The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  Nagasawa told Glover the story himself.

  The same four boys he’d chased with the sword were waiting for him on his way home from school, just before the bridge where a path led up from the river. They’d blocked his way, moved to surround him, started their taunts.

  ‘Hey, chinkie!’

  ‘Yellow-face!’

  ‘Slantie-eyes!’

  ‘You’re not so brave without your muckle big sword.’

  As they’d closed on him, he’d put his schoolbooks at his feet, reached into his jacket pocket, brought out the watch Glover had given him, felt the weight of it in his hand. Then he’d held it by the chain, spun it above his head like a weapon, lashed out at the nearest boy, the ringleader, caught him on the shoulder, a sharp blow. Shocked, the boy had stumbled, lost his footing, fallen to the ground. The others had moved as if to rush Nagasawa, but he’d turned to face them, still spinning the watch, roared out his war-cry and drove them away. The first boy had stood up, terrified now, but Nagasawa had stopped, checked that the watch was still ticking, put it away in his pocket. The boy had moved away, a few tentative steps, then quickening his pace, then pelting after his friends.

  Glover listened to the story, nodded. ‘Thank you for telling me, Nagasawa-san.’

  Nagasawa handed him the watch. ‘Now you will take this back also, keep it with the sword. For safekeeping.’

  Glover laughed. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. And I don’t think those boys will be bothering you again.’

  Nagasawa looked confused.

  ‘My friend Ito-san,’ said Glover, ‘once told me a story, about standing up for yourself.’

  The boy flinched. Of course. Ito was Choshu, still the enemy.

  Glover continued.

  ‘There was once a snake which lived in a small village, and it used to frighten people and bite them. Then one day a Zen master passed through the village, and he gave a talk about nonviolence. The snake happened to be passing by, and he stopped to listen. He was so inspired by the talk he saw the error of his ways, and he vowed to be a good snake from that day on. He slithered up to the master and asked his advice. Of course, animals can always talk in these stories. Or perhaps the master could read his thoughts and speak to him in silence.’

  Nagasawa looked more confused.

  ‘In any case,’ Glover went on, ‘the master gave him simple advice. Meditate every day, and stop biting!’

  The boy nodded, intent.

  ‘Now, time passed, the way time does, and after some months the master was once again passing through the village. He had a look round, said, Where’s my friend the snake? But nobody could tell him. Then just as he was leaving the village, he happened to look down at the side of the road, and there was the snake, all battered and bruised, half dead. What happened? said the master. You told me not to bite, said the snake. And the boys in the village realised I wasn’t a danger, and they lost all their fear of me. When they realised I wouldn’t even fight back, they took revenge for all the years of biting. They gave me a thrashing and threw me in the ditch. The master gave a wee smile, shook his head, said, I told you not to bite. I didn’t tell you not to hiss!’

  Nagasawa was still concentrating hard, forehead furrowed, eyebrows meeting.

  Glover handed back the watch, said, ‘Sometimes you have to hiss.’

  And suddenly there was light; the boy understood; the point hit home, the itzibu dropped. And a huge boyish grin spread across his face, and he threw back his head, for the first time in Glover’s hearing laughed out loud.

  ‘Hissu!’ he hissed, gleeful.

  He laughed so much he had tears in his eyes. Glover handed him a hanky and he wiped his face, blurted out another chuckle, then consciously, deliberately, regained his appearance of calm formality, his composure. He handed back the hanky, thanked Glover, bowed and turned to go.

  Glover thought a moment, called him back and formally, with understated ceremony, returned the sword to him.

  ‘Don’t bite!’ he said.

  Again the boy grinned, then held it in check, overcome with a deeper emotion, reverence for the sword, pure gratitude at having it restored to him.

  He bowed low, said ‘Arigato, Guraba-san. Arigato gozaimasu,’ his voice hoarse, choked.

  *

  It began again with the handshake, the secret sign they were on the level, could trust each other. Hele, conceal, never reveal. Glover was a guest at the Lodge meeting, sat through the formalities, then Russell took him aside, said he wanted a word.

  The room was comfortably furnished with a polished oak table, capacious leather armchairs. The walls were lined with books, Masonic texts, and in between the bookcases hung scrolls bearing the secret symbols, the square and compasses, a configuration of stars, a single eye blazing at the heart of a pyramid.

  The whisky was poured, cigars lit. Fragrant smoke filled the room, curled in the shadows under the high ceiling. The atmosphere was safe, male. Mackenzie was there, and Robertson, and young John Grant, Martha’s lad. He worked for Russell, was an engineer. In this company he was very much the junior, the prentice, but he seemed at ease, affable. Glover had taken a liking to him, thought him a good match for Martha.

  Robertson still worked for old George, was a step away from his father-in-law’s job. His father-in-law. Christ. When the old man retired, in a year or so, Robertson would step up, run the business. Mellowed by the drink, the good smoke, Glover looked at Robertson with something like warmth. He had plodded away, had everything he’d ever wanted in life. Not enough for Glover, he’d been too restless. And yet. There was the pang again, twisting. This dullard had Annie, and the boy. Christ, the boy. Another sip of whisky, another dram. Don’t mind if I do, an excellent malt if I may say so. Ach. They made choices, lived by them. Enough.

  Russell was addressing him.

  ‘Scotland has need of men like you, Tom, men of vision. If you should ever be of a mind to come home, there would be no shortage of offers.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t think it would be unreasonable to talk about a directorship, a seat on the board, perhaps a safe parliamentary constituency.’

  ‘T B Glover, MP. It has a ring to it. My mother would fair burst with pride!’

  ‘I’m serious, Tom.’

  ‘Oh, I know you are, believe me. I know fine, and it’s tempting.’

  ‘You could buy yourself some land, an estate.’

  ‘You’re taking me to the top of the mountain. Get thee behind me!’

  Russell let the suggestion of blasphemy pass, looked at Glover hard. ‘Give it some thought.’

  ‘I will,’ said Glover. ‘I will.’

  Glancing across, he saw Robertson’s face was grim.

  Russell changed his tone, was suddenly hearty, proposed they all play golf next morning. ‘I take it you play, Tom.’

  ‘Och, I’m willing to give it a go.’

  *

  The green at the eighteenth hole was right at the edge of the cliff-top, ten yards from a sheer drop, a hundred feet into the North Sea. A fierce wind whipped in from offshore, directly from Norway, made any kind of judgement impossible. Glover’s ball landed in a bunker, down a slope from the green.

  ‘Ha!’ he shouted, into the wind. ‘A challenge!’ He shielded his eyes, squinted at the flag. ‘Another challenge!’

  He had no great skill, played with gusto and energy and no little luck.

  He checked the lie of the green, the direction of the gusting wind, took the club his caddie handed him, a wedge. He held it a moment in front of him, raised like a samurai sword, chuckled, shouted again. ‘Ha!’

  Not hesitating, not stopping to think, he hacked with the wedge, chucked the ball in a flurry of sand up out of the bunker, watched it buck at the edge of the green, roll to within a few feet of the hole.

  ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Yes!’

  They had come out early, after breakfast, Glover and Russell, Andy Robertson and John Grant. Only Mackenzie h
ad declined, said he had no intention of dragging his old carcass round a golf course at some ungodly hour.

  Russell had clearly set up the game as a continuation of last night’s meeting, said nothing obvious or crass to mar the play, beyond the odd remark, say, about the freshness of the air, the amenity of the city; and the remarks lent themselves to tangential musings about the future of the Northeast, the planned improvement in road and rail links over the next ten years.

  ‘Imagine it, Tom,’ said Russell, lining up a drive. ‘Iron rail bridges over the Forth and Tay. The journey time to Edinburgh will be cut to two or three hours.’ He whacked his ball, straight down the fairway. ‘Imagine!’

  As a dance round the subject matter, discussing it without discussing it, it was worthy of the Japanese.

  ‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘I know what you’re saying.’

  Russell was easily the best player among them, played a canny game, hit safety shots for the most part, took the odd calculated risk. He was well in the lead. Behind him young Grant had the makings of a decent player; he hit the ball sweetly enough, but lost focus if he mis-hit, skewed off-course, got bogged down in rough. Robertson was cautious, methodical, looked affronted if his shots went agley. On the last green he was only two shots ahead of Glover, who had whacked and sclaffed his way round.

  Russell tapped in for a par on the hole and to win the game. The others applauded politely. Grant two-putted, tapped in for second place. Glover strode across the green, gave a moment’s thought to the rub of it, pocked his shot maybe too hard. It ran straight at the hole, might completely overshoot, might hit the flag and bounce out, might catch the rim and slingshot past. Grant took two strides, light on his feet, took out the flag at the last second. The ball did hit the rim, spun round it, orbited the hole twice and dropped in with a satisfying clunk.

  ‘Hai!’ shouted Glover, lapsing. ‘And again, Yes!’

  Robertson still had his last shot to take; just five feet from the hole, it looked easy, but conditions were less than perfect, the slope awkward, the wind tricky, the green itself patchy. He walked round the ball, addressed it from every angle, checked the direction of the wind, got down and smoothed the grass with his hand.

  ‘Come on, lad!’ said Russell. ‘It’s gey snell to stand around up here freezing our arses off when we could be sipping a tipple at the nineteenth!’

  Robertson smiled, a tense grimace, said, ‘Right.’

  He steadied himself, bent over the ball, knees slightly bent, straightened up again, shifted his feet slightly, tried again, drew back the head of the putter and smacked the ball with a dull clack, and they all watched as it trundled past the hole, and off the green, accelerated down the slope and disappeared over the cliff, into the abyss.

  The other three were restrained a moment, holding it in, then they all roared with laughter.

  ‘Bad luck!’ said Grant.

  ‘You could scramble down and play the ball!’ said Russell.

  ‘You’d probably find some poor gannet sitting on the thing,’ said Glover, ‘trying to hatch it!’

  The others laughed again, but Robertson was downcast.

  ‘Your face is tripping you!’ said Russell. ‘Come on and I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘God!’ said Glover as they headed for the clubhouse. ‘What a great bloody game!’ He stopped, a thought forming. ‘Maybe I could introduce it to Japan.’

  ‘Surely it would never catch on,’ said Russell.

  ‘Ach,’ said Glover, ‘you’re probably right.’

  As they walked, Russell asked him, casually, if he’d given any thought to his proposals. And suddenly, as he looked at the flags snapping sharp in the wind, he found himself thinking of Nagasaki with great longing. Up ahead he saw Robertson, head down, crestfallen. Glover could stay, be all Russell had suggested and more, he could prosper, increase his fortune, live off the fat of the land. And if he did, he would be near his son, could watch him grow up. But looking at Robertson, slumped and hangdog, he knew how it had to be. Right now, in this moment, he knew he would have to go back, and it would be sooner rather than later.

  The flags flapping in the wind off the sea. Ito and the others would be scheming their schemes.

  ‘I’m truly flattered,’ he said to Russell. ‘But I have unfinished business, in Japan.’

  Flags, flapping in the wind.

  11

  DAIMYO

  Nagasaki, 1867–68

  Coming back to Nagasaki felt like a return home. He felt no strangeness here, the hills, the bay, so familiar, his own house, Ipponmatsu, so welcoming; the very air was balm to his soul. Now it was Aberdeen that seemed a dream, so far away.

  In the house he walked from room to room, touching things, his things, reacquainting himself: a Daruma doll that had been Sono’s, Matsuo’s samurai sword. He heard a movement behind him and Tsuru was standing in the doorway, smiling at him, unsure.

  ‘Tsuru, lassie! It’s good to see you!’

  She bowed, said ‘Irasshaimase!’, then she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. He went to her, held her to him.

  ‘Och!’

  The visits began that very evening, a steady stream of folk, beating a path to his door.

  Walsh was the first, looked excited to see him.

  ‘Damn it, Tom, it’s good to have you back!’ He shook his hand, clapped him, hearty, on the shoulder, laughed. ‘The place has been kind of dull without you.’

  ‘Now that I don’t believe!’

  ‘Well, maybe not! Things have been bubbling away nicely in your absence. But you do add a certain spice to the mix, and that’s been sadly lacking.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do!’

  Walsh’s first thought was to drag him out to the pleasure quarter, but Glover was reluctant.

  ‘Bring me the smelling salts!’ said Walsh. ‘I never thought I’d see the day!’

  ‘Did Maki ever reappear?’ asked Glover.

  ‘You know, she never did. Darnedest thing. Just vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Queer.’

  ‘Mind you,’ said Walsh, ‘from the rosy glow on Miss Tsuru’s countenance, I’d say maybe you have all you need right here!’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Glover, noncommittal.

  ‘Dog!’ said Walsh.

  Glover opened a bottle of fine malt he’d brought back from Aberdeen, poured two generous measures. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want all the news.’

  Over the next hour, and two or three glasses more, Walsh brought him up to date on everything, from the price of tea to the strength of the new alliances being formed, unholy or otherwise.

  ‘Your old pal, Montblanc, he of the pince-nez and the strange predilections, has been muscling in on your territory, trading with the Satsuma.’

  ‘Has he now?’

  ‘He brokered the sale of a couple of ships to them, steamers. But I heard he’d made a real faux pas with one of them. He wanted to pull out all the stops, impress these guys. So he had their clan crest incorporated in all the furnishings and decorations.’

  ‘Cheap,’ said Glover. ‘Just what I’d expect.’

  ‘But he made the mistake of having it woven into the carpets, so the Daimyo and the other dignitaries from the clan were practically falling on their faces trying not to step on it!’

  ‘Serves the bastard right.’

  ‘Didn’t do his reputation much good.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if we can blacken it even further.’

  ‘He’s had his knuckles rapped by his own Consul, new guy by the name of Roches, bit of a swashbuckler by all accounts.’

  ‘The French stance is still resolutely pro-Shogunate?’

  ‘Exactly. I believe this Roches character had quite a set-to with Sir Harry Parkes last week, real sabre-rattling on both sides. Roches accused the British of being lukewarm in their support for the Shogun and the Bakufu.’

  ‘I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘I’m sure the sabres will be rattle
d in your direction before long!’

  ‘What did Sir Harry have to say for himself?’

  ‘Just repeated the party line about Her Majesty’s Government being committed to a policy of absolute neutrality and nonintervention.’

  ‘That was quite a piece of non-intervention in Kagoshima!’

  ‘But things are changing, Tom. You can feel it, a ground swell. Your old friend Satow seems to have swung over completely to your way of thinking. He’s written a few pieces in the Japan Times, heavily criticising the Shogun. I’ve brought copies for you to read when you have a minute.’

  He took the newspaper reports from his valise, handed them to Glover, who flicked through them, scanned the headlines. The present situation in Japan. The Shogun’s Treachery.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Maybe it really is time.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Walsh, ‘back in my neck of the woods, our little local skirmish has finally come to an end.’

  ‘A very un-civil war.’

  ‘With a satisfactory outcome.’

  ‘I met a Southerner on the way out here,’ said Glover. ‘Gentleman from Louisiana. He begged to disagree. He argued the issue of slavery was a pretext only, an excuse by the North to wage the war, break up the plantations, take over the land.’

  ‘That’s exactly how a gentleman from Louisiana would see it. You might as readily argue that your little revolution here is at the behest of the British, with the French waiting in the wings to step in if it all goes wrong.’

  ‘I definitely owe Montblanc a bloody nose.’

  ‘Whatever the politics of the situation, whatever the ideology, the fact is the war is over, and that means there’s going to be a huge amount of redundant weaponry on the market, worldwide: rifles, cannon, Gatling guns, you name it. No better time to arm your rebel army.’

  Glover raised his glass. ‘To revolution, and unholy alliances!’

  Walsh had no sooner gone than Harrison and Groom arrived, with Shibata and Nakajimo following deferentially behind. Another bottle of malt was opened, a round poured, another toast proposed.

  ‘To Glover and Company!’