Tweet accepted the drink and tottered to a table well away from the fighters who were now rolling on the floor, their belligerence undiminished. The barman sighed, emptied a bucket of slops over them, walked around the bar, picked up one in each hand and, to more cheers, cast them into High Street. “Gents, it’s time, gents, please!” he said to howls that were quickly muted. Everyone finished their drinks and began to leave. Zergeyev and Fritz Erlicher raised their hats politely to the clergyman.
“Rev,” Swann said—he was the thin trader who acted as the deacon. “How about looking in on the sinners in Drunk Town?”
“Well, Mr. Swann, it is, how shall I say, on the way.”
In her little house in the Yoshiwara, Hinodeh waited. Furansu-san had said he would arrive tonight but he might be late. She was dressed to undress, her night kimono and under-kimonos the finest, her hair shining, tortoise-shell and silver combs decorating the swept-up coiffure that showed the nape of her neck perfectly, the combs only there to take away—to allow her hair to fall to her waist, hiding the erotic.
I wonder what is so erotic about the nape of a woman’s neck to men, she asked herself, and why is hiding it erotic too? Men, how strange! But she knew that letting her hair fall excited Furansu-san like any client and this was her only concession to their pact. This alone she would do in the light.
In the dark before dawn, when he was with her, her maiko would softly awaken her and she would dress in the dark, if he awoke or if he did not. Then she would move to the second room and close the door, her maiko guarding the door, and would sleep again if she was tired. He had agreed never to enter this sanctuary—after the first time she had insisted: “In this way the privacy of the night may extend into the day,” she had said.
“Please?”
“In this way that which you saw once will never change, whatever the gods decree.”
A tremor went through her. Much as she tried, she could not cast out the sensation that the seed of the vile Sore God he had implanted within her was gathering strength, growing, readying to burst forth everywhere. Daily, she scrutinized herself. Minutely. Only Raiko was trusted to make sure those places she could not see herself were examined as closely and were, as yet, blemishless. “Daily is too much, Hinodeh,” Raiko had said before she had agreed to the contract. “Nothing maybe happen for years…. ”
“So sorry, Raiko-san. Daily, it is a condition.”
“Why are you agreeing to this at all? You have a good future in our World. You may never reach first class, but you are educated, your mama-san says you have a long list of clients who are pleased with you, she said you could marry a well-to-do merchant or farmer or sword maker, that you are sensible and would never be wanting for a good match.”
“Thank you for your concern, Raiko-san, but you agreed with my mama-san that you would not question me or pry into my past, where I come from or to seek reasons. In return you share with her a percentage of the money I will earn for this year, and perhaps another. Let me say again, the reason I accept the possible contract is that I wish it.”
Oh, yes, I wish it and how lucky I am.
Now she was twenty-two. Born on a farm outside Nagasaki in the province of Hizen on the South Island, and when she was five, she was invited into the Floating World by one of the many women intermediaries who travelled the country, seeking children who could become possible geisha, art persons, those who would be trained, like Koiko, in the arts and not purely as a netsujo-jin, a person for passion. Her parents agreed and were given money and a promissory note for five yearly payments, beginning in ten years, the amount depending on the child’s success.
As an art person she had not been successful—at the samisen or singing or dancing or as an actress—but as a person of passion from fifteen when she made her debut, better educated than her contemporaries, she soon became important to her mama-san and to herself. In those days her name was Gekko, Moonbeam, and though there were many foreigners in Nagasaki at that time, she knew not one of them, her House catering only to Japanese of the highest order.
One October, the Month Without Gods, she received a new client. He was a year older than her, eighteen, a goshi and the son of a goshi—an average swordsman, average soldier but to her her dream person. His name was Shin Komoda.
Their passion blossomed. As much as the mama-san tried to curb their mutual magnetism—the youth was poor, his bills remained unpaid—nothing she could say or do had any effect. Until the spring of the following year. Without telling Gekko, the mama-san went to the youth’s home and bowed before his mother and, politely, asked for payment.
There was no money to pay. The mother asked for time.
The youth was forbidden to see Gekko again. Outwardly he obeyed his parents, but inwardly nothing they said or did had any effect. Within a week, disguised, they ran away together, disappearing into the sprawling port. There they changed their names and with some money she had saved, and jewelry she brought with her they purchased passage in steerage on a coastal ship sailing that day for Yedo.
Within the week Shin Komoda was dishonored in his village and declared ronin. Again the mama-san went to see his mother. It was a matter of face, of honor, that their son’s bills were paid. His mother’s only possession of value and her pride, was her long and beautiful plume of hair. With her husband’s agreement she went to a wigmaker in Nagasaki. Without hesitation the man bought. The money was just enough to pay their son’s bills. So, for them, honor was satisfied.
In Yedo, at the limit of their money, Gekko and Shin managed to find safe lodgings in the slums of the city. And a Buddhist priest to marry them. Without papers, either of them, and their real past obliterated, life was difficult, almost impossible, but for a year they lived happily, keeping to themselves, on the threshold of poverty. That did not matter for they basked in each other’s company and their love increased and was fruitful, and though her money dwindled to nothing, however much she tried to be prudent and his pay hardly fed them—the only work he could find was as a guard at a low-class brothel that was not even in the Yedo Yoshiwara—it did not matter.
Nothing mattered. They were together. They were surviving. And she kept their two tiny rooms spotless and made of them a palace and sanctuary for him and the child and as much as she offered and offered, he refused and refused. “Never! Never never never again will any other man ever know you, swear it!” She swore it.
When their son was a year old Shin was killed in a brawl. With his death the light went out of her.
A week later the brothel mama-san propositioned her. She thanked her and refused, saying she was returning to their home in Nara. In the market she bought a bright new candle, a red one, and that night when the child was asleep, quietly she lit it, to watch it and to think what she should do until the flame died, petitioning the gods, promising them that when the last fluttering was gone she would decide what was best for her son, asking for their help to make the decision wise.
The flame had died long since, the decision so simple, so correct: She must send her son back to his father’s parents. Her son must go alone—she must pretend she and her husband had committed jinsai, joint ritual suicide, in apology to his parents for the hurt they had done them. To be accepted the child must have at least a year of money, preferably more. He must be clothed well and travel well with a trusted nurse, more money. Only in this way could he gain his heritage, samurai. Last, there was no point obeying an oath to the dead when the future of their living child was at stake.
In the morning she left her son with a neighbor and with the last of her money bought the best kimono and parasol she could find in the thieves market, then, penniless, went to the best hairdresser near the gates of Yedo’s Yoshiwara. There she bartered a month’s future earnings for the best up-to-date hairstyle and massage and facial and manicure and pedicure and other intimacies—and information.
Information cost a second month.
That afternoon she sallied through the gates and went
straight to the House of Wisteria. The mama-san was a pattern of everyone she had ever known, always degrees of perfection in their dress and coiffure, always a measure too heavy, with makeup that veered on being masklike, eyes so gentle to customers that could become granite hard in an instant, eyes that could make her girls quiver with fear, and always scented richly with the best perfume she could afford that still could never quite disguise the pervading smell of saké. This mama-san was spare, her name Meikin.
“So sorry, I don’t take ladies without papers or history,” the mama-san said. “We are very law-abiding here.”
“I’m honored to hear it, Madam, but I have a history, and with your help we can invent another that will satisfy the most inquisitive Bakufu officials while satisfying the nosey toad’s probe massively, when I can find it.”
Meikin laughed. Her eyes did not. “What training have you had and where? And what is your name?”
“My name is Hinodeh. The where is unimportant.” Gekko told her about the geisha teachers and failure to realize their expectations. Then her practical training, the sorts of clients she had and their numbers.
“Interesting. But so sorry, I have no opening here, Hinodeh,” the woman said, overkindly. “Come back tomorrow. I will make enquiries, perhaps a friend could take you.”
“So sorry, please, may I ask you to reconsider.” Sure that tomorrow she would not be admitted on some excuse or other. “You are the best, and the most trustworthy.” She gritted her teeth and praying the information was correct, added delicately, “Even shish know that.”
The color left the mama-san’s face though her expression did not change. “You and your lover ran away and now he has abandoned you?” she asked calmly.
“No, Madam.”
“Then he is dead.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“You have a child or children, which?”
“A son.”
The older woman sighed. “A son. He is with you?”
“He is with his father’s family.”
“How old is he?”
“A year and three months.”
Meikin had sent for tea and they drank in silence, Gekko trembling inside, afraid that the threat had gone too far, sure that the other woman was wondering where the information came from, and how she, a stranger-dangerous enough in itself—came by the knowledge. Or if she was a Shōgunate spy. If a spy, Gekko reasoned, surely I would not have said that, not on the first interview.
At length the other woman said, “You may not stay here, Hinodeh, but I have a sister who has a fine House in the next street. There’s a price for the introduction.”
“In advance may I humbly thank you for helping me.”
“First, you will swear to excise bad thoughts from your head. Forever.”
“On my life.”
“On your son’s life is better.”
“On my son’s life.”
“Second, you will be a model Lady of our World, calm, obedient and worthy of trust.”
“On my life, and my son’s life.”
“Third … the third can wait until we see if my sister agrees to succor the person I see before me.”
The third was a matter of money, the split between the two mama-sans. It was settled satisfactorily. She had made a financial arrangement with her neighbor to care for her son, visiting him secretly every two weeks in the morning of her day off, the lie she had told Meikin not really a lie as he was already committed to his father’s parents.
Soon, once again, she was popular but not popular enough. The payment to the hairdresser became continuous, to the masseuse, to the costumer. There was never quite enough left over to save. By this time her son was an open secret with both mama-sans who, of course, had her watched and followed. They never mentioned the son to her but understood with compassion. Then, one day her mama-san had sent for her and told her about the gai-jin who would pay enough, in advance, to send the child to his future, with money for two years of food, at least two, and enough left over to guarantee his safe delivery wherever he was to be sent.
She had accepted with alacrity.
After the first hideous night she had wanted to end her life, the man was so bestial. As much as she had wept and begged, Raiko had refused, implacably, for she had warned her in advance that this could not be done for at least a month. Fortunately there were days to recover and to plan a new defense between them. The defense had conquered the Beast, as she thought of him, and had changed him, temporarily. Now he was docile, and cried a lot, and required passion in all its aberrations, but underneath his meek and pleasant manner she could feel the violence still bubbling, ready to explode.
In the quiet and lovely surroundings Hinodeh waited, her nerves tangled. The moment he knocked on the street gate, her maiko would come running to alert her. She still had time, so she folded herself into the Lotus Seat position for meditation and sent her mind to Zen. Soon she was prepared.
Joining with the Beast was bearable. Curious how different he is, she thought, built differently than a civilized person, a little longer and larger but without any of a civilized person’s firmness and strength.
So different from Shin who was smooth and sweet and so strong. Curiously, there had been no sign in her husband of his gai-jin ancestor, Anjin-san, who, two and a half centuries before, took the name Komoda for this second family in Nagasaki—his first family living in Izu where he built ships for his liege lord, Shōgun Toranaga.
Thank all gods for him. Because of him, eventually my Shin was born, and born samurai, and so is our son.
She smiled so happily. Her son was almost three weeks on his journey, the two servants trustworthy. In their safekeeping was a money instrument drawn on the Gyokoyama in the name of Shin’s mother for almost three years of food and lodging money for her son, and for his grandparents.
Everything taken care of, she thought proudly. I’ve done my duty to our son, Shin-sama. I have protected your honor. Everything was in order. Even Raiko’s final question before we agreed the final clause of the final contract with the Beast: “Last, Hinodeh, what am I to do with your body?”
“Throw it on a dung heap for all I care, Raiko-san, it’s already defiled. Leave it to the dogs.”
Four
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
YOKOHAMA
TUESDAY, 9TH DECEMBER:
In the predawn light, the Struan cutter sped away from the frigate Pearl and hurried for their wharf. Her bow waves were clean, she was at maximum speed and her plume of smoke jaunty. Wind was fair and offshore, with an overcast that promised to break up by noon.
The Bosun’s binoculars were trained on Struan’s windows. A light was on but he could not tell if Struan was there or not. Then the engine coughed, stopped, his balls seemed to hit him under the chin and all breathing on the boat ceased. After a couple of seconds the engine picked up but coughed again and picked up again but now it sounded off kilter.
“Christ Almighty, Roper, get below,” he shouted to the engineer. “Rest of you buggers, get oars on deck in case we’re stuffed…Jesus Christ, and McFay’s got smoke out of his arse that we’re up to scratch scratch … Roper,” he roared, “wot’s the problem, for God’s sake? Roper! Get the lead out!” Again he trained his binoculars on the window. No sign of anyone.
But Struan was there, his binoculars on the cutter, and he had been watching since it arrived at the frigate. He cursed for he could see the Bosun clearly now and the man should have known he would be watching and could easily give him a signal, yes or no. “Not his fault, for God’s sake,” he said, “you forgot to set the signal. Idiot!” Never mind, the weather’s good enough, no harbinger of any storm at all points, not that a small one would hurt Pearl. He refocused on the flagship. Her cutter was returning from visiting Pearl She must’ve been delivering orders.
The door behind him swung open. Chen came in breezily with a steaming cup of tea. “’Morn, Tai-pan. You-ah no slip heya, gud cha chop chop?”
“Ayee
yah! How many times do I have to tell you to talk the civilized tongue and not pidgin. Are your ears filled with the dung of your ancestors and your brains curdled?”
Chen kept the smile on his face but groaned inside. He had expected the sally to make Struan laugh. “Ayeeyah, so sorry,” and added the traditional Chinese greeting, the equivalent of “Good morning,” “Have you eaten rice today?”
“Thank you.” Through the glasses Malcolm saw an officer get out of the flagship cutter and go up the gangway. Nothing to indicate one way or another. Damn!
He accepted the cup. “Thanks.” At the moment he had no special pain, just the normal bearable ache, he had already taken his morning dose. For the last week he had managed to cut back on the amount. Now he had one in the morning, one in the evening, and had sworn, in future, it would be one a day if this day went well.
The tea was good. It was mixed with real milk, thick with sugar, and as it was the first of the day, it was laced with a small tot of rum, a tradition started by Dirk Struan, his father had told him.
“Chen, put out my heavy breeches and jersey and I’ll wear a topcoat.”
Chen was startled. “I heard the voyage was off, Tai-pan.”
“In the name of all gods, when did you hear that?”
“Last night, Tai-pan. Fifth Cousin in the House of Chief Foreign Devil heard him talking with Big Ship Squashed Toadstool Nose who said no voyage.”
Malcolm’s stomach sank and he groped to the window. To his shock he saw the cutter was wallowing two hundred metres offshore. No bow wave. He began to curse violently and then he saw funnel smoke begin and the bow wave appear as the cutter picked up speed. His binoculars raked the deck but all he could see was the Bosun shouting, with oars on deck in case of a further breakdown. At that speed the cutter would be at their dock in under ten minutes.
With Chen’s help he dressed. A quick check showed that the cutter was almost ashore. He opened the window and craned out as the Bosun climbed onto the jetty and began running as fast as his big belly would allow.