Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “She loved him that much?”

  “They say that in the beginning when the Bakufu approached her she adamantly refused to go with a foreigner—an unheard-of aberration, don’t forget he was the first ever to be actually allowed to live on Japanese soil. She begged the Bakufu to choose someone else, to allow her to live in peace, said she would become a Buddhist nun, she even swore she would kill herself. But they were equally adamant, begging her to help them solve this problem of gai-jin, pleading with her for weeks to be his consort, wearing her down by what means no one knows. So she agreed and they thanked her. And when Harris left they all turned their backs on her, Bakufu, everyone: Ah, so sorry, but any woman who has gone with a foreigner is tainted forever.”

  “How awful!”

  “Yes, in our terms, and so sad. But remember, this is the Land of Tears. Now she is legend, honored by her peers and by those who turned their backs, because of her sacrifice.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I, nor any of us. But they do. Japanese do.”

  How strange, Tyrer thought again. Like this little house and this man and woman, chattering half in Japanese, half in pidgin, laughing one with another, one a madam the other a customer, both pretending they are something else. More and more saké. Then she bowed and got up and left.

  “Saké, Phillip?”

  “Thanks. It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

  After a pause, André said, “You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”

  “Oh? Why me?”

  The Frenchman twisted the porcelain cup in his fingers, drained the last drop, poured some more, then began in French, his voice soft and filled with warmth, “Because you’re the first person I’ve met in Yokohama with … because you speak French, you’re cultured, your mind is like a sponge, you’re young, not far off half my age, eh? You’re twenty-one, and not like the others, you’re untainted and you’ll be here for a few years.” He smiled, spinning the web tighter, telling only part of the truth, molding it: “Truly you’re the first person I’ve met who, alors, even though you’re English and actually an enemy of France, you’re the only one who somehow seems to merit the knowledge I’ve acquired.” An embarrassed smile. “Difficult to explain. Perhaps because I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, perhaps because I’ve never had a son, never married, perhaps because soon I have to move back to Shanghai, perhaps because we’ve enemies enough and perhaps … perhaps you could be a firm friend.”

  “I would be honored to be your friend,” Tyrer said at once, enmeshed and under his spell, “and I really do think, I really have always thought we should be allies, France and Britain, not enemies and—” The shoji slid back. Raiko, on her knees, beckoned Tyrer. His heart surged.

  André Poncin smiled. “Just follow her, and remember what I told you.”

  As in a dream Phillip Tyrer got up unsteadily and padded after her, down a corridor, into a room, across it and along a veranda, into another empty room where she motioned him in, closed the shoji, and left him.

  A shaded oil lamp. Charcoal brazier for warmth. Shadows and darkness and patches of light. Futons—small square mattresses—laid out as a bed on the floor, a bed for two. Downy coverlets. Two yukatas, wide-sleeved, patterned cotton gowns for sleeping in. Through a small door a bathhouse, candle-lit, tall wooden tub filled with steaming water. Sweet-smelling soap. Low, three-legged stool. Diminutive towels. Everything as André had foretold.

  His heart was beating very fast now and he pushed his mind to remember André’s instructions through the saké haze.

  Methodically, he began to undress. Coat, waistcoat, cravat, shirt, woolen vest, each article meticulously folded and nervously placed in a pile. Awkwardly sitting, then pulling off his socks, reluctantly his trousers and standing up once more. Only his woolen long johns remained.

  Weaving a little, then an embarrassed shrug and he took them off and folded them, even more carefully. His skin prickled into goose bumps and he walked into the bathhouse.

  There he scooped water from the barrel as he had been told and spilled it over his shoulders, the warmth pleasant. Another and then the sound of the shoji opening and he glanced around. “Christ Almighty,” he muttered.

  The woman was beefy with huge forearms, her yukata brief, nothing under except a loincloth and she strode purposefully towards him with a flat smile, motioned him to squat on the stool. In absolute embarrassment he obeyed. At once she noticed the healing scar on his arm and sucked in her breath, said something that he could not understand.

  He forced a smile. “Tokaidō.”

  “Wakarimasu.” I understand. Then, before he could stop her she poured water over his head—unexpectedly and not part of his forewarning—and began soaping and washing his long hair, then his body, her fingers hard, expert and insistent, but taking care not to hurt his arm. Arms legs back front, then offering him the cloth and pointing between his legs. Still in shock he cleansed those parts, meekly handed the cloth back. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Oh, sorry, domo.”

  More water took away the last of the soap and she pointed to the tub. “Dozo!” Please.

  André had explained: “Phillip, just remember that, unlike with us, you have to be washed and clean before you get into the bath, so others can use the same water—which is very sensible, don’t forget wood is very expensive and it takes a long time to heat enough—so don’t piss in it either, and don’t think of her as a woman when you’re in the bathhouse, just a helper. She cleans you outside, then inside, no?”

  Tyrer eased himself into the tub. It was hot but not too hot and he closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the woman making the bath tidy. Christ, he thought in misery, I’ll never be able to perform with her. André’s made a vast mistake.

  “But…well, I, er, don’t know how much I, er, pay, or do I give the girl the money first or what?”

  “Mon Dieu, you should never actually give money to any girl, anywhere, that’s the height of bad manners, though you can barter savagely with the mama-san, sometimes with the girl herself, but only after tea or saké. Before you leave you’d put it discreetly in a place she would see it. In the House of the Three Carp, you give no money, it’s a special place—there are others like it—only for special customers, one of which I am. They’ll send you a bill, two or three times a year. But listen, before we go there you have to swear by God that you’ll pay the bill the moment it’s presented, and that you will never, never introduce anyone else there or talk about it.”

  So he had sworn and promised, wanting to ask how much but not daring to. “The, er, bill, when does that come?”

  “When it pleases the mama-san. I told you, Phillip, you can have pleasure the year round on credit, under the correct circumstances—of course, I’m surety for you…. ”

  The warmth of the bath water permeated him. He hardly heard her bustle out and then, later, bustle back again.

  “Taira-san?”

  “Hai?” Yes?

  She was holding up a towel. Curiously lethargic, he climbed out, his muscles drowsed by the water, and let her dry him. Once more the special places he did himself, finding it easier this time. A comb for his hair. Dry starched yukata and she motioned him towards the bed.

  Again panic surged through him. Shakily he forced himself to lie down. She covered him, folded back the other coverlet and again left.

  His heart was thundering but lying down felt marvelous, the mattress soft and clean and sweet-smelling, feeling cleaner than he had felt for years. Soon he was calmer and then the shoji opened and closed and he was filled with utter relief but no longer calm. The half-seen girl was tiny, willowy, pale yellow yukata, hair long and cascading. Now she was kneeling beside the bed. “Konbanwa, Taira-san. Ikaga desu ka? Watashi wa Ako.” Good evening, Mr. Taira. Are you well? I am Ako.

  “Konbanwa, Ako-san. Watashi wa Phillip Tyrer desu.”

  She frowned. “F … urri … f.” She tried to say Phillip several times but could not, then laugh
ed gaily, said something he did not understand, ending with Taira-san.

  He was sitting up now, watching her, heart pounding, helpless, not attracted by her, and now she was pointing to the other side of the bed. “Dozo?” Please, may I?

  “Dozo.” In the candlelight he could not see her clearly, just enough to think that she was young, he estimated about his own age, that her face was smooth and white with powder, teeth white, lips red, hair shiny, nose almost Roman, eyes narrow ellipses, her smile kind. She got into the bed and settled herself, turned and watched him. Waiting. His shyness and inexperience paralyzed him.

  Christ, how do I tell her I don’t want her, don’t want anyone now, that I can’t, I know I can’t and it won’t…it won’t tonight, it won’t and I’ll disgrace myself and André … André! What can I tell him? I’ll be a laughingstock. Oh, Christ, why did I agree?

  Her hand reached out and touched his cheek. Involuntarily he shivered.

  Ako murmured sweet sounding words of encouragement but inside she was smiling, knowing what to expect from this child of a man, well prepared by Raiko-san: “Ako, tonight is a rare moment in your life and you must remember every detail to regale us with at first meal. Your client is a friend of Frenchy, and unique in our world—he’s virgin. Frenchy says he is so shy you will not believe it, that he will be frightened, will probably weep when his Honorable Weapon fails him, he may even wet the bed in his frustrated excitement, but do not worry, dear Ako, Frenchy assures me you can deal with him in the normal way, and that you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “Eeee, I’ll never understand gai-jin, Raiko-san.”

  “Nor I. Certainly they are all peculiar, uncivilized, but fortunately most are pleasantly rich, it’s our destiny to be here so we must make the most of it. Very important, Frenchy says this one is an important English official, potentially a long-term customer so make him experience the Clouds and the Rain, one way or another, even if … even if you have to use the Ultimate.”

  “Oh ko!”

  “The honor of the House is at stake.”

  “Oh! I understand. In that case … Somehow I will.”

  “I have every confidence, Ako-chan, after all you have almost thirty years’ experience in our Willow World.”

  “Is he like Frenchy in his tastes, do you think?”

  “That he enjoys his back part tickled, and occasionally Pleasure Pearls? Perhaps you should be prepared but I asked Frenchy directly if the youth had leanings towards liking men and he assured me no. Curious that Frenchy chose our House to initiate a friend, instead of the others he now frequents.”

  “The House was not to blame, never. Please, don’t think about it, Raiko-chan. I am honored that you have chosen me, I will do everything necessary.”

  “Of course. Eeee, when you think that the Steaming Stalks of gai-jin are usually much larger than civilized persons, that most gai-jin fornicate satisfactorily though without Japanese vigor, flair and urge to plumb the limits, except for Frenchy, you would think they would be happy fornicators like normal persons. But they are not, they have so many cobwebs in their heads that somehow fornication is not our Most Heavenly Pleasure, but some kind of secret, religious evil. Weird.”

  Experimenting now, Ako moved closer and caressed his chest, then shifted her hand lower and was hard put not to laugh out loud as the youth jerked with fright. It took her a few moments to compose herself. “Taira-san?” she murmured.

  “Yes, er, hai, Ako-san?”

  She took his hand and placed it inside her yukata on her breast, leaned over and kissed his shoulder, forewarned to be careful of the wound in his arm that a courageous shishi had given him. No reaction. Moving against him closer. Whispering how utterly brave, how strong and manly, how fulsome the maid had described him and his fruit. All the while patiently caressing his chest, feeling him shiver but still no passion. Minutes passed. Still nothing. Her concern grew. Fingers soft as butterflies and yet still he lay inert—hands, lips, everything. Gently caressing, careful to circle, no real intimacy yet. More minutes. Still nothing. Her dismay mounted. Fear that she might fail overlay her dismay. Touching his ear with her tongue.

  Ah, a slight reward: her name spoken throatily and his lips kissing her neck. Eeee, she thought, and relaxed and put her lips around his nipple. Now it’s only a matter of time to explode his virginity to the skies, then I can order some saké and sleep till dawn and forget that I am forty-three and childless, and only remember that Raiko-san rescued me from the sixth-class House that my age and lack of beauty had relegated me to.

  Tyrer was idly watching the samurai in the Legation square, the sun touching the horizon, his mind increasingly beset by Ako, then two nights later, Hamako. Then Her.

  Fujiko. The night before last.

  He felt himself hardening and eased that part more comfortably, knowing that now he was inexorably caught in that world, the Floating World where, as André had told him, living was only for the moment, for pleasure, drifting with never a care like a blossom in the current of a calm river.

  “It’s not always calm, Phillip. What’s she like, Fujiko?”

  “Oh, er, haven’t you seen her, don’t you know her?”

  “No, I only told Raiko-san the sort of girl you might like, the accent being on ‘sleeping dictionary.’ How was she?”

  He had laughed to cover his complete embarrassment and disquiet at being asked such a personal question so directly. But André had given him so much that he wanted to be “French” and forthright, so he put aside his misgivings that a gentleman should not discuss or disclose such personal information. “She … she’s younger than I am, small, tiny in fact, not—not pretty in our terms, but she’s astonishingly attractive. I think I understood her to say that she was new there.”

  “I meant in bed, how was she? Better than the others?”

  “Oh. Well, there was, er, well, no comparison.”

  “Was she more vigorous? Sensuous? Eh?”

  “Well, yes, er, dressed or undressed, incredible. Special. Again I can’t thank you enough, I owe you so much.”

  “De rien, mon vieux.”

  “It’s true. Next time … next time you’ll meet her.”

  “Mon Dieu, no, that’s a rule. Never introduce your ‘special’ to anyone, least of all a friend. Don’t forget, until you set her up in your own place, with you paying the bills, she’s available for anyone with the money—if she wants.”

  “Oh. I’d forgotten,” he had said, hiding the truth.

  “Even if she’s set up she could still have a lover on the side if she wants. Who’s to know?”

  “I suppose so.” More anguish.

  “Don’t fall in love, my friend, not with a courtesan. Take them for what they are, pleasure persons. Enjoy them, like them but don’t love them—and never let them fall in love with you …”

  Tyrer shivered, hating the truth, hating the idea of her being with another, and bedding as they had bedded, hating that it was for money, hating the ache that was in his loins. My God, she really was so special, lovely, liquid, a sweet chatterbox, gentle, kind, so young and only in the House for such a short time. Should I set her up? Not should, could I? I’m sure André has his own place with his special friend though he’s never said, nor would I ever ask. Christ, how much would that cost? Bound to be more than I could afford….

  Don’t think about that now! Or her.

  With an effort he put his attention on the garden below but the ache remained. Part of the Highland detachment were assembling around the flagstaff, the trumpeter and four kettledrummers already in position for the lowering of the flag. Routine. The motley group of gardeners were collecting by the gate to be counted and then dismissed. They grovelled their way through the gates and through the samurai and were gone. Routine. Sentries closed and bolted the iron gates. Routine. Drums and trumpet sounding as the Union Jack was slowly lowered—no sun sets on the British flag was British law throughout the world. Routine. Most of the samurai marching away now,
leaving only a token force for the night. Routine.

  Tyrer shivered.

  If everything’s routine why am I so nervous?

  The Legation gardeners trooped into their dormitory hovel that adjoined the other side of the Buddhist temple. None of them met Hiraga’s gaze. All had been warned that their lives, and the lives of all their generations, depended on his safety.

  “Beware of talking to strangers,” he had told them. “If the Bakufu find you’ve harbored me your reward will be just the same, except you will be crucified, not killed cleanly.”

  With all their abject protestations that he was safe, that he could trust them, Hiraga knew that he was never secure. Since the Anjo ambush ten days ago, most of the time he had been at their Kanagawa safe house, the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. That the attack had failed and all but one of his companions killed was karma, nothing else.

  Yesterday a letter had arrived from Katsumata, the leading, though clandestine, Satsuma shishi, now in Kyōto: Urgent: in a few weeks, Shōgun Nobusada will create an unheard-of precedent by coming here to pay the Emperor a state visit. All shishi are advised to gather here at once to plan how to intercept him, to send him onwards, then to take possession of the Palace Gates. Katsumata had signed his code name: Raven.

  Hiraga had discussed what to do with Ori, then decided to return here to Yedo, determined to act alone to destroy the British Legation, furious that the Council of Elders seemed to have been bamboozled and neutralized by the gai-jin. “Kyōto can wait, Ori. We’ve got to press home our attack on the gai-jin. We must infuriate them until they bombard Yedo. Others can deal with the Shōgun and Kyōto.” He would have brought Ori but Ori was helpless, his wound worse, with no help from any doctor. “What about your arm?”

  “When it’s unbearable, I’ll commit seppuku,” Ori had said, his words slurred from the saké he was using to dampen the pain—the three of them, he, Ori and the mama-san, having a final drink together. “Don’t worry.”