Gai-Jin (36 page)

“But…well, I, er, don’t know how much I, er, pay, or do I give the girl the money first or what?”

“Mon Dieu
, you should never actually give money to any girl, anywhere, that’s the height of bad manners, though you can barter savagely with the mama-san, sometimes with the girl herself, but only after tea or saké. Before you leave you’d put it discreetly in a place she would see it. In the House of the Three Carp, you give no money, it’s a special place—there are others like it—only for special customers, one of which I am. They’ll send you a bill, two or three times a year. But listen, before we go there you have to swear by God that you’ll pay the bill the moment it’s presented, and that you will never, never introduce anyone else there or talk about it.”

So he had sworn and promised, wanting to ask how much but not daring to. “The, er, bill, when does that come?”

“When it pleases the mama-san. I told you, Phillip, you can have pleasure the year round on credit, under the correct circumstances—of course, I’m surety for you…. ”

The warmth of the bath water permeated him. He hardly heard her bustle out and then, later, bustle back again.

“Taira-san?”

“Hai?”
Yes?

She was holding up a towel. Curiously lethargic, he climbed out, his muscles drowsed by the water, and let her dry him. Once more the special places he did himself, finding it easier this time. A comb for his hair. Dry starched yukata and she motioned him towards the bed.

Again panic surged through him. Shakily he forced himself to lie down. She covered him, folded back the other coverlet and again left.

His heart was thundering but lying down felt marvelous, the mattress soft and clean and sweet-smelling, feeling cleaner than he had felt for years. Soon he was calmer and then the shoji opened and closed and he was filled with utter relief but no longer calm. The half-seen girl was tiny, willowy, pale yellow yukata, hair long and cascading. Now she was kneeling beside the bed.
“Konbanwa, Taira-san. Ikaga desu ka? Watashi wa Ako.”
Good evening, Mr. Taira. Are you well? I am Ako.

“Konbanwa, Ako-san. Watashi wa Phillip Tyrer desu.”

She frowned. “F … urri … f.” She tried to say Phillip several times but could not, then laughed gaily, said something he did not understand, ending with Taira-san.

He was sitting up now, watching her, heart pounding, helpless, not attracted by her, and now she was pointing to the other side of the bed.
“Dozo?”
Please, may I?

“Dozo.”
In the candlelight he could not see her clearly, just enough to think that she was young, he estimated about his own age, that her face was smooth and white with powder, teeth white, lips red, hair shiny, nose almost Roman, eyes narrow ellipses, her smile kind. She got into the bed and settled herself, turned and watched him. Waiting. His shyness and inexperience paralyzed him.

Christ, how do I tell her I don’t want her, don’t want anyone now, that I can’t, I know I can’t and it won’t…it won’t tonight, it won’t and I’ll disgrace myself and André … André! What can I tell him? I’ll be a laughingstock. Oh, Christ, why did I agree?

Her hand reached out and touched his cheek. Involuntarily he shivered.

Ako murmured sweet sounding words of encouragement but inside
she was smiling, knowing what to expect from this child of a man, well prepared by Raiko-san: “Ako, tonight is a rare moment in your life and you must remember every detail to regale us with at first meal. Your client is a friend of Frenchy, and unique in our world—he’s virgin. Frenchy says he is so shy you will not believe it, that he will be frightened, will probably weep when his Honorable Weapon fails him, he may even wet the bed in his frustrated excitement, but do not worry, dear Ako, Frenchy assures me you can deal with him in the normal way, and that you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Eeee, I’ll never understand gai-jin, Raiko-san.”

“Nor I. Certainly they are all peculiar, uncivilized, but fortunately most are pleasantly rich, it’s our destiny to be here so we must make the most of it. Very important, Frenchy says this one is an important English official, potentially a long-term customer so make him experience the Clouds and the Rain, one way or another, even if … even if you have to use the Ultimate.”

“Oh ko!”

“The honor of the House is at stake.”

“Oh! I understand. In that case … Somehow I will.”

“I have every confidence, Ako-chan, after all you have almost thirty years’ experience in our Willow World.”

“Is he like Frenchy in his tastes, do you think?”

“That he enjoys his back part tickled, and occasionally Pleasure Pearls? Perhaps you should be prepared but I asked Frenchy directly if the youth had leanings towards liking men and he assured me no. Curious that Frenchy chose our House to initiate a friend, instead of the others he now frequents.”

“The House was not to blame, never. Please, don’t think about it, Raiko-chan. I am honored that you have chosen me, I will do everything necessary.”

“Of course. Eeee, when you think that the Steaming Stalks of gai-jin are usually much larger than civilized persons, that most gai-jin fornicate satisfactorily though without Japanese vigor, flair and urge to plumb the limits, except for Frenchy, you would think they would be happy fornicators like normal persons. But they are not, they have so many cobwebs in their heads that somehow fornication is not our Most Heavenly Pleasure, but some kind of secret, religious evil. Weird.”

Experimenting now, Ako moved closer and caressed his chest, then shifted her hand lower and was hard put not to laugh out loud as the youth jerked with fright. It took her a few moments to compose herself. “Taira-san?” she murmured.

“Yes, er,
hai
, Ako-san?”

She took his hand and placed it inside her yukata on her breast, leaned over and kissed his shoulder, forewarned to be careful of the wound in his
arm that a courageous shishi had given him. No reaction. Moving against him closer. Whispering how utterly brave, how strong and manly, how fulsome the maid had described him and his fruit. All the while patiently caressing his chest, feeling him shiver but still no passion. Minutes passed. Still nothing. Her concern grew. Fingers soft as butterflies and yet still he lay inert—hands, lips, everything. Gently caressing, careful to circle, no real intimacy yet. More minutes. Still nothing. Her dismay mounted. Fear that she might fail overlay her dismay. Touching his ear with her tongue.

Ah, a slight reward: her name spoken throatily and his lips kissing her neck. Eeee, she thought, and relaxed and put her lips around his nipple. Now it’s only a matter of time to explode his virginity to the skies, then I can order some saké and sleep till dawn and forget that I am forty-three and childless, and only remember that Raiko-san rescued me from the sixth-class House that my age and lack of beauty had relegated me to.

Tyrer was idly watching the samurai in the Legation square, the sun touching the horizon, his mind increasingly beset by Ako, then two nights later, Hamako. Then Her.

Fujiko. The night before last.

He felt himself hardening and eased that part more comfortably, knowing that now he was inexorably caught in that world, the Floating World where, as André had told him, living was only for the moment, for pleasure, drifting with never a care like a blossom in the current of a calm river.

“It’s not always calm, Phillip. What’s she like, Fujiko?”

“Oh, er, haven’t you seen her, don’t you know her?”

“No, I only told Raiko-san the sort of girl you might like, the accent being on ‘sleeping dictionary.’ How was she?”

He had laughed to cover his complete embarrassment and disquiet at being asked such a personal question so directly. But André had given him so much that he wanted to be “French” and forthright, so he put aside his misgivings that a gentleman should not discuss or disclose such personal information. “She … she’s younger than I am, small, tiny in fact, not—not pretty in our terms, but she’s astonishingly attractive. I think I understood her to say that she was new there.”

“I meant in bed, how was she? Better than the others?”

“Oh. Well, there was, er, well, no comparison.”

“Was she more vigorous? Sensuous? Eh?”

“Well, yes, er, dressed or undressed, incredible. Special. Again I can’t thank you enough, I owe you so much.”

“De rien, mon vieux.”

“It’s true. Next time … next time you’ll meet her.”

“Mon Dieu
, no, that’s a rule. Never introduce your ‘special’ to anyone, least of all a friend. Don’t forget, until you set her up in your own place, with you paying the bills, she’s available for anyone with the money—if she wants.”

“Oh. I’d forgotten,” he had said, hiding the truth.

“Even if she’s set up she could still have a lover on the side if she wants. Who’s to know?”

“I suppose so.” More anguish.

“Don’t fall in love, my friend, not with a courtesan. Take them for what they are, pleasure persons. Enjoy them, like them but don’t love them—and never let them fall in love with you …”

Tyrer shivered, hating the truth, hating the idea of her being with another, and bedding as they had bedded, hating that it was for money, hating the ache that was in his loins. My God, she really was so special, lovely, liquid, a sweet chatterbox, gentle, kind, so young and only in the House for such a short time. Should I set her up? Not should, could I? I’m sure André has his own place with his special friend though he’s never said, nor would I ever ask. Christ, how much would that cost? Bound to be more than I could afford….

Don’t think about that now! Or her.

With an effort he put his attention on the garden below but the ache remained. Part of the Highland detachment were assembling around the flagstaff, the trumpeter and four kettledrummers already in position for the lowering of the flag. Routine. The motley group of gardeners were collecting by the gate to be counted and then dismissed. They grovelled their way through the gates and through the samurai and were gone. Routine. Sentries closed and bolted the iron gates. Routine. Drums and trumpet sounding as the Union Jack was slowly lowered—no sun sets on the British flag was British law throughout the world. Routine. Most of the samurai marching away now, leaving only a token force for the night. Routine.

Tyrer shivered.

If everything’s routine why am I so nervous?

The Legation gardeners trooped into their dormitory hovel that adjoined the other side of the Buddhist temple. None of them met Hiraga’s gaze. All had been warned that their lives, and the lives of all their generations, depended on his safety.

“Beware of talking to strangers,” he had told them. “If the Bakufu find you’ve harbored me your reward will be just the same, except you will be crucified, not killed cleanly.”

With all their abject protestations that he was safe, that he could trust them, Hiraga knew that he was never secure. Since the Anjo ambush ten
days ago, most of the time he had been at their Kanagawa safe house, the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms. That the attack had failed and all but one of his companions killed was karma, nothing else.

Yesterday a letter had arrived from Katsumata, the leading, though clandestine, Satsuma shishi, now in Kyōto:
Urgent: in a few weeks, Shōgun Nobusada will create an unheard-of precedent by coming here to pay the Emperor a state visit. All shishi are advised to gather here at once to plan how to intercept him, to send him onwards, then to take possession of the Palace Gates
. Katsumata had signed his code name: Raven.

Hiraga had discussed what to do with Ori, then decided to return here to Yedo, determined to act alone to destroy the British Legation, furious that the Council of Elders seemed to have been bamboozled and neutralized by the gai-jin. “Kyōto can wait, Ori. We’ve got to press home our attack on the gai-jin. We must infuriate them until they bombard Yedo. Others can deal with the Shōgun and Kyōto.” He would have brought Ori but Ori was helpless, his wound worse, with no help from any doctor. “What about your arm?”

“When it’s unbearable, I’ll commit seppuku,” Ori had said, his words slurred from the saké he was using to dampen the pain—the three of them, he, Ori and the mama-san, having a final drink together. “Don’t worry.”

“Isn’t there another doctor, a safe one?”

“No, Hiraga-san,” the mama-san, Noriko, said. She was a tiny woman of fifty, her voice soft. “I even sent for a Korean acupuncturist and herbalist, both friends, but the poultices have been no value. There’s the giant gai-jin …”

“You’re stupid,” Ori shouted. “How many times must I tell you? This is a bullet wound, one of their bullets, and they saw me at Kanagawa!”

“Please excuse me,” the mama-san said humbly, her head to the tatami, “please excuse this stupid person.” She bowed again and left, but in her secret heart she was cursing Ori for failing to be a true shishi and not committing seppuku while Hiraga was here, the most perfect second a man could wish for, and so lessen the awful danger surrounding her and her House. News of the fate of the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin had rushed fifty
ri
and beyond—an outrageous retribution to kill all patrons, courtesans and servants and to spike the head of the mama-san.

Monstrous, she thought, inflamed. How can a House forbid any samurai entrance, shishi or not? In olden days samurai killed much more than today, yes, but that was centuries ago and mostly only when it was merited and not women or children. That was when the law of the land was just, Shōgun Toranaga just, his son and grandson just, before corruption and dissipation became a way of life for descendant Shōguns, daimyo and samurai alike, who for a century and more have spread their rapacious taxations over us like pus! The shishi are our only hope!
Sonno-joi!

“Anjo must die before we die,” she said fervently when Hiraga had at length returned safely two days after the attack. “We’ve been petrified you’d been caught and burnt with the others. It was all done on Anjo’s orders, Hiraga-san, on his orders—in fact he was returning from the Inn when you attacked him near the castle gates, he had personally ordered and witnessed the executions, leaving men there in ambush in case all you shishi returned unawares.”