The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  *

  For weeks it was chaos, a goldrush, as word spread and traders cashed in. Ship after ship left for China, laden with Japanese gold. Fortunes were made before the customs officials imposed restrictions on the number of itzibu issued to any one trader. But they simply bought under assumed names. Glover, Mackenzie and Walsh became Messrs Hook, Line and Sinker respectively. Finally the Shogun’s government intervened, reluctantly returned to the gold standard, closed the door on further profiteering.

  The three of them were back in the Foreigners’ Club, drinking a toast to their success.

  ‘To alchemy!’ said Mackenzie.

  ‘Magic!’ said Glover.

  ‘The fast buck!’ said Walsh.

  ‘Mister Hook!’

  ‘Mister Line!’

  ‘Mister Sinker!’

  They drained their glasses.

  ‘Of course, the Shogun’s none too pleased about the whole business,’ said Mackenzie. ‘It could have destabilised their entire economy.’

  ‘They’ve nobody to blame but themselves,’ said Walsh. ‘They were the ones trying to cheat, undervaluing the dollar. It just backfired on them, that’s all.’

  ‘Hell mend them,’ said Glover. ‘And if it undermines the Shogun, well and good.’

  *

  He was seated again at the table, facing Sono, the little sake cups once more between them. Again he placed a silver coin beneath one of the cups, performed his legerdemain, worked the magic. She chose the middle cup. He lifted it, revealed a gleaming gold coin. Then he lifted the left-hand cup, and there was a second gold coin; he lifted the right and there was a third. She scooped up all three coins, jingled them together, laughed in sheer delight.

  *

  Sono was expecting a child. She had been hesitant about telling him, tentative, unsure how he would react.

  He was overwhelmed – thrilled, excited, intoxicated, terrified. A child! Himself a father! He laughed, thumped the desk, said they’d get married straight away.

  ‘You don’t strictly have to,’ said Walsh when he told him the news. ‘I mean, there are ways and means. The girl can be farmed out, paid off. The child can be adopted.’

  Glover was stung. ‘Christ!’ he said, ‘I knew you were callous, but this is bloody coldhearted. It’s beyond belief!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Walsh, realising he’d misjudged. ‘I’d forgotten you were a man in love!’

  The word discomfited Glover. ‘Aye, well.’

  But when he stood with Sono at the temple on the hill behind Ipponmatsu, he was moved by a huge tenderness towards her.

  His wife.

  His wife. And she was carrying his child, a son perhaps, to continue the line, bear the family name; and if a daughter, then that was good too, it was all good, and a son would come later.

  The ceremony was simple. The Buddhist monk from the temple chanted a mantra, bestowed a blessing. A Christian minister read the vows, and as Glover repeated each one, Sono nodded in agreement.

  Till death us do part.

  ‘Hai, so desu.’

  Mackenzie and Walsh were there as witnesses, the madame from the teahouse smiling her own benediction.

  Back at Ipponmatsu Glover and Sono stood on the lawn, watching the evening light on the far hills, the ships at anchor out in the bay. They had talked about going to Kagoshima, to visit Sono’s father. Now it seemed essential.

  ‘He’s going to be a grandfather,’ said Glover. ‘Oji-san.’

  She laughed, clapped her hands. ‘Oji-san!’

  ‘You think he’ll be happy about that?’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘He very strong man. Like you.’

  She had already spoken of her father, a samurai from Satsuma clan. Kagoshima, in the far south, was their stronghold. Now she said her father, and the clan, might want to do business with him.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Now that he’s family …’

  She smiled.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Mrs Glover? Guraba-fujin.’

  She laughed and covered her mouth. He hugged her, made her shriek, lifted her and carried her, so light, into the house.

  *

  Sono had gone on ahead, travelled to Kagoshima a few days earlier, prepared her father, Shimada-san, for the meeting. She was waiting at the quay to greet Glover as his ship docked. She clapped her hands with a childlike eagerness when she saw him, then consciously regained her composure, her poise, bowed formally. Glover laughed, bowed ridiculously low, then took her hand and kissed it.

  Kagoshima was not one of the treaty ports. The Satsuma were hostile to change, resented the western invasion and the Shogun who had allowed it. As he walked with Sono along the narrow street to the ryokan, the inn where they would be staying, Glover sensed it in the air. People stared at him, not with curiosity but with open hostility, with hatred and fear; the women turned away, the men spat out curses, the children ran and hid.

  He had read accounts of the American Wild West, by traders who had ventured into Indian settlements, and he imagined it must feel like this, the atmosphere predatory, himself as prey. Some of the men were armed, swords tucked in their waistbands. More than once he saw a hand rest on a hilt, in readiness, and was glad he had brought his pistol. He was grateful too that he was with Sono. Then the unease he felt, the nervousness in his gut, even made him suspicious of her. She might be under her father’s sway, be leading him into a trap. They had only been together a few months, and if he knew anything about the Japanese, it was that he knew nothing. The sense of apprehension grew, the unease deepened. This woman, his wife, was a stranger to him. Then she stopped at the entrance to the inn, turned and looked at him with such openness that he felt ashamed.

  *

  The meeting with Shimada-san was set for later in the day. Glover gave himself over to Sono, to show him her town.

  ‘Kagoshima beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘So I see.’

  She laughed, mimicked what he’d said, singsong. ‘So I see!’

  In the distance, on an island offshore, was a volcano, its sheer sides blue-green, a plume of smoke above its peak.

  Sono saw him looking. ‘Sakurajima,’ she said, naming it.

  She showed him gardens and temples, a pottery with exquisite bowls and vases, some black some white, tastefully displayed. Past it ran a small stream, and placed in the flow was a length of bamboo. It was open at one end and fastened, mid-length, to a cross-piece, a fulcrum. It faced upstream, so it gradually filled with water, and the weight tipped it so it hit a rock with a satisfying thunk. Then the bamboo emptied and the whole process started again. He stood watching it, fascinated, as it filled and emptied, filled and emptied.

  Thunk.

  ‘Shishi-odoshi,’ said Sono.

  ‘That’s what it’s called?’

  ‘Hai.’

  ‘But what’s it for?’

  She shrugged, didn’t understand the question.

  Shishi-odoshi.

  At a shrine she stopped and bowed to a little stone statue, one of their gods, its face benign and compassionate, one hand raised in benediction. Round its shoulders was a tiny piece of silk, wrapped like a shawl, and in front of it someone had placed offerings, a single chrysanthemum flower, a ricecake, a sake flask.

  ‘Jizo,’ she said, and patted her belly. ‘We pray to him for baby.’

  She faced the statue again, seemed to be uttering a prayer. She folded her hands and bowed once more. He smiled and did the same.

  *

  Shimada sat, cross-legged, at a low table. Glover had removed his shoes, kneeled on the tatami mat, facing the old man; Sono was between them, even more deferential and self-effacing than usual, the dutiful daughter, meekness incarnate. She introduced Glover, formally, and the old man grunted.

  ‘Shimada-san,’ said Glover, bowing low enough to show respect, but still maintain his own dignity. ‘Hajimemashite. Yoroshiku onegai shimasu.’

  Shimada seemed pleased at being greeted in his own language by the gaijin.
This time his grunt was a little more expressive, more accepting. He gave a barely perceptible incline of the head, indicated Sono should pour them drinks, sake in small black ceramic cups.

  ‘Kanpai!’ said Glover, and they drank.

  Sono refilled the cups and Glover raised his again. It was time to try his party-piece, a toast he had prepared, rehearsed with Sono’s help.

  He looked straight at the old man. ‘Shogun!’ he said, and the old man paused, cup raised halfway to his lips, before Glover continued, ‘Nanka kuso kurae! ’

  The old man looked startled, weighed up what Glover had said, let it sink in. The Shogun! To hell with him!

  Shimada’s face seemed to crumple, fold in on itself. A choking sound gurgled in his throat. Then he spluttered and roared with laughter, thumped the table.

  ‘Nanka kuso kurae!’

  This was good! It was a story to tell: the gaijin, his son-in-law, cursing the Shogun!

  Now they could talk business.

  *

  It was slow and laboured, the language a problem, but with Sono’s help and the sake flowing, they found common ground. At one point Shimada saw the pistol in Glover’s belt, under his coat, and he pointed at it. Glover thought he was angry at him for bringing a weapon into the house, and he started to apologise, but the old man simply wanted to see the gun, take a closer look.

  Glover made sure the safety catch was in place, locked, and he handed over the gun, handle-first. Shimada made a great play of weighing it in his hand, observing it was heavy.

  Then time stopped.

  The old man levelled the pistol straight at him, drew a bead on him, cocked the hammer. Glover was instantly hard stone-cold sober, looking down the barrel. The old man’s eyes were ice, gave nothing away. Then he laughed, handed the pistol back, indicated his approval. This was what he wanted to buy, and more. He mimed firing a rifle. Glover mimed clutching his heart, as if he’d been shot. Again the old man roared.

  They talked on into the night, drank more, haggled over prices and quantities, delivery dates. Finally, in the wee small hours, as far as Glover could understand, they reached agreement. The deal was done.

  Outside in the cool air, Shimada, in fine humour, said goodbye. Glover and Sono walked the short distance to the ryokan. In the distance the tip of the volcano was a red glow in the dark.

  *

  In the morning they set out for the harbour, Shimada escorting them. As they made their way along the main street, they heard the low thud of a drum, saw a procession coming the other way, towards them, banners catching the breeze, emblazoned with the clan crest, a cross inside a circle. The procession was led by half a dozen fully armed samurai, in helmets and breastplates, behind them a norimon, a palanquin carried by four more men, and behind that another column of armed guards, twenty in all. The street cleared as folk scattered.

  ‘Daimyo,’ said Shimada, and he gave Glover an anxious look, but he was wise enough now to step well back, bow his head. Shimada did the same, Sono kneeled in the dust.

  The Daimyo was the clan leader, ruler of the territory. Glover thought it prudent not to look up, just kept his head down, felt his neck tense. But as the norimon passed him there was a shouted order, a sharp bark of command from inside, and it stopped right in front of him. Shimada got down on one knee, spoke rapidly in response to questioning from behind the curtain. To Glover it was a garble, gruff, slurred and hurried, but he recognised his own name, mention of the Shogun, reference to doing business. The curtain opened a moment and Glover looked up, neck still tensed, into the face of the Daimyo, glaring at him, that now-familiar grimace of distaste contorting the tight grim mouth. He was almost sorry to disappoint by being merely human, wished he could breathe fire, sprout a second head; then perhaps he might meet the intensity of expectation. But whatever was going on, he seemed to have passed muster. The Daimyo gave another guttural grunt, like clearing the throat of some unpleasant blockage. The curtain was closed. The procession moved on.

  *

  Mackenzie explained the situation to him. The daimyo were powerful men, many of them hardline traditionalists, opposed to the Shogun. But he had ways of keeping them in check.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘For a start,’ said Mackenzie, ‘he insists that their wives and families stay in Edo right under his nose. The daimyo are allowed to visit only at the Shogun’s express invitation. If they step out of line, their families are under threat.’

  ‘So they’re effectively held hostage’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Ruthless,’ said Glover.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mackenzie. ‘So mind your step.’

  But a week later Glover was once more in Shanghai, buying more crates of rifles, this time for the Satsuma. On the journey back he was aware of a ship in the distance that seemed to be following, tailing them. He raised a spyglass to his eye, saw it was one of the Shogun’s fleet, the Tokugawa banner flying at the masthead.

  ‘One of the Shogun’s clapped-out old junks!’ he called out to the pilot. ‘They’ll never catch us!’

  And he was right. The junk was no match for the Jardine’s clipper he’d commandeered for the run. They tacked and veered, picked up speed, left the Shogun’s vessel far behind.

  Shimada was waiting to meet him when he docked at Nagasaki. Once more the cargo was unloaded at night, transferred this time to one of the Satsuma’s own merchant ships for the journey on to Kagoshima. He suggested to Shimada that the Satsuma also might think about buying better ships, that he could use his contacts in Scotland, get them a good price. A second-hand steamer, reconditioned and in excellent working order, should cost about $30,000. With Glover’s good offices he could reduce that to $25,000. Shimada laughed, said it was good to have a businessman in the family, and he would discuss the matter with the Daimyo. In the meantime, he would arrange payment for the consignment of rifles, partly in gold, partly in Mexican silver dollars, another substantial sum, in the region of $3,000.

  Shimada and Glover bowed to each other, the deal done.

  *

  He was walking on his own, lost in thought. He turned down a narrow backstreet, to no particular purpose, was suddenly jolted, startled, by a dark figure emerging from an alleyway, standing right in front of him, blocking his way. The man was a samurai, young, probably no older than Glover himself. He cursed his stupidity in letting his attention drift, being off-guard. He tensed and braced, ready to fight or flee.

  The man stared right at him, right into him, intent. ‘Guraba-san?’

  ‘Hai,’ he said. ‘So desu.’ He spoke with a kind of guarded truculence, might have added Who’s asking? Why do you want to know?

  ‘I am Ito Hirobumi,’ said the samurai, bowing, ‘from Choshu clan.’

  ‘You speak English?’ said Glover, genuinely surprised, again caught off-guard.

  ‘I need to understand my enemy,’ said the man, with almost a smile.

  ‘Interesting way to open a conversation,’ said Glover.

  ‘May we talk more?’ asked the man.

  Glover was unsure, and Ito nodded towards another figure, standing just inside the alley, alert and on guard.

  ‘You know Matsuo-san?’

  Glover saw, recognised the young man who had travelled with him up country. He greeted him with a wave of the hand. Matsuo bowed, stiff.

  Matsuo’s presence was some reassurance, and somehow Glover felt he could trust this Ito, followed the man back down the alley, through a low doorway into a smoky inn. Glover had to duck his head to enter, and when he straightened up he was looking at three other samurai, one of them Takashi.

  For the second time Glover cursed his own stupidity. He had been led into a trap, would end his short life here in this miserable den, be hacked to pieces, scattered as carrion. The three samurai had got to their feet. But Ito stepped forward, challenged Takashi, their grunted exchange a guttural cadenza of low growl and bark, hackles raised. It ended when Takashi slammed the table with his fist, shouted ‘Ie
!’ He pushed past Glover, confronted Matsuo, who had just come in the door. Takashi spat some challenge at him, voice hissing with disdain. Then he threw a last murderous look at Glover and strode out, followed by the other two.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t gone for reinforcements,’ said Glover.

  ‘You are safe,’ said Ito. ‘For now.’

  Matsuo stood on guard by the door. The barman cowered, rigid, behind the counter. Ito called out to him, ordered drinks. The man scurried to fetch them. The other few customers in the room seemed to relax again, breathe easier, pick up where they had left off. At a table in the far corner, an old man sat watching them. Laid out in front of him were brushes and an inkstone, a few sheets of paper rolled up. Two other old men muttered to each other, laughed, resumed some age-old conversation.

  The barman brought a tray with a flask of sake, two cups.

  ‘Please,’ said Ito, motioning Glover to sit down.

  ‘So,’ said Glover, ‘you don’t mind drinking with your enemy?’

  ‘I hope you don’t have to be enemy,’ said Ito. ‘From what I have heard, maybe you are different from the other gaijin. I think maybe we can even do business.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Glover.

  ‘Ito does not flatter.’

  ‘Well then, I’m honoured.’ Glover raised his cup. ‘Kanpai!’

  ‘Cheers!’ said Ito, and they drank.

  The old man in the corner unrolled one of his pieces of paper, started drawing with a quick flourish of the brush. The other two old fellows cackled.

  ‘All right,’ said Glover, giving Ito his full attention. ‘What is it you want from me?’

  ‘You have sold guns to the Shogun,’ said Ito.

  ‘Your spies have been doing their job.’

  ‘I keep my own eyes open. You have also sold to Satsuma, clan of your wife.’

  ‘I’m impressed!’ said Glover.

  ‘So,’ said Ito. ‘This makes Choshu clan weak. You should sell to us also. All Shogun’s enemies should be strong.’