Gai-Jin

  When you marry, your wife must be English, God fearing, never a heretic, a lady of good family, trained and at ease in SOCIETY and worthy to be your wife, bringing you a suitable dowry and qualities to assist your future. When the time comes you will have many suitable ladies to choose from.

  By the same mail I have written Dr. Hoag, and also McFay expressing my shock that he allowed this engagement stupidity to happen. I look forward to embracing you in a few days. yr loving Mother

  Almost at once Jamie had rushed into the room, white-faced. “She’s heard!”

  “I know that. Never mind.”

  “Jesus Christ, Malcolm, you can’t just say never mind!” McFay spluttered, practically incoherent. He offered him the letter that shook in his hand. “Here, read it for yourself.”

  The letter, without any form of greeting, was just signed Tess Struan:

  Unless you have a satisfactory explanation why you permitted my son (though he is to be tai-pan you MUST know is still a minor) to become engaged without first obtaining my approval—which you MUST know would never be forthcoming for such an unsuitable match, you will cease to head Struan’s in Japan at the end of the year. Put Mr. Vargas in charge for the moment and return with my son on the mail ship to settle this matter.

  Struan had angrily shoved the letter back. “I’m not going back to Hong Kong yet—I’ll go when I choose.”

  “Christ Jesus, Malcolm, if she orders us back then we had better go. There’re reasons th—”

  “No!” he had flared. “Understand? no!”

  “For God’s sake, open your eyes to the truth,” McFay had flared back. “You are under age, she is running the company and has been for years. We’re under her orders an—”

  “I’m not under her orders, any orders. Get out!”

  “I won’t! Can’t you see what she asks is wise and no hardship. We can be back here in two to three weeks, you have to get her approval sometime, surely it’s better to try now, it’ll clear the air for you and make our job easier an—”

  “No! And … and I’m cancelling her orders: I order you. I’m tai-pan of Struan’s!”

  “Christ, you must know I can’t go against her!”

  Struan almost faltered in his steps remembering the dreadful stab of pain in his loins as he had thoughtlessly scrambled out of his chair to his feet and shouted at McFay: “You fucking listen, I remind you of your sacred oath to serve the tai-pan, the tai-pan, for Christ’s sake, whoever he is, the tai-pan, not his fucking mother! remember?”

  “But, don’t y—”

  “Who’re you going to obey, Jamie? Me or my mother?” There had been a vast chasm between them and more anger and more words, but he had prevailed. This battle was no contest. The stipulation was written into every document of appointment, to be signed and settled under God’s oath in accordance with their founder’s instructions.

  “All right, I agree!” McFay had said through his teeth. “But I dem—sorry, I ask the right to write to her and tell her my new orders.”

  “Do that, by the mail ship, and while you’re about it, tell her the tai-pan orders you to stay here, that only I can fire you, as I will, by God, if I have any trouble—and that if I want to get engaged, minor or no, that’s up to me.” Then he had groped back to his chair, almost doubled up with pain.

  “My God, Tai-pan,” McFay said weakly, “she’ll dismiss me whether you like it or not. I’m finished.”

  “No. Not without my say-so, it’s in our bylaws.”

  “Maybe. But like it or not, she can make my life and yours a misery.”

  “No, you’re only doing what I want. You’re within Dirk’s law—and that’s what governs her above all else,” he said, remembering the times without number she had invoked the name of Dirk Struan to his father, or to him, or his brothers and sisters, on a point of business or morality or on life itself. And didn’t Father and Mother both say a thousand times that I was to be tai-pan after him, everyone, particularly Uncle Gordon accepting that. Any formalities can wait, she’s just using that as an additional excuse to curb me—Christ, I’ve trained all my life for the job, I know how to deal with her and I know what’s wrong here. “I’m tai-pan, by God, and now … now if you’ll excuse me, I—I’ve work to do.”

  The moment he was alone he had shouted for Ah Tok.

  Ayeeyah, that was one time I really needed the medicine, it works so well and saved me all that pain and anguish and gave me courage again and, later, such a happy time with Angelique. Ah, my angel, back again in her suite next door, thank God, so near and delectable and warm and near, but oh, and Christ, I wish when I thought of her the ache wouldn’t begin, and that ache would not lead to the other pain and it’s not yet midmorning with a boring sermon and lunch to endure—and more than eight hours until the next …

  “Sorry about yesterday,” McFay was saying. “Very sorry.”

  “I’m not, it brought matters out in the open and settled them,” he said with a curious strength. “Now there’s a real head to the company—I agree my father wasn’t effective and spent most of the last few years drunk, with Mother doing the best she could, which hasn’t kept us ahead of Brock’s—again let’s be honest, they’re stronger and richer and more sound than we are and we’ll be lucky to weather the current storm. Take Japan—Japan’s hardly paying expenses.”

  “Yes, short term, but long term it will be profitable.”

  “Not the way you’ve been running it so far. Jappos are not buying any profitable goods from us. We buy silk cloth and silkworms, a few lacquer trinkets, what else? Nothing of value. They’ve no industry and don’t seem to want any.”

  “True, but then China took time to open up, years. And there we’ve the opium, tea, silver triangle.”

  “True, but China’s different. China’s a cultured, ancient civilization. We’ve friends there and, as you say, a trading pattern. My point is we’ve got to hurry things up here to survive, or we close it down.”

  “As soon as Sir William sorts out the Bakufu—”

  “The pox on that!” Struan’s voice sharpened. “I’m tired of being stuck in a chair and sick of hearing people say we have to wait until Sir William orders the fleet and army to do its job. The next time there’s a meeting with the Bakufu I want to be there—or better still you arrange a private one for me first.”

  “But, Tai-pan …”

  “Do it, Jamie. That’s what I want. And do it quickly.”

  “I don’t know how that’s possible.”

  “Ask Phillip Tyrer’s tame samurai, Nakama. Better still, arrange a secret meeting then Phillip won’t be compromised.”

  McFay had given him the information that “Nakama” had provided. “That’s a good idea,” he said, meaning it, and, seeing the jutting jaw and the fire he was warmed. Perhaps at long last, he thought, here’s someone who can make things happen. “I’ll see Phillip after church.”

  “When’s the next ship scheduled for San Francisco?”

  “In a week, the Confederate merchantman, Savannah Lady.” McFay dropped his voice cautiously, a group of other traders passing by. “Our Choshu order goes with her.”

  “Who could we trust to go with her for a special mission?” Struan asked, putting his plan into operation.

  “Vargas.”

  “Not him, he’s needed here.” Again Struan stopped, his legs aching, then hobbled to the side of the promenade where there was a low wall, mostly to rest but also to keep their conversation private. “Who else? Has to be good.”

  “His nephew, Pedrito—he’s a sharp lad, looks more Portuguese than Vargas, hardly any Chinese in his face, speaks Portuguese, Spanish, English and Cantonese—good at figures. He’d be acceptable in either the North or the Confederacy. What had you in mind?”

  “Book passage for him on that ship. I want him to go with the order which we’re going to quadruple, also to ord—”

  “Four thousand rifles?” McFay gaped at him.

  “Yes, also send a letter to t
he factory via tomorrow’s mail ship telling them to expect him. She’ll connect with the California steamer out of Hong Kong.”

  McFay said uneasily, “But we only got a down payment of gold to cover two hundred—we’ll have to cover the whole order, that’s factory policy. Don’t you think we’d be overextending ourselves?”

  “Some people might think so. I don’t.”

  “Even with a shipment of two thousand—the Admiral’s hysterical against importation of all arms and opium … I know he can’t by law,” McFay said hastily, “but if he wants he can still seize a cargo on the grounds of national emergency.”

  “He won’t find them or hear about them until it’s too late—you’ll be too clever. Meanwhile draft a letter to go with the order, and a copy by the mail ship—do it yourself, Jamie, privately—asking the factory for special service on this consignment, but also to make us their exclusive agents for Asia.”

  “That’s a fine idea, Tai-pan, but I strongly advise against upping the order.”

  “Make it five thousand rifles, and emphasize we’ll negotiate a most attractive deal. I don’t want Norbert to steal a march on us.” Struan began walking again, the pain worse now. Without looking at McFay he knew what he was thinking and said, an edge to his voice, “There’s no need to check with Hong Kong first. Do it. I’ll sign the order and the letter.”

  After a pause McFay nodded. “Just as you say.”

  “Good.” He heard the reluctance in McFay’s voice and decided that now was the time. “We’re changing our policy in Japan. They like killing here, eh? According to this Nakama many of their kings are ready to revolt against the Bakufu who certainly aren’t our friends. Good, we’ll help them do what they want. We’ll sell them what they want: armaments, some ships, even a gun factory or two, in ever-increasing amounts—for gold and silver.”

  “And what if they turn these guns on us?”

  “Once will be enough to teach them a lesson, like everywhere else on earth. We’ll sell them muskets, some breech-loaders, but no machine guns, no big cannon or modern fighting ships. We’re going to give the customer what he wants to buy.”

  * * *

  Angelique knelt and settled herself in the tiny screened confessional, as best as her voluminous skirts would allow, and began the ritual, the Latin words running together as was normal for those who did not read or write the language but had learned the obligatory prayers and responses from childhood by constant repetition. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …”

  On the other side of the screen, Father Leo was more attentive than usual. Normally he listened with half an ear, sadly, sure that his penitents were lying, their sins unconfessed, their level of transgression great—but no greater than in other Settlements in Asia—and the penances he ordered were merely paid lip service, or totally disregarded.

  “So, my child, you have sinned,” he said in his most pleasant voice, his French heavily accented. He was fifty-five, corpulent and bearded, a Portuguese Jesuit and Believer, ordained for twenty-seven of those years and largely content with the crumbs of life he judged God permitted him. “What sins have you committed this week?”

  “I forgot to ask the Madonna for forgiveness in my prayers one night,” she said with perfect calm, continuing her pact, “and had many bad thoughts and dreams, and was afraid, and forgot I was in God’s hands …”

  At Kanagawa, the day after that night—once she had reasoned a way out of her catastrophe—she had knelt weeping before the small crucifix she always carried with her. “Mother of God, there’s no need to explain what has happened and how I’ve been sinned against grievously,” she had sobbed, praying with all the fervor she could gather, “or that I’ve no one to turn to, or that I need your help desperately, or that obviously I can’t tell anyone, even at Confession, I daren’t openly confess what has happened. I daren’t, it would destroy the only chance …

  “So please, on my knees I beg you, may we have a pact: when I say at Confession: I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers, it really means that I’m confessing and telling everything that I’ve told you and you’ve seen happen to me, together with the added little white lies I may—I will have to tell to protect myself. I beg forgiveness for asking, and beg your help, there’s no one else I can turn to. I know you’ll forgive me and know you’ll understand because you are the Mother of God and a woman—you will understand and know you will absolve me …”

  She could see Father Leo’s profile behind the screen and smell the wine and garlic on his breath. She sighed, thanked the Madonna with all her heart for helping her. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Those sins don’t appear to be so bad, my child.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She stifled a yawn, preparing to accept her usual, modest penance, then to cross herself and be absolved and to thank him and to leave. Tiffin at the Club with Malcolm and Seratard, siesta in my beautiful suite next to Malcolm’s, dinner at the Russian Leg—

  “What kind of bad thoughts did you have?”

  “Oh, just being impatient,” she said without thinking, “and not content to rest in God’s hands.”

  “Impatient about what?”

  “Oh, with, impatient with my maid,” she said flustered, caught unawares, “and that—that my fiancé is not as fit, is not as well as I’d like him to be.”

  “Ah yes, the tai-pan, a fine young man but grandson of a great enemy of the True Church. Has he told you about him? His grandfather, Dirk Struan?”

  “Some stories, Father,” she said, even more unsettled. “About my maid I was impa—”

  “Malcolm Struan’s a fine young man, not like his grandfather. You have asked him to become Catholic?”

  The color went out of her face. “We have discussed it, yes. Such a … such a discussion is very delicate and—and of course may not be hurried.”

  “Yes, yes indeed.” Father Leo had heard the intake of breath and sensed her anxiety. “And I agree it is terribly important, for him and for you.” He frowned, his experience telling him the girl was hiding much from him—not that that would be unusual, he thought.

  He was going to leave the matter there, then suddenly realized here was a God-given opportunity both to save a soul and have a worthwhile enterprise—life in Yokohama, unlike in his beloved and happy Portugal, was drab with little to do except fish and drink and eat and pray. His church was small and dingy, his flock sparse and ungodly, the Settlement a veritable prison. “Such discussion may be delicate but it must be pressed forward. His immortal soul is in absolute jeopardy. I will pray for your success. Your children will be brought up in Mother Church—of course he has already agreed?”

  “Oh, we have discussed it too, Father,” she said, forcing lightness. “Of course our children will be Catholic.”

  “If they are not, you cast them into the Eternal Pit. Your immortal soul will be at risk as well.” He was glad to notice her shudder. Good, he thought, one blow for the Lord against the Antichrist. “This must be formally agreed to before marriage.”

  Her heart was racing now, her head aching with apprehension that she fought to keep out of her voice, believing absolutely in God and the Devil, Life Everlasting and Eternal Damnation. “Thank you for your advice, Father.”

  “I will talk to Mr. Struan.”

  “Oh no, Father, please, no,” she said in sudden panic, “that would be … I suggest that would be very unwise.”

  “Unwise?” Again he pursed his lips, scratching absently at the lice that inhabited his beard and hair and ancient cassock, quickly concluding the possible coup of Struan’s conversion was a prize worth waiting for and needed careful planning. “I will pray for God’s guidance and that he will guide you too. But don’t forget you are a minor, as he is. I suppose, in the absence of your father, Monsieur Seratard would legally be considered your guardian. Before any marriage could be performed or consummated permission must be granted, and these and other matters settled for the protec
tion of your soul.” He beamed, more than a little satisfied. “Now, for penance, say ten Hail Marys and read the letters of Saint John twice by next Sunday—and continue to pray for God’s guidance.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Thankfully she crossed herself, her palms sweaty, and bowed her head for his benediction.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, absolvo tuum.” He made the sign of the cross over her. “Pray for me, my child,” he said with finality, ending the ritual, in his mind already beginning his dialogue with Malcolm Struan.

  At dusk Phillip Tyrer was sitting cross-legged opposite Hiraga in a tiny private room in the equally tiny restaurant that was half hidden beside the house of the shoya, the village elder. They were the only customers, and this was the first real Japanese meal with a Japanese host Tyrer had experienced. He was hungry and ready to taste everything. “Thank you invite me, Nakama-san.”

  “It is my pleasure, Taira-san. May I say that your Japanese accent is improving. Please eat.”

  On the low table between them the maid had set many small dishes with different foods, some hot some cold, on decorative lacquered trays. Shoji screens, tatami mats, small sliding windows open to the descending darkness, oil lamps giving a pleasing light, flower arrangement in the nook. Adjoining was another private room and, outside these, the rest of the restaurant, not much more than a corridor with stools that opened to an alley that led to the street—charcoal cooking brazier, saké and beer barrels, a cook and three maids.