Raiko was irritable. “Furansu-san, I will accept this partial payment but our agreement was very specific, so sorry.”
“I know.” André loathed being in debt—a phobia—to her more than any, not only because meeting the payment schedule was giving him nightmares, but also because she controlled his Hinodeh completely and if he failed to conform she would end their relationship without hesitation. And then he would kill himself. “Soon can give big payment. Earrings.”
“Ah, is that so? Excellent.” She smiled. “Excellent. I presume Hinodeh is still to your liking, still pleasing you?”
His worry dropped from him for a blessed moment. “She … everything I dream of. More.”
She smiled strangely at him. “It is unwise to be so open, my friend.”
A Gallic shrug. “You make me lifetime favor. Cannot say thank you enough.”
The eyes crinkled in her round face, puffy from drink even though it was only dusk. Her makeup was good and her kimono expensive, the evening chilly but her rooms were warm and the whole Inn inviting. “I hear your gai-jin Princess is as healthy as ever.”
“Yes.” For a moment André thought about her, and her ever present sexuality. “Think she make good Lady of Night.”
Raiko cocked her head to one side, unable to resist taking the remark seriously. “That would be interesting to me. I could get her the best prices—the best—many in Yedo would pay a price to sample such a gross person. I know one rice dealer, very rich, very old, no hard work for her to satisfy, who would pay huge money to be the first to examine such a Jade Gate, and it would be easy to show her how to become a virgin again, neh?”
He laughed. “I tell her, one day perhaps.”
“Good. The best price, and secret. This rice dealer … Eeee, he would pay! She shows no other signs?”
“Signs? What sort of signs?”
Raiko said, “The medicine varies for different ladies. Sometimes it can make them much more … more passionate and more difficult to satisfy. Sometimes it increases her chance to become pregnant, sometimes it destroys any chance. Strange, neh?”
The amusement left him. “You not tell me.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
After a moment he shook his head.
She drank deeply. “Please excuse me for speaking about money, but a gold oban no longer buys what a gold oban should buy. Our officials have debased our currency and stink like eight-day-old fish mixed with fresh dog’s droppings!”
“True,” he said, missing words but understanding about officials and old fish and was equally disgusted. Seratard had refused to give him the advance on his salary he had expected, claiming poverty in Legation funds. “But Henri, I’m only asking for what you have to give me over the year. It’s just a few pieces of gold, Henri. Aren’t I your most valuable aide here?”
“Yes, of course you are, my dear André, but you can’t get wine out of an empty vat—only a migraine!”
He tried a different approach but did no better. So he had only two courses of action. Angelique, or this mama-san. “Raiko-san, you very clever, think. Must be way we both increase normal money, neh? What can we sell?”
She glanced down at the table to hide. “Saké?” she asked, and poured. In his honor the saké was cold. Her eyes were slits and she wondered how far to trust him. As far as a cat will trust a cornered mouse. “Information has a price. Neh?”
It was said matter-of-factly. He pretended to be surprised, delighted she had taken the bait so easily. Too easily? Probably not. Being caught by the Bakufu, or by his own masters, added up to the same penalty: an agonizing death.
Sir William would pay handsomely for the right information—Henri not at all—God curse them both to hell! “Raiko-san, what happening in Yedo?”
“More to the point, what’s happening here?” she said at once, beginning the negotiation. “War, eh? Terrible! Every day more soldiers firing on the firing range, more cannons practicing, frightening my Ladies.”
“So sorry, please speak slower, please.”
“Ah, so sorry.” Raiko slowed, saying how frightened the Yoshiwara was, painting an interesting local picture but nothing that he did not already know. And he told her things about the fleet and Army that he was sure she knew also.
They drank in silence. Then she said softly, “I think certain officials would pay much to know what the gai-jin leader plans to do and when.”
He nodded. “Yes. Also think our Leader pay plenty know what Nippon samurai forces where, who leads, about this tairō who send rude messages.”
She beamed gloriously and raised her eggshell cup. “To a new partnership. Much money for a little talk.”
He toasted her, saying carefully, “Little talk, yes, but must be important little and real little for real money.”
“Eeee,” she said, feigning shock, “am I a third-class whore without brains? Without honor? Without understanding? Without connections, without …” But she could not keep it up and chuckled. “We understand one another completely. Tomorrow at midday come and see me. Now off you go and see your lovely Hinodeh. Enjoy her and life while we all have it.”
“Thank you. But not now. Please say, I arrive later.” He smiled at Raiko, liking her. “But you, Raiko?”
“I have no Hinodeh to go to, to dream about, to write poems to, to fill me with ecstasy. Once it was different, now I am more sensible, I enjoy saké and making money, and making money and saké. Off you go,” she said with a hard laugh, “but tomorrow return. At midday.”
When he was gone she ordered her maids to bring more of the wine, but hot this time, and not to disturb her. Seeing such friendliness on his face, mixed with the depth of his passion for Hinodeh, she had felt her sadness beginning and so had dismissed him.
She could not bear witness to her misery and the abject tears that poured from her, unable to contain them or the grief, at the same time despising the weakness within her that was a frantic longing for her youth, for the girl she had been, vanished such a short time ago, never to return.
It’s not fair not fair not fair, she moaned, raising the cup. I’m not the old hag I see in my mirror, I am me, Raiko the Beautiful, Courtesan of the Second Rank, I am I am I am.
“Ah, Otami-sama,” the shoya said, “good evening, please sit down, tea, saké? So sorry to disturb you again but I have just received a message from my overlords. Tea?”
Hiraga took the opposite cushion in the pleasant room, a hold on his impatience, thanked him and accepted the obligatory cup. “How are you?” he asked politely, his heart beating faster than he cared.
“Worried, Otami-sama. It seems the gai-jin are very determined this time, too many troop movements, too many ships cleaning weapons, many rumors of more ships coming here. Perhaps you have heard from your Taira gai-jin?”
Hiraga thought about that. Tyrer and the whole Legation staff had been in an uproar ever since the ultimatum from Tairō Anjo had arrived, Sir William bellowing more than usual, Johann the interpreter closeted for hours with Tyrer, rewriting letters to the Bakufu and only sometimes asking him to refine a phrase. “Easier if see ’retter, Taira-sama,” he would always say, wanting to know what was being sent.
“Yes, well, but this phrase for the moment …” the Taira would always say, clearly uneasy, every day the same and this had increased his disquiet. Obviously they did not trust him as before, and this after working night and day to learn their language and giving them all manner of information. Despicable gai-jin dogs, he had thought, afraid that any day Sir William might order him out—his poster was still prominent in the samurai guard house, the Enforcer patrols malevolently checking all Japanese entering and leaving the Settlement.
Enforcer patrols should not be permitted. Gai-jin are so idiotic—with their sea power I would not allow “enemy guards” within a league! Idiotic for Anjo to anger them with such vile manners and arrogance while their fleet is here. The Council of Elders is mad!
“The gai-jin officials
tell me many things, shoya,” he said, as though loath to be overheard. “Fortunately I am party to their inner secrets. It may well be I can warn you in time if any danger threatens you. Meanwhile I counselled them to beware of upsetting you and the village.”
The shoya bowed to the tatami, thanking him and thanking him, then said, “These are terrible times, war is terrible and taxes are going to be put up again.”
Good, Hiraga thought, his head aching, you can afford it, but it won’t make you or any in the Gyokoyama eat less or drink less, or your wives and women dress less expensively, only your customers. Parasites! You’re already breaking ancient laws of extravagance, allowing your women to wear forbidden dress colors, like red, as under-kimonos or in your homes that, stupidly, the Bakufu, do not enforce. When we are in power there will be a reckoning.
Come on, you old fool, get to the point. I cannot waste all evening and I am not going to lose face by asking. I have more studies tonight and another book to try to read. “I can perhaps guard your interests,” he said pointedly.
Again the shoya thanked him. “The message I received concerned the girl you asked about. Four days ago Lord Yoshi left Kyōto secretly, just before dawn, with a small escort of soldiers and disguised as one of them. She went too. Also in the party … are you all right, Otami-sama?”
“Yes, please go on,” Hiraga said, “go on, shoya.”
“Certainly. Also in the party, mounted, was the courtesan Koiko, and the girl who is her new maiko an—”
“Her what?” Hiraga gasped, “Koiko,” with everything that her name implied, pealing in all the corners of his mind.
“Please, may I give you some tea, or saké?” the shoya asked, seeing the impact the news was making. “Or a hot towel or may I order some—”
“No, go on,” Hiraga said, his voice throaty.
“There is not much more. As you know, the Lady Koiko is the most famous of Yedo’s courtesans and now Lord Yoshi’s companion. The girl was sent to her ten days ago.”
“By whom?”
“We do not yet know, Otami-sama,” the shoya said, retaining that information for another time. “It seems the Lady Koiko accepted the girl as maiko after the girl was personally interviewed and approved by Lord Yoshi. She is the only other woman in the party. Her name is Sumomo Fujahito.”
No mistake, Hiraga wanted to shout, that’s the code name Katsumata gave her—so he sent her into that hornet’s nest, but why? “Which way did he go? Lord Yoshi?”
“There are forty samurai accompanying him, all mounted but carrying no banners, and Lord Yoshi himself, as I said, was disguised. They slipped out of Kyōto just before dawn, three days ago, heading along the Tokaidō, a forced march, my masters presume for Yedo.” The shoya hid his astonishment at the vehemence in the young man’s face.
“Forced march, you say? They could reach Kanagawa when?” The last way station before Yedo. “In ten or twelve more days?”
“Ah, yes, you are probably right though with two women travelling … my message said both were riding—oh, I already mentioned that—and, oh yes, I forgot, Lord Yoshi was disguised as a common ashigaru, yes, I suppose it is possible to reach Kanagawa then.”
Dazed, Hiraga swallowed more saké, hardly tasting it, accepted another cup, thanked him for the information, saying they would meet tomorrow and left to go to the village hovel he shared with Akimoto.
Outside the village streets were quiet. Shops closed at nightfall. Lights behind shoji screens made the huts and hovels inviting. Wearily, and in turmoil over the news, he took off his top hat and ruffled his hair, scratching his scalp, still not completely accustomed to wearing his hair European style, though lately hardly noticed the discomfort of trousers and waistcoat, glad for them against the season’s cold. Even scratching vigorously did not help the confusion and ache in his head so he sat on a nearby bench—squatting difficult in tight trousers—and stared at the sky.
Koiko! He remembered the two times he had been with her, once for an evening and once for the night. Eeee, both had been expensive, so expensive, but worth it. Katsumata had told him that never again would he perceive such texture of skin or silky hair or such fragrance, or such kind, gentle laughter in a woman’s eyes, or experience the ultimate, exploding warmth that made you want to die, you had so much joy.
“Ah, Hiraga, to die then,” Katsumata had said, “at such a high point, to carry that with you beyond—if there is a beyond—would be perfection. Or if there is no beyond, to be certain at the leap into nothingness you have experienced the best, to die at the zenith would surely be a totality of life.”
“True, but such waste. Why train her for Yoshi?”
“Because he is a major key to sonno-joi, for or against, because she is the only one I have ever known who might possibly enthrall him and so move him to our side, or be positioned to send him onwards. He may be the key to sonno-joi, for or against—that’s our secret, yours and mine—of course, he dies at a time of our choosing anyway.”
Then has Katsumata sent Sumomo to be the dagger of the deed? Or is it to keep Koiko safe from betrayers, or even to guard Yoshi from a traitor within?
So many questions, so much unanswered.
He got up and walked off again, his head aching worse than ever. Tomorrow Akimoto was going with Taira aboard a warship. Hiraga had asked to go but had been refused: “So sorry,” Tyrer had told him. “Sir William said this friend of yours, Mr. Saito, may go, but only him. Of course no weapons. I understand his family is the biggest shipbuilder in Shimonoseki, eh?”
“Yes, Taira-sama. His father fami’ry.”
“But samurai are not allowed to be in business.”
“That is correct, Taira-sama,” he had said quickly, the man too apt a pupil, making the lie sound truthful. “But many samurai fami’ries make arrangement with money’renders and boat makers to do work, neh? This man important sea fami’ry.”
A week ago he had introduced the subject of Akimoto, with that fiction, during one of his endless meetings with Sir William where he stood and answered questions, learning little in exchange. “His name is Saito, Sir W’ram, fami’ry rich, he visit here want to see great British Navy ships, hear great stories about great British Navy. Perhaps you and he can make together, great ship-making factory.”
It was not altogether a lie. For generations Akimoto’s forebears had lived in a fishing village, one of the three ashigaru families there who acted as a kind of policeman for Hiraga’s father, head of the nearby hirazamurai-ranked family, also for generations. Akimoto, personally, had always been interested in the sea and warships. Hiraga’s father had arranged for Akimoto to join the Choshu samurai school, ordering him to learn all he could from the Dutch seaman who was the sensei, because, soon, daimyo Ogama would need officers to captain Choshu ships, and to lead their navy.
“Eeee, Cousin,” Akimoto had said the day before yesterday, “I cannot believe you persuaded them to let me learn their war secrets.”
Hiraga sighed. He had noticed that anything to do with “business” got immediate gai-jin attention. Poetry, not at all, calligraphy nothing, sword-forging a little, politics, yes, but only as it affected trade, but an opportunity to make something to sell for profit—anything, a ship or cannon or cup or knife or length of silk—brought instant results. They’re worse than rice dealers! Their food is money.
Last night Akimoto had been in his cups, rare for him, and started to ramble about money and gai-jin and being near them, “You are right, Hiraga, that’s one of their secrets: money worship. Money! How clever you are to smell that out so soon! Look at that dog of a shoya! Look how he is all ears when you start to tell him what Taira or that other gai-jin dog gleefully say about their dirty business methods, and how they extort money from others any way they can, calling it profit, as though profit is a clean word, feeding off each other like lice. When you talk about money does not that old fish head shoya bring out his best saké to encourage you to tell more and more? Of course he does. He is
just like them, worshipping money, gathering it from us samurai, putting us deeper into debt every year when he creates nothing, nothing! We should kill him and do what Ori said, burn this stinking cesspool—”
“Calm yourself! What’s wrong?”
“I do not want to calm down, I want action, a fight, attack! I am tired of sitting and waiting.” Akimoto was flushed, breathing heavily, eyes bloodshot and not just from the liquor. His huge fist pounded the tatami. “And I am tired of you studying all night, your head in a book—if you’re not careful you will ruin your eyes and ruin your sword arm and then you will be dead. Attack, that is what we are here for—I want sonno-joi now, not later!”
“Without knowledge and patience … how many times do I have to tell you? You become like Ori, or that fool Shorin, why be so anxious to put your head in the Enforcer’s garrote?”
“I’m not and … Eeee, Hiraga, you’re right, please excuse me, but …” The words had trailed off and he saw him swallow more saké.
“What is really troubling you? The truth.”
Akimoto hesitated. “I heard from my father.” He began haltingly but soon the words were pouring out. “A letter came through the mama-san at Kanagawa … there’s famine in the village, in the whole area, your family is hurting too, so sorry to tell you. Two of my little cousins have died. Three of my uncles gave up samurai class and their swords—they sold them as part payment for debts to the moneylender, swords that were used in Sekigahara—to become fishermen, at least they are working the nets for boat owners, dawn to dusk, to get a little cash! Tomiko, she’s an aunt’s widowed daughter who was living with us, she had to sell her little girl to a child broker. She was given enough to feed the rest of her family for half a year—her two sons and her invalid father. A week later she left the money in a teapot for my mother to find and threw herself off the cliff. Her note said her heart was broken having to sell her own child, but the money could help the family and not be wasted on another useless mouth …”
Gai-Jin Page 101