He shrugged and pointed to the door, his wounded arm healed and as good as it would ever be, never with the same strength, or quickness with a sword, but good enough against an average swordsman, and good enough with a gun. His derringer was on the table and never far from his hand.
The woman forced a smile and backed away, mouthing thanks, glad to get away without a beating or having to endure the foul practices she had feared. “Don’ you worry, Gerty,” her madam had told her, “Chinermen’re like any others, sometimes a bit picky, but this bugger’s rich so just give ’im wot he wants, give it to ’im quick, he’s rich so give it good.” There was little extra she had had to do, other than to endure his frantic battering with stoicism and necessary grunts of feigned pleasure.
“Ta again, luv.” She went out, the Mex secreted in the soiled bodice that hardly covered her flaccid breasts, another coin, a twentieth of its value, clutched in her hand.
On the landing outside was Timee, a rough Eurasian seaman of mixed but predominately Chinese blood. He shut the door and grabbed her. “Shut yor gob, you poxy whore,” he hissed, forcing her hand open to take the coin, then cursed her in Chinese and guttural English for the poorness of her earnings: “Ayeeyah, why didn’t you please the Guv?” Then he cuffed her and she half stumbled, half fell down the stairs, but when safe, turned and cursed with even more venom. “I’ll tell Ma Fortheringill ’bout yer, she’ll do yer!”
Timee spat after her, knocked and reopened the door. “Musume gud, Guv, heya?” he asked unctuously.
Now Ori sat at an old table by the window. He wore a rough shirt and breeches with bare legs and feet, his short sword-knife in a belt holster. The money sack was on the table. He saw the narrowed eyes staring at it. Carelessly he found another Mex and tossed it. The heavy-shouldered man caught it expertly, touched his forelock and smirked, his few remaining teeth broken and yellowed. “Thankee, Guv. Grub?” He rubbed his big belly. “Grub, wakarimasu ka?” Their communication was with sign language and a little pidgin, and he was chief bodyguard. Another watched downstairs in the bar. A third in the alley.
Ori shook his head. “No,” he said, using one of the words he had picked up, then added, “Beer-u,” and waved him away. Alone at last he stared out of the window. The glass was cracked and fly encrusted, a corner missing, opening on to the drab facade of another ramshackle, wooden hostel opposite, ten yards away. The air smelt dank and his skin felt filthy, and crawled at the thought of that woman’s body in sweating close contact, with no chance for a civilized Japanese bath afterwards though he could easily have had one in the village, a couple of hundred yards away across No Man’s Land.
But to do that you risk Hiraga and his spies who will be waiting, he thought, Hiraga and Akimoto and all villagers who deserve to be crucified like common criminals for trying to prevent my grand design. Scum! All of them. Daring to try to burn me to death, daring to poison the fish—eeee, karma that the cat stole it before I could stop the beast and, in moments, died retching instead of me.
Since then he had eaten sparingly, and only rice that he cooked himself in a pot in the grate, with a little meat or fish stew made for the other boarders and bar customers that he made Timee taste in front of him as a further protection.
The food’s foul, this place foul, that woman foul and I can only wait a few more days before I go mad. Then his eyes noticed the money bag. His lips moved from his teeth in a vicious smile.
The night of the fire in the other hovel he had been sleeping on a cot in a tiny, squalid alcove in the back of the bar that had cost him the last of his money. Long before others in the hostel awoke, his danger senses honed in a score of fires since childhood had warned him, tearing him out of sleep, to find flames were already licking the wooden stairs above, and to see another gourd of oil with a burning rag in its neck being hurled into the main barroom.
A hysterical dog bounded down the stairs and joined two cats frantically seeking escape and the three animals began charging around the room, crashing into bottles of spirits that, smashing on the cobbled floor, nourished the blaze. Screams and uproar began from the crowded floor above. Half-naked men started cascading down the stairs in panic, flames licking at them as they fled into the street.
The stairs caught. Then a sudden tongue of flame soared upwards along the tinder-dry walls and banister. The barroom was blinding hot, the air seared as a heat-generated wind roared the fire into an implacable killer. The sides of the front door began to burn furiously, the flames almost barring it. More men rushed pell-mell down the stairs, screaming, tripping over one another in panic through the flames to the outside, some already with parts of their hastily donned clothes on fire. Only minutes had passed since the arson began but now the fire was in total command and the building doomed.
In his cubbyhole Ori was unafraid, fire drilled, safely out of the billowing smoke, hugging the floor, his mouth already covered with a beer-soaked rag, his emergency escape route automatically docketed the moment he had gone into the room. Safety lay always in refusing to panic, and this time through a small, shuttered window across the barroom, well away from the burning stairs that let out onto the back alley.
He was just about to sprint away when he saw the corpulent proprietor in nightshirt and tasseled hat with other terrified men fighting down the stairs, an iron safety box tight under his arm. Furiously this man shoved another out of his path into the flames only to have the same flames convert him into a screaming torch and tumble him with two others into the blazing ruins of the stairway as it collapsed, cutting off any further escape from above. The box flew out of his helpless arms to skitter across the floor. One badly burned man staggered out of the fire for the doorway. Flames greedily consumed the proprietor and the two other men and seemed to reach for the box, equally greedily.
Without hesitation Ori rushed through the flames, grabbed it up and charged for the window, easily bursting the rotting shutters apart and was out safely into the fresh air and back alley. At once he ducked down and ran for the fence opposite, scaled it and, still keeping low, wormed through the trash and weeds of No Man’s Land towards the abandoned well.
Once there, chest heaving, he looked back warily. Flames from the hostel soared into the sky. Men milled about, shouting and cursing. Two men jumped from the upper windows. Others with buckets of water were dousing adjoining shacks and buildings, bellowing for help.
He had not been noticed.
While the noise covered him, he found a broken crowbar and prized off the lid of the box, dismissing the swarming mosquitoes and night insects. The treasure inside made him throb. Quickly he stuffed two bags of coins into the pocket of his breeches, another into his smock shirt. With great care he buried the dozen or so other bags and, in a different place, did the same with the box.
The next morning he wandered Drunk Town until he found a more isolated rooming house that was far from the burned-out wreck. Ten Mex in the owner’s hand, and the weight of the bag that remained, brought him immediate, unctuous service, a big room of his choice. The owner, a man with deep-set, brilliant blue eyes—just like hers, he had thought, a sudden shaft in his loins—had pointed at the bag: “You’ll be bushwhacked wiv that lot, young woggeroo.”
Ori had not understood the words. The man’s meaning soon became clear and produced Timee. Also that if Timee was well paid, and the owner well paid, Ori would be safe here or on the street, and when out, his room would be sacrosanct. As an insurance, knowing the danger of putting his trust in these men, with more sign language and patience Ori had made it also clear that these two bags were only a small part of his wealth that was safely under guard in the village, which he was ready to spend lavishly for protection and anything else he required.
“Yor the Guv, you name it and you can ’ave it. Me name’s Bonzer and I’m Australian.” Like almost everyone in Drunk Town, he scratched constantly at flea and lice bites, his teeth few and twisted, and he stank. “‘Guv?’ That means Ichiban!, Number one. Wakarimas
u ka?”
“Hai, domo.”
The door opened, dispelling his thought pattern. Timee brought him a tankard of beer. “Guv, I’m getting me grub now.” He coughed. “Grub, food, wakarimasu ka?”
“Hai.” The beer quenched Ori’s thirst but did not settle his mind or compare with beer of the village. Or at home in Satsuma or in the Yoshiwara, or at Kanagawa’s Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. Or anywhere.
I must be going mad, he thought, bewildered. That gai-jin whore with her toad belly skin and fish smell was worse than the worst old hag I’ve ever had, yet I enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain twice and wanted more and more.
What is it about them? Is it their blue eyes and white skin and fair brown pubics—in those that whore was not much different from her, in all else, yes. Unconsciously his fingers toyed with the cross that he wore, half hidden around his neck. His lips curled in a crooked smile. In the tunnel he had tricked Hiraga. The piece of metal he had thrown was the last of his gold oban. I’m glad I kept her cross—to remind me constantly. And it has been more than useful in other ways, making these stupid gai-jin think I’m Christian. What is it about their women that sends me mad?
It’s karma, he told himself with finality, karma that there is no answer, never will be any answer except … except to send her onwards.
The thought of her neck in his hands, his manhood deep within, made his flesh tingle and ached him anew as though the other had not happened. Once more the room began to swim and crush him so he swung his feet to the floor, pocketed his derringer, put on a leather jerkin and went downstairs.
“Guv?” Timee coughed and got up from a plate piled with rice and stew to go with him, but he waved him back and the other man to guard upstairs and went outside.
Hiraga saw him at once. He was on the other side of the busy dirt street, sitting on a bench outside a dingy bar. In front of him was an untouched gourd of beer and around were noisy men, drinking or standing or dead drunk on benches, or heading homewards for their dormitories or rooming houses, or favorite bar or gambling rooms that crowded together here in a slum as bad or worse than any in London town. The men were a polyglot of European, Asian and mixed-race laborers and workers, armed with at least a knife and dressed similarly to him, coming from their day’s toil in sail-making shops or ship’s chandlers, or mechanics from the machine shops, a new profession, or from any one of the dozens of services to do with ships. Along with beggars and bums were bakers and butchers and brewers and moneylenders and others who supported this part of Yokohama or fed off it, separate from the village and “Nob Town” as they all called the traders’ sector, by mutual consent.
“In Drunk Town,” Tyrer had explained to him, “there are perhaps a hundred and fifty souls, most are drifters. They’ve few rules. It’s every man for himself but woe betide anyone caught stealing, the immediate mob would beat him half to death. They’ve no law except army and navy patrols searching for deserters, or just trying to keep the peace between the services, breaking up fights or riots. Beer and gin parlors—gin’s a rotgut that will kill if you’re not careful—they’re open as long as there’re customers, so are the gambling dens. Don’t try any of them or Ma Fortheringill’s, she loathes Japanese because of our cut-rate Yoshiwara—bless it! At the far end, near the South Gate, off Hog Lane, is the worst part of Drunk Town. I’ve never been there, best stay away from it too, that’s where the most depraved and lost try to survive. Opium, beggars, scum, male prostitutes. Abattoir. Cemetery. Disease. And multitudes of rats …”
The little that Hiraga had understood had made him want, even more, to see everything for himself. Tonight was his first opportunity. Except for a few absent curses that would apply to anyone, no one bothered him as he trailed Ori easily, just enough light in the darkening sky.
His prey meandered towards the shore, seemingly without purpose and without any of the bodyguards he had been warned against. His excitement notched higher. The revolver in his pocket felt good to his touch. His fingers ached to grip it and aim it and pull the trigger to end the menace to his future here, then to begin his controlled retreat to safety through No Man’s Land, or along the beach to the Legation.
Now they were nearing the small main square beside the promenade and shore where bars and eating and rooming houses fought for custom. This was the far end of the Settlement, the narrowest part, and jammed between the sea and encircling fence where the South Gate was. As at the North Gate, the fence was strong and high and went into the surf. The only opening was the barricaded guarded South Gate.
The square was clogged. Mostly British soldiers, sailors, and merchant seamen with a few French, American and Russians, and Eurasians. Ori eased through them to stand on the edge of the promenade. He stared at the sea. The sea had a three-foot swell and was black and greasy. North wards, half a mile away, he could see the lights of the trading houses coming on, and in the French Legation. And in the upper story of Struan’s, which, with Brock’s, dominated the waterfront.
Tonight? Should I try tonight?
His feet began to take him that way. A sudden rumbling and the sound like that of an express train just a few feet below the surface rushed at them, the earth heaved and with everyone else in the square, he tottered, nauseated, and went down on his hands and knees, holding on to the earth as it shook and rose and fell and stopped. A moment of silence that seemed to shriek to the skies. Now a few whimpers and shouts and curses that were cut short as another shock took them. Again the earth reared, not as bad as before but bad enough, and the shakes went on and on and heaved and shuddered and stopped. Tiles cascaded off a roof. People scuttled or crawled to safety. Silence again that was almost palpable, men silent, gulls silent, animals silent. Earth waiting, everything waiting. Hugging the ground, praying, cursing, praying. Waiting.
“Is it over, for God’s sake?” someone called out.
“Yes …”
“No …”
“Wait, I th—”
Another rumble. Wails of fear. The noise peaked, the earth twisted and cried out and became still again. Several shacks collapsed. Shouts for help. No one moved.
Again everyone held their breath. Waiting. Moans and prayers and whimpers and supplications and curses. Waiting for the next one. The big one. Waiting, but nothing more.
Yet.
Moments that became an eternity of waiting. Then Ori sensed that it was over and got up, the first in the square, heart dancing that he was not dead this time, that he was alive and untouched and safely reborn but instinctively ready for the next danger, an immediate dash from fire that was a normal aftermath and the greatest hazard to be endured. Every earthquake was someone’s nemesis, a rebirth for all others and, from time immemorial, to be treated as such by those who lived in the Land of the Gods that was also called the Land of Tears.
Abruptly Ori’s stomach had a quake of its own and fell away. Across the square, above the mass of people still grounded, many retching and cursing, he saw Hiraga standing alone watching him. Fifty yards behind Hiraga most of the samurai guards were also on their feet—some studying the two of them curiously.
At almost the same instant that Ori had sensed the earthquake had ended and had jumped up, Hiraga and the samurai had spontaneously done the same, experiencing identical, ecstatic relief and rebirth, Hiraga not realizing he was on his feet until he saw Ori staring at him. His face closed. At once he started towards him, the square rapidly coming to life as men noisily scrambled or staggered erect. Blindly Ori took to his heels, but frightened, angry men, some laughing hysterically, others wailing thanks to God, barred his escape—and Hiraga’s pursuit—with cries of “Wot the devil’s up with you …”
“Who the hell’re you pushing, for crissake …”
“Hey, he’s a bloody Jappo …”
Then someone bellowed, “fire! look!”
With everyone else Ori looked northwards. At the other end of the promenade a building was on fire. He recognized it as the two-story Struan headquarters.
Perhaps next door. Careless of anyone, Ori broke out of the throng in a rush.
Hiraga pushed forward after him but at that moment a nearby gin bar collapsed, scattering people into his path, sending him reeling and others trampling him. He fought to his feet amidst the uproar. In this part of the square men were milling around aimlessly, blocking him. For a second he caught a brief sight of Ori, then the ruins of the bar began to blaze and the crowd surged backwards again, engulfing him.
When Hiraga had recovered his balance, Ori was obscured, and as much as he tried to force a path in the direction of his last sighting, the less progress he could make and the more furious the crowd became: “Who you pushin’, for crissake! … It’s another bleeding Jappo … Give the bugger wot for …”
By the time he had placated them and retreated and circled, finding a path out to the edge of the square, Ori was not running down the promenade as he had expected, heading for the fire, nor was he going by way of the beach—but had truly vanished.
In Struan’s, Jamie McFay was running up the stairs in the semidarkness amid cries of alarm and “Fire!” an oil lamp swinging in his hand, only the chandelier alight in the whole staircase area and it still swayed drunkenly from the shocks. He gained the landing and ran down the corridor to burst Struan’s door open. “Tai-pan, are you all right?”
The room was in shadow but for an ominous flickering glow that danced on the window curtains. Struan lay on the floor, dazed, half dressed for dinner, shaking his head to try to clear it, both oil lamps shattered, the open wick of one that was hidden by the bureau sputtered on the oil-drenched carpet. “Think so,” he gasped. “Must have hit my head when I got knocked over. Christ Almighty, Angelique!”
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