Gai-Jin (55 page)

“Hush, André, no you can’t and not so loud, walls have ears, particularly Legations, no?” she whispered, feeling out of herself, astounded that
her voice remained so calm and she felt so calm and could tell him so easily. “You see, unfortunately, the father is not Monsieur Struan.”

His smile vanished and then came back. “You’re joking of course, but why the jo—”

“Just listen, please.” Angelique moved her chair closer to him. “I was raped in Kanagawa …”

He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she told him what she thought had happened to her, what she had decided to do, how she had hidden the horror ever since.

“My God, poor Angelique, poor thing, how terrible for you,” was all he managed to mutter, deeply shocked, while another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Sir William, Seratard and Struan had decided to restrict news about Dr. Hoag’s operation at Kanagawa to as few people as possible—keeping it particularly from Angelique, both doctors advising that to be medically wise. “Why agitate her unnecessarily? She’s upset enough about the Tokaidō affair.”

No reason yet to tell her, André thought uneasily, the irony rocking him.

He took her hand and caressed it, forcing himself to push away his own worries and concentrate on her. Seeing her there, sitting beside him in his office, so serene and demure, clear eyes and picture of innocence, only a few hours ago the belle of the best ball Yokohama had ever had, gave her story an air of total unreality. “This really happened? Really?”

She raised her hand as though taking an oath. “I swear it, by God.” Now her hands were folded in her lap. Pale yellow hooped day dress, tiny orange bonnet and umbrella.

Bewildered, he shook his head. “Seems impossible.”

Throughout his adult years he had been part of many such man-woman tragedies: put into some by his superiors, stumbling into a few, precipitating many, and using most if not all for the betterment of his Cause: for France—the Revolution, Liberté Fraternité Egalité, or Emperor Louis Napoleon, whoever or whatever the current vogue—and for himself, first.

Why not? he thought. What has France done for me, what will she do for me? Nothing. But this Angelique, she’s either going to fall apart any moment—her serenity’s unreal—or she’s like some women I’ve known, born bad who twist truth brilliantly for their own purposes, or like some who have been pushed over the brink by terror to become a calculating, coldblooded woman beyond her years. “What?”

“I need to remove the problem, André.”

“You mean abortion? You’re Catholic!”

“So are you. This is a matter between me and God.”

“What about confession? You have to be confessed. This Sunday you must go an—”

“That is a matter between me and a priest, and then God. The problem must be removed first.”

“That is against God’s law and man’s law.”

“And has been done throughout the centuries since before the Flood.” An edge crept into her voice. “Do you confess everything? Adultery is also against ‘God’s law,’ isn’t it? Killing’s against all law too. Isn’t it?”

“Who says I’ve killed anyone?”

“No one, but it’s more than likely you have, or caused deaths. These are violent times. André, I
need
your help.”

“You risk eternal damnation.”

Yes, I’ve agonized over that with lakes of tears, she thought grimly, keeping her eyes innocent, hating him and that she had to trust him.

This morning she had awakened early and lay there thinking, reconsidering her plan, and came to realize of a sudden that she should hate all men. Men cause all our problems, fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, and priests—priests the worst of all men, lots of them notorious fornicators and deviates, liars, who use the Church for their own rotten purposes, though it is true a few are saints. Priests and other men control our world and ruin it for women. I hate them all—except Malcolm. I don’t hate him, not yet. I don’t know if I truly love him, I don’t know what love is, but I like him more than any man I’ve ever known, and I understand him.

As to the rest, thank God my eyes are open at last! She was looking at André, trustful and begging. Damn you that I have to put my life in thrall to you, but thank God I see through you now. Malcolm and Jamie are right, all you want is to dominate Struan’s or cause its downfall. Damnation that I have to trust any man. If only I were in Paris, or even Hong Kong, there are dozens of women I could discreetly ask for the necessary help but none here. Those two hags? Impossible! They clearly hate me and are enemy.

She allowed a few tears to appear. “Please help me.”

He sighed. “I will talk to Babcott this morn—”

“Are you mad? Of course we dare not involve him. Or Hoag. No, André, I’ve thought it all out very carefully. Neither of them. We must find someone else. A madam.”

He gaped at her again, stunned by the calm voice and logic. “You mean a mama-san?” he stuttered.

“What’s that?”

“Oh … that’s the woman, the Japanese woman who … who runs the local whorehouses, contracts for the services of the girls, arranges prices, allocates girls. And so on.”

Her brow creased. “I hadn’t thought of one of them. I did hear there’s a House down the road.”

“My God! You mean Naughty Nellie’s … in Drunk Town? I wouldn’t go there for a thousand louis.”

“But isn’t the house run by Mrs. Fortheringill’s sister? The famous Mrs. Fortheringill of Hong Kong?”

“How’d you know about her?”

“Oh, my God, André, am I a foolish and bigoted Englishwoman?” she said testily. “Every European female in Hong Kong knows about Mrs. Fortheringill’s Establishment for Young Ladies, though they pretend not to and never talk openly about it, or that all but the most stupid know their men visit Chinese Houses, or have Oriental mistresses. Such hypocrisy. Even you would be astonished to know what ladies discuss in the privacy of their boudoirs, or when there are no men around. In Hong Kong I heard her sister opened the House here.”

“It’s not the same, Angelique, it caters to seamen, drunks, remittance men—the dregs. Naughty Nellie isn’t her sister, she just claims to be, probably just pays some squeeze for the use of the name.”

“Oh! Then where do you go? For ‘entertainment’?”

“The Yoshiwara,” he said, and explained, astounded with this conversation and that he, too, could be so open.

“Do you have a special place, a special House? One where you’re on good terms with the mama-san?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Go to your mama-san tonight and get whatever drink they use.”

“What?”

“My God, André, be sensible, be serious! This is serious and unless we can solve the problem I will never be chatelaine of the Noble House, so will never be able to assist … certain interests.” She saw that this hit the mark and was further pleased with herself. “Go there tonight and ask her for it. Don’t ask your girl or a girl for it, they probably won’t know. Ask the
patronne
, the mama-san. You can say that ‘the girl’ is overdue.”

“I don’t know if they have such a medicine.”

She smiled benignly. “Don’t be silly, André, of course they have, they must have.” Her right hand began straightening the fingers of her left-hand glove. “Once this problem is out of the way, everything will be wonderful, we’ll be married at Christmas. By the way, I decided it would be better to move out of the Struan suite until we’re married—now that Monsieur Struan is gaining strength every day. I’ll be moving back to the Legation this afternoon.”

“Is that wise? Better to stay close to him.”

“Normally, yes. Except there are proprieties, but more important, I’m sure the medicine will not make me feel pleasant for a day or two. As soon as that’s over I’ll decide if I should go back. I know I can rely on you, my friend.” She stood up. “The same time tomorrow?”

“If I’ve nothing I’ll send word to let you know.”

“No. Better we meet here at noon. I know I can rely on you.” She smiled her nicest smile.

He tingled, both because of the smile and because, whatever happened now, she was chained to him forever. “Those characters,” he said, “the ones written on the sheet, do you remember them?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised by the non sequitur. “Why?”

“Could you draw them for me? I might recognize them, they might have a meaning.”

“They were on the counterpane, not the sheet. In—in his blood.” She took a deep breath and reached over and took the pen and dipped it in the ink. “One thing I forgot to tell you. When I woke up, the little cross I’d worn since a child had vanished. I searched everywhere but it had gone.”

“He stole it?”

“I presume so. But nothing else. There was some jewelry but that was not touched. The pieces were not too valuable but worth more than the cross.”

The thought of her lying there in that bed, inert, the nightdress slit from neck to hem, the rapist’s hand pulling away the chain, moonlight glinting on the cross, before or after, spreading her, rapidly became real and erotic and throbbed him. His eyes flowed over her as she bent over the desk, oblivious of his lust.

“There,” she said, and handed him the paper.

He stared at it, the sunlight glinting on the gold signet ring he always wore. The characters did not relate in any way to anything. “Sorry, they mean nothing, don’t even look Chinese—Chinese or Japanese the writing’s the same.” At a sudden thought he inverted the paper and gasped. “Tokaidō—that’s what they mean!” The color went out of her face. “You just copied them upside down. Tokaidō ties everything together! He wanted you to know, wanted the whole Settlement to know and we would have, if you’d told anyone what had happened! But why?”

Shakily her fingers went to her temples. “I—I don’t know. Perhaps … I don’t know. He—he must be dead by now, Monsieur Struan shot him. Surely he must be dead.”

André hesitated uneasily, weighing the reasons for and against. “Since we share so many secrets, and clearly you know how to keep one, sorry, but now another is necessary.” He told her about Hoag and the operation. “It wasn’t Hoag’s fault, he had no way of knowing. It’s ironic, both doctors advised against telling you, to save you anguish.”

“It’s because of Babcott and his opiate that I am where I am,” she muttered, her voice chilling him. “The man’s alive then?”

“We don’t know. Hoag didn’t give him much of a chance. Why would that devil want his evil known, Angelique?”

“Are there any other secrets about this horror that you know and I don’t?”

“No. Why should he want everyone to know? Bravado?”

For a long time she stood staring at what she had drawn. Motionless except for her breast, which rose and fell with the regularity of her breathing. Then, without another word she walked out. The door closed quietly.

He shook his head in wonder, stared back at the paper.

Tyrer was in the small bungalow adjoining the British Legation that he shared with Babcott, practicing calligraphy with Nakama, the name by which he knew Hiraga. “Please give me the Japanese for: today, tomorrow, the day after, next week, next year, the days of the week and the months of the year.”

“Yes, Taira-san.” Carefully, Hiraga said a Japanese word, watched as Tyrer wrote it phonetically in roman letters. Then Hiraga wrote the characters in the space provided and again watched while Tyrer copied them. “You good student. A’ways use same order for strokes, easy, then no forget.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand. Thank you, you’re very helpful,” Tyrer replied pleasantly, enjoying writing and reading and learning—and teaching him in return, noticing that Nakama was highly intelligent and a quick study. He worked through the list with him, and when he was satisfied he said, “Good. Thank you. Now please go to Raiko-san and confirm my appointment for tomorrow.”

“‘Conf’rm,’ p’rease?”

“Make sure of. Make sure my appointment is certain.”

“Ah, understand.” Hiraga rubbed his chin, already dark with an overnight stubble. “I go now conf’rm.”

“I’ll be back after lunch. Please be here, then we can practice conversation and you can tell me more about Japan. How do I say that in Japanese?” Hiraga gave him the words. Tyrer wrote them phonetically in an exercise book, now crammed with words and phrases, repeated them several times until satisfied. He was about to dismiss him, then, on a sudden thought said, “What’s a ‘ronin’?”

Hiraga thought a moment, then explained as simply as he could. But not about shishi.

“Then you’re a ronin, outlawed?”

“Hai.”

Thoughtfully Tyrer thanked him and let him go. He stifled a yawn. Last night he had slept badly, his world upside down at Raiko’s unexpected rejection.

Damn Raiko, damn Fujiko, he thought, putting on his top hat, preparing
to walk down High Street to the Club for tiffin lunch. Damn learning Japanese and damn everything, my head aches and I’ll never, never, never learn this dreadfully complicated language. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said aloud. Of course you will, you’ve got Nakama and André, two very good teachers, tonight you’ll have a good supper, a bottle of champagne with someone jolly, and so to bed. And don’t damn Fujiko, soon you’ll sleep with her again. Oh, God, I hope so!

The day was fair and the bay crowded with ships. Traders were converging on the Club. “Oh, hello, André! Good to see you, would you care to join me for lunch?”

“Thank you, no.” Poncin did not stop.

“What’s up? You all right?”

“Nothing’s up. Some other time.”

“Tomorrow?” Not like André to be so abrupt. Damn, I wanted to ask him what I should—

“I’ll join you, Phillip, if I may,” McFay said.

“Of course, Jamie. You look hung over, old chap.”

“I am. You look the same. That was some party.”

“Yes. How’s Malcolm?”

“Not so hot. He’s one of the things I wanted to talk about.” They found a table, the room smoke-filled, airless and crowded, everyone as usual in frock coats.

They were sitting at a corner table, Chinese servants carrying trays of roast beef, chicken pies, fish pies, fish soup, Cornish pasties, Yorkshire puddings, salt pork, curries and bowls of rice for the old China Hands, plus whisky, rum, gin, porter, champagne, red and white wine and tankards of beer. Fly swats laid beside every place.