Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “I’ll join you, Phillip, if I may,” McFay said.

  “Of course, Jamie. You look hung over, old chap.”

  “I am. You look the same. That was some party.”

  “Yes. How’s Malcolm?”

  “Not so hot. He’s one of the things I wanted to talk about.” They found a table, the room smoke-filled, airless and crowded, everyone as usual in frock coats.

  They were sitting at a corner table, Chinese servants carrying trays of roast beef, chicken pies, fish pies, fish soup, Cornish pasties, Yorkshire puddings, salt pork, curries and bowls of rice for the old China Hands, plus whisky, rum, gin, porter, champagne, red and white wine and tankards of beer. Fly swats laid beside every place.

  McFay used the fly whisk. “Wanted to ask you to talk to Malcolm, not at my suggestion, tell him it’d be a good idea to go back to Hong Kong as soon as possible.”

  “But Jamie, I’m sure he will, without my saying so. He doesn’t listen to me, why should he? What’s up?”

  “His mother. I’m afraid now that’s no secret. Don’t say anything but she writes by every mail ordering me to order him back—there’s not a bloody thing I can do, he just won’t listen and when the news of the party and his formal engagement reaches Hong Kong …” McFay rolled his eyes. “Ayeeyah! The shit will spread from here to Yedo.”

  In spite of McFay’s seriousness Tyrer laughed. “It already has, it’s stinky poo like never before. The Legation garden’s knee-deep in a new dressing of prime.”

  “Oh?” The Scot frowned and sniffed the air. “Hadn’t noticed. How’s the curry?” he asked a neighbor.

  “Hot, Jamie.” The man, Lunkchurch, spat a piece of chicken bone into the floor sawdust. “I’m on seconds.”

  Tyrer beckoned one of the waiters brushing past but the toothy youth deliberately avoided seeing him.

  “Hey, dew neh loh moh, waiter!” McFay shouted irritably. “Curry plenty quick, heya!”

  There was a shout of laughter and much jeering and catcalls at the Chinese curse words from the traders and merchants, and sour looks from the padre of the Highland Battalion who was lunching expansively with his Church of England counterpart from the Dragoons, and their own pastor.

  A plate of blood-rare roast beef was plunked down vigorously in front of McFay. “Curry, Mass’er, plenty werry quick quick, heya?” the young servant said, beaming.

  Exasperated, McFay shoved the plate back. “This’s roast beef, for God’s sake! Curry, for Christ’s sake, fetch curry!”

  “I’ll have the chicken pie,” Tyrer said hastily.

  Grumbling, the servant went back to the kitchen and once inside the door bellowed with laughter amidst the pandemonium there. “Noble House ’Fay blew up like a barrel of fireworks when I shoved roast beef under his bulbous nose, pretending I thought it was curry. Ayeeyah,” he said, holding his stomach with laughter, “I almost shat. Baiting foreign devils is more fun than fornication!”

  Others laughed with him until the Head Cook reached over and belted him around the face. “Listen, you dirty little fornicator—and the rest of you—don’t bait Noble House foreign devils until Noble House Chen says it is all right. Now take Noble House ’Fay his curry quickly and don’t spit in it or I’ll feed you your testicles in batter.”

  “Ayeeyah, spitting in foreign devil food is quite ordinary, Honorable Chief Cook,” the youth muttered, his head almost off his shoulders, then he picked up a plate of chicken pie and rushed to obey.

  The plate of curry and bowl of rice banged on the table in front of McFay. “Curry, Mass’er, you wan’ heya never mind.” The youth hurried away, cursing inwardly, head aching, but still content for though he had not dared to disobey the Head Cook, he had kept his dirty thumb in the curry all the way from the kitchen.

  “Rude bastard,” Jamie said. “Ten dollars to a busted flush the bugger spat in it bringing it here.”

  “If you’re so sure, why shout at him?” Tyrer began cutting the Melton Mowbray-type pie with its thick crust.

  “He needs it, they all need it, and a good kick in the backside as well.” With gusto McFay began tucking into the yellowish, gruel-like chicken and potato curry, globules of fat swimming on the surface. “Next, I hear you smuggled a samurai out of Yedo who speaks some English.”

  Tyrer almost choked on a piece of chicken. “Rubbish!”

  “Then why’re you almost purple, for goodness’ sake? You’re talking to me, Noble House McFay! Come on, Phillip, how do you expect to keep that secret here? You were overheard.” Perspiration dotted his brow from the heat of the curry, from time to time waving the flies away. “This’s hot enough to fry your balls off—good though. You want to try some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Happily McFay continued to eat. Then, between mouthfuls, his voice hardened though he still spoke confidentially. “Unless you talk to me openly about him, old chap, in confidence—my word on it—and share everything, all his info, I’ll make an announcement here and now—to him.” His spoon pointed at Nettlesmith, editor of the Yokohama Guardian, who was already watching them interestedly. A splatter of curry fell on the tablecloth. “If Wee Willie reads about your secret first in the paper, he’ll bust a gut like you’ve never seen.”

  All Tyrer’s hunger had vanished. Queasily he said, “I … it’s true we helped a dissident escape from Yedo. That’s all I can say. Now he’s under H.M.’s protection for the moment. Sorry, can’t say any more, Official Secrets.”

  McFay eyed him shrewdly. “Her Britannic Majesty’s protection, eh?”

  “Yes, sorry. Closed mouth catchee no flies, can’t say any more. Secrets of State.”

  “Interesting.” McFay finished the plate and shouted for a second helping. “But in return I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Sorry, I’m sworn to secrecy.” Tyrer was sweating too, a way of life in Asia except during the winter and spring months, and also because his secret was known. Even so, he was pleased with the way he was handling Jamie, undoubtedly the most important of the Yokohama traders. “I’m sure you understand.”

  McFay nodded pleasantly, concentrating on his curry. “I understand very well, old chap. The very second I’m finished, Nettlesmith gets the exclusive.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Tyrer was shocked. “State s—”

  “Balderdash on State secrets,” McFay hissed. “First, I don’t believe you; second, even if it was we’ve the right to know, we’re the State, by God, not a bunch of diplomat scallywags who can’t fart their way out of an empty bag!”

  “Now look here …”

  “I’m looking. Share, Phillip, or read about it in the afternoon edition.” McFay’s beam was seraphic as he sopped up the last of the gravy with a final hunk of bread, and consumed it. He belched and pushed his chair away from the table and began to get up. “On your own head.”

  “Wait.”

  “Everything? You agree to tell me everything?”

  Numbly Tyrer nodded. “If you swear to keep it secret.”

  “Good, but not here. My office’s safer. Come on.” As he passed Nettlesmith he said, “What’s new, Gabriel?”

  “Read the afternoon edition, Jamie. War soon in Europe, terrible in America, war brewing here.”

  “Just the usual. Well, see y—”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Tyrer.” Nettlesmith’s canny eyes washed over him as he scratched thoughtfully then put his attention to McFay again. “I’ve an advance copy of the last chapter of Great Expectations.”

  Jamie shuddered to a stop, Phillip too. “I don’t believe it, by God!”

  “Ten dollars and the promise of an exclusive.”

  “What exclusive?”

  “When you have one. I’ll trust you.” Again the shrewd eyes looked at Tyrer who tried not to wince.

  “This afternoon, Gabriel? Without fail?”

  “Yes, for one hour, so you can’t copy it—it’s my exclusive. It cost me almost every favor I have in Fleet Street to acquire—”

  “To s
teal. Two dollars?”

  “Eight, but your hour’s after Norbert’s.”

  “My last offer, eight—and I read it first?”

  “Plus the exclusive? Good. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Jamie. I’ll be in your office at three.”

  Through his open window Tyrer heard the ship’s bell at the Harbor Master’s office sound eight bells. His feet were propped on his desk, and he was dozing, his afternoon calligraphy exercises forgotten. No need to look at the mantelpiece clock. His brain told him it was 4:00 P.M. Now aboard ships would be the first afternoon dogwatch, a two-hour period lasting from 4:00 P.M. to 6:00 P.M., then the second from 6:00 P.M. to 8:00 P.M., thence to the normal four-hour periods until tomorrow at 4:00 P.M. Marlowe had explained that dogwatches had been invented to allow crews to be rotated.

  He yawned and opened his eyes, thinking, Not much more than half a year ago, I’d never even heard of a dogwatch or been on a warship and now I’m telling time by ship’s bells as easy as with a timepiece.

  His mantelpiece clock chimed four. Exactly correct. In half an hour I’m to see Sir William. The Swiss can certainly make chronometers, better than us. Where the devil’s Nakama? Has he run off? He should have been back hours ago. What the devil does Sir William want? Hope to God he hasn’t heard about my secret. Hope he just wants more dispatches copied. Blast it that my writing’s the best in the Legation, I’m supposed to be a translator, not a clerk! Damn, damn, damn!

  He got up wearily, tidied his work and began to wash his hands in the basin, getting the ink off his fingers. A knock. “Come in.”

  Behind Hiraga was a Redcoat sergeant and a soldier, both with bayoneted rifles and both angry. Hiraga was bruised, dishevelled, grey with rage and almost naked, hat gone, turban gone, his villager kimono in shreds. The Sergeant shoved him forward, bayonet ready, and saluted. “We caught ’im climbing in over the fence, sir. We ’ad the devil of a time getting ’im nice and quiet. ’E’s got a pass, signed by you. Is it real?”

  “Yes, yes, it is.” Aghast, Tyrer came forward. “He’s a guest here, Sergeant, a guest of Sir William’s, and me. He’s a Japanese teacher.”

  “A teacher, eh?” the Sergeant said grimly. “Well, tell the bugger teachers don’t climb fences, don’t try to run off, don’t ’ave samurai ’aircuts, don’t frighten people or fight like a bag full of tomcats—I’ve one man wiv ’is arm broke and another wiv a busted nose. Next time we catch ’im at it, we won’t be so careful.” Both soldiers stomped off.

  Tyrer closed the door, rushed to the sideboard and brought some water back. “Here.”

  Hiraga shook his head, choked with rage.

  “Please. Would you like saké or beer?”

  “Iyé.”

  “Please … well, sit down and tell me what happened.”

  Hiraga began pouring out an explanation in Japanese.

  “Gomen nasai, Ing’erish dozo.” Sorry, English please.

  With an effort, Hiraga changed to English and with long, seething pauses between words he said, “Many guard at Gate and Bridge. I go through swamp, go through water, over fence. These so’dier see me. I stop, bow, reach for pass, they throw to ground. Fight, but too many.” Then he followed with another searing flood of Japanese venom and promises of revenge.

  When the paroxysm was spent, Tyrer said, “Sorry, but it’s your own fault …” He darted back involuntarily as Hiraga whirled on him. “Stop it!” he said angrily. “The soldier was right. Samurai frighten people! Sir William told you to be careful, so did I, we asked you to be careful.”

  “I was being polite, only doing what was correct!” Hiraga said in angry Japanese. “Those ill-mannered apes fell on me, I was reaching for the pass, it was difficult to find. Apes, I’ll kill them all!”

  Tyrer’s heart was pounding and the sweet sick taste of fear was in his mouth. “Listen, we must solve this together, quickly. When Sir William hears about this he may throw you out of the Settlement! You and I must solve this, understand?”

  “Iyé! What is ‘so’rve,’ please?”

  Tyrer was thankful to hear the “please” and held on to his fright. This fellow’s clearly as dangerous and as violent and hotheaded as any samurai in Japan. Thank God he’s not armed. “‘Solve’ means to arrive at an understanding. We must solve this problem, we must, you and I, how to have you live here safely. You understand?”

  “’Hai. So desu ka! Wakarimasu. Taira-san me we so’rve prob’rem.” Hiraga curbed his rage. “P’rease, what sugg’st? Pass no good for so’dier. Men who see me, hate. How so’rve this matter?”

  “First … first there’s a good old English custom. Whenever we have to solve a serious problem, we have tea.”

  Hiraga stared at him blankly. Tyrer rang a bell and ordered tea from Chen, the Number One Boy who eyed Hiraga suspiciously, an ugly chopper concealed behind his back.

  While they waited Tyrer sat back in his chair and solemnly stared out of the window, desperately wanting the other man to tell him about Fujiko but too well mannered to ask directly such a leading question. Damn the fellow, he was thinking, he should volunteer the info, knowing I must be anxious as hell and not make me bloody wait. Got to teach him English ways, got to teach him not to fly off the handle, the soldiers were quite right. Got to make an English gentleman out of him. But how? Then there’s bloody Jamie, who’s too damned clever.

  After lunch he had gone with McFay to his office, was pressed to have a small brandy and then, within minutes, he found that he had told him everything.

  “Och, Phillip, you’re brilliant,” McFay had told him with genuine enthusiasm. “That laddie will be a veritable gold mine if asked the right questions. Did he say where he was from?”

  “Choshu, I think that’s what he said.”

  “I’d like to talk to him—privately.”

  “If he talks to you then others are bound to find out and then the news will be…will be out everywhere.”

  “If I know, Norbert knows, and I’ll bet the Bakufu knows—they’re no fools. Sorry, but there are no secrets here, how many times must I remind you?”

  “All right, I’ll ask him. But only if I’m present when you see him.”

  “Now, that’s not really necessary, Phillip, you’ve got so much to do. I would’na want to waste your time.”

  “Yes or no!”

  McFay sighed. “You’re a hard man, Phillip. All right.”

  “And if I also get to read the last chapter, without charge, say tomorrow. You arrange it with Nettlesmith.”

  Sharply, McFay said, “If I have to pay the astounding sum of eight dollars, you have to contribute as well.”

  “Then no interview, and I’ll inform Sir William.” He smiled to himself remembering the sour look on McFay’s face and then, “Cha, Mass’er, plenty quick quick” interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to Nakama. Chen put down the tray, no longer carrying the chopper, but it was close at hand, outside the door.

  Gravely Tyrer poured for both of them, added milk and sugar and sipped the scalding, iron black brew with relish. “That’s better.”

  Hiraga imitated him. It took all of his willpower not to cry out from the heat, and to hold in what was the foulest-tasting liquid he had ever had in his life.

  “Good, eh?” Tyrer said with a beam, finishing his cup. “Some more?”

  “No, no, thank you. Ing’erish custom, yes?”

  “English and American, yes, not French. The French—” Tyrer shrugged “—they’ve no taste.”

  “Ah, so ka?” Hiraga had noticed the slight sneer. “French not same as Ing’erish?” he asked with a pretended innocence, his fury compartmentalized for later.

  “My goodness me, no, not like them at all. They’re on the Continent, we’re an island nation like you. Different customs, different foods, government, everything, and of course France’s a minor power compared to Britain.” Tyrer stirred in another spoon of sugar, pleased with himself that the man’s rage seemed to have dissipated. “Very different.�
��

  “Oh, so? Ing’erish and French warred hav?”

  Tyrer laughed. “Dozens of times over the centuries, and allies in other wars—we were allies in the last conflict.” He told him briefly about the Crimea, then about Napoleon Bonaparte, the French revolution, and the present Emperor Louis Napoleon. “He’s Bonaparte’s nephew, an absolute buffoon. Bonaparte wasn’t, but one of the most evil men ever born, he was responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths. But for Wellington and Nelson and our troops he would have ruled the world. Are you understanding all this?”

  Hiraga nodded. “No o’rr word, but unn’erstan’.” But he had caught the gist and this turned his head upside down, though he could not fathom why a great general should be considered evil. “P’rease go on, Taira-san.”

  For a little while Tyrer did, then stopped the history lesson and gave him a lead: “Now to your problem. When you left the Yoshiwara those guards gave you no trouble?”

  “No, pretend take vegitab’res.”

  “That’s good. Oh, by the way, did you see Raiko-san?”

  “Yes. Fujiko not possib’re tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Well, never mind.” Tyrer shrugged, dying inside.

  But Hiraga saw the vast disappointment and savored it. Sonno-joi, he thought grimly. He had had to buy Fujiko’s services himself but he did not mind. Raiko had said: “Since you pay well, though not gai-jin prices, I agree. But he should bed her the day after. I wouldn’t want him to find another …”

  Tyrer was saying, “Nakama-san, the only real way you can be safe here is to never go out. I won’t send you to the Yoshiwara anymore. You must stay here, inside the Legation.”

  “Better, Taira-san, I stay in vi’rrage, find safe house. Inside fence safer. Each day I come at sunup, or when you want teach and to ’rearn. You very good Sensei. This so’rve prob’rem, yes?”

  Tyrer hesitated, not wanting him off the leash but no longer caring to have him too close. “Yes, if first you show me where exactly and do not move without telling me.”

  In a moment Hiraga nodded and said, “I agree. P’rease, you say so’diers good me stay here and in vi’rrage?”