Authors: James Clavell
“Why?”
“The Captain-General was right: God help us all if the Ingeles puts to sea in
Erasmus
, armed, with a half-decent crew.”
Blackthorne and Mariko were sleeping in the nocturnal peace of their little house, one of a cluster that made up the Inn of the Camellias, which was on 9th Street South. There were three rooms in each. Mariko had taken one room for herself and Chimmoko, Blackthorne another, and the third that let onto the front door and veranda had been left empty for living and eating and talking.
“You think this is safe?” Blackthorne had asked anxiously. “Not to have Yoshinaka, or more maids or guards sleeping there?”
“No, Anjin-san. Nothing’s truly safe. But it will be pleasant to be
alone. This inn’s thought to be the prettiest and most famous in Izu. It is pretty,
neh?”
And it was. Each tiny house was set on elegant pilings with circling verandas and four steps up, made from the finest woods, everything polished and gleaming. Each was separate, fifty paces from its neighbors and surrounded by manicured gardens within the greater garden within the high bamboo wall. There were streamlets, and lily ponds and waterfalls and blossom trees in abundance with day perfumes and night perfumes, sweet smelling and luxurious. Clean stone footpaths, delicately roofed, led to the central baths, cold and hot and very hot, fed by natural springs. Multicolored lanterns and happy servants and maids and never a cross word to disturb the tree bells and bubbling water and singing birds in their aviaries.
“Of course I did ask for two houses, Anjin-san, one for you and one for me. Unfortunately, only one was available, so sorry. But Yoshinaka-san isn’t displeased. On the contrary, he was relieved as he wouldn’t have to split his men. He has posted sentries on every path so we are quite safe and can’t be disturbed as in other places. Why should we be disturbed? What could possibly be wrong with a room here and a room there and Chimmoko to share my bed?”
“Nothing. I’ve never seen such a beautiful place. How clever you are, and how beautiful.”
“Ah, how kind you are to me, Anjin-san. First bathe, then the evening food and lots of saké.”
“Good. Very good.”
“Put down your dictionary, Anjin-san, please.”
“But you’re always encouraging me.”
“If you put your book down I—I’ll tell you a secret.”
“What?”
“I’ve invited Yoshinaka-san to eat with us. And some ladies. To entertain us.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. After I leave you, you will select one,
neh?”
“But that might disturb your sleep, so sorry.”
“I promise I will sleep very heavily, my love. Seriously, a change might be good for thee.”
“Yes, but next year, not now.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.”
“Ah, then in that case, if by chance you politely changed your
mind and sent her away soon—
after
Yoshinaka-san has left with his partner—ah, who knows what the night
kami
might find for thee then?”
“What?”
“I went shopping today.”
“Oh? And what did you buy?”
“Ah!”
She had bought an assortment of the pillow devices that Kiku had shown them, and much later, when Yoshinaka had left and Chimmoko was guarding on the veranda, she offered them to him with a deep bow. Half in jest, he accepted with equal formality, and together they selected a pleasure ring.
“That looks very prickly, Anjin-san,
neh?
Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“No, not if you don’t, but stop laughing or you’ll ruin everything. Put out the candles.”
“Oh no, please, I want to watch.”
“For the love of God, stop laughing, Mariko!”
“But you’re laughing too.”
“Never mind, put the light out or…. There, now look what you’ve done.”
“Oh!”
“Stop laughing! It’s no good putting your head in the futons….”
Then later, trouble.
“Mariko …”
“Yes, my love?”
“I can’t find it.”
“Oh! Let me help you.”
“Ah, it’s all right. I’ve got it. I was lying on it.”
“Oh. You’re—you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No, but it’s a bit, well, not exactly uplifting, all this talking about it and having to wait. Is it?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It was my fault for laughing. Oh, Anjin-san, I love you so, please excuse me.”
“You’re excused.”
“I love to touch thee.”
“I’ve never known anything like your touch.”
“What are you doing, Anjin-san?”
“I’m putting it on.”
“Is it difficult?”
“Yes. Stop laughing!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, perhaps you—”
“Stop laughing!”
“Please forgive me….”
Afterwards she went to sleep instantly, totally spent. He did not. For him it had been fine, but not perfect. He’d been too worried about her. He’d decided this time was for
her
pleasure, and not his.
Yes, that was for her, he thought, loving her. But one thing was perfect: I know I’ve truly satisfied her. For once I’m absolutely sure.
He slept. Later the sound of voices and quarreling, and, mixed with it, Portuguese, began to filter through his slumber. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he recognized the voice. “Rodrigues!”
Mariko murmured, still locked in sleep.
At the sound of footsteps on the path he lurched to his knees in controlled panic. He lifted her as if she were a doll, went for the shoji, and stopped just as it was opened from the outside. It was Chimmoko. The maid’s head was lowered and her eyes discreetly closed. He rushed past her with Mariko in his arms and laid her gently in her own quilts, still half asleep, and ran silently for his own room again, the sweat chill on him though the night was warm. He groped into a kimono and hurried out again to the veranda. Yoshinaka had reached the second step.
“
Nan desu ka
, Yoshinaka-san?”
“
Gomen nasai
, Anjin-san,” Yoshinaka said. He pointed to the flares at the far gate of the inn, adding many words that Blackthorne did not understand. But the gist of it was that that man there, the barbarian, he wants to see you and I told him to wait and he said he wouldn’t wait, acting like a
daimyo
which he isn’t, and tried to push past, which I stopped. He said he was your friend. Is he?
“Heya, Ingeles! It’s me, Vasco Rodrigues!”
“Hey, Rodrigues!” Blackthorne shouted back happily. “Be right with you.
Hai
, Yoshinaka-san.
Kare wa watashi no ichi yujin desu.”
He’s my friend.
“
Ah so desu!”
“
Hai. Domo.”
Blackthorne ran down the steps to go to the gateway. Behind him he heard Mariko’s voice, “
Nan ja
, Chimmoko?” and a whisper back and then she called out with authority, “Yoshinaka-san!”
“
Hai
, Toda-sama!”
Blackthorne glanced around. The samurai walked up the steps and
crossed toward Mariko’s room. Her door was closed. Chimmoko stood outside it. Now her own crumpled bedding was near the door where she would always sleep, correctly, should her mistress not wish her to be in the room with her. Yoshinaka bowed to the door and began to report. Blackthorne walked along the path with growing elation, barefoot, his eyes on the Portuguese, the width of the welcoming smile, the light from the flares dancing off his earrings and the buckle of his jaunty hat.
“Hey, Rodrigues! It’s great to see you. How’s your leg? How’d you find me?”
“Madonna, you’ve grown, Ingeles, filled out! Yes, fit and healthy and acting like a piss-cutting
daimyo!”
Rodrigues gave him a bear hug and he returned it.
“How’s your leg?”
“Hurts like shit but it works and I found you by asking where the great Anjin-san was—the big barbarian bandit bastard with the blue eyes!”
They laughed together, swapping obscenities, careless of the samurai and servants that surrounded them. In a moment Blackthorne sent a servant for saké and led the way back. Both strolled with their sailor’s gait, Rodrigues’ right hand, by habit, on his rapier’s hilt, the other thumb hooked into his wide belt near his pistol. Blackthorne was a few inches taller but the Portuguese had even wider shoulders and a barrel-chested power to him.
Yoshinaka was waiting on the veranda.
“
Domo arigato
, Yoshinaka-san,” Blackthorne said, thanking the samurai again, and motioned Rodrigues to one of the cushions. “Let’s talk here.”
Rodrigues put a foot on the steps but stopped as Yoshinaka moved in front of him, pointed at the rapier and the pistol, then held out his left hand, palm upwards. “
Dozo!”
The Portuguese frowned up at him. “
Iyé
samurai-sama,
domo ari—”
“
Dozo!”
“
Iyé
samurai-sarna,
iyé!”
Rodrigues repeated more sharply. “
Watashiyujin
Anjin-san,
neh?”
Blackthorne moved forward a step, still amazed at the suddenness of the confrontation. “Yoshinaka-san,
shigata ga nai, neh?”
he said with a smile. “Rodrigues
yujin
, wata—”
“
Gomen nasai
, Anjin-san.
Kinjiru!”
Yoshinaka rapped an order.
Instantly samurai leapt forward, surrounding Rodrigues threateningly, and again he held out his hand. “
Dozo!”
“These shit-filled whores’re touchy, Ingeles,” Rodrigues said through a toothy smile. “Call ’em off, eh? I’ve never had to give up my arms before.”
“Don’t, Rodrigues!” he said quickly, sensing his friend’s imminent decision, then to Yoshinaka, “
Domo, gomen nasai
, Rodrigues
yujin
, watash—”
“
Gomen nasai
, Anjin-san.
Kinjiru.”
Then roughly to the Portuguese, “
Ima!”
Rodrigues snarled back, “
Iyé! Wakarimasu ka?”
Blackthorne hastily stepped between them. “Hey, Rodrigues, what does it matter,
neh?
Let Yoshinaka-san have them. It’s nothing to do with you or me. It’s because of the lady, Toda Mariko-sama. She’s in there. You know how touchy they are about weapons near
daimyos
or their wives. We’ll argue all night, you know how they are, eh? What’s the difference?”
The Portuguese forced a smile back on his face. “Sure. Why not?
Hai. Shigata ga nai
, samurai-sama.
So desu!”
He bowed like a courtier without sincerity, slid his rapier and scabbard from its clasp and took out his pistol, and offered them. Yoshinaka motioned to a samurai, who took the weapons and ran off to the gateway, where he put them down and stood guard over them. Rodrigues started to mount the steps, but again Yoshinaka politely and firmly asked him to stop. Other samurai came forward to search him. Furious, Rodrigues leaped back. “
IYÉ! Kinjiru
, by God! What the—”
The samurai fell on him, pinned his arms tight, and searched him thoroughly. They found two knives in the tops of his boots, another strapped to his left forearm, two small pistols—one concealed in the lining of his coat, one under his shirt—and a small pewter hip flask.
Blackthorne examined the pistols. Both were primed. “Was the other primed too?”
“Yes. Of course. This land’s hostile, haven’t you noticed, Ingeles? Tell them to let go of me!”
“This isn’t the usual way to visit a friend by night.
Neh?”
“I tell you this land’s hostile. I’m always armed like this. Aren’t you normally? Madonna, tell these bastards to let me go.”
“Is that the lot? Everything?”
“Of course—tell ’em to let me go, Ingeles!”
Blackthorne gave the pistols to a samurai and stepped forward. His fingers felt carefully around the inside of Rodrigues’ wide leather belt. A stiletto slid from its secret sheath, very thin, very springy, made of the best Damascus steel. Yoshinaka swore at the samurai who had made the search. They apologized but Blackthorne only watched Rodrigues.
“Any more?” he asked, the stiletto loose in his hand.
Rodrigues stared back at him stonily.
“I’ll tell ’em where to look—and how to look, Rodrigues. How a Spaniard would—some of them. Eh?”
“
Me cago en la leche, che cabron!”
“Que va, leche! Hurry up!” Still no answer. Blackthorne went forward with the knife. “
Dozo
, Yoshinaka-san.
Watash—”
Rodrigues said hoarsely, “In my hat band,” and Blackthorne stopped.
“Good,” he said and reached for the wide-brimmed hat.
“You would, wouldn’t you—teach them?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Be careful of the feather, Ingeles, I cherish that.”
The band was wide and stiff, the feather jaunty like the hat. Inside the band was a thin stiletto, smaller, specially designed, the fine steel easily molding the curve. Yoshinaka barked out another vicious reprimand to the samurai.
“Before God, that’s all, Rodrigues?”
“Madonna—I told you.”
“Swear it.”
Rodrigues complied.
“Yoshinaka-san,
ima ichi-ban. Domo,”
Blackthorne said. He’s all right now. Thank you.
Yoshinaka gave the order. His men released the Portuguese. Rodrigues rubbed his limbs to ease the pain. “Is it all right to sit down, Ingeles?”
“Yes.”
Rodrigues wiped off the sweat with a red kerchief, then picked up the pewter flask and sat cross-legged on one of the cushions. Yoshinaka remained nearby on the veranda. All but four samurai went back to their posts. “Why are they so touchy? Why are you so touchy, Ingeles? I’ve never had to give up my weapons before. Am I an assassin?”
“I asked you if that was all your weapons and you lied.”
“I wasn’t listening. Madonna! Would you—held like a common
criminal?” Rodrigues added sourly, “Eh, what’s it matter, Ingeles, what’s anything matter? The night’s spoiled…. Hey, but wait, Ingeles! Why should anything be allowed to spoil a great evening? I forgive them. And I forgive you, Ingeles. You were right and I was wrong. I apologize. It’s good to see you.” He unscrewed the stopper and offered the flask. “Here—here’s some fine brandy.”
“You first.”
Rodrigues’ face became ashen. “Madonna—do you think I bring poison?”