Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “What? Oh, You sorry? Why sorry, Raiko-san? Good evening, I have appointment Fujiko … with Fujiko. ”

  “Ah, so sorry,” she repeated patiently, “but Fujiko is not available this evening, and will not be free even for a short time. So sorry, but there is nothing I can do, she sends her regrets of course and, so sorry, but all my other ladies are equally occupied. Very sorry.”

  Again he did not understand everything. The gist reached him. Crestfallen, Tyrer understood that Fujiko was not there, but not the reason. “But letter, yesterday—my message man, Nakama, he bring, yes?”

  “Oh, yes! Nakama-san brought it and as I told him I thought everything would be perfect but, so sorry, it is not now possible to accommodate you. So sorry, Taira-san, thank you for remembering us. Good night.”

  “Wait,” Tyrer shouted in English as the grille began to close, then pleading, “you said she isn’t there—here, yes? Wait, please, Raiko-san. Tomorrow—sorry—tomorrow, Fujiko, yes?”

  Sadly Raiko shook her head. “Ah, so sorry, tomorrow is not possible either, it really distresses me to have to say so. I do hope you do understand, so sorry.”

  Tyrer was aghast. “No tomorrow? Next day, yes?”

  She hesitated, smiled, made another little bow: “Perhaps, Taira-san, perhaps, but, so sorry, I can promise nothing. Please ask Nakama-san to come here during the day and I will tell him. You understand? Send Nakama-san. Good night.”

  Blankly Tyrer stared at the door, cursed bitterly, bunched his fists, wanting to smash something. It took him a moment to recover from his immense disappointment, then, despondently, he turned away.

  Hiraga had been watching through a spy hole in the fence. When Tyrer vanished around the corner he went back along the meandering stone path through the garden, deep in thought. The garden was deceptively spacious with small bungalows, always with verandas, nestling in their own shrubbery.

  But he avoided all of them, went into the shrubbery and knocked on a panel of fence. It swung open noiselessly. The servant bowed and he nodded and went along a path, heading for a similar dwelling. Most Inns or Houses had secret exits and hiding places, or connections with the one next door, and those that dared to cater to shishi paid special attention to security—for their own safety. This part of the House of the Three Carp was for very special guests with different cooking facilities, maids but the same courtesans. On the veranda he kicked off his geta—clogs—slid back the shoji. “What did he do?” Ori asked.

  “Meekly walked away. Weird.” Hiraga shook his head in wonder and sat opposite him, nodded a brief acknowledgment of Fujiko’s deep bow. Yesterday, after delivering Tyrer’s letter—with Raiko’s amused compliance he had hired Fujiko for tonight.

  “May I ask why, Hiraga-san?” Raiko had said.

  “Just to annoy Taira.”

  “Eeee, I think he left his virginity here, with Ako. Then he tried Mieko, then Fujiko. Fujiko made his eyes cross.”

  He had laughed with Raiko, liking her, but when he saw Fujiko he was bewildered that his enemy found the girl attractive. She was ordinary, hair ordinary, everything about her ordinary except her eyes that were unfashionably large. Nonetheless he hid his opinion and had complimented Raiko that she had acquired such a flower, who looked sixteen though she was thirty-one and fifteen years a courtesan.

  “Thank you, Hiraga-san.” Raiko had smiled. “Yes, she’s an asset, for some reason gai-jin like her. But please, don’t forget the Taira is our client and that gai-jin are not like us. They tend to attach themselves to one lady only. Please encourage him, gai-jin are rich, and I hear he’s an important official and may be here for some years.”

  “Sonno-joi.”

  “That is for you to arrange. You take their heads, but promise me not here, meanwhile I take their wealth.”

  “You will permit Ori to stay?”

  “Ori-san is a curious youth,” she had said hesitantly, “very strong, very angry, very unsettled—a tinderbox. I’m afraid of him. I can hide him for a day or two but … but please, curb him while he’s my guest? There is trouble enough in the Willow World without seeking it.”

  “Yes. Have you any news of my cousin, Akimoto?”

  “He’s safe at Hodogaya, Teahouse of the First Moon.”

  “Send for him.” Hiraga had slid a gold oban from his secret pocket. He noted how her eyes glinted. “This will pay for any messenger, or expenses while Akimoto and Ori are here, and for Fujiko’s services tomorrow of course.”

  “Of course.” The coin, quite a generous payment, vanished into her sleeve. “Ori-san may stay until I think it is time for him to move on, so sorry, then he leaves, you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next, so sorry, shishi, but I must tell you it is very dangerous for you here. This is being sent to every barrier.” Raiko unfolded a woodcut poster, a portrait, about a foot square. Of him. The caption read: The Bakufu offers Two Koku reward for the head of this murdering Choshu ronin who goes under many aliases, one of which is Hiraga.

  “Baka!” Hiraga said through his teeth. “Does it look like me? How is it possible? I’ve never had a portrait painted.”

  “Yes and no. Artists have long memories, Hiraga-san. One of the samurai at the fight perhaps? Unless someone closer to you is the betrayer. Bad also is that important people are seeking you. Anjo of course, but now Toranaga Yoshi.”

  He was chilled, wondering if the courtesan Koiko was betrayed or was the betrayer. “Why him?”

  Raiko shrugged. “He’s the head of the snake, like it or not. Sonno-joi, Hiraga-san, but do not lead the Bakufu enemy here, I want my head on my shoulders.”

  All night Hiraga had worried about the poster and what to do about it. He accepted a refill of saké from Fujiko. “This Taira amazes me, Ori.”

  “Why waste time on him? Kill him.”

  “Later, not now. Watching him and them, testing, trying to guess their reactions is like a game of chess where the rules keep changing constantly, it is fascinating—once you get over their stench.”

  “Tonight we should have done what I wanted to do: kill him and dump his body near the guard house and let them be blamed.” Irritably Ori ran his right hand over the stubble already covering his shaven pate and face, his left shoulder bandaged and arm still in a sling. “Tomorrow I’ll be shaved clean again and feel more like a samurai again—Raiko has a barber she can trust, but clean or not, Hiraga, this forced laziness is sending me mad.”

  “And your shoulder?”

  “The wound’s clean. It itches but it’s a good itch.” Ori lifted his arm about halfway. “Can’t go further but I force it a little every day. It would be difficult to use in a fight. Karma. But that gai-jin Taira, if we had killed him, there would have been no risk to us or the House, you said he was so secretive he wouldn’t have told anyone he was here.”

  “Yes, but he might have, and that’s what I do not understand. They are unpredictable. They keep changing their minds, they say one thing and then do the exact opposite but not with calculation, not like we do, not like us.”

  “Sonno-joi! Killing him would have driven the gai-jin mad. We should do it the next time he comes here.”

  “Yes, we will, but later—he’s too valuable for the moment. He will reveal their secrets, how to humble them, kill them by the hundreds or thousands—after we have used them to humble and break the Bakufu.” Hiraga held out the cup again. Instantly Fujiko filled it, smiling at him. “I was even in the office of the Leader of all the Ing’erish, within five paces of him. I’m in the center of gai-jin authority! If only I could speak their language better.” He was much too cautious to reveal to Ori the true extent of his knowledge, or how he had persuaded Tyrer to smuggle him out—let alone in front of this girl.

  As she replenished their cups through the evening, smiling, totally attentive, never interrupting, she listened avidly though appearing not to, wanting to ask a hundred questions but much too well trained to do so. “Just listen, smile and pretend to be dull
-witted, only a toy,” mama-sans drilled into all of them, “and soon they will tell you all you want to know without prompting. Listen and smile and watch and flatter and make them happy, only then are they generous. Never forget happy equals gold, which is your only purpose and only security.”

  “In Yedo,” Hiraga was saying, “this Taira was really quite brave, tonight a coward. Fujiko, what is he like in bed?”

  Smiling, she hid her surprise that anyone could be so indelicate. “Like any young man, Hiraga-san.”

  “Of course, but what is he like? Is he in proportion—tall man, tall spear?”

  “Ah, so sorry,” she dropped her eyes, and made her voice humble, “but Ladies of the Willow World are directed never to discuss a client with another, whoever he is.”

  “Our rules apply to gai-jin? Eh?” Hiraga asked.

  Ori chuckled. “You will get nothing out of her, or any of them, I tried. Raiko-san came and scolded me for asking! ‘Gai-jin or not, the ancient Yoshiwara rule applies,’ she said. ‘We can talk generalizations, but any client particularly—Baka-neh!’ She was really quite angry.”

  The two men laughed but Fujiko saw Hiraga’s eyes were not laughing. Pretending not to notice, anxious to appease him and at the same time wondering how she would have to service him tonight, she said, “So sorry, Hiraga-san, but my experience is little, with young or old or in the middle. But most experienced ladies say size does not guarantee satisfaction for him or for her, but that young men are always the best and most satisfying clients.”

  She laughed to herself at the well-worn lie. I would like to tell you the truth for once: that you young men are the worst clients, the most demanding, the least satisfying. You’re all hopelessly impatient, you’ve plenty of vigor, require many entries, you’ve puddles of essence but little contentment afterwards—and rarely generous. Worst of all, however much a girl tries not to, she can become enamored with one particular young man and that leads to even more misery, disaster and most times suicide. Old is twenty times better.

  “Some youths,” she said, answering without answering, “are incredibly shy, however well endowed.”

  “Interesting. Ori, I still can’t believe this Taira just meekly turned away.”

  Ori shrugged. “Meek or not, he should be dead tonight and I would sleep better. What else could he do?”

  “Everything. He should have kicked the door down—an appointment is an appointment and Raiko not having a substitute ready was a further insult.”

  “The door and fence are too strong, even for us.”

  “Then he should have gone into the main street and got five or ten or twenty of his people and brought them back and smashed the fence down—he is an important official, the officers and all soldiers obeyed him at the Legation. That would certainly have made Raiko kowtow for a year or more and guaranteed he would have the service he wanted when he wanted—we might have had to run off too. That is what I would have done if I were an important official like him.” Hiraga smiled and Fujiko suppressed a shiver. “It’s a matter of face. Yet they understand face very well. They would have defended their stupid Legation to the last man, then the fleet would have laid waste Yedo.”

  “Isn’t that what we want?”

  “Yes.” Hiraga laughed. “But not when you are weaponless and grovelling like a gardener—I really felt naked!” Again a refill. Hiraga looked at her. Ordinarily, even though the girl of the evening was not particularly attractive, his normal virility and the saké would arouse him. Tonight was different. This was the gai-jin Yoshiwara, she had bedded them so was tainted. Perhaps Ori would like her, he thought, and smiled back at her for face. “Order some food, eh, Fujiko? The best the House can provide.”

  “At once, Hiraga-san.” She hurried away.

  “Listen, Ori,” Hiraga whispered so no one could overhear. “There’s great danger here.” He took out the folded poster.

  Ori was shocked. “Two koku? That will tempt anyone. It could be you, not exactly, but a Barrier guard might stop you.”

  “Raiko said the same.”

  Ori looked up at him. “Joun was an artist, a good one.”

  “I’d thought of that, and I’ve been wondering how they caught him and broke him. He knows many shishi secrets, knows Katsumata’s planning to intercept the Shōgun.”

  “Disgusting, allowing himself to be caught alive. It is obvious we have been infiltrated.” Ori handed the picture back. “Two koku would tempt anyone, even the most zealous mama-san.”

  “I thought of that too.”

  “Grow a beard, Hiraga, or mustache, that would help.”

  “Yes, that would help.” Hiraga was glad that Ori was back in his head again, his counsel always valuable. “A strange feeling to know that this is out there.”

  Ori broke the silence. “In a day or two, soon as I can—I am stronger every day—I will go to Kyōto and join Katsumata to warn him about Joun. He should be warned.”

  “Yes, good idea, very good.”

  “What about you?”

  “I am safe amongst the gai-jin, safer there than anywhere—so long as I’m not betrayed. Akimoto’s at Hodogaya, I have sent for him, then we can decide.”

  “Good. You will be safer to try for Kyōto at once, before these pictures are sent throughout the Tokaidō.”

  “No. Taira is too good an opportunity to miss. I will cache swords there in case.”

  “Get a revolver, less obvious.” Ori put his right hand inside his yukata, moving it away from his shoulder, and scratched the bandage.

  Hiraga was shocked to see the little gold cross on the thin gold chain around his neck. “Why wear that?”

  Ori shrugged. “It amuses me.”

  “Get rid of it, Ori—it ties you to the Tokaidō killing, Shorin and her. The cross is an unnecessary danger.”

  “Many samurai are Christian.”

  “Yes, but she could identify that cross. It is insane to take such a risk. If you want to wear one get another.”

  After a pause Ori said, “This one amuses me.”

  Hiraga saw the inflexibility, cursed him inwardly but decided it was his duty to protect the shishi movement, protect sonno-joi and now was the time. “Take-it-off!”

  The blood soared into Ori’s face. His half smile did not change but he knew he was called. His choice was simple: refuse and die, or obey.

  A mosquito buzzed around his face. He disregarded it, not wanting to make a sudden movement. Slowly his right hand pulled the chain away from his neck, breaking it. The cross and chain vanished into his sleeve pocket. Then he placed both hands on the tatami and bowed low. “You are right, Hiraga-san, it was an unnecessary danger. Please accept my apologies.”

  Silently Hiraga bowed back. Only then did he relax and Ori straighten. Both men knew their relationship had changed. Permanently. They had not become enemies, just were no longer friends, allies always, but never friends again. Ever. As Ori picked up his cup and raised it, toasting him, he was pleased to find his inner rage so controlled that his fingers did not shake. “Thank you.”

  Hiraga drank with him, leaned over and poured for both of them. “Now Sumomo. Please tell me about her.”

  “I remember almost nothing.” Ori opened his fan and wafted the mosquito away. “The mama-san Noriko told me Sumomo arrived like a spirit with me on a stretcher, told her almost nothing except that a gai-jin doctor had cut me open and sewed me up again. She paid half Shorin’s debts and persuaded her to hide me. During the waiting Sumomo spoke hardly at all after asking about Shorin, what had happened to him. When the messenger returned from Yedo with your message she left for Shimonoseki at once. The only news she gave was that Satsuma is mobilizing for war, and your Choshu batteries had again fired on the gai-jin ships in the Straits, turning them back.”

  “Good. You told her everything about Shorin?”

  “Yes. She asked me seriously and then, after I told her she said she would be revenged.”

  “Did she leave any message or letter w
ith the mama-san?”

  Ori shrugged. “She left nothing with me.”

  Perhaps Noriko has one, Hiraga thought. Never mind, that can wait. “She looked well?”

  “Yes. I owe her my life.”

  “Yes. One day she will want to collect that debt.”

  “Repaying her I repay you and honor sonno-joi.”

  They sat in silence, each wondering what the other was thinking, really thinking.

  Hiraga smiled suddenly. “Tonight in the Settlement there was a big celebration, vile music and much drinking, it’s their custom when a man agrees to marry.” He quaffed his cup. “This saké is good. One of the merchants—the gai-jin you cut at the Tokaidō—is going to marry that woman.”

  Ori was dumbfounded. “The woman of the cross? She’s here?”

  “I saw her tonight.”

  “So!” Ori muttered as though to himself, then finished his saké and poured for both of them. A little wine spilled unnoticed on the tray. “She’s to be married? When?”

  Hiraga shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw him and her together tonight, he walks with two canes like a cripple—your blow wounded him severely, Ori.”

  “Good. And the … the woman, what was she like?”

  Hiraga laughed. “Outlandish, Ori, total buffoonery.” He described her crinoline. And her hairstyle. And got up and parodied her gait. Soon both men were almost rolling on the tatamis with laughter. “… breasts out to here, depraved! Just before I came here I peered in a window. Men clutched her openly, she and a man clutched each other, twirling in a sort of dance in front of everyone to these horrid-sounding instruments, you couldn’t call it music! kicking up her skirts so you could see halfway up, and frilly white pants to the ankles. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself but she went from man to man like a one-sen whore and they all cheered her. The fool who’s going to marry her, he just sat in a chair and beamed, imagine that!” He poured but the bottle was empty. “Saké!”