Tyrer had listened attentively and knew that André was right and groaned at the thought of not seeing Fujiko for a week, already imagining her suffering under the hulk of every gai-jin in Yokohama. “I … I agree with what you say but—but I don’t … I don’t think I can do it, I mean the acting.”
“You have to and why not? They’re acting all the time, all the time! Haven’t you noticed they live lies as the truth and the truth as lies? Women have no option, especially in the Floating World. Men? They’re worse. Remember the Bakufu, the Council of Elders, what about them and what about Nakama, especially Nakama? They’re past masters at the game, and that’s all it is. Why be a pigeon, why let Raiko humble you and at the same time thrust gold you can’t afford—can never afford—into her hands just because you are trying to assuage a never-ending ache that God implanted in us?”
André shivered. He knew the trap too well. He was in it. Raiko had pressed him far beyond his own financial limit. That’s not true, he told himself irritably. It’s all right to twist the truth and lie with other people but don’t do it with yourself, your secret self, or you are lost. The truth is I rushed to the limit and beyond, gladly. Seventeen days ago.
The instant Raiko first introduced me to the girl …
The instant I saw her, she of the raven hair and alabaster skin and alluring eyes, I knew I would give Raiko my soul and walk into the Everlasting Pit to possess her. Me, André Edouard Poncin, servant of France, spymaster, killer, expert on the vileness of human nature, me the great cynic, in an instant I had fallen in love. Madness! But true.
The instant the girl had left the room, me helpless and tongue-tied, I said, “Raiko, please. Whatever ask, I pay.”
“So sorry, Furansu-san, this matter will cost more money than I care to mention, even if she agrees to be with you—she has not yet agreed.”
“Whatever money, I pay. Please ask, ask if agrees.”
“Of course. Please come back tomorrow, at dusk.”
“No. Please. Now ask—ask now, I wait.”
He had had to wait almost two hours. While he waited he fretted and prayed and hoped and died and died again. When Raiko returned and he saw her set face, he began to die once more but rushed to life as she said, “Her name is Hinodeh, meaning Sunrise. She is twenty-two and she says yes, but there are conditions. Apart from money.”
“Whatever Hinodeh want.”
“Best to listen first.” Raiko was more somber than he had ever seen her. “Hinodeh says she will be your consort, not courtesan, for a year and a day. If on that last day she decides to remain with you, she will give you her in-ochi, her spirit, and be with you for another year, and another, year by year until she decides to leave or you tire of her. If she wishes to leave, you swear to release her freely.”
“Agreed. When begin?”
“Wait, Furansu-san, there’s much more. There will be no mirrors in your house, and you will bring none into it. When she disrobes, the room will always be dark—except once, the first time. Only once, Furansu-san, you may see her. Next, the moment any … any disfiguring mark appears, or whenever she may ask you, without hesitation you will bow to her and bless her, and be her witness and give her the poison cup, or knife, and watch and wait until she is dead to honor her sacrifice.”
His mind spun out of control. “Dead?”
“She said she would prefer the knife but did not know a gai-jin’s choice.”
When he could get his brain working, he said, “I—I the judge if—if mark disfiguring?”
Raiko shrugged. “You or she, it does not matter. If she decides to ask, then you must honor your promise. It will all be written into the contract. You agree?”
After he had sifted that, the horror of it, and made peace with it, he said, “Then sickness her early, no mark yet?”
Raiko’s eyes were unrelenting, her voice so gentle, so terribly final, the stillness in her room so vast. “Hinodeh has no disease, Furansu-san, none. She is blemishless.”
His head seemed to explode with “she is blemishless” echoing in the sky of his mind together with his all-pervading shriek to himself “but you’re Unclean!”
“Why? Why agree? Why? Why she … she know … know my … my bad. Yes?”
A maid, waiting on the veranda outside, frightened by his bellowing voice, pulled the shoji open. Then, waved away by Raiko, obediently closed it again. Delicately Raiko sipped her saké. “Of course she knows, Furansu-san. So sorry.”
He wiped the saliva from the corners of his mouth. “Then why … agree?”
Again the strangeness. “Hinodeh will not tell me, so sorry. It is part of my agreement with her that I do not press her to know, as it must be part of your agreement with her. We are not to press her, she says she will tell in her own time.” Raiko had exhaled heavily. “So sorry, but you must agree as part of the contract. That is the final condition.”
“Agreed. Please make contract …”
After an agony of time—only a few days—it had been signed and sealed and he went with Hinodeh, him Unclean and her Clean, in all her glory, and tomorrow he would again …
André almost leapt out of himself as a hand grasped his shoulder and he found himself back in Struan’s great room. It was Phillip saying, “André, are you all right?”
“What? Oh, oh yes …” André’s heart was palpitating, cold sweat making his flesh crawl, that and the memory of “Blemishless” and “First Time” and the horror of it—and dreading tomorrow. “Sorry, I … a cat was walking on my grave.” All at once the room pressed down on him and he had to get out into the air. He got up, groped away, mumbling, “Ask … ask Henri to play, I … I don’t feel … sorry, have to leave …”
Blankly, Tyrer stared after him. Babcott wandered over from the roulette wheel. “What’s up with him? Poor fellow looks as though he’s seen a ghost.”
“Don’t know, George. One moment he was all right, the next, mumbling and white as a sheet, sweat pouring off him.”
“Was it anything you were talking about?”
“Don’t think so, he was just advising me what to do about Fujiko and Raiko, nothing about him at all.” They watched André leave as though the room were empty.
Babcott frowned. “Not like him, he’s usually so debonair.” Poor chap, must be his affliction—wish to God I could supply a cure, wish to God there was a cure.
“Talking about debonair,” Tyrer was saying, “I didn’t know you were such an accomplished dancer.”
“Nor did I,” the giant said with a booming laugh. “I was inspired, she’d inspire anyone. Normally I dance like a rhino.” They looked across at her. “Extraordinary constitution that girl, and wonderful, infectious laugh.”
“Yes, Malcolm’s a lucky fellow. ’Scuse me, I’d best ask Henri to sub for André …” He wandered off.
Babcott watched Angelique. Curious that a doctor can examine a patient and not be aroused, he thought, even with someone like her. I wasn’t, the times she consulted me at Kanagawa or here, though there was never any intimate examination, never a need except for the unusual heaviness of her period, a few weeks ago, when a careful examination was clearly necessary, though she never allowed it. I’d never seen her so pale or her lips so bloodless. Come to think of it, she acted strangely, wouldn’t let me near her, just let me into her room briefly, almost as a stranger, when the evening before—the time I returned her crucifix—I had listened to her heart, tapped her chest and back and stomach and she had behaved like a normal patient. I remember her pulse was quite agitated, for no apparent reason. Curious behavior.
Have I missed something? he asked himself, watching her at the roulette table, bubbling with life, clapping her hands with childlike glee when she won Red or Black, Zergeyev and others teaching her the finer arts of gambling. Strange she doesn’t wear her cross as most Catholics would, especially as it was a gift from her adored mother.
“Grand party, Malcolm,” Sir William said, coming up to him, stifling a yawn. “Time for m
e to turn in.”
“Another brandy?” Malcolm was sitting near the inglenook fireplace, the fire down to embers now.
“No, thanks, my back teeth are awash. Great lady, Malcolm, great sport.”
“Yes,” he agreed proudly, mellowed by the wine and brandies that deadened the pain and calmed his fluttering panic for the future. Not as strongly as the medicine, he thought. Never mind, it’s a beginning.
“Well, good night.” Sir William stretched. “Oh, by the way,” he said, his voice easy, “could you drop by sometime tomorrow, any time that suits.”
Malcolm looked up sharply, the thought of his mother’s letter putting ice into his stomach again. “Say eleven?”
“Perfect, any time. If you want to change it, fine.”
“No, at eleven. About what, Sir William?”
“It can wait, nothing that can’t wait.”
“About what, Sir William?” He saw pity in the eyes studying him, perhaps compassion. His discomfort increased. “It’s about my mother’s letter, isn’t it—she said she was writing to you by today’s mail.”
“Yes, it was, but only partially, I had been warned to expect a letter. The first matter was Norbert, now that he’s back. I hope this duel nonsense is out of both your heads.”
“Of course.”
Sir William grunted, unconvinced, but let it rest. He could do no more than warn both parties and then, if they proceeded, to enforce the law. “You’re both warned.”
“Thank you. Second?”
“Second was that I have been informed officially of the Government’s plan to outlaw all trade in opium by British nationals, to forbid the trade in all British ships, to destroy our Bengal opium plantations and replant with tea. As you had led the delegation to ask and complain about the rumors I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“That will ruin our Asian trade, our China trade, and completely upset the British economy.”
“In the short run it will certainly cause a major problem for the Exchequer but it is the only moral course. Should have been done years ago. Of course, I understand the unsolvable silver-opium-tea triangle and the chaos of lost revenue it will cause the Exchequer.” Sir William blew his nose, already weary of the problem that had harassed and aggravated the Foreign Office for years. “Think I’m getting a cold. I suggest you convene a meeting next week to see how we can minimize the confusion.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Growing our own tea is a good idea, Malcolm,” Sir William said. “Marvelous idea! It might interest you to know the first Bengal test plantations producing crops were grown from seeds smuggled out of China and brought back to Kew Gardens by Sir William Longstaff, Hong Kong’s governor in your grandfather’s day, when he returned home.”
“Yes, I know, we’ve even tasted the tea, it’s bitter and black with none of the delicacy of China, even Japanese tea,” Malcolm said, impatiently. Tea could certainly wait until tomorrow. “Next?”
“Last, your mother’s letter,” Sir William added, more formally. “It’s not the policy of Her Majesty’s Government, or her officials, to interfere with the private life of her citizens. However, your mother points out you are a minor, she is your surviving parent and legal guardian. I am obliged not to approve any marriage without the legal guardian’s consent, in this case of both parties. Sorry, but that’s the law.”
“Laws are made to be bent.”
“Some laws, Malcolm,” Sir William said kindly. “Listen, I don’t know what the problem is between you and your mother, nor do I wish to know–she did draw my attention to the piece in the Times, which can be read in several ways, not all of them good. When you are back in Hong Kong I’m sure you can bring her to your side, and in any event, you are of age in May, which isn’t far away.”
“Wrong, Sir William,” he said, remembering the same advice from Gordon Chen—advice from men who don’t know what love is, he thought without malice, just sorry for them. “It’s a million years away.”
“Well, be that as it may. I’m sure it will all work out for you both. Henri’s of the same opinion.”
“You’ve discussed the matter with him?”
“Privately, of course. The French consul in Hong Kong is, er, aware of Angelique and her affection for you, your mutual affection. She’s a wonderful person, she’ll make a wonderful wife, whatever the problem with her father.”
Malcolm reddened. “You know about him too?”
The lines in Sir William’s face etched deeper. “French officials in Siam are most concerned,” he said delicately. “Naturally they informed Henri, who rightly informed me, asking our assistance. Sorry, but it is an official matter of interest. You must be aware that, in fact, anything to do with the Noble House is a matter of interest.” Adding sadly, for he liked Malcolm and regretted the Tokaidō as barbarism, “The price of fame, eh?”
“If—if you hear anything I would appreciate hearing first, privately, as—as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, I can keep you informed. Privately.”
Malcolm reached for the brandy bottle. “Sure you won’t?”
“No, thanks.”
“Is there an answer to my problem?”
“I’ve given it to you.” Sir William kept his voice formal to hide a sudden wave of irritation. As if a few months really mattered—the girl’s not dead as Vertinskya’s dead, nor anywhere near as marvelous! “Your birthday’s soon and Hong Kong only eight or nine days away. Of course you’re welcome at eleven tomorrow, or any time, but that’s all that I wanted to chat about. ’Night, Malcolm, and thanks again for the party.”
It was past midnight. Malcolm and Angelique were kissing passionately in the corridor outside their adjoining suites. The corridor was dark, just a few night lights. She was trying to hold back but she was enjoying him, more every day, his heat warming her more than yesterday—tonight his need, and hers, almost crushing. “Je t’aime,” she murmured, meaning it.
“Je t’aime aussi, Angel.”
She kissed him again, searching, then again stumbled back from the brink, and held on to him until she caught her breath. “Je t’aime, and it was such a lovely party.”
“You were like champagne.”
She kissed his ear, her arms around him. Before Tokaidō she would have to stand on tiptoe. She did not notice it, though he did. “I’m so sorry we sleep alone.”
“Me too. Not long now,” he said. Abruptly his pain soared but he bore it a fraction longer. “So,” he said, looking at her deeply. “Sleep well, my darling.”
They touched lips and murmured good night, many times, then she was gone. Her bolt slid home. He picked up his sticks and dragged himself into his own rooms, happy and sad and worried and not worried at all. The evening had been a success, Angelique had been content, his guests had enjoyed themselves, he had contained his disappointment over the wreckage of his plan, and he had faced himself over the mails, not allowing Jamie to decide for him.
That decision was right, he thought, though Dirk’s would have been better. Never mind, I can never be him, but he’s dead and I’m alive, and Heavenly has promised to devise a solution to her letters and the new twist in my joss: “There must be an answer, Tai-pan,” Heavenly had said, “there must be an answer. I’ll come up with something before I leave for Hong Kong, you’ll need that proof whatever happens.”
His eyes went to their communicating door, still bolted permanently at night by mutual consent. I won’t think about Angelique or the bolt or that she’s alone. Nor about my failure over our marriage. I made that promise early and I’ll keep it. Tomorrow will take care of tomorrow.
The usual half carafe of wine was on the bedside table, with some fruit—lychee and mangoes from Nagasaki—English cheese, cold tea that he always drank instead of water, a glass and the small bottle. The bed was turned down, his sleeping gown laid out. The door swung open. “Hello, Tai-pan.”
It was Chen, his Number One Boy, with his wide, toothed beam that always please
d him—Chen had looked after him as long as he could remember, as Ah Tok had been his amah, both totally loyal, completely possessive, and always at loggerheads. He was squat and very strong, his pigtail luxurious, his face round with a permanent smile though the eyes did not always. “Your feast was worthy of Emperor Kung.”
“Ayeeyah,” Malcolm said sourly at once, knowing what the old man meant. “May the great cow urinate on your immediate generations. Get on with your work and keep your opinions to yourself and don’t act as though you were born under the sign of the Monkey.” This was the Zodiac sign for clever people.
Chen’s seeming pleasantry, like most in Chinese, had many meanings: Emperor Kung, who ruled China almost four millennia ago, was famous for three things: his epicurean tastes, the lavish banquets he staged, and for his “book.”
In those days there were no books as such, only scrolls. He had filled a scroll with a detailed treatise, the first “pillow book” ever, the source of all others that, by definition, dealt with the joinings of man and woman in all their possibilities and hazards, how to improve the climactic moment, names for the various positions and their minutiae, descriptions of devices, medicines, techniques—deep thrusts and shallow—how to choose the perfect physical partner, amongst other wisdoms saying,
… obviously, a man whose One-eyed Monk has the misfortune to be small should not be embattled with Jade Gate like that of a mare.
Let it be known for all time, the gods have decreed that those parts, though appearing the same, are never the same but vary greatly. Extreme care must be used to avoid the trap of the gods who, while bequeathing man the means, as well as a need as strong and as permanent as the needle that seeks the North Star, to taste Heaven while on Earth—the moment of the Clouds and the Rain is such—at the same time, for their own amusement, they have set manifold obstacles in the way of the Yang’s quest for the Yin, some easy to avoid, most impossible, all complex. As man should taste as much of Heaven while on Earth as he can—who knows if gods are really gods—the tao, the Path to the Gorgeous Gully must be scrutinized, examined, pursued and studied even more severely than the transmutation of lead into gold….