by Morris West
‘I’ll thank you to get the hell out of my life and stay out.’
‘I’m on my way. If you’re going to dinner, you’d better get cleaned up. You look a mess.’
Without another word she hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door. I walked out and took the elevator down to the lobby. As I approached the entrance I saw Miko being handed out of a limousine by Tanaka’s chauffeur. I turned away and sat in a shadowy corner until she had passed. She looked stunning, in a classic kimono with an obi of rich brocade. I asked myself how any man in his right mind could make an enemy of so beautiful a woman.
The thought of a solitary night with only my guilts for company, was intolerable. I sat for a long while in the foyer of the Okura hotel, motionless and cataleptic, with no thrust of will or surge of adrenalin to set me in motion. It was a strange sensation, as if I were floating becalmed in dead water, surrounded by eddies and currents which I myself had created, but which now no longer moved me at all.
By some trick of imagination, my memory switched back to a summer morning in Greece, when my father and I ran a rubber dinghy up to the antique quay on the island of Delos. It was just after first light. The tourists had not yet arrived, the guardians of the islet had not yet begun to stir, yet the place was alive with light, flickering from the sea just stirring under the morning wind, shining from the white marbles and the blue sky. This was the virgin island, where no one was permitted to be born, to die or languish in illness. This was the shrine of Apollo, from whence he ruled the world.
We sat on a great block of masonry and ate our breakfast: bread and cheese and tomatoes and wine mixed with mineral water. As a kind of grace after the meal, my father stood on the block of stone and declaimed the Homeric Hymn to Apollo:
How shall I welcome the God,
The superb, the haughty one
Who stands in the loftiest place
Above all the gods,
Above all the people of the crowded earth?
Then we walked, following an inscription that pointed to ‘the temples of the strangers’. Delos had once been a traders’ town, as well as a shrine. Its tiny harbour had once been jammed with vessels from all over the Middle Sea. Apollo was a proud god, but not a jealous one. He understood that lesser folk made do with lesser deities. So every cult had its own small foothold on the sacred island.
That was the burden of my father’s little discourse for the day: ‘The loneliest hour comes after the loss of a loved one. The loneliest place is where all the gods are strange and there is not one to whom you can turn for hope, or even for the comfort of recognition. So, just as you are learning to pierce the veils of language, you must learn to look behind the rituals, the artefacts, the masks of all religions to the divinity they conceal. If you can do that, then you will never be lonely, because the same spirit is immanent everywhere.’
It was the burden of all his later teaching: that without some perception of unity one’s world would become ‘an unbearable chaos, a howling desolation scattered with shards and fragments, with no provenance, no present meaning, no hope of future restoration.’
On that night, in the Okura hotel, I found myself adrift in that place of desolation. My mind and my world were like shattered mirrors, reflecting madness in every fragment. I had ransomed one woman by putting another in jeopardy. From my shadowed corner, I watched them walk out together, chatting and laughing, the dark beauty and the fair one. I saw the chauffeur hand them into the limousine and drive away, out of my reach for always. I knew that I had lost a love and made a mortal enemy.
More, I had gambled with the trust reposed in me by Tanaka, Leibig and Vannikov. If the gamble failed, I should be forever discredited. I had bargained with a man whose trade was deception, the servant of a great nation, ruthless to its opponents, unforgiving to its competitors. If he did not keep his bargain, I had no recourse. He could kiss me off without a qualm and walk away whistling.
That was not the end of the story. Even if Max Wylie kept his bargain, any or all of my people could reject my deal and damn me for presuming to make it. Either way the cake was cut, my portion would probably choke me. So, rather than sit there, trapped in a nightmare, I got up, headed for the entrance, had the doorman whistle me a cab and set off for a bachelor evening at the Fuji Club.
It was early when I got there. Naomi was still free. I booked her for the evening. She found us a booth in one of the quieter corners far from the band, out of the direct line of the massive amplifiers and the brain-scrambling flicker of the strobe lights. I ordered champagne for Naomi, sushi for both of us and bourbon for myself. Naomi was good, protective company. She would make sure I was not hustled or disturbed. She would expect a generous tip and an over-rider for the house to make up for liquor I had not drunk. If at a certain hour it pleased me to ask her to come home with me and, more importantly, if it pleased her to agree, that was a matter for double negotiation, with the management and with the lady. There is a saying that in the floating world an honest woman is as rare as a square egg. I have to be a witness that Naomi of the Fuji Club was an honest woman. She gave value for money and always added a bonus for good manners and a gentle handling.
From our booth we had a view of the entrance, where all the guests paused for a few moments in a pool of light before being received by the head waiter and shown to their table by one of the girls of the house. Naomi gave me a biography of each newcomer, enlivened sometimes by a full sexual profile. All the time she made me conscious of her own physical presence, warm and comfortable as a kitten, huddled against me in the alcove.
After a while, the old shopworn magic began to work. I relaxed to the numbing beat of the music, the shifting pattern of lights, the air hazy with cigarette smoke, the monotone clatter of talk, the small seductive caresses of the woman beside me. I began to ask myself, with languid lechery, what the hell I was doing in this noisy place and why I did not take the girl off to a comfortable bed in the love-hotel just around the corner. The contemplation of the event was a pleasure in itself. I was too languid to interrupt it by the rituals of departure. Then, abruptly, I was jolted out of my reveries.
Three men walked into the club, Cubeddu, Vannikov and Hoshino, who was obviously the host. He was greeted with deep bows. A trio of the best girls was detailed to escort them to a large table in the most privileged corner of the room. Beside me, Naomi whispered: ‘That is Number One. The big boss. He owns this place.’ I could not suppress a laugh. Here was I, Gilbert Anselm Langton, not only disporting himself in the man’s club, I was contributing handsomely to Yakuza income by our corporate subscriptions and our entertainment expenditures.
Naomi asked: ‘What is so funny, Gil?’
‘You will see in a moment. Do you have one of your message cards?’
One of the civilised customs of the Fuji Club was a supply of small cards and envelopes, which each hostess carried concealed in her obi. The cards were of fine quality board, embossed with the club symbol, Mount Fuji. If you wanted to send a message across the room, you could do so with grace and privacy. If you wanted to offer money, the envelope came in handy, too. I wrote a note to Hoshino in Korean.
My corporation has held a membership in the Fuji Club for a long time. I hope you will permit me to offer you and your guests a bottle of champagne to toast our venture in Bangkok. Gil Langton.
I handed the note to Naomi and asked her to order the champagne immediately and present it with my note to Hoshino. I waited with a certain trepidation for his response. He was not obliged to do anything but acknowledge the courtesy. I hoped he would invite me to join his party. The club was filling up now. It was about five minutes before Naomi returned, flushed and smiling. Mr Hoshino sent his thanks and his compliments and asked us both to join him at his table.
He had obviously prepared with some care for the reception of his guests. Both Cubeddu and Vannikov had been provided with Filipino girls who spoke English. Hoshino’s own companion was a girl who had graduated from Tak
arazuka soubrette to the upper echelons of the nightclub circuit. Naomi herself was clearly in favour with the great man, who said: ‘You are an asset to the Fuji Club, Gil. You choose my best woman and my best champagne.’ I breathed a quiet prayer to the spirits of the place that I might get some value for money.
I asked about Lavrenti, the political officer. I was told he was waiting at the Embassy for the result of the Security Council vote on the use of military force in the Gulf. No one seemed to have much doubt of the outcome. The Soviets would vote yes. The Chinese would abstain; the only open question seemed to be a deadline for the Iraqi withdrawal. I asked Hoshino what he thought about military action. He had no doubts at all.
‘If Hussein will not withdraw, America has to fight or be forever discredited in the Islamic world. In Islam the sword has always been the only passport to power. But it has to be a stunning victory, not a war of attrition like Vietnam. I just hope the Americans have the stomach for it. I deal with Muslim peoples all the time in Malaysia, in Indonesia, in the Philippines, in the Gulf itself, where we are suppliers of unskilled labour. I do good business because I understand them.’ He turned to Vannikov. ‘You have many Muslims in your Southern republics. Do you not agree with me?’
‘Let’s not talk about it tonight, please. I find the whole prospect too melancholy for words.’ He raised his glass. ‘Kampai!’
‘To hell with war.’ Domenico Cubeddu was aggressive even in his amusements. ‘Let’s make love.’ He reached for his giggling partner and began kissing her.
Hoshino reminded him coolly: ‘Whenever you’re ready, there’s a very good love-hotel just around the corner. I can recommend it, because I own it.’
‘Good.’ Cubeddu laughed boisterously. ‘I don’t believe in long engagements. Get the dowry settled, get the bride to bed. Then everyone can get back to making a buck.’
His crassness bored me. I asked Hoshino: ‘How did you finish in Nara?’
‘With problems.’ Hoshino was surprisingly blunt. ‘No discourtesy is meant to our friend Boris here; but it appears our money, Domenico’s and mine, may not be acceptable currency in this deal.’
Vannikov shrugged uncomfortably. ‘What can I say? We’re here in your club, with your girls, drinking your liquor …’
‘And on the other side.’ Cubeddu was easily distracted from sex, he cut in harshly: ‘We’ve got all the goddam hypocrisies of politics. Your country’s broke, man! You’re taking in food parcels, and from Germany, yet. But you’re still looking down your nose at our investments. Come on. Every piece of tail in this room is earning money and you’re here enjoying it.’
‘You are out of order, my friend,’ said Hoshino softly. ‘Lower your voice and apologise to Boris. ‘ For a moment I thought Cubeddu was going to protest, but he subsided and mumbled something about being tired and a little drunk.
Then, as if ashamed of his own cowardice, he added: ‘But it doesn’t solve the problem does it? Are we in or out? I have to know.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Boris Vannikov wearily. ‘I report, I advise, Moscow decides. Period. We’ll have a lot more people in Bangkok. The situation at home will be more precarious and therefore, possibly, more favourable to a deal. That’s the best I can say.’
The little Filipina refilled his glass and began cosseting him quietly. Cubeddu turned back to his love play. Hoshino stroked his woman like a pet cat and asked me in Korean:
‘And you, man of many tongues, what do you say?’
‘Do you have a private room here?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I say we should talk for a while without the women.’
‘We are here to relax and enjoy ourselves.’
‘We may do that better after we have talked.’
Five minutes later we were sitting in a cramped circle in what Hoshino was pleased to call his office, a bare, unfriendly room with a round table and seven straight-backed chairs. He announced curtly: ‘Gil has something to say to us. I have no idea what it is. He thinks it is important. Go ahead, please.’
I took a deep breath and dived into the middle of the argument.
‘It’s about the colour of money, gentlemen. What’s dirty, what’s clean. Is pachinko money dirty? Betting money? Girl money? Coke money, like Domenico’s? Some people say if it buys food for hungry people it’s clean anyway. Some people say it should not lie in the same wallet with money made by honest clerks and hard working shop girls and diplomats like Boris and publishers like me. But that’s not the point. If the label on your money stops the flow of other and larger funds, causes the Soviet Union to lose friends at the time of its greatest need, then your money is bad money.’
‘So, for Christ’s sake,’ Cubeddu exploded ‘we take it home and invest it somewhere else. Simple, done, finished!’
‘Hear the man, please.’ Hoshino’s tone was harsh. Boris Vannikov said nothing. His eyes were fixed on my face as though he were trying to read a subtext in my eyes. I pressed on.
‘The Americans have been trying to sabotage this deal for months. They have been sold the notion that it represents a new version of the old Berlin/Tokyo axis: Germany, Russia and Japan controlling a new federation of republics from the Baltic to the Bering Sea. Carl Leibig planted the idea, Tanaka tried to sell it to the keiretsu, Marta Boysen codified it in modern economic terms. Presto! The Americans had this scapegoat made and ready. You two come along – Yakuza money, drug money – and they’ve got another shot in the locker. Moscow desperately needs the dollars, but they can’t afford to alienate other and larger investors. Stalemate, impasse. Check me, Boris.’
‘Check,’ said Boris Vannikov glumly. ‘It’s a padded cell. I’ve walked round it a thousand times. I can’t find a way out.’
‘Maybe, just maybe, I’ve found one for you.’
‘The hell you have!’ Cubeddu exploded.
‘Please explain it,’ said Hoshino.
‘I spent the afternoon in discussion with one of the men who has been running the campaign of obstruction for the United States. I convinced him, I believe, that the geopolitical argument would be counterproductive for him. It might even blow up in his face if it could be shown that its source was tainted. I further convinced him, I hope, that he should not be seen to be impeding the flow of relief monies, from any source, into the Soviet Union. Which brought us slap-bang up against the first problem: dirty money? clean money? He agreed that if all the money went in clean, with the right laundry marks on it and the right controls, then the Americans might call off the diplomatic fight. Especially if they get the Soviet vote in the Security Council, as it seems likely they will.’
Tanaka said nothing of this today.’ Hoshino was watching me like a raptor ready to strike. ‘Leibig didn’t mention it either.’
‘Because I didn’t discuss it with them. They are aware of the problem. I had not yet proposed this solution. There was nothing to discuss until I had tested the ground. I can’t commit any of you. My brief is only to inform you, to open your eyes to new options.’
‘And what are our options here?’ The question came from Cubeddu.
‘The quickest and easiest way to sanitize your investment money is to get it out of your hands and into a trust, an old-fashioned discretionary trust with reputable trustees, and let the trust invest in this project.’
‘That means we lose control.’ Cubeddu was still kicking against the goads. ‘We don’t like that. We run our own business, always have, always will.’
‘But this isn’t your whole business.’ Hoshino was mild and persuasive. ‘Nor is it mine. What is important to us is our future relations with a new Union of Republics in Eurasia. Much of what you call control of our funds would depend upon our relationship with the trustees … I should not reject the idea too hastily. What is your opinion, Boris?’
‘If you divest yourselves of visible control, then you’re in the same position as any other investors, anonymous and clean. Provided, of course, that you don’t parade your
selves in Bangkok. I believe that would give us all a good chance of success. Your legal identity and the provenance of the funds would be verified by documents. Yes, I think it’s a very good idea.’
‘Provided Tanaka and Leibig agree.’ I had to underline the point. ‘I’ll call them both in the morning.’
‘Domenico and I need to talk some more also.’
‘And I’d like to discuss it with Lavrenti,’ said Boris Vannikov.
‘But in any case, gentlemen, you understand we have to have a clear agreement on this point before we get to Bangkok.’
‘I have a couple more questions,’ said Domenico Cubeddu. ‘Who’s this American contact of yours? And how much clout has he got?’
‘I’m not going to give you his name. As for his clout, I don’t know how much he has. I’m guessing that if he had influence enough to start harassing us, he’s got influence enough to stop it.’
‘It doesn’t follow,’ said Domenico Cubeddu curtly. ‘It doesn’t follow at all.’
After that, there did not seem much more to say, so we decided to rejoin the women in the club. As we hit the wall of noise and the reek of tainted air, Boris Vannikov held me back.
‘Gil, I don’t think I can take much more of this. Let’s get out of here.’
‘Give it ten more minutes and we’ll leave.’
It was no great problem to disengage ourselves. Hoshino had his feet under his own table. Cubeddu could not wait to get the Filipina to bed. I made our apologies, paid off Naomi and walked out with Boris Vannikov into the chill of the autumn night. He was deeply depressed. Ignoring the garish neons of the pleasure quarter, he walked head down, making a kind of confession.
‘When we got back from Nara, our desks were piled high with messages. This is desperation time at home, Gil. The Czechs and the Poles are already preparing reception camps for the exodus that will inevitably happen if we can’t get the people through this winter. The government will just open the borders and let them go. Can you imagine what that kind of mass migration would mean in the depth of winter? Don’t think I exaggerate. It’s entirely possible. Already food is being flown in and the KGB has taken on the job of making as fair a distribution as possible. But the whole system is so run down that I’m not sure it can take much more strain. You gave me some courage tonight. Do you really believe you can make this work?’