“Sometimes. They’re certainly warlike, always battling someone. They’ve just got a new King and his chief supporter is a big tough prince called Bismarck who’s trying to collect all German speakers into one great nation and—”
“P’rease, so sorry, Taira-san, not so fast, yes?”
“Ah gomen nasai.” Tyrer repeated what he had said but more slowly, answering more questions, never failing to be astounded at their number and extent and range of his protégé’s enquiring mind. He laughed again. “We must have an agreement, one hour about my world in English, one hour about yours in English, and then a one-hour conversation in Japanese. Hai?”
“Hai. Domo.”
Four horsemen going out to the racetrack overtook them, greeted Tyrer and looked Hiraga over curiously. Tyrer greeted them back. At the far end of High Street by the barrier, lines of coolies with the afternoon’s shipment of goods and foods began to clear through the Custom House under the watchful eye of the samurai guards. “We’d best hurry, don’t want to get mixed up with that lot,” he said, and crossed the road, picking his way through the horse manure, then stopped abruptly and waved. They had been passing the French Legation. Angelique was standing at her ground-floor window, the curtains pulled aside. She smiled and waved back. Hiraga pretended not to have noticed her scrutiny.
“That’s the lady Mr. Struan’s going to marry,” Tyrer said, walking on again. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Hai. That her house, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Good night, Mr. McFay. Everything’s locked up.”
“Thanks. ’Night, Vargas.” McFay stifled a yawn, continued writing his daily journal, the last job of the day. His desk was clear but for two weeks’ worth of newspapers still to be read, his In tray empty, Out tray spilling over with answers to most of today’s mail, and orders, bills of lading already completed and signed, ready for collection at sunup when business began.
Vargas absently scratched at a flea bite, a way of life in Asia, and put the key to the strong room on the desk. “Shall I bring you more light?”
“No, thanks, I’m almost finished. See you tomorrow.”
“The Choshus are due tomorrow, about the guns.”
“Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. Good night.”
Now that he was alone in this part of the ground floor McFay felt happier, always pleased to be on his own and always safe within himself. Except for Vargas, all clerks, shroffs and other staff had their own staircase and rooms far to the back of the godown. The communicating door between the two sections was locked nightly. Only Ah Tok and their personal servants stayed in this foresection that contained offices, the strong room where all guns, ledgers, safes with all specie in Mexican silver dollars, gold taels and Japanese coin were kept, and their living quarters on the floor above.
Mail day was always busy and a late night, tonight later than most because the moment he had got the last installment of Great Expectations from Nettlesmith, he had rushed upstairs and shared his allotted hour, page by relished page with Malcolm Struan, then had come down again delighted and satisfied that all had worked out for Pip and the girl and that a new Dickens epic would be announced in next month’s edition.
The grandfather clock was ticking pleasantly. He wrote rapidly with a fine clear hand:
MS was enraged with his mother’s letter in today’s mail (Steamship Swift Wind, a day late, one man lost overboard in storm off Shanghai, also she had to run the gauntlet in the Shimonoseki Straits, the shore batteries firing perhaps twenty rounds, without hurt, thank God!). My reply to my Mrs. S’s cannonade today was honeyed (she has not yet heard about the party that will cause an explosion from Hong Kong to Java) but doubt if it will smooth any waters.
I informed her that A had moved over to the French Legation but don’t think that will mean a damn to Mrs. S, though MS was fretful all day that A hadn’t visited him and again swore at Ah Tok, putting her in a filthy mood—which she passed on to all the other servants, ayeeyah!
I must record in spite of all his pain that MS is much wiser than I imagined, with an excellent grasp of business generally, and international trade, and now accepts my view that there is great potential here. We discussed the Brock problem and agreed there was nothing to be done from here but as soon as he returned to HK, he would deal with them. Again he refused to consider returning on the mail ship—Hoag fence sits and is not my ally, saying the longer Malcolm rests here, the better—a bad voyage could be traumatic.
Had a first meeting with this Japanese Nakama (that has to be an alias) who is certainly more than he pretends to be. A samurai, a ronin outlaw, who can speak some English, who would cut his hair because he has decided to give up his samurai status, who seeks to wear our clothes, has to be out of the ordinary, and watched carefully. If half of what he says is true, then we have made—through Tyrer, bless him—a major intelligence step forward. Pity that Nakama knows nothing about business, his only usable information was that Osaka is Japan’s main business center, not Yedo, so all the more reason to press for the opening of that city as soon as possible. Nakama is certainly to be cultivated and …
There was a tap on one of the shutters. He glanced at the clock, almost ten. An hour late. Never mind, Asian time’s different to our time.
Without haste he got up, slipped the small revolver into the side pocket of his frock coat, went to his private door and unlocked it. Outside were two women muffled in hooded cloaks, with a manservant. They all bowed. He beckoned the women in, gave a few coins to the man who thanked him, bowed again and went back down the side alley towards the Yoshiwara.
McFay relocked the door. “Heya, Nemi, you all same pretty, neh?” He smiled and hugged one of them.
The girl beamed at him from under her hood, a sparkle to her, his musume for a year and kept by him for half that time. “Heya, Jami-san, you-ah gud, heya? This musume my sister, Shizuka. Pretty, neh?”
Nervously the other girl moved her hood aside, forced a smile. He began to breathe again—Shizuka was as young as Nemi, as attractive and fragrant. “Hai!” he said, and both were relieved that she had passed initial scrutiny. This was the first time McFay had ever arranged a girl for someone else. Awkwardly, he had asked Nemi to make sure the mama-san understood the girl was for the tai-pan and therefore had to be special. Both girls were in their early twenties, barely coming up to his shoulder, both more at ease now though completely aware the real hurdle had yet to be surmounted.
“Shizuka, I please you see. Tai-pan top man,” he said kindly, then to Nemi, patting his side where Struan’s wound was, “She understand about wound, neh?”
Nemi nodded, her white teeth sparkling. “Hai, I ’sp’rain, Jami-san! Dozo, ’reave coat here, or up’stair?”
“Upstairs.”
He led the way up the great staircase, well lit with oil lamps, Nemi chattering to the new girl who was all eyes. It was his custom, from time to time, to send for Nemi to spend the night here, the manservant returning just before dawn to escort her back to the little dwelling he had bought for her within the grounds of her house, the Inn of Succulent Joy. Ten gold sovereigns it had cost him for a five-year lease for the house after days of haggling. Another ten for her contract for the same period, plus extra for a new kimono each month, hairdressing, a personal maid, and saké.
“But Mama-san, what if fire burn house down, heya?” he had asked, appalled that he was agreeing to such a huge price though the extraordinarily advantageous exchange rate gave them a profit of four hundred percent most months—which meant that almost everyone could keep a pony or two, consume champagne at will, and more importantly guaranteed that Nemi’s running expenses would not amount to more than a few pounds yearly.
The mama-san was shocked. “Bui’d ’rike new. You pay ha’f price, fair, neh?”
Nemi, present at the final negotiation, had laughed. “P’renti fire in house, Jami-san, p’renti jig jig, neh?”
When McFay reached the top of the stairs he gave he
r another happy hug for no reason, other than she had proved to be worth every farthing, giving him so much pleasure and so much peace. On the landing was a large high-back chair. Nemi took off her cloak and hood, telling the other girl to do likewise, leaving them there. Neat and pretty kimonos underneath, hair well coiffured—chrysalis into butterfly. Pleased with himself he knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Malcolm Struan sat in his chair, a cheroot smoldering between his fingers, elegant in his dressing gown but ill at ease. “Hello, Jamie.”
“Evening, Tai-pan.” Both girls bowed with great deference, McFay quite unaware that almost everything about Malcolm Struan—as well as himself and most gai-jin—was common knowledge and the subject of constant and avid Yoshiwara gossip, his enormous wealth, that he had recently become tai-pan, the circumstances of his wound and now impending marriage. “This’s Shizuka, she’ll stay with you. The servant’ll arrive just before dawn, everything as I told you. I’ll knock first. She may be a bit shy but, well, no problem. This’s my musume, Nemi. I, er, I thought it best, the first time, to bring her along to make things easier.”
Both girls bowed again. “Heya, Tai-pan,” Nemi said in complete control, delighted to meet him and confident with her choice. “Shizuka sister my, good musume, heya!” She nodded vigorously and gave Shizuka a little push. The girl went over to him, hesitantly, knelt and bowed again.
“I’ll be in my rooms if you need me.”
“Thanks, Jamie.”
McFay closed the door quietly, went further down the corridor. His suite was tidy, masculine and comfortable. Three rooms, sitting room, bedroom, spare bedroom, all with fireplaces, and a bathroom. On the sideboard were cold cuts, fresh bread and her favorite, a freshly baked apple pie, the apples imported from Shanghai. Saké in a container of hot water, and Loch Vey whisky from Struan’s own distillery that she adored.
The moment the door was bolted she stood on tiptoe and kissed him hungrily. “No see six day, first bed-u then ba’f!” she said, reversing the usual order. His heart picked up a beat though he was in no hurry.
She took him by the hand, led him into the bedroom and half pushed him onto the bed, knelt to pull off his boots and began to undress him, all the time chattering in her half-comprehensible pidgin, telling him that the Yoshiwara was abuzz with business, the Floating World prosperous, not to worry about Shizuka, she was expensive but the best, and what was this they hear about war and please we do not want war, just business, and I have a new kimono with lucky carp all over it that was, well, a little expensive, “but ichiban, Jami-san, you-ah ’rike veri. Bed-u!”
Obediently he got into the four-poster. The night was perfect, neither hot nor cool. She untied her obi, let the kimono fall, then her under-kimono and slip. Quite naked, completely without guilt or shame about nudity like all musume—one of the many characteristics that set them apart, and one that McFay and all gai-jin found so astounding and enviable—she took the pins from her hair, shook it and let it fall to her waist and marched triumphantly to the bathroom and the first delight of the evening.
She sat on the toilet and reached up for the handle to the chain of the water closet and pulled. The water roared down into the porcelain bowl and, as always, she clapped her hands with glee.
The first time she had seen it she had not believed it. “Where wat’er go?” she asked suspiciously. He had explained and drawn pictures but she still would not believe him until he had shown her the pipes and taken her into the garden where the manhole cover of the septic tank was—all pipes, water tanks, boilers, toilet bowls, hand basins, sinks, taps and the three baths imported from England, Hong Kong and Shanghai where many pieces were beginning to be manufactured for the vast Indian and Asian markets.
She had begged him to allow her to show her friends. Proudly he had agreed because this was the first such installation in all Japan, to Sir William’s chagrin and Norbert Greyforth’s fury, and now the pattern of the dozen or so working and nonworking copies, though not all with hot and cold water: nothing but the best and most modern, therefore British, for Struan’s.
So guided tours of the privileged few to examine the Jami-san cleansing room became one of the most sought-after sights of gai-jin Yokohama, the chattering musume like so many exotic birds, bowing and sucking in their breaths and pulling the chain to gasps of wonder and applause.
Nemi washed her hands. With a contented sigh, she slipped under the sheets beside him.
Phillip Tyrer was spent and almost asleep. Fujiko bore his weight comfortably, then began to ease away.
“Iyé, matsu.” No, don’t move … wait, he murmured.
“I just want to fetch a towel, Taira-san. Towel, do you understand?”
“Ah, ah yes. Understand towel. You stay I get …”
“Oh, no, I would lose face, it is my duty. Let me go, please…. Now do not be difficult or naughty.”
She chuckled as he nuzzled her and held on but she was deft and knew her craft well and waited. Now the small room was peaceful. Outside the night was fair. Wind rustled the trees and bushes. A few drafts from around the sliding windows, not yet cold or unpleasant. Flickering oil lamp.
In a moment she slid away without disturbing his tranquility and went to the little bathroom with its high wooden tub, filled to the brim with hot water, which was on a wooden grill to allow the water to flow away when the bung was pulled out. Scented soap and chamber pot and fresh towels. Quickly she used a damp towel and dried herself.
When she came back she brought a hot towel, sponged him then dried him. All the while his eyes were tightly closed and he was near moaning with pleasure, at the same time embarrassed that she was doing it for him, not he for her. “Ah, Fujiko-chan, you are wonderful.”
“No, it is my pleasure,” she said, long over her wonder and embarrassment at the strange habits of the foreigners: that they rarely bathed, were usually consumed with shame and guilt over pillow pleasures, were astoundingly possessive and usually furious that she had other clients—stupid, what were they but clients?—or turning away, blushing, when she was undressing for their enjoyment, or covering themselves when only half naked, preferring to fornicate in the dark when everyone knew much of the thrill was to see, examine and observe, or were embarrassed purple when she attempted normal variations to prevent boredom and to prolong and increase Moments with the Gods—the time of the Clouds and the Rain.
No, gai-jin aren’t like us. They almost always favor First Position with Urgency, occasionally Baiting the Hen or Cherry Blossom Time, so allowing me no opportunity to demonstrate my skills, or when, in the light, I would position myself to play with the One-Eyed Monk the many games of uplifting such as Near and Far, Over the Dragon, Springtime Planting, Stealing the Honey that even the most unpracticed youth would require and appreciate, a gai-jin would jerk away, firmly but gently pull me up alongside him, kiss my neck, hold tight and mumble incomprehensibles.
She murmured, “Now I’ll massage you to sleep.”
“Don’t understand. Mess’erge?”
“Massage, Taira-san. Like this.”
“Ah, now I understand. Massage, thank you.”
Her fingers were gentle and wonderful and he drifted away, hardly believing his luck, proud of his performance and that she had ecstatically finished three times at least to his once—and never mind that Raiko had said that tomorrow Fujiko had to visit her village, near Yedo, to see her sick grandfather, “… but only for a few days, Taira-san.”
“Oh, so sorry, Raiko-san. Please, how many day ’way?”
“How many days will she be away? Only three.”
“Ah, thank you. How many days will she be away?” Tyrer repeated—he had asked her and Fujiko, always to correct him.
Three days. That will give me time to recover. My God, that was the best. Wonder what will happen when the roju get our dispatch. I’m sure my advice’s correct and that Nakama is telling the truth—God, I’ve a lot to thank him for, Sir William was positively
beaming, and as for Fujiko …
Lulled by her touch, his mind began a jumble of Nakama and her and being in Japan and everything so different and learning Japanese, incessant words and phrases leaping forward untidily. The futons were hard and difficult to get used to but he was comfortable, lying on his stomach, enjoying her nearness. God, but I’m tired. Can’t stand the idea of “other clients,” he thought. Got to make her mine, just mine. Tomorrow I’ll ask André to help me.
Without turning he reached back, put his hand on her thigh. Lovely silky skin.
Where was I? Oh yes, the roju. We’ll give the buggers what-for. Bloody awful about the mail ship being fired on—we’ve just got to make Shimonoseki safe and if the bloody Bakufu won’t do it that means taking out those batteries ourselves. Must remember to be careful about that with Nakama, mustn’t forget he’s from Choshu too. Could I use him as a go between?
And if the roju won’t deal with those Satsuma devils we’ll have to crush them ourselves. The bloody effrontery of the daimyo saying that he can’t find Canterbury’s murderers, the bastards came out of his own ranks for God’s sake, I saw them hack off Canterbury’s arm and the blood sprayed …
Her fingers froze. “What’s the matter, Taira-san?”
Before he knew it he was hugging her, wanting to block out the Tokaidō, and then, when the trembling had stopped he lay back, pulling her with him and held on to her, the warm pliant length of her against him, loving her, so thankful to be with her, waiting for the bad to return to its recess.
She lay quiet, also waiting, not thinking about him except that once more gai-jin proved to be curious indeed, beyond understanding. It was comfortable resting against him and she was glad that the first explosion had been achieved properly, that the client was satisfied, so she could safely believe she had earned her extra fee.
When Raiko was assigning all their appointments this morning, the mama-san had told her she was putting up her rate: “With Taira, only, because you will have extra work. Remember he could be a big fish for you, Fujiko, a long-term patron much better than Kant-er-bury-san if we’re careful and if you please him. Frenchy tells me he’s an important official so strive hard to please him. Only speak Japanese, no pidgin, become a teacher, encourage him, and remember he is ridiculously shy and knows nothing and never mention Kant-er-bury. We will pretend you have to go away for a few days—but do not worry, I have two clients for you tomorrow, in the afternoon a gai-jin, a civilized person at night…. ”
Gai-Jin Page 48