by Spence, Alan
‘Atsuka,’ said the girl, with a little nod of the head.
‘Sorry?’
She repeated it. ‘Atsuka.’ And she mimed fanning herself, dabbing her brow with her hand.
‘Hot?’ he said, and he tugged at his collar, blew out air in a big exaggerated sigh.
‘Hai!’ she said. ‘Yes. Hotu!’
He put on a deep, gravelly voice, growled the word back at her. ‘Atsuka!’
She let out a highpitched laugh that suddenly became a scream as something, a rock, crashed through the window, shattered the glass.
His first instinct, in the moment it took to make sense of what had happened, was to shield the girl, put a protective arm round her bare shoulders. She was shaken, trembling, clung to him as he made soothing sounds, stroked her hair. There was noise from outside, angry shouting. Tentatively he disentangled himself and she pulled on her robe, held it tight around her. He stood up, went carefully to the window and looked out. A gang of Japanese men had gathered on the mainland, on the other side of the bridge. In the flicker of light from torches and lanterns he could make out some of them, chanting, brandishing sticks, hurling stones across at the settlement.
What else could the day become? He pulled on his trousers, his jacket, his boots, told the girl it was all right, everything would be fine, and he rushed headlong down the stairs and out into the street. A few others had gathered at the bridge, looking across at the mob on the other side. There were still two guards on duty, pikes at the ready. But they stood with their backs to the mainland, facing the island.
‘Christ!’ said Glover. ‘They’re keeping us penned in instead of driving them away!’
Richardson’s voice was languid, unconcerned. ‘I think they’re trying to prevent an incident. If anyone did manage to get across there, they’d be hacked to pieces.’
‘So we just stand here and take it?’ said Glover.
‘The Jap rabble are just making mischief, trying to provoke us. If they really wanted to cross the bridge, it would take more than those two to stop them.’
A stone landed at Glover’s feet and he picked it up, hurled it back across the bridge into the crowd. The two guards took a step forward, threatening. On the other side, a powerful figure looked ready to lead the mob onto the island. In a flare of torchlight, Glover saw him clear, the samurai Takashi he’d encountered that day, his features suddenly, sharply visible as if in limelight, held in that same intense grimace of pure hate, contained rage. His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but another man, by his side, placed a hand on his arm, restrained him. They exchanged words, the other man bowed and Takashi turned on his heel, moved off through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. The other seemed to give a command and the crowd broke up, moved away. The guards stood at ease again, motioned to the foreigners on the island to disperse.
Richardson lit a cigar, blew its fragrant smoke into the night air. ‘Whatever next?’ he said.
Aye. What else?
The girl was waiting for Glover, back in his room, and they sweated and slid together in his cramped bunk, and he lost himself in her, sank at last into oblivion.
*
He woke alone, thought himself in Bridge of Don and his journey a dream. But no, he was here, in Dejima. The girl had gone in the night, and now the morning light streaked in through his broken window. The fragments of glass had been swept into one corner. She must have done that before she left. He hoped she hadn’t cut those fine white hands. He’d had no money to pay her and a chit wouldn’t do. He remembered saying, Next time. And she’d laughed and said, I come you again! He could still smell her, taste her. Welcome to Nagasaki.
Christ! He had to start work today, this morning. Mackenzie would be coming to collect him.
He hauled himself upright, pulled on his clothes. Even he could recognise that he smelled choice now, stale and sour from the travelling, from wearing the same sweatstained suit for weeks on end. He opened up his old trunk, took out a rough cotton towel, a cracked lump of carbolic soap that smelled of home, laid out his only other suit of clothes. Downstairs in the bathroom was a wooden tub that could be filled from a handpump. He cranked the handle till the tub was half full. The water was cold, but there was nothing else for it. He stripped and stepped into the tub, gasped as he sat right down in it, immersed himself completely, let it shock him awake.
Back in his room he shaved, peering at a little hand mirror propped on the windowledge. Looking out through the broken window he saw Mackenzie crossing from the mainland. He wiped the last of the lather from his face, hurried down the stairs to meet him.
‘Keen,’ said Mackenzie, nodding to him. ‘And presentable. That’s a good start. Now, some facts and figures, Mister Glover. It has cost Jardine Mathieson almost three hundred pounds to send you out here. I imagine that is in the region of three times your father’s annual salary. They see you as someone with a future. So, let’s prove them right, shall we?’
Glover nodded, eager. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘I know you’ll be anxious to get to work straight away.’ Again there was that hint of humour, dry and ironic, about the eyes. ‘But first things first. Big lump of a lad like you, you’ll be needing your breakfast.’
He hadn’t wanted to mention it, but his stomach was rumbling. ‘That would be grand.’
‘We can talk as we walk,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I understand there was a bit of excitement here last night.’
‘I thought maybe it was always like that,’ said Glover.
‘Not at all,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Sometimes it gets dangerous!’
He strode across the bridge, off the island, Glover hurrying to keep up.
‘But to be serious,’ Mackenzie continued, ‘the situation is volatile, and the violence can get out of hand. Just last week, down that very street …’ He nodded to his right down a narrow lane. ‘Two American sailors were run through and beheaded.’
‘Dear God!’
‘No doubt they were drunk, and loud, and aggressive, probably stumbled towards the red light district, blundered into one of the ronin feeling more disaffected than usual.’
‘That’s all it would take?’
‘They are rather quick to take offence!’
Glover remembered the face in the torchlight, on the other side of the bridge.
‘I’m sure I saw our friend Takashi last night, leading the mob.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Mackenzie. He stopped by a low open doorway, lifted back a flap of fabric that hung across the top, white Japanese writing painted on dark blue. ‘In here,’ he said, and he stooped and entered.
Glover followed him in, to a dim room filled with the dark smoky smells of cooking. A few Japanese squatted on the floor, scooping up food from bowls. They seemed to eat with thin wooden sticks, a pair held between finger and thumb. Mackenzie exchanged greetings with the owner of the shop, placed an order and sat on a low stool by the one table tucked in the corner. The owner bowed, pulled up another stool for Glover.
‘I’m afraid bacon and eggs are in short supply,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And oatmeal, for that matter. I hope you won’t find fish disagreeable at this hour of the day.’
‘I’m quite partial to kippers for breakfast, as it happens.’
‘Arbroath smokies!’ Mackenzie chuckled. ‘No, what they have is a wee bit different.’
‘I could eat a scabby horse,’ said Glover. ‘Scabs and all!’
‘Aye, well,’ said Mackenzie. ‘We’ll see how you get on with the local cuisine!’
The owner of the shop brought each of them a bowl, a pair of the eating-sticks, a scoop-shaped bone spoon.
‘Arigato,’ said Mackenzie to the man, and to Glover, ‘That means thank you.’
‘Arigato?’ said Glover, and the man laughed and bowed.
‘Good!’ said Mackenzie. Then he picked up the sticks. ‘These are called hashi. In China we called them chopsticks.’
‘Hashi.’
‘But I wouldn’
t try eating the soup with them just yet!’ Mackenzie picked up the spoon. ‘Bon appétit. Or Itadakimasu, as they say here.’
‘Itadakimasu,’ repeated Glover.
The bowl was brim-full of steaming broth. Glover prodded and poked beneath the surface, saw a glut of slimy veg etables, what looked like tiny inch-long eels, a chunk of what might be a chopped-up tentacle with suckers. ‘Smells like Torry foreshore at low tide.’
‘You did mention scabs and a horse,’ said Mackenzie.
‘I have eaten tripe,’ said Glover. ‘And potted hough.’ He took a deep breath, slurped a mouthful of the soup, found it chewy and slippery once the liquid had slipped down. The taste was pungent but not unpleasant. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, spooning up more. He waved to the owner, mimed rubbing his own stomach. The man laughed, and so did Mackenzie. Glover felt as if he had passed a test, an initiation. When they’d eaten, they sipped some bitter green tea from rough unglazed cups.
‘A history lesson,’ said Mackenzie. ‘The Japanese have been working in splendid isolation for centuries. They described themselves as sakoku, the closed country. They had no desire to open their doors to us at all. But they were persuaded.’
‘American gunboats.’
‘Commodore Perry’s black ships, to be precise. They dropped anchor in Edo bay. The threat was sufficient. The Shogun agreed to limited trade with the West. We had a foot in the door. Mind you, that was five years ago, and it’s taken till this very summer for the treaty to be fully effective. As you’ll discover for yourself, the wheels grind slowly here. The Shogun and his administration, the Bakufu, make damn sure of that.’
‘The Shogun is the ruler?’
‘The Emperor, the Mikado, is effectively exiled in Kyoto. He’s a figurehead, nothing more. The Shogun rules in his stead. He was not at all happy about signing the treaty, but the Commodore gave him no choice. All the Shogun can do, to save face and placate the traditionalists, is make things as difficult as possible for us. For example …’ Mackenzie handed Glover a small piece of bamboo, a Japanese symbol painted on one side. ‘This is what passes for currency around here. And of course, they’re bloody difficult to get hold of.’
‘You can’t just buy them?’ Glover knew the question must be naive, even as he asked it.
‘Not even for pure Mexican silver dollars. Like this.’
He produced a shining silver coin, flicked it spinning in the air towards Glover, who caught it.
‘Try,’ said Mackenzie, nodding towards the owner of the shop. ‘See if he’ll sell you any.’
Another test. Glover held out the bamboo token in his left hand, the silver dollar in his right, tried to indicate that he wanted to exchange quantities of the one for the other. ‘You sell?’
When the man realised what he was asking, he was suddenly frightened, looked around at the door, waved his hand in front of his face, mimed cutting his own throat.
‘He’s not exaggerating,’ said Mackenzie. ‘It’s more than his life’s worth.’
‘So how do you get anything done?’
‘Sheer bloody-mindedness! And finding out which officials have their price.’ Glover handed back the dollar and the bamboo token, but Mackenzie waved him away.
‘Take them as payment on account.’
‘Thank you,’ said Glover, and he put them in his jacket pocket, felt in there the paper butterfly. He’d transferred it from his other coat, kept it with him for good luck. He knew it was foolishness, superstition. But still.
Outside he walked with Mackenzie along the waterfront.
‘This is the Bund,’ said Mackenzie. ‘It’s the main thoroughfare. All these warehouses are owned by western companies; British, American, Dutch, French. They’re all investing heavily, and there’s more than enough to go round.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Glover.
‘Of course.’
‘You said the treaty had only just come into effect.’
‘That’s right. A few months ago.’
‘But you’ve been trading here for over a year.’
Mackenzie grinned. ‘Ways and means, laddie. I said it before, sheer bloody-mindedness. And a willingness to take risks.’
He stopped outside a two-storey building, set back from the harbour. ‘Here we are, the furthest outpost of the Jardine Mathieson empire!’
The office, on the ground floor, was simple, the furnishing sparse: basic hardwood tables and chairs, bookcases laden with ledgers. Mackenzie’s accommodation was upstairs. Through to the back of the building was the warehouse, stacked with bales and boxes, crates and sacks. Two young Japanese men in shirtsleeves were checking a consignment of silk. They stopped what they were doing, bowed deeply to Mackenzie, less so to Glover.
‘Mister Shibata and Mister Nakajimo,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Mister Glover. Guraba-san.’
Glover nodded to the young men. ‘Guraba-san?’ he said to Mackenzie. ‘That’s what the lad said to me last night, the one that delivered my luggage.’
‘It’s your name in Japanese,’ said Mackenzie. ‘They find it hard to get round some of our consonants. You’ll get used to it.’
‘Guraba-san,’ said the two young men, simultaneously.
It was warm in the warehouse, close in the confined space, the air thick with the scents of spices and tea. Glover fanned his face with his hand, said ‘Atsuka!’
He was proud of himself for remembering the word, but the two young men couldn’t help themselves, they laughed out loud. One of them said something to Mackenzie and laughed again.
‘They are very impressed that you’re learning the language already,’ said Mackenzie, that look of wry amusement again in the eyes, at the corners of the mouth. ‘But they point out that in polite society they use the word atsui. The word you used is generally to be heard spoken by young ladies of a certain class, and they are intrigued as to where you may have heard it.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Glover, uncomfortable.
‘If I may paraphrase,’ Mackenzie went on, broadening his accent a little, ‘you’ve been in Nagasaki five minutes and you’re picking up the speak o tinkers and hoors!’
Now Glover felt overheated. Atsuka or atsui, it didn’t matter, it was stuffy in the room.
‘Never mind,’ said Mackenzie. ‘As long as that’s all you pick up from them!’ He indicated the two Japanese, maintaining composure, stifling the laughter. ‘They’ll be telling that story for a month.’
Back through in the office, Mackenzie showed Glover to a desk in the corner of the room. This was where he would be working. Mackenzie had to go out for the rest of the morning, told Glover to start sorting through the pile of papers on his desk. Glover looked at the top sheet, recognised the familiar layout, the delineation of the words and figures on the page. Bills of lading. Mackenzie left him to it and he settled to work, first taking out the three small objects from his jacket pocket – the bamboo token, the silver dollar, the paper butterfly – and placing them together on the desk, a little shrine to good fortune.
4
SILK AND TEA
Nagasaki, 1859–60
A land flowing with milk and honey. Or at least, he’d said, silk and tea. He’d spun the globe on its axis, stopped the world with his finger on Japan. Here be dragons, and a fortune to be made. He wanted it all.
He threw himself into the work, hurled himself at it full-tilt. He wanted to learn everything Mackenzie had to teach, was hellbent on finding out more.
Within months he had made himself indispensable. He took charge of documentation and paperwork, the dull, repetitive, essential grind, gradually delegated most of it to Shibata and Nakajimo. That freed him to get out, away from the desk, watch Mackenzie in action as he haggled, argued, bargained with merchants, fought for the best deal. They tramped the muddy lanes and backstreets of the city, visited storerooms and warehouses, back-shops and flimsy godowns, checked merchandise, sifted samples.
‘You have to watch,’ said Mackenzie, delving into a crate
of tea, rubbing the leaves between fingers and thumb, sniffing. ‘Some of the bastards are up to every trick under the sun. They’ll sell you the best quality leaf then substitute half of it with floor-sweepings as soon as your back’s turned. Or you’ll buy the finest raw silk and they’ll adulterate it with sand.’
Glover watched and learned. Soon he was signing documents in his own right on behalf of Jardine’s. Mackenzie, from referring to him in letters to head office as his able young assistant, started calling him, only half jocular, the chief. His reputation in the small community began to grow.
Mackenzie introduced him to a Chinaman by the name of Wang-Li, a trader, he said, a dealer in anything and everything under the sun. Glover was surprised, said he thought the Chinese were barred from trading, by law.
‘They are,’ said Mackenzie. ‘But again, there are ways and means. There’s many a European or American who can’t thole a bland diet of fish, rice and noodles, and they’ve been allowed to employ Chinamen as cooks. Mister Wang-Li can rustle up a creditable beef stew and has a repertoire of French dishes in addition to Chinese cuisine.’
Wang-Li grinned, bowed.
Mackenzie continued. ‘Officially he’s a chef and man servant in the pay of an American trader by the name of Jack Walsh – and that’s somebody else you’ll be meeting before long. But there’s more to Wang-Li’s accomplishments than cooking. He has many strings to his bow. He’s a verit able magician when it comes to procuring whatever you might need.’
Again Wang-Li smiled. ‘You want, I get.’
‘He’s not joking,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Last week he acquired for me a whole crate of Lea and Perrins Worcester Sauce!’
‘Impressive.’
‘You keep in mind,’ said Wang-Li.
‘I will.’
Mackenzie had met Wang-Li during his time in Shanghai, before he’d come to Nagasaki.
