Always back to that woman, whatever idea comes up, Angelique thought, not a little pleased with the way her mind was working, coolly, logically, not worrying, simply examining all aspects as a prudent woman should.
I can last a month or two, no more—if I don’t give any more money to André. Soon my chits will run out, any day Albert can get orders to stop my credit and throw me out. I can almost read her spiteful mind. Never mind, I can move to the French Legation. But they won’t support me for very long.
Sir William? No reason for him to do more than he has. André is the only one outside her grasp who can help. Think clearly, Angelique, that’s wrong! When André sees that the money is drying up or has dried up, no telling what he may do in desperation. He could sell Tess that awful paper, he could give her proof about the … about the past. He’s a cynic, callous enough or clever enough to have kept proof I paid for the medicine with the earrings I lost. He’d settle for much less money than I would. Even so he’s the only man here evil enough to combat her. Edward will go against her but only up to a point. He won’t lose Rothwell-Gornt.
Should I get Edward to go back to Hong Kong at once? Or Hoag, he’s a friend, a sort of friend, and he’s the one she sent to me? Or André? Not him, for then I wouldn’t sleep a moment knowing he was in Hong Kong with that woman, unwatched.
For her, church was a huge success, even with her melancholy. She had dressed as usual in black, a medium veil covered her hat and face. Prayer book in hand she had set out on the blustery day, and when she passed the Catholic church on the promenade, joined the throng that headed for Holy Trinity, and went up its path and entered the church and sat in the empty back row, at once going to her knees and beginning to pray, a current went through the nave, already half full, echoed by latecomers, the current gathering strength and swooping through the Settlement and into Drunk Town.
“God Almighty, the Angel’s gone to church, our church …”
“Holy Trinity? Bollocks, she’s Catholic …”
“Bollocks or not she be in’t Holy Titties, bright as a berry, all dressed in red and no knickers on …”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t spread rumors …”
“That’s no rumor, she don’t never wears knickers …”
“In Holy Titties? Holy God! Is she become one of us’n?”
“Old Tweety’ll wet hisself with glee …”
Maureen and Jamie had been behind her. They hesitated beside the last pew, readying to say, May we sit with you? but Angelique was still kneeling as if in prayer and did not acknowledge them though aware of their presence; and not a little envious of the joyous green of Maureen’s dress and coat and matching hat, with its plume of yellow chiffon hanging down her back. In a moment they moved on, shoved ahead by the press of the others and not wanting to disturb her—which was what she wanted. After her initial passionate prayer of thanks for the strength to conquer her vast dis appointment, she stayed on her knees, the hassock comfortable, and, protected by her veil, watched wide-eyed to see what would happen. This was the first Protestant service she had witnessed.
There was not as much reverence as in her own church but it was packed, braziers spotted here and there against the damp and everyone mobile was in attendance. The stained-glass windows were rich, the altar and trappings throughout more stark than she was prepared for.
Others would have stopped to greet or to nod, filled with degrees of delight or bewilderment, ready to sit beside her. But they did not, again not wishing to interrupt. Gornt chose an opposite pew.
So she was left alone and soon the service began. First hymn and she imitated the others, standing when they stood, sitting when they sat, praying when they prayed but always to the Blessed Mother, listened to the sermon that the Reverend Tweet stuttered, completely undone by her presence. More hymns and chanting and the plate, an embarrassed moment as she fumbled for a few coins, another hymn and the blessing and then it was over to an audible, well-earned relief.
The congregation stood as the vicar went into the vestry preceded by an ancient altar boy. Most began to shuffle toward the exit, palates ready for the traditional Sunday lunch, the best meal of the week: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes for the lucky ones who could afford a joint from the last shipment of ice-frozen Australian beef.
A few remained for a final prayer. Hers was for forgiveness that she had come to this church but she was confident that God would understand it was only a momentary, necessary protest to Father Leo. All eyes watched her as they filed out. Then she joined the last of them, nodding and saying “’Morning” to murmured greetings.
The vicar stood just outside the door, greeting some, glowering at others. When she came up he became both seraphic and stuttering, “Oh, my, Miss Ang … oh, Madame, how wonderful to see you, welcome to Holy Trinity, may we see more of you … if there’s anything I can explain … Oh! No? Well, I hope you enjoyed, well, please, please come again, wonderful to see you, you’re welcome …”
“Thank you, Reverend,” she said, bobbed a quick curtsey, hastily walked up the path and onto the promenade.
Sir William was waiting for her, Babcott with him, muffled like everyone against the gusts. “Glad to see you up and about,” Sir William said sincerely, “particularly here. We’re rather proud of Holy Trinity and you’re very welcome, very, and we’re all happy you’re here. The Vicar was a bit off today, sorry about that, he’s usually quite good and not too much fire and brimstone. Did you enjoy the service?”
“It was so different, Sir William,” she said. “To worship in English and not Latin was exotic.”
“Yes, I suppose it was. May we walk with you?”
“Please.” They set off briskly, exchanging pleasantries and genial questions, avoiding the issue central to their mind with: the weather’s shocking, isn’t it? The football match yesterday afternoon was grand—may we escort you next week; have you seen the latest papers, or heard the Yokohama Players were putting on a performance of Romeo and Juliet—-Mrs. Lunkchurch has kindly consented to play the starring role against Mrs. Grimm’s Romeo. “Have you ever been on the boards, have you performed, Ma’am?”
“Only children’s Nativity plays in the convent,” she said. “And not very well … oh!”
A gust had seized Sir William’s top hat and sent it twirling, Babcott just managed to hold on to his, she was not quick enough and hers went sailing away with hats all along the promenade to curses, wails, cheers and laughter. She joined the melee and scurried after hers, but Babcott retrieved it just before it went rolling down onto the beach. Sir William’s was stopped by Phillip Tyrer who hurriedly handed it to him then charged after his own.
“My best beaver,” Sir William said sourly, brushing off mud that looked suspiciously like manure. Her hat was undamaged and, smiling, she put it back on firmly, adjusted her hat pin. “Thank you, George, I thought it was going for a swim.”
“So did I. Can we entertain you at lunch?”
“Thank you but no, I’m staying indoors today.”
Soon they were at the Struan gateway. Both men kissed her hand and she disappeared inside.
“Lovely lady, good sort, good sport,” Sir William said.
“Yes.” Babcott was frowning, looking out to sea.
Sir William followed his intent look. Nothing amiss in the bay that he could see. “What’s up?”
“Her period’s begun.”
“Christ Almighty, you’ve examined her? Or Hoag? Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”
“We haven’t examined her. I just know, that’s all.”
“Eh? How d’you th—” He stopped as MacStruan and Dmitri went by. “’Morning, ’morning to you,” he said impatiently, then took Babcott by the arm and started him down the street to the Legation. “How d’you know? Eh?”
“I’m a doctor, for God’s sake. I saw her yesterday, and today when I saw her without the veil it leapt into my head. Her face was a little puffy and when she ran after her hat I noti
ced she ran awkwardly.”
“Damned if I did! God Almighty! You’re sure?”
“No, but a hundred guineas says so against a farthing.”
Sir William frowned. “Will Hoag know just by looking at her too?”
“I can’t say.”
“In that case don’t tell him.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Let’s leave it private between us, that’s best.” Then Sir William said kindly, “Let’s leave Angelique to play her cards as she wants. It is her game, hers and Tess Struan’s, not ours. It’s ours no longer.”
Four Bakufu Enforcers, including a sergeant, stomped through the Yoshiwara gateway. They were like any other patrol of samurai except the men were tougher, meaner and more alert. It was early afternoon. In spite of the weather, the traditional, leisurely procession of courtesans, trailing maids, paraded up and down, showing off their finery one to another and to the groups of gai-jin gawking and drinking at the cafés and Teahouse, laughing as the wind sent a few decorative umbrellas sailing.
From time to time one of the Enforcers would stalk up to the doorman of an Inn, or patron of a Teahouse, or restaurant maid. At once the person would bow and grovel and say, “No, Sire, the traitor Hiraga has not been seen. Oh, no, Sire, thank you, Sire. Yes, at once, Sire. No, I don’t know him, Sire.”
Almost all of them knew where he was but kept their peace, hating Enforcers, knowing, also, no reward was big enough to prevent shishi vengeance, or Floating World disgust, at a betrayal. In their world, secrets were the spice and currency of life, adding to the day’s excitement.
The patrol’s progress seemed to be haphazard. Then the Sergeant changed direction, turned into the alley of the Three Carp and hammered on the door in the fence.
Hiraga was trapped. Whenever patrols were in the vicinity, lookouts alerted him in good time to flee to his underground hideaway in the tunnel where he now had a rough bed, candles, matches, food, his swords and pistol, and Katsumata’s explosives. Today when the alarm reached him, Hiraga discovered other samurai searching that garden, so there was no chance to reach the well.
In panic, he had rushed for the kitchen area and had barely enough time to assume a disguise, secreted there, that Katsumata had given him as, a few metres away, masked by a hedge, the Sergeant shoved past the bowing doorman, kicked off his sandals and stomped onto the veranda of the main house.
Unaware Hiraga was aboveground and so near, Raiko came out to greet the Sergeant, knelt and bowed, her face all charm, her insides fluttering, for this was the third day of searches—too many for comfort. “Good afternoon, Sire, so sorry the ladies are resting and not ready to receive clients.”
“I wish to search.”
“With pleasure, please follow.”
“Go to the kitchen.”
“Kitchen? Please, please to follow.” She led the way pleasantly. When she saw Hiraga head down in the dirt amongst the dozen cooks and workers, her knees almost failed her.
Hiraga was filthy, his head covered by the matted wig Katsumata had worn in Hodogaya, and naked except for a soiled loincloth and ragged singlet. “Tie a pebble under your instep, Hiraga,” Katsumata advised. “Your walk as much as your face will give you away. Smear dirt on your face and armpits, dung is better, pretend to be a scullion, do not act, be one. Meanwhile make incendiaries, instruct Takeda how to do it, and be ready for when I return…. ”
The leather-faced Sergeant stood with his hands on his hips in the silence and looked around. Painstakingly. Every corner, cupboard or storeroom was scrutinized. Rows of rare spices, teas, barrels of saké and bottles of gai-jin liquor and bags of the finest rice. He grunted to hide his envy.
“You! Head cook!” The portly, terrified man raised his head. “Stand over there! Line up, all of you.” In their haste to obey they stumbled over one another, Hiraga limping badly, dirty, shoved his way into line. Muttering curses, the samurai stared at each man as he went down the line. When he came up to Hiraga his nostrils wrinkled with disgust at the stench, then he moved to the next man and the next, vented his pent-up rage by shouting at the last man, who collapsed in a petrified heap. Then the Sergeant stalked back and stood in front of Hiraga, feet planted. “You!” he bellowed. “You!”
Raiko cried out and nearly swooned, everyone stopped breathing, Hiraga fell on his face, grovelling and moaning, bracing his feet against the wall to hurl himself forward at the Sergeant’s legs. But the man began raving, “You are a disgrace to a kitchen, and you”—he whirled on Raiko, who backed against the wall, terrified, Hiraga just managing to stop his lunge in time—“you should be ashamed to have a dung-covered scum like this in a kitchen for the rich.” His iron-hard toe kicked the befouled in the neck and shoulder joint and Hiraga cried out in real pain, the wig almost came off and he grabbed it in panic, hands over his head. “Get rid of him. If this lice bag is here or in the Yoshiwara by sundown, I will close you for filth! Shave his head!” Another kick and he stalked out.
No one moved until the all-clear came. Even then they started to pick themselves up warily, maids rushed in with smelling salts for Raiko, who tottered away leaning on them, while kitchen workers helped Hiraga to his feet. He was in pain but did not show it. At once he stripped and went out to the servants’ area and washed himself, scrubbing and scrubbing, filled with revulsion—he had had only enough time to dig his hands into the nearest bucket of night soil and smear himself and rush to a place near the fires.
When he was partially satisfied he stalked naked to his house, to bathe again, this time in hot water, certain he would never feel clean again. Raiko intercepted him on the veranda, not fully recovered from her alarm.
“So sorry, Hiraga-sama, the lookout failed to warn us, but the samurai in that garden … Hot water and a bath maid is waiting for you inside, but now, so sorry, perhaps you should go, it’s too dangerou—”
“I am waiting for Katsumata, then I shall leave. He has paid you well.”
“Yes, but the Enforc—”
“Baka! You are responsible for the warning system. If there is another mistake, your head goes in the bucket!”
Grim-visaged, he stalked into the bathhouse where the maid knelt and bowed so fast she banged her head. “Baka!” he snarled, not yet over his utter fright, the foul taste of fear still with him. He squatted on the tiny stool, ready for the maid to begin scrubbing. “Hurry up!”
Baka, he thought, enraged. Everyone is baka, Raiko is baka, but not Katsumata—he is not baka, he was right again: without the shit I would be dead, or worse, captured alive.
YEDO
Dusk was a busy time for the inhabitants of Yedo’s Yoshiwara, the biggest and finest in all Nippon, a maze of tiny streets and pleasant places on the edge of the city, covering almost two hundred acres, where Katsumata and other shishi, or ronin, could hide in safety—if acceptable.
Katsumata was particularly acceptable. Money was not a problem for him. He paid the waitress for his soup and noodles and strolled unhurried towards the House of Wisteria, still disguised as a bonze though now he wore a false mustache and was clad differently, his shoulders made wider with pads, his robe richer.
Colorful lanterns were being lit everywhere, gardens and paths given their last brushing, fresh flower arrangements finished. Inside the Teahouses and Inns of greater or lesser importance, geisha and courtesans and mama-sans were being bathed and dressed, chattering and preparing for tonight’s entertainment. Kitchens abuzz, men chopping and dicing and preparing sauces and sweetmeats and decorations and cauldrons of the choicest rice, cleaning fish and caressing marinades into them.
Lots of friendly laughter. Misery here and there, some in tears thinking of clients allocated or strangers who must be received and welcomed with smiles and laughter, and satisfied—and not the young lovers many hearts yearned for, the yearning to be left alone and allowed to sleep. As always, mama-sans and older, more experienced courtesans gentled them, repeating the same dogma that Meikin was saying to Teko, Koiko
’s maiko, now in tears, who was to make her debut as a courtesan this night, “Dry your tears, Moonbeam, accept without thinking the sad impermanence of life, accept what lies ahead, laugh with your sisters, enjoy wine and song and your pretty clothes, gaze at the moon or at a flower and drift with the current of life like a gourd drifting downstream. Run along now.”
I will not accept that Katsumata betrayed my Koiko with just cause, Meikin thought, her heart aching. He had no need or justification to compromise my precious with that woman shishi, however brave! Worse, he was baka to end such a marvelous source of influence and private information from Yoshi’s shadow: stupid, stupid, stupid! But it is done. Finished. Take your own advice, Meikin: Drift, what does it matter, truly?
I accept that it matters. Koiko mattered to all of us, not the least to Yoshi, now pitilessly against all shishi.
Again the mama-san sat at her mirror. The reflection stared back at her. Her makeup, heavier than usual, no longer hid the shadows and sagging care lines.
I accept, too, that I have aged horribly since the shoya interrupted us, Raiko and me—Eleventh Day of Twelfth Month, Last Month, the last day of my life. Just thirty-three days ago. Only thirty-three days and I look like a crone, long past the normal span of fifty years. Thirty-three days of tears, a lake of tears when I thought I was safely beyond tears, sure that I had used up all my tears long ago, over lovers I can hardly remember, over one I can still feel and smell and taste and yearn for, my penniless young samurai who left without warning, without a word or letter, for another Teahouse and another woman, taking the little money I had saved and the broken pieces of my spirit that he cast into the gutter. And later then more tears over my baby son, dead in the house fire of his foster parents, his rich old merchant father wandering off like the other, my suicide unsuccessful.
Too many Floating years. Thirty-three years drifting, one for each of the harrowing days. Now I have forty-three years, forty-three years today I was born. What should I do now? Soon the Lord Yoshi will demand payment. Karma.