Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  Silently Ori slid out of his hiding place, astonished that he was still alive. Even though he had pressed himself and his swords flat against the wall, any proper search should have disclosed him. He saw that the door bar was in place, the shutters barred, the girl breathing heavily, one arm under the pillow, the other on the sheet.

  Good. She can wait, he thought. First, how to get out of this trap? The window or the door?

  Not being able to see through the slats, he moved the bar back softly and pushed one side open a fraction, then the other. Soldiers were still milling below. Dawn was almost three hours away. Clouds building up, drifted towards the moon. Shorin’s body lay crumpled on the path like a dead animal. For a moment he was surprised they had left his head on, then remembered it was not gai-jin custom to take heads for viewing or for counting.

  Difficult to escape that way and not be seen. If they don’t slacken their vigilance I’ll have to open the door and try inside. That means leaving the door open. Better to go by the window if I can.

  He craned out carefully and saw a small ledge below the window that led under another window, then around the building—this was a corner room. His excitement mounted. Soon clouds will cover the moon. I’ll escape then. I will escape! Sonno-joi! Now her.

  Making no noise, he rearranged the bar so the shutters were slightly open, then came back to the bed.

  His long sword was still sheathed and he put it within easy reach on the rumpled white silk counterpane. White, he thought. White sheet, white flesh, white the color of death. Apt. Perfect to write on. What should it be? His name?

  Without haste he pulled the sheet away from her. The nightdress was beyond his ken, alien, designed to hide everything and nothing. Limbs and breasts, so large compared to the few bedmates he had known, legs long and straight with none of the elegant curve he was used to from the women’s many years of kneeling-sitting. Again, her perfume. As his eyes explored her he felt himself stirring.

  With the others it had been very different. Excitement minimal. Much banter and deft professionalism. Quickly consummated, and usually in a saké haze to blur their age. Now there was limitless time. She was young, and out of his world. His ache increased. And the throb.

  Wind creaked the shutters but there was no danger there, nor was there any in the house. Everything quiet. She lay half on her stomach. A deft, soft push, and another, and obediently she moved onto her back, her head comfortably to one side, hair cascading. Deep sigh, snug in the embrace of the mattress. A small golden cross at her throat.

  He leaned over and put the tip of his razor-sharp sword-knife under the delicate lace at the neck, lifted slightly and settled the blade against the tension of the garment. The material parted willingly and fell away. To her feet.

  Ori had never seen a woman so revealed. Or been so constricted. The throbbing intensified like never before. The tiny cross shone. Involuntarily her hand stirred lazily and went between her legs, resting there comfortably. He lifted it away, then moved one ankle from the other. Gently.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just before dawn she awoke. But not completely.

  The drug was still with her, dreams still with her, strange violent dreams, erotic and crushing and wonderful and hurting and sensuous and awful and never before experienced or so intense. Through the half-opened shutters she saw the eastern horizon blood red, weird suggestive cloud formations there that seemed to match etchings in her mind. As she moved to see them better there was a slight ache in her loins but she paid it no attention, instead letting her eyes dwell on the pictures in the sky and allowing her mind to drift back into the dreams that beckoned irresistibly. On the threshold of sleep she became aware she was naked. Languidly she pulled her nightdress around her and the sheet over her. And slept.

  Ori was standing beside the bed. He had just moved out of the warmth. His ninja clothes were on the floor. And his loincloth. For a moment he looked down at her lying there, considering her a final time. So sad, he thought, last times are so sad. Then he picked up the short knife-sword and unsheathed it.

  In the room downstairs Phillip Tyrer opened his eyes. His surroundings were unfamiliar, then he realized that he was still in the temple at Kanagawa, that yesterday had been terrible, the operation awful, his part despicable. “Babcott said I was in shock,” he muttered, his mouth parched and bad-tasting. “Christ, does that excuse me?”

  His shutters were ajar, a wind creaking them. He could see the dawn. “Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.” Will there be a storm? he wondered, then sat up in the camp bed and checked the bandage on his arm. It was clean, without fresh bloodstains, and he was greatly relieved. Apart from the throb in his head and some soreness he felt whole again. “Oh, God, I wish I’d acted better.” He made an effort to remember the aftermath of the operation but it was hazed. I know I cried. It didn’t feel like crying, the tears flooded.

  With an effort he pushed the gloomy thoughts away. He got out of bed and shoved the shutters open, strong now on his legs and hungry. Nearby there was water in a jug and he splashed some on his face and rinsed out his mouth and spat the water into the garden foliage. After he had a little water, he felt better. The garden was empty, the air smelling of rotting vegetation and low tide. From where he was he could see a section of the temple walls and the garden but little else. Through a gap in the trees he caught a glimpse of the guard house and two soldiers there.

  Now he noticed that he had been put to bed in his shirt and long woolen underpants. His torn, bloodstained coat was over a chair, his trousers and riding boots, filthy from the paddy, beside it.

  Never mind, I’m lucky to be alive. He began to dress. What about Struan? And Babcott—soon I’ll have to face him.

  There was no razor so he could not shave. Nor was there a comb. Again never mind. He pulled on his boots. From the garden he could hear the sound of birds and movement, a few distant shouts in Japanese, and dogs barking. But no sounds as in a normal town, an English town, no morning cries of “Hot cross buns-O” or “Fresh water-O” or “Colchester oysters, morning fresh, for sale, for sale-O” or “Direct from the press, the latest chapter by Mr. Dickens, only a penny, only a penny” or “The Times, the Times, read all about Mr. Disraeli’s great scandal, read all about it…. ”

  Will I be dismissed? he asked himself, his stomach surging at the thought of returning home in ignominy, a disaster, a failure, no longer a member of Her Illustrious Majesty’s Foreign Office, representative of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. What will Sir William think of me? And what about her? Angelique? Thank God she escaped to Yokohama—will she ever talk to me again when she hears?

  Oh, God, what am I going to do?

  Malcolm Struan was also awake. A few moments before, some sixth sense of danger, a noise from outside, had wakened him, though lying here it felt as though he had been awake for hours. He lay on the camp bed, aware of the day and the operation and that he had been severely wounded and that the chances were that he would die. Every breath caused a sharp, tearing pain. Even the slightest movement.

  But I’m not going to think about pain, only about Angelique and that she loves me and … But what about the bad dreams? Dreams of her hating me and running away. I hate dreams and being out of control, hate lying here, loathe being weak when I’ve always been strong, always brought up in the shadow of my hero, the great Dirk Struan, Green-eyed Devil. Oh, how I wish I had green eyes and could be so strong. He’s my lodestone and I will be as good as him, I will.

  As always, the enemy Tyler Brock is stalking us. Father and Mother try to keep most of the facts from me, but of course I’ve heard the rumors and know more than they think. Old Ah Tok, more mother to me than Mother—didn’t she carry me until I was two and teach me Cantonese and about life and find me my first girl?—she whispers the rumors to me, so does Uncle Gordon Chen, who tells me facts. The Noble House is teetering.

  Never mind, we’ll deal with them. I will. That’s what I’m trained for
and have worked for all my life.

  He moved the blanket aside and lifted his legs to stand, but pain stopped him. Again he tried and again failed. Never mind, he told himself weakly. Nothing to worry about, I’ll do it later.

  “More eggs, Settry?” Marlowe said, as tall as the Dragoon officer but not as broad in the shoulders. Both were patrician, sons of serving senior officers, well formed in the face, weathered, Marlowe more so.

  “No, thanks,” Settry Pallidar said. “Two’s my limit. Must confess that I think the cooking here is vile. I told the servants I like my eggs well-done, not phlegmy, but they’ve sand for brains. Actually, damned if I can eat eggs unless they’re on toast, on good English bread. They just don’t taste the same. What do you think’s going to happen, about Canterbury?”

  Marlowe hesitated. They were in the Legation dining room at the vast oak table that could seat twenty, brought from England for just this purpose. The corner room was spacious and pleasing, windows open to the garden and the dawn. Three liveried Chinese servants served the two of them. Places laid for half a dozen. Fried eggs and bacon in silver salvers warmed by candles, roast chicken, cold salt ham and mushroom pie, a side of almost rancid beef, hardtack biscuits, a dried-apple pie. Beer, porter and tea. “The Minister should ask for immediate reparations and the murderers to be handed over at once, and when there’s the inevitable delay, he should order the fleet against Yedo.”

  “Better that we land in force—we’ve troops enough—and occupy the capital, remove their king, what’s he called? Ah yes, Shōgun, and appoint our own native ruler and make Japan a protectorate. Even better, for them, make it part of the Empire.” Pallidar was very tired and had been awake most of the night. His uniform was unbuttoned but he was groomed and had shaved. He motioned to one of the servants. “Tea, please.”

  The neatly dressed young Chinese understood perfectly but he gaped at him, deliberately, for the amusement of the other servants. “Heya, Mass’er? Tea-ah? Wat for tea-ah you say, eh? Wancha cha, heya?”

  “Oh, never mind, for Christ’s sake!” Wearily Pallidar got up and went to the sideboard with his cup and poured his own tea while all the servants guffawed hugely but silently at the insolent foreign devil’s loss of face, and then continued listening attentively to what they were saying. “It’s a matter of military might, old boy. And I’ll tell you frankly, the General will be bloody upset about losing a grenadier to a poxy assassin dressed like Ali Baba. He’ll want—and we’ll all want—revenge, by God.”

  “I don’t know about a landing—the Navy can certainly blast a path for you but we’ve no idea how many samurai there are, nor anything about their strength.”

  “For God’s sake, whatever they are, or it is, we can deal with them, they’re only a bunch of backward natives. Of course we can deal with them. Just like in China. Can’t understand why we don’t annex China and have done with it.”

  All the servants heard this and understood this and all swore that when the Heavenly Kingdom possessed the guns and the ships to equal the barbarian guns and ships, they would help shove barbarian noses in their own dung and teach them a lesson to last a thousand generations. All of them were handpicked by Illustrious Chen, Gordon Chen, the Noble House compradore. “You wan’ta one piecee plenty good ’ggs, Mass’er?” the most courageous one said, and beamed toothily, holding more of the deliberately phlegmy eggs under Pallidar’s nose. “Werry good.”

  Pallidar shoved the salver away in disgust. “No, thanks. Listen, Marlowe, I think …” He stopped as the door opened and Tyrer came in. “Oh, hello, you must be Phillip Tyrer from the Legation.” He introduced himself, then Marlowe, and went on breezily, “Very sorry about your bad luck yesterday but I’m proud to shake your hand. Both Mr. Struan and Miss Richaud told Babcott if it wasn’t for you they’d both be dead.”

  “They did? Oh!” Tyrer could hardly believe his ears. “It—it all happened so fast. One moment everything was normal, the next we were running for our lives. I was frightened to death.” Now that he had said it aloud he felt better, and even better when they brushed it aside as modesty, held out a chair for him and ordered the servants to bring him food.

  Marlowe said, “When I checked you in the night you were dead to the world, we knew Babcott had sedated you, so I expect you haven’t yet heard about our assassin.”

  Tyrer’s stomach reeled. “Assassin?”

  They told him. And about Angelique.

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes, and what a brave lady she is.” For a moment Marlowe was filled with the thought of her. He had no favored girl at home or anywhere, just a few eligible cousins but no special lady, and for the first time he was happy about it. Perhaps Angelique will stay and then … and then we’ll see.

  His excitement picked up. Just before steaming out of his home port of Plymouth a year ago, his father, Captain Richard Marlowe R.N., had said, “You’re twenty-seven, lad, you’ve your own ship now—albeit a stinkpot—you’re the eldest and it’s time you were married. When you get back from this Far East cruise you’ll be over thirty, with any luck by then I’ll be a Vice Admiral and I’ll…well, I can allow you a few extra guineas, but for God’s sake, don’t tell your mother—or your brothers and sisters. It’s time you made up your mind! What about your cousin Delphi? Her father’s service, though only Indian Army.”

  He had promised that on his return he would choose. Now perhaps he would not have to settle for second or third or fourth best. “Miss Angelique raised the alarm in the Settlement then insisted on coming here last night—Mr. Struan had asked her to see him urgently—seems he’s not too good, pretty bad wound in fact, so I brought her. She’s quite a lady.”

  “Yes.” A curious silence took them, each knowing the other’s thoughts. Phillip Tyrer broke it. “Why should an assassin come here?”

  The other two heard the nervousness. “More devilment, I suppose,” Pallidar said. “Nothing to worry about, we caught the bugger. Have you seen Mr. Struan this morning?”

  “I peeked in but he was asleep, hope he’s going to be all right. The op was not so good and …” Tyrer stopped, hearing an altercation outside. Pallidar went to the window followed by the others.

  Sergeant Towery was shouting at a half-naked Japanese from the far side of the garden, beckoning him. “Hey, you, come ’ere!”

  The man, apparently a gardener, was well built and young and twenty yards away. He wore only a loincloth and was carrying a bundle of sticks and branches over one shoulder, some half wrapped in a dirty black cloth, while he awkwardly scavenged for others. For a moment he stood erect, then began bobbing up and down, bowing abjectly towards the Sergeant.

  “My God, these buggers have no sense of shame,” Pallidar said distastefully. “Even the Chinese don’t dress like that—nor Indians. You can see his privates.”

  “I’m told they dress like that even in winter, some of them,” Marlowe said. “They don’t seem to feel the cold.”

  Again Towery shouted and beckoned. The man kept on bowing, nodding vigorously, but instead of going towards him, seemingly he misinterpreted him and obediently turned away, still half-bowing, and scuttled away, heading for the corner of the building. As he passed their window he gazed at them for an instant, then once more bent double in a groveling obeisance and hurried towards the servants’ quarters, almost hidden by foliage, and was gone.

  “Curious,” Marlowe said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, just that all that bowing and scraping seemed put-on.” Marlowe turned and saw Tyrer’s chalky face. “Christ Almighty, what’s up?”

  “I—I, that man, I think he, I’m not sure but I think he was one of them, one of the murderers at the Tokaidō, the one Struan shot. Did you see his shoulder, wasn’t it bandaged?”

  Pallidar was the first to react. He jumped out of the window, closely followed by Marlowe who had grabbed his sword. Together they hurtled for the trees. But they did not find him though they searched everywhere.

&nbs
p; Now it was high noon. Again the soft knock on her bedroom door, again “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?” Babcott called out from the corridor, his voice soft, not wanting to awaken her unnecessarily, but she did not reply. She remained standing rock still in the center of the room and stared at the bolted door, hardly breathing, her robe tight around her, her face stark. The trembling began again.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  She waited. After a moment his footsteps died away and she exhaled, desperately trying to stop shaking, then resumed pacing to the shuttered windows and back to the bed and back to the windows once more, pacing as she had been pacing for hours.

  I’ve got to decide, she thought in misery.

  When she awoke a second time, not remembering the first awakening, her mind was clear and she lay in the crumpled bed linen without moving, glad to be awake, rested, hungry, and thirsty for the first, glorious cup of coffee of the day served with some crusty fresh French bread that her Legation’s chef made in Yokohama. But I’m not in Yokohama, I’m in Kanagawa, and today it will be just a cup of revolting English tea with milk.

  Malcolm! Poor Malcolm, I do so hope he’s better. We’ll return to Yokohama today, I’ll board the next steamer for Hong Kong, thence to Paris … but oh, what dreams I had, what dreams!

  The fantasies of the night were still vivid and mixed up with other pictures of the Tokaidō and Canterbury’s mutilation and Malcolm acting so strangely presuming that they would marry. The imagined smell of the surgery rose in her nostrils but she fought it away, yawned, and reached for her little timepiece which she had left on the bedside table.

  With the slight movement came a small pain in her loins. For a moment she wondered if it presaged an early period, for she was not completely regular, but dismissed the thought as impossible.