Gai-Jin (185 page)

Always the same patient, abject response, head to the floor, her voice soft, with or without tears, and absolute: “Please excuse me but you agreed, so sorry, but you agreed.”

Again she drank and he saw the increasing blush in her cheeks, watched her pour again, her fingers unsure and a drop spilled. She caught her breath with a chuckle. “Oh, so sorry.” His cup filled again, and hers, quickly drained, her tipsiness making her even more alluring. “Oh, that’s very good, very very good,
rieh,
, Furansu-san?”

Long fingers with perfect nails shaking the flask and finding it empty, at once gracefully to her feet, the overlong kimono trailing, making her seem to glide to the brazier where other flasks sat in simmering water, and, on a ledge outside the tiny window, where others cooled. Wind came into the room momentarily, and with it an unexpected odor. Gunpowder smoke, faint but unmistakable. “What’s that?” he said in French.

She looked at him startled. “Please?”

Now that the window was back in place the odor had vanished. “Nothing, I thought …” Tonight everything about her enticed him. “Nothing, please sit. Here.”

Obediently she sat beside him, bumping him, chuckling. Unsteadily she poured again. Amused, he drank with her, the saké warming but not as she was warmed. Under the blanket her leg touched his. His hand went to her, the other around her waist and they kissed, her lips whisper soft and moist, her tongue sensuous. His hand went higher, she broke from the embrace, laughing. “Wait, wait, not here, tonight …”

Like an excited schoolgirl she pushed away, lifted herself and went for the bedroom and its single lamp, as always to blow it out and then, when she was ready in the darkness, to invite him in. But tonight she stopped at the doorway, steadied herself against it, then turned, eyes glowing. “Furansu-san.”

Watching him, she hummed as she removed the long pins in her hair and let it cascade to her waist. Now she loosed her obi and let it fall. A chuckle. Then her kimono and let that fall. All at once he was breathless, transfixed. The gold of her under-kimono shimmered with the candle flames, the sheer silk revealed but did not. Again the tip of her tongue toyed with her lips. Coquettishly she loosed the ties and let the under-kimono open slightly. No underclothes beneath. Only the narrow line of her body revealed, from neck to tiny feet. And all the time the enigmatic smile and eyes beckoning, compelling him to wait, promising, tantalizing. Wind rustled the shojis but went unheard.

His heart was pounding as never before. He forced himself to remain
seated. Now he could see her chest rising and falling, the nipples of her small breasts hard against the silk. Then she sighed. With perfect grace she let this covering slowly slide away and stood there in all her purity.

For him time stopped. Hardly breathing, he gloried in her gift, so unexpected and given so freely. When he could endure the waiting no longer he got to his feet. His arms were gentle and he kissed her with all the passion he possessed, strong against her, she limp in his arms. Easily he lifted her and laid her on the futons in the bedroom and tore off his clothes. And knelt beside her, gazing at her in ecstasy in the light.
“Je t’aime, je t’aime.”

“Look, Furansu-san,” she said, lying there with her lovely smile. Her fingers were pointing at the inside of her thigh. For a moment he did not understand. Then he saw the abrasion. His heart almost leapt out of his chest, bile flooding into his mouth. “Look,” she said again, so softly, smile constant, eyes so dark in the small light. “It has begun.”

“It—it nothing,” he said, his voice choked. “Nothing.”

“It is everything.” She looked up at him. “Please give me the knife.”

His head reeled, his eyes blind but for the sight of the sore that filled the world. With a gigantic effort he shook his head to clear it. And forced his eyes to see. But this did not take away the vile, sick, sour taste. “It’s nothing, it is just, it’s nothing, nothing at all,” he croaked. The closer he looked the less important the blemish appeared. “Just a chafe mark, that’s all.”

“Please? You must speak Japanese, Furansu-san, so sorry.”

“It … it not illness. Not that. Just—just tight loincloth, nothing worry.” He reached out to cover her and blow out the light but she stopped him. Gently.

“So sorry, it has begun. Please. Give me the knife.”

As always his knife was in the sheath on his belt. As always. With his clothes, behind him. “No, please, Hinodeh, no knife, knife bad, no need knife. That—that mark nothing.”

Through his nightmare, he saw her shake her head, kindly, and repeat the request that had become a command. His limbs began trembling, his head to twitch uncontrollably, no way to stop them or the mumbling incoherent litany of French and Japanese that poured out, that begged and pleaded and explained that the little spot was a blemish, nothing more though he knew it was not nothing. It had begun. She was right. It had begun, it had begun. His stomach heaved. He just managed to stop himself vomiting, mumbling on and on.

She did not interrupt, worse, only lay patiently, waiting for the fit to pass. Then there would be a resolution.

He said brokenly, “Listen, Hinodeh, please no knife. Please. Cannot … That … it nothing. Soon go away. Look me, look!” Desperately he pointed at himself. “Nothing, nowhere. That little, soon go. No knife. We live. No afraid. Happy. Yes?”

He saw a shadow cross her face, again her fingers touched the abrasion, again the same sweetly monotonous “It has begun.”

He fixed a smile and did not know it was grotesque, and as much as he cajoled and twisted and turned, she kept asking the same question, gently, politely, infuriating him more and more until he was near exploding. “It nothing,” he said hoarsely.
“Understand?”

“Yes, I understand. But it has begun.
Neh?”

He stared at her, his face mean, then his rage broke, and he shouted, “For Christ’s sake, yes! Yes, YES!
Hai!”

Through a great silence, she said, “Thank you, Furansu-san. Then please, as you agree it has begun, as you have promised, please give me the knife.”

His eyes were bloodshot, the corners of his mouth flecked with foam, sweat pouring off him and he was near madness. His mouth opened and his mouth said with finality what he always knew he would say: “No knife.
Kinjiru!
It-is-forbidden! Cannot. Cannot. You too value. Forbidden. No knife.”

“You refuse?” Gently asked, no change in her.

“Hinodeh, you sun, my sun my moon. Cannot. Will not. Never never never. Forbidden. You stay. Please.
Je t’aime.”

“Please, the knife.”

“No.”

A long sigh. Docilely she bowed to him, a light gone out in her, and fetched a damp towel and a dry one and knelt beside the bed. “Here, Sire.”

Scowling, sweat-stained, he watched her. “You agree?”

“Yes, I agree. If that is your wish.”

He caught her hand. She let it lie in his. “Truly agree?”

“If you wish it. Whatever you wish,” she said but sadly.

“No ask knife, ever again?”

“I agree. It is over, Furansu-san, if that is your wish.” Her voice was gentle, her face in repose, different yet the same, shadows of sadness there. “Please stop now. It is over. I promise I will not ask ever again, please excuse me.”

The weight came off him. He went weak with relief. “Oh, Hinodeh,
je t’aime
, thank you, thank you,” he said, his voice breaking, “but please no sad, no sad.
Je t’aime
, thank you.”

“Please do not thank me. It is your wish.”

“Please no sad, Hinodeh. I promise all be very good now. Wonderful. I promise.”

She nodded slowly. A sudden smile washed her face and all the sad away. “Yes, and I thank you, and yes, no more sad.”

She waited while he dried himself then removed the towels. His eyes followed her, feasting on her and his victory. She padded across the tatami to the other room and brought back their two saké flasks. With a sweet
smile she said, “Drink from the flasks, better than cups. Mine hot, yours cold. Thank you for buying my contract.
A ta santé.”

“A ta santé, je t’aime.”

“Ah, so ka! Je t’aime.”
She drained the flask, choked a little, then laughed, wiped some off her chin. “That was good, so good. Come to bed.” Gaily she slid under the covers. “Come to bed, Furansu-san, you risk a chill.”

The grand-tasting drink cleansed his mouth and took away the death feeling he had had. Slowly he moved the coverlet off her, aching for her. “Please, no more dark. Please?”

“If you wish it. No more dark. Except to sleep,
neh?”

So gratefully, he bowed his head to the futon, reborn, and thanked her and lay beside her, loving her, craving her monstrously. His fingers reached for her.

“Ah, Furansu-san, may I rest first, please?” she asked tenderly, as never before. “So much passion has tired me. May I rest a little, please? Later we … later,
neh?”

His flaring disappointment that almost turned to fury was difficult to contain. In a moment, as kindly as he could, he said, “Of course.” No longer touching, he lay back.

“Thank you, Furansu-san,” she whispered tiredly. “Please, can you reach the lamp? Turn the flame down, I wish to sleep a little, only a little while.”

He obeyed and lay back, loins tormented with desire.

In the darkness, she was more content than she had been in years, content as in the days before her husband died and they lived in their little Yedo house with their son, the boy who was safe now, already with his grandparents, accepted, protected, and growing up samurai.

Bad of Furansu-san not to give me the knife as he promised. Despicable. But then he is gai-jin and not to be trusted. Never mind, I knew he would not keep his part of the bargain as I have kept mine—whatever Raiko promised. He lied when he signed, as she lied. Never mind, never mind. I was prepared for both of them, both liars.

Her smile broadened. The old herbalist did not lie. I tasted nothing, feel nothing, but death is coursing in my body and only a few minutes remain in this World of Tears.

For me and for the Beast too. It was his choice. He broke his promise. So the Unclean pays for cheating me. He will cheat no other lady. And goes to death unquenched!

He stirred, hearing her light, odd laughter. “What?”

“Nothing. Later we will laugh together. No more dark after tonight, Furansu-san. No more dark.”

* * *

Hiraga slammed his fist on the tatami, tired of waiting for Akimoto. He went out into the blustering night and trudged the paths through the garden to the door in the fence. Through it to Takeda’s house, missing the turning the first time. On the veranda he stopped. Snores came from within. “Akimoto, Takeda?” he called out softly, not wanting to open the shoji without warning, every one of them dangerous if surprised.

No answer. The snores continued. He slid the door aside noiselessly. Akimoto was slumped over the table, saké flasks and beer bottles strewn over the floor. No sign of Takeda. Angrily he shook Akimoto, cursing him. The young man came out of his stupor blearily, half awake. “What’s the matter?” The words were slurred, Hiraga’s face out of focus and swirling.

“Where’s Takeda? Wake up!
Baka!
Where is Takeda?”

“Don’ know, just we…just drinking …”

For a second Hiraga was transfixed, his whole world turned over, then he rushed out and through the garden to the fence and the cache.

His mind fogged. Then the plan they all knew, where the bombs would best be placed, surged at him. Panic lent speed to his feet. He peered under Takeda’s house but could see nothing, then he caught a whiff of gunpowder smoke and ducked down and crawled between the low, stone supports but the fuse was too well hidden, its smoke dissipated by the stiff currents of air. Out again and up into the room to shake Akimoto. “Get up, wake up!” When the youth drunkenly tried to shove him away, Hiraga struck him across the face, openhanded, then again. Pain tore him back to slurring consciousness.

“Takeda’s taken the bombs, he’s firing the Inn, there’s one below …” Hiraga dragged him roughly to his feet. Mumbling, leaning on him, Akimoto staggered out and fell down the steps onto the garden path, the sound of the wind fierce. At that moment the bomb exploded.

The blast was small, enough to knock them over and blow a hole in the floor, most of the noise muffled by floor joists, and by the wind. But the spray of ignited oil was deadly. Flames gushed up and outwards.

“Go into the tunnel and wait there,” Hiraga croaked hoarsely, and ran. The shock of the blast and such near death blew Akimoto’s stupor away. He started to run but the wind gathered some embers and threw them at him. Frenzied, he beat at his clothes and backed off and by the time he looked at the house once more it was an inferno—dry rice husk tatamis, dry oiled-paper screens, dry wood floor and beams and thatched roof. As he watched, the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks that were swiftly sucked up and driven by the wind to swoop on to the next dwelling. The thatch caught. Fire bells began sounding—maids, servants, clients, courtesans, guards on the gate beginning to respond.

Hiraga was racing down the path to the south-most house. A few metres away the bomb went off. The blast was smaller than before but it sent him sprawling into the bushes, crashing his body against a decorative stone
dragon, causing a cry of pain, the explosion powerful enough to collapse a whole corner of pilings and a corner of the house, causing the dwelling to lurch and tip drunkenly. A wall burst into flames.

He forced himself up and without hesitation leapt onto the veranda and crashed through the burning shoji wall, the sprayed oil already working its mayhem inside, smoke choking. His hands went to his face against the scorching heat and he held his breath against the smoke.

He saw Tyrer blown to one side, helplessly trying to grope to his hands and knees, suffocating, surrounded by flames that in an instant turned the oil-sprayed shoji wall behind him into a sheet of fire. Other flames gorged on oil-drenched walls and supports and roof and licked at the remains of the futon and down coverlet Tyrer lay on. The hem of his ripped sleeping kimono caught fire. Hiraga jumped forward, stamped out the flame and pulled him up. One look at Fujiko was enough. The bomb had cut her in half. Already she was hairless and turning to cinder.