The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  3

  GURABA-SAN

  Nagasaki, 1859

  He concentrated on his feet, negotiated his way down the shaky gangplank. The ground steadied itself beneath him. He took one tentative step, another. He breathed deep, took in the scents and smells. There were fragrances he didn’t know, heady and sweet, a spicy wood smoke, something fermented, something bitter and dark, acrid, and in behind it all the stink of fish that reminded him of home, made him laugh. He felt lightheaded. The air was warm, the colours bright. The hillside opposite was a swathe of deep red, as if it had been painted crimson. Everything felt dreamlike, unreal.

  All around, cargo and baggage were being unloaded, exotic boxes, bales of silk, a bright-coloured bird in a cage. The labourers were stocky and compact, naked except for loincloths, moved swiftly and efficiently. He found his own luggage, a battered old trunk, and that too made him laugh. It sat there, familiar, solidly itself, but incongruous, transposed to this far strange place.

  He caught a flicker of movement out the corner of his eye, something tiny and white. He focused, saw it clear, a butterfly hovering and dipping in the air. But the wings didn’t flutter – it was made of paper, and what kept it dancing there was the updraught from a paper fan. And the fan was being wielded by a young girl with a deftness and lightness of movement the like of which he had never seen. He stared at her, enchanted. She looked up and the shock of seeing him, looming there, made her stop, hold the fan to her face and peer at him over it. The butterfly fell.

  He bent and picked it up, held it between finger and thumb, amazed at the simple intricacy of it, the paper almost translucent.

  A voice boomed out behind him, loud and male, the accent Scottish.

  ‘Mister Glover?’

  He turned, saw a middle-aged man striding towards him.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I thought you looked the only one likely to be an Aberdonian!’

  The man held out his hand, but Glover, still holding the butterfly, was suddenly awkward. He turned again, meaning to give the butterfly back to the girl, but she was gone, faded into the crowd. He took the butterfly in his left hand, held out his right.

  ‘Ken Mackenzie from Jardine Mathieson.’

  The handshake was firm, the grip Masonic, pressing with the thumb.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Glover.

  The set of the man’s features was hard, dour, a certain tightlipped northern grimness to the line of the mouth, the face weathered. The eyes were sharp, missed nothing, but were not without a dry humour. He registered Glover’s discomfiture over the handshake, let his gaze drop to the butterfly. Glover closed his hand round it, put it away in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mackenzie, laconic.

  A sternfaced official came over, backed by two armed guards. He gestured towards Glover, spoke at him rapidly in Japanese, the voice gruff but with a kind of singsong tonality to it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Glover, ‘I don’t …’

  ‘He could speak to you in Dutch,’ said Mackenzie. ‘But I doubt you’d find that any easier!’

  Then Mackenzie spoke to the man in Japanese, his manner brisk, assured. They seemed to argue, haggle. Glover looked on as if from far away, the ebb and flow of their voices, the background noise, all washing over him. He understood none of it, but one word recurred again and again. Dejima. Eventu ally they reached some kind of agreement. The man bowed stiffly to Mackenzie, gave a little grunt. Mackenzie bowed in return, but less deeply. The man bowed to Glover, the merest inclination of the head. Glover nodded in response, said ‘Fine.’

  ‘Welcome to Nagasaki!’ said Mackenzie, as the guards stood back to let them pass.

  Glover moved to pick up his trunk, but Mackenzie said he would have it brought to Dejima.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s where you’ll have to stay in the meantime,’ said Mackenzie. ‘But don’t worry. As prisons go, it’s not too bad.’

  ‘Prison?’

  ‘Only in a manner of speaking. And it shouldn’t be for long.’

  He strode off through the crowds and Glover followed.

  The area next to the dock was a marketplace, lined with makeshift stalls fashioned from straw matting and bamboo poles. Live fish flopped in wooden tubs. Creatures he’d never seen writhed, twitched tentacles. Tiny turtles seemed to float in mid-air, but each was suspended from a thread and spun there, legs paddling. An artist drew sketches with a brush, another stall sold carvings and lacquer-work, and in the open spaces jugglers and acrobats performed. One old man, face a bland mask, balanced a plate, on its rim, on the edge of a swordblade. The butterfly girl must have strayed from here to the dock. Glover thought he might see her again, looked around, but she was nowhere. Mackenzie threw a look back at him, made sure he was keeping up. Along the waterfront they were the focus of astonished curiosity.

  ‘Barbarians are still something of a novelty,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Especially tall blond barbarians like yourself.’

  A gang of workmen stopped what they were doing and stared, stonefaced. Glover nodded to them, but they didn’t respond, kept staring. Young women, passing, whispered to each other and giggled behind their hands. Glover smiled at them, bowed politely, made them laugh even more. A gaggle of children walked alongside, shouting, making round-eye signs with their fingers in front of their own eyes. Glover stopped abruptly, turned, mock-ferocious, and roared. They shrieked and ran, tumbling over each other to get away and hide. Glover laughed and they tentatively re-emerged, started following him again.

  Once more he played the game, turned and roared, and again they scattered. This time they were bolder about regrouping, skipping along in his wake.

  A third time he turned, but this time they looked truly, genuinely, terrified, before he had even made a sound. They hid behind barrels or bales of cloth. Some of them threw themselves to the ground, pressed their foreheads in the dust. He was confused. Then he noticed some of the adults were behaving in the same way, stepping back and bowing deeply, getting down on their knees, grovelling in obeisance and real fear. He didn’t understand, then realised one or two of the adults were looking beyond him, at something else.

  He looked over his shoulder, saw a dark figure moving towards him, out of the sun. He shielded his eyes, to see more clearly. The man was short but powerfully built, walked with a slow, exaggerated swagger, an arrogance in his bearing. He wore a grey robe, a sash tied round his waist, and tucked into the sash were two swords, one long, one short. His hair was caught up in a topknot. The look on his face was truly ferocious, and the ferocity was directed at Glover. It wasn’t just the unfamiliar set of the features. The look was pure hatred.

  The man kept walking, straight towards him, barked out something that sounded like a command, the voice rough and guttural. Glover stood his ground. Then he felt a strong hand grab the collar of his coat, drag him back out of the way.

  ‘There’s a good lad,’ said Mackenzie, now gripping the back of his neck. ‘Just do as I do, if you please.’

  He bowed to the man, respectfully, bending from the waist, pushed Glover’s head forward till he did the same.

  The man seemed reluctantly appeased, glared at Glover long and hard, grunted something and moved on.

  Mackenzie breathed out, relieved. ‘Not worth losing the head, son. And I do mean literally.’ He made a cut-throat motion. ‘That bruiser goes by the name of Takashi. He’s what they call ronin, a disaffected samurai. They’re the warrior class. They’re used to being obeyed, and they don’t like us being here.’ He started walking again. ‘Three things to remember and you’ll get on just fine.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Don’t cross the samurai. Keep out of the politics. And mind where ye dip yer wick!’

  Further along he stopped by a stone bridge that led to a small island in the harbour. Two Japanese guards, armed with barbed pikes, barred the way across.

  ‘Right,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Here we are.’


  ‘Where?’ asked Glover, looking at the guards.

  ‘Dejima,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Your home for the next few days.’ He indicated the row of two-storey buildings, behind a sea wall. ‘The whole thing’s man-made, you know. Ingenious buggers, the Japs. They built it so they could contain the Dutch, keep an eye on them.’

  Glover was still staring, suddenly exhausted, numbed. He was here, the dead end of his journey.

  Mackenzie must have seen it in his face. ‘Don’t look so crestfallen, man. I stayed here myself when I first arrived. It’s fine. And the guards are there for your protection as much as anything else.’

  ‘Protection from what?’

  ‘Oh, cut-throats, brigands, ronin like our friend Takashi.’

  He addressed the guards, again spoke his brisk Japanese. The guards bowed, perfunctory, and let them cross over, go through an iron gate onto the island. There was one main street, dusty and rutted, running the whole length, a hundred yards. Along one side were the two-storey buildings visible from shore, European-style, built of wood, with green-shuttered windows, the paintwork weathered and fading. Along the other side were warehouses, a store. Mackenzie showed Glover to his lodgings, a sparse second-floor room. One small window looked out over the bridge they’d just crossed, back to the mainland.

  Mackenzie said he would take his leave, said Glover would be needing to rest. He would call for him in the morning, take him to the workplace, show him the ropes.

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ said Glover.

  ‘There’s a club across the way,’ said Mackenzie. ‘A glorified barroom selling warm Dutch beer. They serve food too, of a sort. We’ll arrange an advance on your wages tomorrow. In the meantime just sign for what you have.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mackenzie stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh, and there’s usually some entertainment provided by ladies from the town. So, look out for yourself, keep your wits about you, and mind what I told you before.’

  ‘I will, sir. Right. Aye.’

  He listened to Mackenzie’s footsteps, clumping down the wooden stairs. And he felt it again, closing in on him. He was alone, in this drab cramped room that smelled of mildew and tobacco and damp. He took it all in: the single bed against one wall; above it, hung squint, a framed painting of a merchant ship; a small table and a kitchen chair; resting on the table an earthenware basin, a ewer full of water.

  He pushed open the shutters and looked out the window, saw Mackenzie cross the bridge, nod to the guards, dis appear into the crowds without looking back. Now Glover was overcome with weariness, kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed. The bed creaked, the mattress was hard, stuffed with straw. He would rest for a few minutes.

  *

  He was woken, dragged up out of sleep, by a sudden banging. He got to his feet with a kind of confused urgency. The room came into focus, unfamiliar, a place in a dream. Then he remembered. The journey. Where he was. The ends of the earth.

  The banging came again, a knocking at the door, and for no good reason he braced himself, ready for confrontation. But it was only a young Japanese man, a porter delivering his luggage.

  The man bowed. ‘Guraba-san?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Glover, ‘I don’t understand. But that’s my luggage, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He nodded and smiled, pointed at his old trunk.

  ‘Hai,’ said the man, bowing, and he dragged the box into the room, bowed again.

  Glover mimed patting his trouser pockets, pulling them inside out to show they were empty. He shrugged his shoulders, turned down the corners of his mouth in a clown-mask, a grimace of regret. The young man laughed, waved his hand, bowed one last time and was gone, light and barefoot down the stairs.

  Glover lay down again. Just a few minutes more. He plunged into a deep heavy sleep, and when he half-woke the room had grown dark. He hung in a kind of limbo, trying to surface, treading water, then with a huge effort willed himself awake, sat up. His dreams had been vivid but incoherent, were already starting to fade. Fragments came back to him, a sense of himself in a huge empty house, wandering from room to room, something small and white flitting ahead of him, just out of reach, and behind every door a vague nameless threat.

  He poured cold water into the basin, splashed his face. He would wash properly in the morning, shave, put on clean clothes. For the moment he just wanted to wake himself sufficiently, wipe the bleariness from his eyes. He would stretch his legs, go outside, see what his prison had to offer.

  The night air was mild, the scents and smells that heady mix of familiar and strange, the sea tang a constant, just the same. Across the way was the building Mackenzie had mentioned, faint light shining from the windows, the dull muffled rise and swell of male voices from the bar. He pushed open the door, went inside. The accommodation was simple and basic, a counter of dark wood along the back wall, a few tables scattered about the room, an old upright piano in the corner. There was a momentary lull in the conversations as he entered. A few men turned to look in his direction, but there was no acknowledgement, no word of greeting. The conversations picked up again. At the counter he ordered a beer from the surly barman he guessed was Dutch. The man took a bottle from the shelf behind him, put it down on the bar, put beside it a halfpint glass he’d wiped on his apron.

  ‘Chit?’ said the man.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Glover.

  ‘You work for Jardine’s?’

  ‘That’s right, aye.’

  The man pushed a piece of paper towards him, handed him a pen, an inkwell.

  ‘You sign.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Glover, and he signed his name in full, with a flourish. Thomas Blake Glover. He sat by the wall, raised his glass to two men at the next table.

  ‘Your health, gentlemen!’

  ‘A new arrival!’ said the man nearest, darkhaired and thin-faced, the accent unmistakeably English.

  ‘Another Englishman?’ said the other, a sallow, balding man with a wisp of moustache. His inflection was European, most likely French.

  ‘A Scot,’ said Glover.

  ‘Oh, well,’ said the Englishman. ‘Next best thing, eh?’

  ‘I’m Tom Glover.’

  ‘Charles Richardson.’

  ‘Montblanc,’ said the Frenchman.

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Down the hatch!’

  ‘A la vôtre!’

  Perhaps it was his tiredness, the strangeness of the place, but he didn’t feel at ease with these men. They maintained an amused detachment, as if they were assessing him, weighing him up with an air of condescension, ready to find him wanting. The tiredness had also rendered him particularly susceptible to the beer, even this insipid brew he was drinking. Three bottles and he was drifting. The faces of his companions began to look demonic. He had to take his leave, get back to his room and sleep. He stood up to go and the room tilted, spun. The faces leered as music started up, a thin tinkling jingle from the out-of-tune piano in the corner. It was played by a huge Japanese woman; no, a man dressed as a woman, a corpulent Dutchman in a silk robe, a black wig on his head, face powdered white, lips painted a bright red pout.

  The effect was clownish, grotesque, a pantomime mask.

  ‘Ah!’ said Richardson. ‘The entertainment!’

  Montblanc had suddenly become animated, laughing shrilly and waving at the pianist who grinned back at him, teeth yellow against the make-up.

  Glover sat down again, steadied himself, let the room settle. The piano continued to tinkle and from a back room came three young Japanese women, yes, this time they really were women, gliding forward with tiny, shuffling steps. They were greeted with a spatter of applause, a few ironic, desultory calls of approval, as they moved into a dance, flicked open the fans they were carrying, bowed to their cackling, braying audience.

  Glover imagined the dance must be a parody, rendered crude by the music-hall accompaniment. But even at that, there was something inherently graceful in the way the women moved, a lightness that touched him,
in spite of how he was feeling.

  One of the dancers came towards their table and he found himself captivated by the way she cocked her head, the coy, knowing look she gave him over the top of the fan that she fluttered in front of her face. When the music stopped, she bowed to their table, kept her eyes on Glover.

  Richardson laughed. ‘I certainly have no intention of going native! As for Montblanc, I think his predilections are quite other.’ He made a grand gesture, a wave of the hand towards Glover. ‘That leaves you.’

  The girl was still looking at him, still fluttering. She gave a little giggle, said, ‘I come you?’

  ‘Now there’s an offer!’ said Richardson, slapping the table.

  *

  And what else could this day become? And could it really have been only a day? The dreamlike quality had deepened, intensified. He had gone beyond exhaustion into another state entirely, a strange clear-eyed detachment, mind and body separate as he watched himself, watched events unfold, play out. He had stumbled out of the bar, the girl following him. The sudden change of air had gone to his head and the girl had taken him by the arm, steadied him. He’d felt the warmth of her body through the thin cotton robe she wore, smelled her perfume, been suddenly roused. He’d indicated the door to his lodgings, let her guide him up the stairs and into this room, the room that had been his for only a few hours.

  Now she sat on the edge of the bed, his bed, and slipped the robe off her thin shoulders. He remembered a shrieking redhaired harridan, laughing at him in a back wynd by the Aberdeen docks. This young girl, here with him now, was so different. Her black black hair was gathered up, exposed the delicate nape of her neck. Something in the vulnerability of it filled him with a kind of tenderness, made him want to kiss her just there. He thought of Annie.