by Spence, Alan
‘I was never so grateful to get out of a place in my life,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Think yourself lucky you didn’t get posted there.’
‘I saw enough of it just passing through,’ said Glover.
He’d walked the streets by the Shanghai waterfront, overwhelmed by the crush of the crowds, the heat, the noise, the stench of the river, the underlying sense of threat, armed guards posted on the walls round the foreign settlement.
‘A cesspit,’ said Mackenzie. ‘A sewer. I think I was here a month before the smell of it cleared from my nostrils. It stinks to high Heaven. They call it the Whore of the Orient. There’s a street called Blood Alley where the price of a pint includes a twelve-year-old girl behind a grubby curtain.’
‘You want, I get!’ said Wang-Li, laughing.
‘I believe he’s making a joke,’ said Mackenzie to Glover, ‘though I’m never entirely sure.’
‘Shanghai my home town,’ said Wang-Li.
‘That would explain a great deal,’ said Mackenzie.
*
Mackenzie continued Glover’s education by telling him which customs officials were bribable, which local merchants would break a contract before the ink on it had dried. He warned him too that some of the foreign traders were equally unscrupulous and ruthless, regarded all Japanese as corrupt beyond redemption. The same traders regarded their own diplomats as soft, excessively reasonable, lily-livered, and the diplomats in their turn described the traders as the scum of Europe.
‘All in all,’ he said, ‘an interesting environment in which to conduct legitimate business!’
The heart of the trade was straightforward import and export. Jardine’s clippers sailed to the China coast, six days away, laden with silk and with seaweed, a local delicacy. To make the journey worthwhile, the ships had to return with other cargoes, commodities that could be sold in Japan: sugar, cotton, Chinese medicines. It was Mackenzie’s job, and now Glover’s, to find a market for these goods.
Learning the Japanese language was essential, at least a smattering. Mackenzie had mastered the basics and Glover had made a start, undaunted by the embarrassment of his early efforts. Mackenzie still had only to growl ‘Atsuka!’ for Shibata and Nakajimo to laugh.
At the Foreigners’ Club Glover had picked up a cheaply produced phrasebook purporting to give a newcomer to Japan a few rudimentary expressions, conversational gambits.
I, it said, was waterkoosh.
‘Watakashi,’ said Mackenzie.
You was O my.
‘Omai.’
Tea was otcher.
‘Hocha.’
Silk was kinoo.
‘Kinu.’
‘It ventures into entire sentences,’ said Glover, ‘most of them peremptory commands.’
‘First thing your foreigner needs to learn!’ said Mackenzie.
‘Here’s some sound advice,’ said Glover. ‘If you want to tell a native to make less noise driving nails into the wall or else you shall be obliged to punish him, you should shout, O my pompon bobbery waterkoosh pumguts!’
‘First-class gibberish,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Pidgin. A bastard mongrel hybrid. They half-hear and misunderstand, stir bits of mangled French into the mix along with scraps of Dutch and Chinese, even Malay – that’s where piggy comes from.’
‘I’ve heard that, at the docks.’
‘A rough translation would be Get a move on! or perhaps Bugger off!’
‘That’ll be useful if I meet the compiler of this book,’ said Glover, and he shouted, ‘Piggy! Bobbery waterkoosh pumguts!’
Mackenzie chuckled. ‘Oh, another piece of advice about learning the language – I’d advise you to mimic the way the menfolk speak, rather than copying your lady friends. The difference is quite noticeable, the men have a much rougher, harsher tone, and if you speak like the women then the Japanese merchants may get entirely the wrong impression, if you take my meaning.’
‘That’s all I’d need.’
‘And you a muckle great hairy Aberdonian! They’d be really confused!’
‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll get Shibata and Nakajimo to keep me right.’
Shibata and Nakajimo had already helped him further his education. They led him one Saturday night, their work over for the week, along the Bund, towards the entertainment district, the floating world.
‘Maruyama,’ said Shibata. ‘Flower quarter.’
The air was warm, mild. They came to a low wooden footbridge across a stream. ‘This is called shian-bashi,’ said Shibata. ‘Means hesitation-bridge. Still time to turn back.’
Glover smiled, followed him across.
Further on they reached another bridge, this one smaller, narrower.
‘This one is omoikiri-bashi,’ said Nakajimo. ‘That’s made-your-mind-up-bridge. No turning back.’
Glover laughed. ‘Lead on!’
*
Time was short. The cargo had to be unloaded before the tide turned, and already it was close to high water, would soon start to ebb. Crates packed with bales of cotton were stacked high, precarious, on the flotilla of small boats that ferried them from the ship, at anchor out in the bay. Mackenzie was overseeing the operation, yelling instructions as the boats bobbed and jostled at the quay.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘We have to do this now!’
A red-faced young Englishman, a foreman from the warehouse, took his cue from Mackenzie, started screaming at the coolies.
‘Shift, you lazy bastards! Get a move on! Piggy! Piggy! For God’s sake, put some beef into it!’ He cuffed one of the workmen, shoved another. ‘Fucking useless!’
Glover was lending a hand. He grabbed a line thrown from one of the boats, strained to hold it steady, arms and shoulders aching with the effort, hands starting to chafe with ropeburn. Another boat came in alongside. It was overloaded, started to tilt as the crates shifted, finally keeled over and capsized, tipped cargo and workmen overboard into the harbour.
For a moment it was chaos, the water churned up, the men yelling as they kept afloat, tried to right the boat, save the cargo. But one man was in trouble, thrashed and floundered as if he couldn’t swim. He was panicking, gulping in water, gasping for air.
Glover didn’t think, shoved the foreman aside and jumped in, grabbed the man who was still struggling and kicking. With great difficulty he managed to get an arm round the man’s neck, drag him to the quay where other workmen hauled him out.
Glover pitched in again, helped lug crates onto the dockside. When it was over he slumped, exhausted, dripping, clothes sodden and sticking to him.
The Japanese he’d pulled from the water came over and bowed low, then kowtowed, kneeled and pressed his head to the ground, stood up and turned away with as much dignity as he could muster.
‘That was well done, Tom,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And politic too.’
Another westerner stood behind him, puffing at a cigar, a wry grin crinkling his face.
‘Impressive,’ said the man, his accent American. ‘I’d heard you were throwing yourself into the business!’
Mackenzie made the introductions. ‘Tom, Jack Walsh. Jack, Tom Glover.’
Walsh held out his hand, but Glover was awkward about shaking it, dripping wet as he was.
‘Pleased to meet you, Tom,’ said Walsh, taking his hand anyway, shaking it vigorously. ‘When you’ve dried off, I’d like to take you for a drink.’
*
They crossed the two bridges, hesitation, mind-made-up, entered the other world of Maruyama. Walsh was expansive, initiating him into the mysteries of the place, a garden of earthly delights. ‘The Russians have their own whorehouse,’ he said, ‘at Inasa, on the other side of the bay. They call it a rest house, but there’s not much rest to be had! It’s on a level with what you no doubt saw in Shanghai, a row of cubicles, girls laid out like so much meat, sailors lining up for a quick fuck. Brutal in the extreme. Of course, if you like that sort of thing …’ He tailed off, laughed at Glover’s expression. ‘The Russian auth ori
ties have taken the trouble to have a doctor on hand, examine the girls. A sensible precaution.’ Again he laughed. ‘Don’t look so alarmed! Where we’re going is the other extreme.’
‘I just …’
‘I can see you still have something of the Presbyterian about you after all!’
‘Maybe I do,’ he said. He was used to the whole business being furtive. It was the openness of it all that was strange to him, the matter-of-factness.
‘Never mind,’ said Walsh, ‘Maruyama will set that to rights!’ He gestured back down the hill, the way they had just walked. ‘Even at the lowest level, down there, it’s a cut above what you’ll find anywhere else. That’s where the little nami-joro operate, simple working girls. Further up the hill, and further up the ladder, are the mise joro, a little more cultivated, a little more refined. I expect that’s the section you visited with Shibata-san and Nakajimo-san.’
To his own ridiculous irritation, Glover felt himself blush. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘Are there no secrets here?’
‘It is a small community,’ said Walsh. ‘Word gets around.’
‘Clearly,’ said Glover.
Walsh led him on and up, higher still.
‘Now,’ said Walsh, coming to a stop at the crest of the hill, in front of a bamboo gate. ‘This is the highest level of all, Heaven itself! The women here are another species altogether. They’re called tayu, the absolute epitome of refinement.’
‘Tayu,’ said Glover, savouring the word.
‘They’re also known as keisei, which means castle-topplers. They’ve driven many a rich man to ruin.’
‘Same the whole world over!’
‘And of course it’s only rich men who can afford to spend time in their company. They don’t come cheap, as it were.’
Glover stopped. ‘I don’t know if I can afford this yet. When you invited me for a drink …’
‘Exactly,’ said Walsh. ‘I invited you. So, this one’s on me. And by the way, I like that yet! Shows the right attitude. You’ll be able to pay me back in no time.’
‘Thanks,’ said Glover. ‘I appreciate your faith in me.’
‘Let’s just say I know a good bet when I see one.’ He led Glover through the gate. ‘Welcome to the Sakura.’
‘Cherry blossom.’
‘Very good!’
The garden was exquisite, an actual cherry tree beside an ornamental pond, stone lanterns, a statue of a goddess, one hand raised in benediction. From the pond a small stream flowed, and over it, leading to the porch, the discreet shoji screen doors, was yet another bridge. They crossed over, walked the last few steps, feet crunching on raked white gravel. The door slid open. From inside came the scented smoke of incense, a waft of music, plucked strings, almost discordant. He recognised it, the bittersweet twang, an instrument called the samisen.
‘First things first,’ said Walsh. ‘We have to bathe.’
*
For the second time that day, Glover was immersed in water. But now instead of thrashing in the cold depth of the harbour, he was soaking in the hot tub at the teahouse. One of the young girls had been assigned to him, another to Walsh. They’d been soaped and scrubbed – the girls giggling at the thickets of hair on chest and legs; they’d been rinsed clean with buckets of warm water, and only then had they eased down into the tub. The heat of it had gone straight to Glover’s head, a sudden rush, made him feel almost dizzy. But that had passed, and now he lay back enjoying it.
‘The trick is not to move,’ said Walsh, ‘or it feels even hotter.’
‘I had noticed!’ said Glover.
Their voices boomed as they spoke. Walsh had lit another cigar, its fragrant smoke curled, mingled with the steam from the tub.
‘Mackenzie says you’re doing good work, Tom.’
‘Does he now?’
‘Of course, he’d never tell you to your face.’
‘No. Of course not!’
‘Have you thought about setting up in business for yourself?’
‘I’ve thought about it, aye, eventually, when I’m ready.’
‘Why wait?’ said Walsh. ‘I think you’re a natural: smart, hardworking. You have the gift of the gab too, by all accounts. Add that to your height and build and you can’t go wrong. You’ll charm the pants off the women and scare the shit out of the men!’ He laughed again. ‘I’d be happy to put work your way. Mackenzie could get you a loan from Jardine’s. You can still do work for them and trade on your own account. That’s what Ken does. And let’s face it, there’s plenty to go round!’
They stepped, dripping, from the tub. The two girls, giggling again, brought towels to wrap round them, helped to dry them off. The one attending to Glover led him to a small room where a futon was laid out on tatami mats. He mimed roaring, beating his chest. She laughed and motioned to him to lie face down. She removed the towel and sat astride him, started massaging his back, working down the spine with her tiny hands, the strokes even and firm. By the time she turned him over onto his back, he was ready, gave himself over entirely to her ministrations.
*
He was kneeling on the floor, blindfold. He knew the room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a flickering candle he could sense rather than see through the cotton bandana tied tight over his eyes, knotted at the back of his head. He could smell the smoke, the dripped wax, like the cold smell of an old chapel, could smell too the damp mustiness of the room, the thick fusty male-smell of tobacco-reek from much-worn coats. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt open at the front, baring his chest against which something hard and sharp was pressed, something he knew was the tip of a swordblade.
A voice came out of the darkness. ‘Do you feel anything?’
And he made the correct response. ‘I do.’
There was a knocking, three times on the wooden floor, then he was taken by the arm, helped to his feet and led forward a few steps.
Now he could smell incense, and paraffin.
The voice spoke again. ‘Having been kept in a state of darkness, what now is the predominant wish of your heart?’
Again he responded, as he had been instructed to do. ‘Light.’
The blindfold was removed and he blinked as he looked round him, the room now lit by lamps.
‘Do you promise to hold fast and never repeat the secrets of initiation into this mystery?’
‘Hele, conceal and never reveal.’
‘If you break this oath, your throat shall be cut, your tongue torn out and you shall be cast out, branded as void of all moral worth.’
For the first time the urge to laugh rose in him, the thought of responding, Is that all? But he quelled it, responded with due formality. ‘I understand.’
The man who had spoken, middle-aged, bearded, held out a Bible, leather-bound, gold-embossed.
‘Kiss the Volume of the Sacred Law.’
Glover pressed his lips to the book.
The man spoke again. ‘Let the candidate be entered as an apprentice in the First Degree.’
Behind him he heard Mackenzie’s voice. ‘So mote it be.’
The man held out to him a pure white apron, folded. ‘This emblem is a badge more ancient than the Roman Eagle, the Golden Fleece. It is a symbol of purity and the bond of friendship. I urge you never to disgrace it.’
‘I shall honour it,’ said Glover, and he heard his own voice, strange to him, and he felt for a moment absurdly moved, thought of his father, the old Bible on the kitchen table.
He looked round the room, these people, this place, saw it dreamlike but intensely clear, in the midst of it came to himself here, came to himself here. This was his life and this was him living it.
Then the bearded man was shaking him by the hand, pressing with the thumb in the secret Masonic grip, and Mackenzie was doing the same, and the others, welcoming him into the brotherhood.
When the ceremony was over and they’d adjourned to the Foreigners’ Club, he ordered a round of drinks.
The bearded man, the Master of the L
odge, was Barstow, a Captain in the Royal Navy. There were three young Englishmen, a year or two older than Glover, and they introduced themselves, Frederick Ringer, Edward Harrison, Francis Groom. Like Glover, each of them had come to Japan to make his mark, find his own grail, seek wealth and adventure far from home.
Harrison speculated in property, real estate. Groom gambled on the fluctuations of foreign exchange. Ringer dealt in tea, knew the business inside out. Glover could learn from all of them.
‘To friendship and brotherhood!’ he said, and they clinked glasses.
Walsh had come in to the Club, waved to him from the bar.
Glover beckoned him over. ‘Come and join us!’
‘I’ll join you,’ said Walsh, ‘but not join you, if you know what I mean.’ He touched his finger to the side of his nose, winked.
‘You could do worse, Jack,’ said Mackenzie.
‘I’m all in favour of oiling the wheels of commerce,’ said Walsh, ‘but I draw the line at rolling up my trouser-leg and giving a funny handshake.’
‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Barstow, ‘and you know it.’
‘It amazes me,’ said Walsh. ‘The settlement here is barely established and you fellows have already formed a Lodge. You’re as keen as the Catholic Church to spread your influence.’
‘There is no comparison, sir,’ said Barstow, irritated.
‘Just as well,’ said Walsh. ‘I’d hate to see you meet the fate of the early missionaries and end up disembowelled, flayed alive or boiled in oil!’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health.’
*
The same night, the night of Glover’s initiation into the Lodge, the community was once more shaken to its core. Hunt, the young English foreman from Jardine’s warehouse, had taken a drink or two, gone wandering off on his own towards Maruyama. He was seen by an American sailor, crossing the first bridge, and the second. He was heard roaring out, drunk, that he wanted to buy a Japanese woman, that he had a few shillings in his pocket and that was all they were worth.
What happened next was sudden and vicious. Two black-robed figures appeared out of the dark, one in front of him, carrying a lantern, another moving up behind him. The one in front shoved the lantern in his face. As he stepped back the one behind ran him clean through with the blade of his sword, drew it out again pushing him forward, cut him down with two more swift strokes as he fell. The lantern was doused, the two men disappeared into the night.
