Gai-Jin (134 page)

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.”

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?”

“Ayeeyah! 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.

“Ho there, Bosun!”

The grizzled man was panting by the time he was near enough to the window. “Cap’n Marlowe’s compliments,” he said, gasping. “Will you and the … and the Lady please step aboard.”

Struan let out a whoop of joy. He sent for Ah Soh, told her to wake and dress Angelique quickly. Then, quietly, he said, “Listen, Chen, and don’t interrupt or I shall be like a firecracker …” and gave him instructions what to pack, and what to order Ah Soh to pack and to bring the trunks aboard
Prancing Cloud
at sunset. “Missy and I will dine aboard and sleep aboard and you two will stay aboard also, and return to Hong Kong with us …”

Chen was overjoyed. “Hong Kong! Ayeeyah, Tai-pa—”

“… And both of you will keep your mouths shut tighter than a fly’s anus or I will ask Noble House Chen to remove your names from the family book.” He saw Chen go grey. He had never used the threat before. The family book was every Chinese male’s connection to immortality, to their ancestors in the mystic past and to far-off descendants, when he himself would be considered a distant ancestor, and beyond. Wherever a Chinese was born in the world, he was written into his ancestral village records. Without that he did not exist.

“Yes, Master. But Ah Tok?”

“I’ll deal with her. Fetch her.”

Chen went for the door. She was outside it. He fled. She strode in. Struan said that he had decided she would follow in the next boat and that was that.

“Oh ko
, my son,” she said, her voice honeyed. “What you decide for your old mother is not what your old mother decides is best for herself and her son. We will go home. We will be silent. No stinky foreign devils will know. Of course all civilized persons will be interested in the plot. We will go home together. Do you take your whore with you?” She stood under his tongue-lashing, ordering her never ever to use that word again—or else.

“Ayeeyah,” she muttered as she left, her words dying away gradually, “your old mother won’t call that whore your whore again but all gods bear witness, if not whore what do I call her? Whore is the correct name. Is my son daft … ?”

When he saw Angelique his anger evaporated. “My word!”

She was wearing riding clothes, boots, long skirt, tight at the waist, waistcoat and cravat and coat and hat with a green feather, gloves but no riding crop. “I thought this best, darling, for boating,” she said, smiling gloriously.

“Welcome aboard.” Marlowe was at the head of the gangway, looking splendid in uniform.

Before stepping onto the deck, Malcolm awkwardly hung on with his left hand, Angelique holding his sticks, and raised his top hat formally. “Permission to come aboard?”

Marlowe saluted and grinned. “Welcome, you both are most welcome aboard. May I?” He took Angelique’s arm, weak from the intensity of her smile and the cut of her jacket that dramatized her figure, and led the way to the bridge, forward of the funnel. He waited until Malcolm was settled in a sea chair. “Cast off, Mister Lloyd,” he said to his Number One, Davyd Lloyd. “Quarter ahead and steady as she goes.”