Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  It was easy to decide. He put his face close to Struan’s and was happy to see the pain under the taut skin—of a height with him now that Struan hunched over his sticks. “Listen, young Malcolm, you tossed brandy in my face for lunch, you can kiss my arse for supper.”

  “You-sir-are-a-motherless-bastard!”

  The older man laughed, a cruel jeering laugh. “You’re an even bigger motherless bastard, in fact y—”

  Babcott moved between them, his great height and size dwarfing them. “Stop it, both of you,” he said angrily, “both of you! This is a public place and these quarrels should be settled in private as between gentlemen.”

  “He’s not a bloody gen—”

  “In private as gentlemen, Malcolm,” Babcott said louder. “Norbert, what’s your pleasure?”

  “A duel’s not my choice but it’s what this bastard wants, so be it! Tonight, tomorrow, sooner the better.”

  “Not tonight, tomorrow, or any day, duelling’s against the law, but I will be at your office at eleven.” Babcott looked at Struan, knowing that no one here could prevent a duel if that was their mutual wish. He saw the dilated pupils and was sad for him and furious with him. Both he and Hoag had long since diagnosed the addiction but nothing they did or said had made any impression, nor could they prevent access to the drug. “I’ll see you at noon, Malcolm. In the meantime, as the senior British Official still in Yokohama, you are both ordered neither to address each other nor attack each other, in private or in public…. ”

  Never mind about bloody Babcott, Struan was thinking now, even more confident, the champagne mixing nicely with the opiate. Tomorrow or the next day you’ll send Jamie, no, send Dmitri to see Norbert—not Jamie, he’s no longer to be trusted. We’ll do it near the racecourse and the Noble House will give Norbert a noble funeral—and bloody Brock too if he ever comes here, by God! They’ve both forgotten you were the best revolver shot at Eton, and duelled that sod Percy Quill for calling you a Chinaman. Killed him too and was sent down for it, though the affair was hushed up and settled by Papa for a few thousand guineas. Norbert will get his comeuppance …

  A stir in the room distracted him. Seratard had just come in and was surrounded and being greeted by the others, André Poncin behind him. Through his mist he heard Seratard saying the Yedo meeting had been concluded quickly after “we broke the deadlock and French compromises were accepted so no need to stay …”

  His ears stopped listening as his eyes focused on André. The taut, sharp-featured, straight-backed handsome Frenchman was smiling at Angelique who was smiling back more happily than she had for days. Jealousy began to swamp him but he put it away. Not her fault, he thought wearily, or André’s, she’s worth smiling at and I’m not good company and not myself, just sick to death of the pain and being helpless. God, but I love that woman and need her to death.

  He struggled up, made his excuses and thanked them for their hospitality. Seratard was his usual charming self. “But surely you’ll stay? So sorry about the fire—we felt none of the earthquake at sea, not even a swell of any sort. Don’t worry about your fiancée, we’ll be delighted to have her company, Monsieur, as long as necessary while your apartments are repaired, of course you are welcome anytime.” He saw them to the door, Angelique insisting on taking Struan’s arm to walk him home.

  “I’m fine, Angel,” Struan said, loving her.

  “Of course, my love, but it’s my pleasure,” she said, bursting with goodwill now that André had returned. Only a few more hours and then I am free.

  Dinner was a great success with Angelique radiant, Seratard full of himself at his success in Yedo, regaling them with his exploits in Algiers where he had been an official in charge of subjugation before this appointment, Vervene all the time vying for her attention to tell heroic versions of what he had previously achieved, all of them flushed by her company and abundant wine, a bottle of Burgundy per man, with champagne before to tickle the taste buds, and now again to settle the stomach. Then André Poncin began telling saucy tales of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Kowloon where villagers from time to time really believed the Penis Plague was with them again when that appendage would disappear back into their bodies, so all the men would tie a string around it, anchoring it tightly to their necks to prevent the catastrophe.

  “Oh, that’s impossible, André, and naughty of you!” she said, her fan fluttering, amidst laughter and his protests that this was the absolute truth, sure it was now time for her to leave. She finished her second tall glass of champagne that went nicely with the previous three goblets of Château d’Arcins, more than mellow herself—her relief that André had come back when he had promised, and her pleasure at speaking French for the whole evening, had overcome her usual caution. “Now I will leave you to your cigars and brandy—and naughty stories!”

  “But only for a moment,” Seratard said. “André is going to play for us.”

  “Tonight, no,” André said, too quickly. “If you don’t mind, there are some papers I must ready for tomorrow, sorry.”

  “Everything can wait, pleasure before business,” Seratard said as a genial order. “Tonight we must have music to finish the evening, something romantic for Angelique.”

  “Let him have some peace, Henri,” she said, the wine making her cheeks rosy, delighted that André was clearly anxious to fetch the promised medicine. “You’ve taken him from his business long enough, after all he’s not an official.”

  “André will adore to play for us.”

  “Ah, so André is always to be commanded, yes? Then I must command you, Monsieur le Ministre, to excuse him this once … and me too, it’s time for my bed.” She got up, her knees a little weak. They surrounded her, protesting loudly. “But I’m here tomorrow and for at least three days.” She offered her hand to André with a special smile. “Now you are free to go, I command you to guard our interests.”

  “You may count on it, Angelique.”

  “A last glass …”

  She allowed herself to be persuaded to take it with her and they escorted her to ensure the bolts on the windows and new shutters of the boudoir and bedroom were secure.

  “We decided to replace all our shutters since you were last here.” Vervene said again what he had already told her earlier, his sparse hair awry, beaming tipsily, “Even in last week’s storm there were no rattles.” All eyes noticed the filmy green peignoir and nightdress laid out on the bed that had been turned down invitingly by the heavyset maid who watched and waited balefully. Dimmed oil lamps and their alcoholic haze made the room all the more enticing and her more provocative.

  More reluctant good nights and sweet dreams and then she was alone with Ah Soh, the door to the corridor bolted. The maid undressed her and brushed her hair and put her crinoline away in the deep hanging cupboard with her other clothes, lingerie in the chest of drawers, all the while Angelique humming happily, content to be here, safe for tomorrow, elated to be alone and that the fire and earthquake had not harmed any of them or interfered with her plan but had made it simpler.

  I will make peace between Malcolm and Jamie, bad for them to be estranged, she thought exhilarated, still thirsty, but soothed and wine content. Thank God for André. I wonder what the Yoshiwara’s like, and his girl. I’ll encourage him to tell me about her and we can laugh together …

  “’Night, Missee” interrupted her. Ah Soh was walking ponderously for the boudoir couch. The last time her maid had slept there, even with the bedroom door closed, her snores had been deafening, further disturbing her.

  “No, Ah Soh, no sleep here! You go, come back chop chop with coffee-ah, morning, heya?”

  The woman shrugged. “’Night, Missee.”

  Angelique bolted the door after her and in the warm light, completely and peacefully alone at last, lazily twirled to a hummed waltz. In a moment her ears caught the muted notes of the piano. Ah, it’s Henri, she thought, recognizing his touch. He’s a good player, better than Vervene but not to be compared with André
. Chopin. Soft, delicate, romantic.

  She swayed in time with the lovely melody, then caught sight of herself in the tall mirror. For a moment she studied herself, this way and that, then cupped her breasts higher as she and Colette used to do, pouting this way and that to see if that made them seem more desirable or less.

  A sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling, the music and the alcohol nudging her. A sudden excited impulse and she let the peignoir fall, then slowly slid her nightdress higher and higher, coquetting the mirror image, admiring the legs and loins and hips and breasts and now full nakedness of the other person, posing this way and that, using the bunched nightdress to obscure or to reveal.

  Another sip of champagne. Then she dipped a finger into it and put the liquid on her hardened nipples as she had read the great Parisian courtesans would do, sometimes using sweet Château d’Yquem there and in other places. Curious that our two most famous courtesans in the center of the world are English.

  She chuckled to herself, possessed by the night and the music and the wine. When I have birthed one or two sons and am, say, twenty-one and Malcolm has a mistress and I am ready for my special lover, that’s what I’ll do—for his pleasure and mine, and before that for Malcolm’s.

  Another sip and another and then finished, languidly licking the last drop, then, watching her mirror, curling her tongue around the glass, toying with it. Chuckling again, putting the glass back on the dressing table, letting it fall unnoticed to the carpet, ears only tuned to Chopin and his underlying passions—eyes fixed on the mirror, now the reflected image close, brazenly intimate.

  Lazily she leaned forward and turned down the wick, shadows kinder now, then moved back a little, the mirror person still there, lovely, voluptuous. Fingers moving with a life of their own, straying, caressing, heart picking up tempo, fluttering with growing pleasure. Eyes closed now, imagining Malcolm tall, strong, very strong, sweet-smelling, leading her into the bedroom, laying her on the coverlets, lying with her, as naked as she, his fingers wandering, fondling.

  Ori had eased the door of the cupboard open in the other room and moved noiselessly and now stood in the deep shadows near the half-open doorway watching her, heart pounding in his ears. It had been easy for him to hide among the cases and hanging dresses and crinolines, easy to slide further into hiding to become invisible when the maid opened the cupboard door and closed it again. Easy to hear the final bolts ring home and to judge when Angelique was truly alone.

  In the bedroom half light she lay on the sheets, eyes closed, a little shudder from time to time, face in shadow, body part in shadow, shadows dancing as the small flame moved with the air currents. It seemed to him he waited an eternity. Soundlessly, he stepped out of the darkness to the threshold. The door clicked closed. The distant music cut. Her eyes opened and focused and she saw him.

  Some sense told her that this was him—the murderer from the Tokaidō, father of the child that was never to be, who had violated her but had left no memory of pain or ravishment, only erotic half dreams, sleeping, waking—and that she was defenseless and tonight he would murder her.

  Both were hardly breathing. Motionless. Waiting for the other to move. Still in shock, she saw his youth, not much older than she, a little taller, sheathed sword-knife in his belt, right hand on the hilt, neat short beard and hair, broad shoulders and narrow hips, rough shirt, flapped breeches, strong calves and legs and peasant sandals. Face in shadow.

  This’s another dream, surely it’s a dream, no need to be afraid …

  Bewildered, she propped her head on one hand, motioning him to move into the light.

  Momentarily fused into the same unreal, dreamlike state as she, his feet obeyed and when she saw the chiselled features, so different and alien, the dark eyes so filled with craving, she opened her mouth to say, Who are you, what’s your name, but he thought she was going to scream so he leapt forward in panic, the naked blade violently at her throat.

  “No, please,” she gasped, backed into the pillow, and when he did not understand she shook her head, petrified, eyes pleading, every part of her shrieking, You’re going to die, there’s no escape this time! “No—please.”

  The fright slid off his face and, standing over her, heart thundering as hers was thundering, he put a finger to his lips, warning her to be silent and not to scream, not to move. “Iyé” he whispered hoarsely, adding, “No!”

  A drop of perspiration slid down his cheek.

  “I … I won’t—won’t make a sound,” she muttered, terror confusing her. She pulled the sheet over her loins. At once he ripped it away. Her heart stopped. But in that second she knew, a primeval instinct in mind had propelled her to a different plane and she felt herself possessed by a latent, newfound knowledge. Her horror began to slide away. Inner voices seemed to whisper: Be careful, we can guide you. Watch his eyes, don’t make a sudden move, first the knife …

  Heart pounding, she watched his eyes and put a finger to her lips as he had done, gently pointed at the blade and motioned it away.

  He was like a coiled spring, expecting her to dart for the door any second and scream—he knew he could silence her easily, but that did not fit into his plan: she was to flee for the door in his time, not hers, and scream and scream to wake the enemy, then he would slash once and make sure and then he would wait and when they arrived he would shout, “Sonno-joi,” turning the knife on himself and, spitting in their faces, die. That was his plan—one of many he had considered: taking her wildly then killing her and then himself, or just killing her silently at once as he should have done before, however much he wanted her now, leaving the Tokaidō characters on the sheets as before, then to escape through the window. But she was not reacting as he had expected. Unwavering eyes, her hand motioning the blade away, sky-blue eyes asking, not begging, tension there, but no terror now. Uncanny half smile. Why?

  The blade did not move.

  Be patient, the voices whispered to her….

  Again she gestured the point away, unhurried, willing him. His eyes narrowed even more. With an effort he tore them away from hers to surge over her to be inexorably drawn back. What is she planning? Warily he lowered the dirk and waited, ready to lunge.

  He was standing close to the bed. Leisurely her hands began to unbutton his shirt, then froze. The cross at his neck flickered in the light, her cross. The suddenness that the lost forever was miraculously found again, elated her strangely and, dreamlike, she watched her fingers touch it, trembling slightly, weirdly pleased that he had taken it to wear it, part of her around him forever as part of him was around her forever but even the cross, her cross, did not deflect her.

  Gently she eased the shirt off, down his right arm, over the knife, tightly held and a constant threat. Her intent look drifted over him, the shoulder wound, freshly healed, muscled body. Again the wound.

  “Tokaidō,” she said softly, not as a question though he took it as such.

  “Hai,” he muttered, watching and waiting and choked with lust. “Hai.”

  Again the cross glittered. “Kanagawa?”

  He nodded, hardly breathing, spellbound, and she was glad that she had been right in the first instant, and now that he was almost naked she was more secure with the plan that had swamped her mind. She reached out and touched his belt, always watching his eyes, and felt a tiny tremor. A current went through her at this victory.

  Don’t be afraid, the voices said. Continue …

  His fingers found the buckle. It loosened. The belt dropped away, the scabbard with it. His breeches slid off him. Below he wore a loincloth. With a grinding effort he remained motionless, his weight balanced on both legs, slightly apart, and body throbbing with his heartbeat, eyes locked.

  Continue, the voices whispered, don’t be afraid….

  Abruptly, the image of him in the web that myriad generations of women before her—defenseless in the same mantrap—were aiding her to weave, caused her resolve to soar unexpectedly, heightening her awareness, making her
part of the night and yet apart, to watch herself and him, and fingers untying the string and seeing him unadorned.

  She had never seen a man thus. But for the wound he was without blemish. As she was.

  For a moment he continued to dominate his lust, then his will vanished and he threw the knife on the bed and covered her but she closed like an oyster and twisted away and he did likewise, grabbing for the knife before she did but she had not made a move toward it, just lay there, watching him kneeling on the bed, blade poised, another phallus pointing at her.

  In the waking dream, she shook her head, telling him to lay the knife aside, to forget it, to lie down beside her. “There’s no hurry,” she said softly, knowing he would not understand words, only gestures. “Lie here.” She showed him where. “No, be gentle.” She showed him how. “Kiss me … no, not so cruel … gently.”

  She showed him everything she wanted, he wanted, advancing, retreating, soon to be aroused and then, when at last they joined she imploded to carry him over the crest and them into the abyss.

  When her panting had lessened and her ears could hear, the music was still playing but far away. No sounds of danger, only his panting matching hers, body light, fitting perfectly. Belonging. That was what she could not understand—how or why he seemed to belong. Or how and why she could be so thrilled, or consumed with such ecstasy. He began to ease away.

  No, the voices told her quickly, hold him, don’t let him move, beware, the danger’s not over, stay with the plan …

  So her arms tightened around him.

  They slept for an hour or so and when she awoke he was lying beside her, breathing softly, his sleeping face young and untroubled, one hand tight on the knife, the other touching her cross that he wore so easily.

  It was my first gift, Maman told me, the first day of my life and worn ever since, only the chain changing. Is it his now, or mine, or ours?

  His eyes opened and a shiver went through her.

  For a moment he was not sure where he was, or if it was a dream and then he saw her, still beautiful, still desirable, still beside him, the strange, half smile washing over him. Enchanted, his hand went to her and she responded, to coalesce again but now without anger or haste. Only to prolong.