five other children to death. Without hard evidence, Sano would never break Chief Ohira.

  Therefore, he must try to break the other Japanese suspects—or the Dutchmen.

  From the house on Deshima where Jan Spaen’s body had lain since its recovery from the sea, guards brought out the plain wooden coffin draped with black cloth and set it in the street. Across the bridge milled gawkers waiting to see the barbarians’ funeral procession, and the officials who attended all diplomatic functions. The rain had diminished to a drizzle. A holiday atmosphere belied the solemnity of the occasion.

  Dutch East India Company Assistant Director Maarten deGraeff watched the scene from the roof of his residence, where he went whenever he couldn’t bear the prison of his rooms. For years he’d longed for Jan Spaen’s death, yet the murder of his partner had not freed him as he’d hoped, but only multiplied his troubles. He should have known he could never escape the evil inside his soul, though he’d tried since his nineteenth year, when he’d joined the company.

  He’d left the Netherlands, abandoning his parents, university studies, and a future career in the church not for money or adventure, but because of his crimes: the profane desire that prayer could not banish; sordid encounters with sailors in Amsterdam’s alleys; and an affair with a fellow student that had ended when the other youth, torn by guilt, hanged himself in their dormitory. If his true nature was ever exposed, deGraeff wanted to be far away, so his family needn’t witness the disgrace of a son executed for the sin of forbidden love.

  Now a bitter laugh caught in deGraeff’s throat. What had he achieved by his self-imposed exile? Here he was, half a world away, still a sinner, and a murder suspect besides.

  A noise from below interrupted his glum reverie. Someone was ascending the ladder from the balcony to the roof. Then Dr. Nicolaes Huygens’s worried face appeared over the eaves. “May I join you?” he said.

  DeGraeff groaned inwardly as the stout doctor sat beside him. Since Spaen’s death, he’d avoided Huygens. But they needed to talk.

  Panting, Dr. Huygens took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his sweaty brow, then folded the cloth with meticulous care before putting it away. He clasped and unclasped his plump hands. “It’s almost time for the funeral,” he said at last. “Aren’t you coming?”

  His hesitancy indicated that this wasn’t what he’d come to say, but deGraeff, preoccupied with his own concerns, didn’t care. “Nicolaes,” he said, “please, I beg you not to tell anyone what I’ve done.”

  He should have realized that he couldn’t keep a secret on this tiny island. At first he’d used male whores dressed as women to hide their true gender from his comrades. Then he’d begun a foolish liaison with a junior interpreter. Huygens had accidentally walked in on them. Jan Spaen, who had learned of his sins years ago, was gone. Now deGraeff’s fate lay in the hands of Dr. Huygens. He waited in cold terror as the doctor turned to him.

  “You and Spaen were partners for a long time,” Huygens said, as if he hadn’t heard deGraeff’s plea. “He probably confided in you.”

  “What?” deGraeff said in confusion. “Nicolaes—”

  Blushing a deeper red, Dr. Huygens spoke urgently, eyes searching deGraeff’s face. “Did he tell you things about—about the rest of us?”

  Comprehension elated deGraeff. Spaen must have possessed compromising information about Dr. Huygens, too. DeGraeff had no idea what this could be; Spaen had hoarded knowledge and the power it conferred. Yet deGraeff saw that his salvation depended on hiding his ignorance from Huygens.

  “Yes, Jan did talk,” deGraeff said, striving for nonchalance, stalling for time.

  Huygens’s body seemed to shrink with defeat. In a strained voice he said, “So you know about me.”

  DeGraeff merely raised an eyebrow. He had an advantage now, and he intended to use it.

  “If you turn me in to Investigator Sano or the Dutch authorities, I’ll tell them what I know about you,” blurted Huygens, desperation evident in his feverish eyes, the reek of his sweat. “And I’ll tell them I heard you and Spaen arguing before he died, too. You wanted to leave the company, go home, and enter a monastery. But Spaen couldn’t manage without you. So he threatened to report your sin if you quit. You would be tied up and thrown in the sea to drown. That’s why you wanted Spaen dead—not for his share of the money you made together, but because he could destroy you. You hated Spaen and wanted to be rid of him.”

  Oh, how deGraeff had! Because Jan Spaen had not only held him captive through blackmail, but also destroyed his hope of redemption.

  Upon joining the East India Company, deGraeff had planned to forsake his sordid life and purify himself through work, hardship, and prayer. At first it seemed he would succeed, though his job presented myriad dangers: long ocean journeys that provoked forbidden intimacies among the all-male ship crews; foreign ports where heathens pandered to every sexual perversion. By avoiding contact with other men, deGraeff had resisted temptation. Scurvy, tropical fevers, and other illnesses suffered by overseas travelers reduced his desire. For fifteen years he remained celibate, while discovering in himself a talent for trade. He rose from clerk to secretary, and finally attained a position as functionary in Batavia, the Dutch stronghold on the Java coast. He decided to work a few more years, save some money, and return home to his religious studies.

  His dreams had died the night he delivered his life into Jan Spaen’s hands.

  Now memory transported deGraeff back to that time, four years after he’d arrived in Batavia. He could see his small, sparsely furnished room, and feel the terrible moist heat that weakened the body and mind. Sleepless and lonely, he’d left the trade compound to walk the streets of town.

  Batavia’s exotic glamor enchanted deGraeff. Along the canals, parties enlivened the balconies of the houses and lanterns shimmered upon the water. Dutch men and women strolled the lanes and bridges; Asian merchants, sailors, and laborers jammed the drinking houses and gambling dens. A blend of languages rose above music from Dutch mandolins, Chinese flutes, Indonesian drums and cymbals.

  “Sir! You seek pleasure? Come in, come in!” Outside a row of tumbledown buildings in the native sector stood a smiling young Javanese man who beckoned deGraeff into a room where naked native girls paraded before a crowd of men. “I sell you beautiful woman, good price.”

  “No, thank you.” DeGraeff walked away, but the procurer followed.

  “You no like woman, sir? Then come with me—I give you what you want.”

  Every sane, pure instinct demanded deGraeff’s refusal. His soul was at stake. The threat of exposure loomed large in this small colony where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Yet deGraeff’s need for physical release and human companionship outweighed his yearning for salvation. The roar of his own blood drowned out the voice of caution. He followed the procurer through dark, fetid alleys, over rank canals, to the river. The tropical night pulsed with insect songs and smelled of jungle flowers. A moon like a huge gold florin lit the footpath down which the procurer led deGraeff, past moored boats with bamboo roofs and ragged curtains sheltering the long hulls. Aboard a few, lamps flickered. The procurer stopped beside one of these.

  “Here, sir,” he said, parting the curtains.

  Upon heaped cushions inside sat a beautiful native youth with sleek, dark skin, sculpted muscles, and lustrous eyes. A loincloth covered his sex.

  DeGraeff’s breath caught. May the Lord have mercy on my soul … “How much?” he asked hoarsely.

  A short while later, deGraeff emerged from the boat, more shamed than satisfied. There was no hope for his soul; he was damned. Then he saw, standing on the footpath nearby, the figure of a Dutchman, his broad-brimmed hat clearly outlined by the moonlight. The glow from his tobacco pipe illuminated the handsome features and golden hair of Jan Spaen. He must have been at the brothel, heard the procurer proposition deGraeff, and followed them here. Horror paralyzed deGraeff. He imagined strong hands forcing him into a hemp sack; heard his own s
creams as the sea enveloped him. Then Spaen nodded and sauntered away.

  DeGraeff spent the next days waiting in terror for the police to arrest him. Then Spaen came. “I hear you’re one of the best men in the business,” he said. “I need a partner. I’ve already spoken to your superiors, and they’ve agreed to assign you to me. You’ll get the same salary for your regular duties—and a percentage of whatever we make on the side. I guarantee you’ll find it worth your while.”

  He never mentioned what he’d seen, but his knowing smile brooked no refusal. Thus deGraeff had accompanied Spaen through the jungles in search of new spice supplies, to India and China to purchase silks for the European trade. While Spaen’s daring and charm had opened new markets and secured lucrative deals, deGraeff’s financial acumen had built their profits into a fortune. Yet deGraeff found the partnership unbearable. He abhorred Spaen’s drinking, gambling, sexual excesses, and combative nature; he was nearly killed during Spaen’s raid on Taiwan. And Spaen encouraged his vices, procuring men for him wherever they went. “I always reward good performance,” he would declare.

  DeGraeff, having once yielded to sexual hunger, couldn’t withstand the constant temptation. Thus Spaen bound him tighter even as his desire for freedom increased. In Japan, deGraeff had told Spaen they were through. They’d had the argument Dr. Huygens had overheard. Now, though the extent of Huygens’s knowledge unsettled deGraeff, the doctor was a much weaker adversary than Spaen.

  “You hated and feared Spaen, too,” deGraeff replied to Huygens’s clumsy attempt at blackmail. “If I had a motive for murder, then so did you. You hold a threat over my head, but it’s no worse than the one I hold over yours.”