The timepiece read 10:20. It was inset with lapis lazuli and had been her father’s gift on her eighteenth birthday, July 8th, a little over two months ago in Hong Kong. So much has happened since then, she thought. I’ll be so happy to be back in Paris, in civilization, never to return, never never nev—
Abruptly she realized that she was almost naked under the sheet. To her astonishment she found that her nightdress only clung to her arms and shoulders and was totally split down the front and scrambled up behind her. She lifted the two sides in disbelief. Wanting to see better, she slid out of bed to go to the window but again felt the slight soreness. Now in the day’s light she noticed the telltale smear of blood on the sheet and found a trace between her legs.
“How can my period …”
She began counting days and recounting them but the addition made no sense. Her last period had stopped two weeks ago. Then she noticed that she was slightly moist and could not understand why—then her heart twisted and she almost fainted as her brain shouted that the dreams had not been dreams but real and that she had been violated while asleep.
“That’s not possible! You must be mad—that’s not possible,” she had gasped, fighting for air, fighting for space. “Oh, God, let this be a dream, part of those dreams.” She groped for the bed, heart pounding. “You’re awake, this isn’t a dream, you’re awake!”
She examined herself again, frantically, and then again but this time with more care. She had enough knowledge to know that there was no mistake about the moisture, or that her hymen was split. It was true. She had been raped.
The room began to spin. Oh, God, I’m ruined, life ruined, future ruined for no decent man, eligible man will marry me now that I’m soiled, marriage a girl’s only way to better herself, have a happy future, any future, no other way …
When her senses settled and she could see and think, she found herself lying across the bed. Shakily she tried to reconstruct the night. I remember bolting the door.
She peered at it. The bar was still in place.
I remember Malcolm and the foulness of his room and running away from him, Phillip Tyrer sleeping peacefully, Dr. Babcott giving me the drink and going upstair—
The drink! Oh, God, I was drugged! If Babcott can operate with these drugs, of course it could happen, of course I would be helpless but that doesn’t help me now! It happened! Say I get a child!
Again panic overwhelmed her. Tears gushed down her cheeks and she almost cried out. “Stop it!” she muttered, making a supreme effort for control. “Stop it! Don’t make a sound, don’t! You’re alone, no one else can help, just you, you’ve got to think. What are you going to do? Think!” She took deep breaths, her heart hurting, and tried to slam her jumbled mind into order. Who was the man?
The bar’s still in place so no one could have come through the door. Wait a minute, I remember vaguely … or was it part of the dream before the … I seem to remember opening the door to—to Babcott and, and the naval officer Marlowe … then barring it again. Yes, that’s right! At least, I think that’s right. Didn’t he speak French … yes, he did, but badly, then they went away and I barred the door, I’m sure I did. But why did they knock on the door in the night?
She searched and re-searched her mind but could not find an answer, not truly sure this had happened, the night pictures slipping away. Some of them.
Concentrate!
If not through the door he came through the window. She squirmed around and saw that the shutter bar was on the floor, below the window, not in its slots.
So whoever it was got in through the window! Who? Marlowe, that Pallidar or even the good Doctor, I know they all want me. Who knew I was drugged? Babcott. He could have told the others but surely none of them would dare to be so evil, would dare risk the consequences of climbing up from the garden for of course I would shout from the rooftops …
Her whole being screamed a warning: Be careful. Your future depends on being careful and wise. Be careful.
Are you sure that this really happened in the night? What about the dreams? Perhaps … I won’t think about them now but only a doctor would know for certain and that would have to be Babcott. Wait, you could, you could have ruptured that tiny piece of skin in your sleep, twisting in the nightmare—it was a nightmare, wasn’t it? That has happened to some girls. Yes, but they’d still be virgin and that doesn’t explain the moisture.
Remember Jeanette in the convent, poor silly Jeanette who fell in love with one of the tradesmen, and allowed him, and excitedly told us all about it later, all the details. She didn’t become pregnant but she was found out and the next day she was gone forever, and later we learned she’d been married off to a village butcher, the only man who would take her.
I didn’t allow anything but that won’t help me, a doctor would know for certain but that won’t help me, and the idea of Babcott or any doctor being so intimate fills me with horror and then Babcott would share the secret. How could I trust him with such a secret? If it became known … I have to keep it secret! But how, how can you, and what then?
I’ll answer that later. First, decide who the devil was. No, first clean yourself of this evil and then you will think better. You’ve got to think clearly.
With distaste she shook off the nightdress and threw it aside, then washed carefully and deeply, trying to remember all the contraceptive knowledge she possessed, what Jeanette had done successfully. Then she put on her robe and combed her hair. Using tooth powder, she cleaned her teeth. Only then did she look in her mirror. Very carefully she examined her face. It was without blemish. She loosened her robe. So were her limbs and breasts—nipples a little red. Again she looked deep into her mirror.
“No change, nothing. And everything.”
Then she noticed that the little gold cross she had worn forever, sleeping and waking, was gone. She searched the bed carefully, then underneath and all around. It was not buried in the bedclothes or under the pillows or caught in the curtains. Last chance—hiding in the lace of the coverlet. She picked it off the floor and went through it. Nothing.
Then she saw the three Japanese characters, crudely drawn on its whiteness, in blood.
Sunlight sparked off the gold cross. Ori was holding it in his fist by the thin chain, mesmerized.
“Why did you take it?” Hiraga asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Not killing the woman was a mistake. Shorin was right. It was a mistake.”
“Karma.”
They were safe in the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms and Ori had bathed and shaved and he looked back at Hiraga with level eyes and thought, You’re not my master—I will tell you only what pleases me, nothing more.
He had told him about Shorin’s death and climbing into the room, that she had slept soundly and had not awakened—but no more, only that he had hidden there safely, then had taken off his ninja clothes knowing he would be intercepted and had camouflaged his swords with them, shinned down into the garden with just enough time to gather some fallen branches, to pretend to be a gardener before he was spotted and, even after recognizing the man from the road, had managed to escape. But nothing more about her.
How can I express in mortal words and tell anyone that because of her I became one with the gods, that when I had spread her wide and saw her I was drunk with craving, that when I entered her, I entered her as a lover and not a rapist—I don’t know why but I did, slowly, carefully, and her arms went around me and she shuddered and held on though she never truly awoke and she was so tight and I held back and back and then poured forth in a way inconceivable.
I never believed it could be so marvelous, so sensual, so satisfying, so final. The others were nothing compared to her. She made me reach the stars, but that is not why I left her alive. I thought about killing her very much. Then myself, there in the room. But that would have been only selfish, to die at the crest of happiness, so content.
Oh, how I wished to die. But my death belongs to sonno-joi. Only
that. Not to me.
“Not killing her was a mistake,” Hiraga said again, interrupting Ori’s thought pattern. “Shorin was right, killing her would have achieved our plan, better than anything.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
I left her alive for the gods, if there are gods, he could have said but did not. They possessed me and made me do what I did and I thank them. Now I am complete. I know life, all that remains to know is death. I was her first and she will remember me forever even though she slept. When she wakes and sees my writing in my own blood, not hers, she will know. I want her to live forever. I will die soon. Karma.
Ori put the cross into a secret sleeve pocket of his kimono and drank more of the refreshing green tea, feeling utterly fulfilled and so alive. “You said you had a raid?”
“Yes. We are going to burn the British Legation in Yedo.”
“Good. Let it be soon.”
“It is. Sonno-joi!”
At Yokohama, Sir William said angrily, “Tell them again, for the last time, by God, Her Majesty’s Government demands immediate reparations of one hundred thousand pounds sterling in gold for allowing this unprovoked attack and murder of an Englishman—killing Englishmen is kinjiru, by God! And also we demand possession of the Satsuma murderers within three days or we-will-take-definitive-action!”
He was across the bay in the small, stuffy audience room of the British Legation in Yokohama, flanked by the Prussian, French and Russian Ministers, both Admirals, British and French, the General, all of them equally exasperated.
In line opposite, seated ceremoniously on chairs, were two local representatives of the Bakufu, the chief samurai of the Settlement Guard, and the Governor of Kanagawa in whose jurisdiction Yokohama lay. They wore wide pantaloons and kimonos, and over them the broad-shouldered, winglike mantle that was belted, and two swords. Clearly all were uncomfortable and inwardly furious. At dawn, armed soldiers had hammered on the door of the Customs Houses, in both Yokohama and Kanagawa, with rifle butts and unprecedented anger, summoning the highest officials and Governor to an immediate conference at noon, the haste also unprecedented.
Between the two sides the interpreters sat on cushions. The Japanese knelt, and the other, a Swiss, Johann Favrod, sat cross-legged, their common language Dutch.
The meeting had already been in progress for two hours—English translated into Dutch into Japanese, into Dutch into English and back again. All Sir William’s questions were misunderstood, or parried or needed repeating several times, delays were “requested” in a dozen different ways to “consult higher authorities to institute examinations and investigations” and “Oh, yes, in Japan examinations are quite different from investigations. His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, explains in detail that …” and “Oh, His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, wishes to explain in detail that he has no jurisdiction over Satsuma which is a separate kingdom …” and “Oh, but His Excellency, the Governor of Kanagawa, understands the accused drew pistols threateningly and are accused and guilty of not obeying Japanese ancient customs …” and “How many foreigners did you say were in the foreign party who should have knelt …” and “But our customs …”
Tedious, time-consuming, and complex lectures in Japanese by the Governor, put laboriously into far from fluent Dutch and retranslated into English.
“Make it blunt, Johann, exactly as I said it.”
“I have, every time, Sir William, but I’m sure this cretin isn’t interpreting accurately, either what you say or what the Jappers say.”
“We know that, for Christ’s sake, has it ever been different? Please get on with it.”
Johann put the words into an exact translation. The Japanese interpreter flushed, asked for an explanation of the word “immediate,” then carefully delivered a polite, appropriate, approximate translation he considered would be acceptable. Even then the Governor sucked in his breath at the rudeness. The silence increased. His fingers tapped a constant, irritated tattoo on his sword hilt, then he spoke shortly, three or four words. The translation was long.
Johann said cheerfully, “Without all the merde, the Gov says he’ll pass on your ‘request’ at the appropriate time to the appropriate authorities.”
Sir William reddened perceptibly, the Admirals and General more so. “‘Request,’ eh? Tell the bugger exactly: It’s not a request, it’s a demand! And tell him further: We demand an immediate audience with the Shōgun in Yedo in three days! Three days, by God! And I’m bloody arriving by battleship!”
“Bravo,” Count Zergeyev muttered.
Johann was also weary of the game and gave the words a fine-tuned bluntness. The Japanese interpreter gasped and without waiting began a flood of acrimonious Dutch that Johann answered sweetly with two words that precipitated an aghast, sudden silence.
“Nan ja?” What is it, what’s been said, the Governor asked angrily, not mistaking the hostility or hiding his own.
At once, apologetically, the flustered interpreter gave him a toned-down version, but even so the Governor exploded into a paroxysm of threats and pleading and refusal and more threats that the interpreter translated into words he considered the foreigners wanted to hear, then, still rattled, listened again and translated again.
“What’s he saying, Johann?” Sir William had to raise his voice above the noise, the interpreter was answering the Governor and Bakufu officials, who were chattering amongst themselves and to him. “What the devil are they saying?”
Johann was happy now—he knew the meeting would terminate in a few moments and he could return to the Long Bar for his lunch and schnapps. “I don’t know, except the Gov repeats the best he can do is to pass on your request etc. at the appropriate etc. but there’s no way the Shōgun will grant you the honor etc. because it’s against their customs etc…. ”
Sir William slammed the flat of his hand onto the table. In the shocked silence, he pointed at the Governor then at himself. “Watashi … me …” Then he pointed out of the window towards Yedo. “Watashi go Yedo!” Then he raised three fingers. “three days, in a bloody battleship!” He got up and stormed out of the room. The others followed.
He went across the hall to his study, to the bank of cut-glass de canters and poured some whisky. “Anyone care to join me?” he said breezily as the others surrounded him. Automatically he poured Scotch for the Admirals, General and Prussian, claret for Seratard, and a significant vodka for Count Zergeyev. “I thought that went according to plan. Sorry it was drawn out.”
“I thought you were going to burst a blood vessel,” Zergeyev said, draining his glass and pouring another.
“Not on your nelly. Had to close the meeting with a certain amount of drama.”
“So it’s Yedo in three days?”
“Yes, my dear Count. Admiral, have the flagship ready for a dawn departure, spend the next few days getting everything shipshape, ostentatiously clear the decks for action, all cannon primed, drills for the whole fleet, and order them to be ready to join us in battle order if need be. General, five hundred Redcoats should be enough for an honor guard. Monsieur, would the French flagship care to join us?”
Seratard said, “Of course. I will accompany you, of course, but suggest the French Legation as Headquarters, and full dress uniform.”
“No to the uniforms, this is a punitive mission, not to present credentials—that comes later. And no to the meeting place. It was our national who was murdered and, how shall I put it? Our fleet is the deciding factor.”
Von Heimrich chuckled. “It certainly is decisive in these waters, at the present time.” He glanced at Seratard. “A pity I don’t have a dozen regiments of Prussian cavalry, then we could partition the Japans without a hiccup and have done with all their devious stupidity and time-wasting bad manners.”
“Only a dozen?” Seratard asked witheringly.
“That would be sufficient, Herr Seratard, for all Japan. Our troops are the best in the world—of course after Her Britanni
c Majesty’s,” he added smoothly. “Fortunately Prussia could spare twenty, even thirty regiments for just this small sector and still have more than enough to deal with any problem we might encounter anywhere, particularly in Europe.”
“Yes, well …” Sir William broke in as Seratard reddened. He finished his drink. “I’m off to Kanagawa to make some arrangements. Admiral, General, perhaps a short conference when I return—I’ll come aboard the flagship. Oh, Monsieur Seratard, what about Mademoiselle Angelique? Would you like me to escort her back?”
She came out of her room in the late afternoon sunlight and walked along the corridor and down the main staircase towards the entrance hallway. Now she wore the long, bustled dress of yesterday, elegant again, more ethereal than ever—hair groomed and swept up, eyes enhanced. Perfume and the swish of petticoats.
Sentries at the main door saluted her and mumbled an embarrassed greeting, awed by her beauty. She acknowledged them with a distant smile and went towards the surgery. A Chinese houseboy gaped at her and scuttled past.
Just before she reached the door, it opened. Babcott came out and stopped. “Oh, hello, Miss Angelique. My word, but you look beautiful,” he said, almost stuttering.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Her smile was kind, voice gentle. “I wanted to ask … can we talk a moment?”
“Of course, come in. Make yourself at home.” Babcott shut the surgery door, settled her in the best chair and sat behind his desk, swept up by her radiance and the way her coiffure showed off her long neck to perfection. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was very tired. But then that’s a way of life, he thought, glorying in the sight of her.
“That drink you gave me, last night, it was a drug of some kind?”
“Yes, yes, it was. I made it fairly strong as you were—you were rather upset.”
“It’s all so vague and mixed up: the Tokaidō, then coming here and, and seeing Malcolm. The sleeping drink was very strong?”
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