The Pure Land (19 page)

Glover read the letter through again, crumpled it up and threw it across the room. He poured himself a drink, knocked it back, threw on his jacket and headed out of the house. He had to do something to discharge this rage inside him. The evening was beginning its quick descent to night as he crossed
Shian Bashi
and
Omoikiri Bashi
.

He had drunk too much, or not enough. The madame had insisted on introducing him to a new courtesan, Maki Kaga. He’d been brusque with the girl, perfunctory, done the business, taken more drink. At some point he had sworn at her, told her to go; then he’d drunk more, passed out. When he woke from his stupor he was alone, the tiny room dimly lit. He stood up, unsteady, stark naked, felt trapped. He had to get out, but every wall was a shoji screen, closed over; he was shut in, and his head hurt and his bladder was full to bursting. Fuck it. He pished on the floor, spattered the tatami. He stood swaying, disorientated. The first time he’d seen Sono, the shoji had opened and she’d sat there, bowed to him. He let out a roar of anguish and blundered at the screen, crashed right through it, smashing and tearing it as he fell on the other side. He heard screaming, female voices, and hands were on him, turning him over, trying to help
him up. He saw Maki’s face a moment, anxious, then she was gone and the voices were male, familiar. Walsh and Ito had come out of other rooms, had pulled on
yukata
robes to cover themselves.

Walsh looked at the damage, screwed up his face. ‘Jesus Christ, Tom, you’ve pissed on the goddamn floor!’

‘Pish tosh!’ said Glover. ‘Pish fucking tosh!’

‘We get him home,’ said Ito.

‘Right,’ said Walsh.

Everything blurred even more, but he had a sense of Maki helping him on with his clothes, then Walsh and Ito taking over again, themselves fully dressed, taking an arm each, supporting his weight, half carrying half dragging him out into the night where the cool air hit him and he retched, threw up. The others let him go and he turned on them, brought them into focus.

‘Bastards! What’s the point? What is the point in anything? It’s all fucking mad!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Walsh. ‘You! Bloody Americans. Fuck you and your fast buck!’

He rounded on Ito. ‘And you! Bloody Japanese. Cut my throat as quick as look at me.’

He staggered a few steps, threw up again, wiped the vomit and spit from his face. ‘Fuck the lot of you!’ His legs buckled and he pitched forward, dead to the world.

He woke, dragged up aching out of some hellish nether world where the light seared his eyes and just to breathe was pain. Bombs and rockets had rained on Ipponmatsu, the lone pine was a tree of fire, the house itself was ablaze, but he knew if he moved quickly, fought his way back inside, he might still save Sono. The heat was intense, his throat was raw, black smoke choking him.

He sat up, was here on his bed fully clothed, stinking of piss
and sick. He retched, his throat still on fire, acrid with heartburn. He was still half in the dream, wondered how the blaze had been put out, how the room was intact. Then he came back to this, remembered. The night before was a muddled blur, but he minded some of it, groaned. And behind all that, in at the back of it, was the darkness that was Kagoshima, and all of it had really happened, he had really been there, and Sono was really dead.

He got to his feet, the sick dull pain thudthudding in his head. The need for water was uppermost, it was absolute, Godalmighty, he had to drink. He lurched, unsteady, through to the front room, and she was there, in a white kimono, kneeling with her back to him. Shimada had got it wrong, she had somehow survived, had come to him here.

‘Sono!’

She turned, alarmed, not her, not Sono, another young woman. She put her hand to her throat, bowed.

‘
Ie
. No.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Tsuru
desu
.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tsuru. Pleased to meet you.
Yoroshiku onegai
shimasu
. Now what the hell are you doing here?’

She bowed again, more deeply. ‘Ito-san tell me to come here, help you.’

‘Oh, did he now?’ The pain in his head thudded again, nausea swamped him.

The girl stood up, brisk and efficient, attentive. ‘I make you
hocha
, tea. Get hot water for wash.’

‘Fine,’ he said, sitting down. ‘But water first, to drink.’ He mimed swigging from a cup.

‘
Hai
,’ she said, ‘
so desu
.’ And she bowed again, shuffled into the kitchen.

He held his head in his hands. He smelled vile and that made him gag again, his mouth parched, rank.

The girl came back, a jug of water in one hand, a cup in the other. She filled the cup, handed it to him. He slugged the water
down, drank it in one, held out the cup for a refill, glugged cup after cup till the jug was empty, then handed the cup back to her.

‘More.’

She came back with the jug, full to the brim. This time he took it from her, waved away the cup, drank straight from the jug, slopping water over himself, drained it, gave back the empty, said, ‘Fine. Enough.
Arigato
.’

She smiled, glided out, little stockinged feet sliding on the wooden floor. He lay back in the chair, wishing he could disappear, be nothing.

He woke with a jolt, and the girl was indicating he should come to the bathroom. The tub was full; he peeled off his stinking clothes, sank into the water that was almost too hot to bear, felt the heat of it ease his bones, the steam make him lightheaded.

After it, he dried off, threw a yukata round him. The girl had turned his mattress, replaced the stained bedding with clean sheets, a fresh pillow. He fell into it, slept again, woke once more unsure of who he was, and where.

A change of clothes had been laid out for him, the filthy clothes he’d been wearing spirited away. Dressing, he still felt fragile. The girl was in the kitchen, cooking something, a broth flavoured with ginger. The smell made him gag again, retch. She took the pot from the stove, covered it with a lid, bowed and backed out.

‘Thank you,’ he said, struggling to remember her name. ‘Tsuru-san?’

‘
Hai
,’ she said, ‘
so desu
.’

‘Fine. You go now.’

She looked confused.

‘
Sagare
,’ he said, remembering the word.

She understood, went immediately, closing the door quietly, leaving him to himself.

He needed a drink, went to the Foreigners’ Club, sat in the furthest darkest corner, away from the bar.

Mackenzie sought him out, asked how he was faring.

‘Oh, fine and dandy,’ he said. ‘I watched our navy flatten a whole town, kill women and children and innocent old folk, kill my
wife
, for God’s sake! And for what? To avenge the life of one stupid Englishman! It’s madness on a grand scale!’

Mackenzie looked morose, stared into his drink. ‘I know, Tom. I know. It’s gunboat diplomacy at its worst.’

‘And I just had a letter from that idiot Satow, talking as if the whole thing was a prank, a jape, as if it only hit home when that arsehole of a captain was blown to bits by cannon-fire. Then he has the fucking gall to say, Oh well, toodlepip, old boy, let’s put it all behind us, get back to trading as usual!’

‘Aye, well.’

‘I mean, Jesus Christ, Ken, what the hell are we doing here?’

‘Just making a living, Tom. That’s all.’

‘We don’t belong here. We should get the hell out!’

Mackenzie stared into his glass, swirled his drink. ‘It’ll come good, Tom, in time.’

‘But at what cost? How many more towns do we flatten? How many folk do we kill? Just so their leaders get the fucking point?’

He was shouting, caused conversations at the bar to stop, heads turn in his direction.

He stood up to go. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

Walsh had just arrived, made to speak to him. ‘Tom …’

Glover was venomous, spat the words at him. ‘And what the hell do you want? Got another idea for a fast buck? Faster the better. One law. Supply and demand. One criterion. Can they pay?’ He pushed Walsh aside, shoved past him, headed out into the night.

Back home, at Ipponmatsu, he drank again, slumped into
numbness and stupor, another uneasy sleep.

The next day passed in another dwalm, a vague haze. At the end of the afternoon he went to his warehouse, didn’t look through the paperwork accumulating on his desk; made a desultory pass by the docks, didn’t oversee the unloading of a cargo. Then something caught his eye, a workman supervising the operation. He couldn’t place it, but there was something awkward, furtive, in the way the man looked about him. He clearly hadn’t seen Glover, who was half hidden from view behind a stack of crates. The workman quickly, surreptitiously, bundled a box onto a handcart wheeled by another workman, who covered it with a cloth, wheeled it away.

Glover saw what was happening; his business was bedevilled by this kind of pilfering. It was on the increase, was eating into his profits. The anger rose in him, and he roared at the two men.

‘You thieving bastards!’

He picked up a length of bamboo, rushed at the men and laid into them, beat them. The barrowboy managed to break clear, jumped into the harbour to escape. The other stumbled and fell and Glover continued to batter him with the stick, lashed down on him with all the pent-up unreasoning rage that had suddenly welled up.

Then as he raised the stick once more, a hand was catching it, holding him back, restraining him. He wrested back the stick, saw that it was Matsuo who had blocked him.

‘So you’re part of it too?’

‘You kill him, not good,’ said Matsuo. ‘I stop you.’ And he bowed.

Glover glared at him, enraged, but knowing he was right.

‘Ach!’ he said. ‘Bugger off! Leave me alone!’

Matsuo stepped back but didn’t move away.

‘Go!’ shouted Glover. ‘
Ike!
’

He threw down the stick, turned away.

The thief had dragged himself to his feet. Matsuo yelled at
him, then followed Glover, keeping his distance.

He couldn’t face going home, didn’t want to talk to Walsh or Mackenzie at the club, couldn’t go back to the teahouse after the damage he’d caused. He sat at his desk, aware of the evening darkening. With one movement of his arm he swept the pile of papers onto the floor, sat staring at the little collection of objects he’d gathered, kept for good luck: the paper butterfly, bamboo token, silver coin. A sake cup sat, inverted; he lifted it, looked at the gold coin underneath.

A sudden noise at the door made him turn. A figure stepped out of the shadows, moved into the room. He braced himself, ready for trouble, but it was Ito. The apprehension turned to irritation.

‘What do you want?’

‘This no good,’ said Ito. It was a challenge.
This
was Glover’s mood, his demeanour.

‘Oh, really?’ said Glover, aggressive.

‘You must get over this,’ said Ito.

This
.

‘Is that right?’

‘Existence is suffering,’ said Ito. ‘Have to continue. Important thing is what you do next.’

Glover snorted. ‘What I do next is get out of this damn country. I’ve had a bellyful of it.’

Now it was Ito’s turn to be angry. ‘You have belly full all right! You get fat on our country then you go. You just like all the rest.’

‘Now wait a minute!’ Glover was scraping back his chair, standing up.

Ito was in full flow. ‘You sell your opium, you sell your guns, you take our gold. You don’t care who suffer, as long as you
make money!’

Glover shouted at him, outraged. ‘Enough!’

‘I thought you were a man. I thought you were a warrior, like samurai. But you are a coward.’

This was too much to take, an insult too far. He swung a punch, caught Ito on the side of the head, sent him staggering. But Ito was tough, steadied himself, hit back with a blow to the stomach, knocked the wind out of him. They squared up to each other, slugged it out, punch for punch. Glover was tiring, grabbed at Ito and held him in a bearhug. Ito managed to break the grip, shove him clear, connect with a perfect left to the jaw that felled him, knocked him to the floor.

Glover sat up, dazed, tasted blood. Ito helped him to his feet, bowed.

‘Jesus!’ said Glover, holding his jaw. ‘If I’ve taught you nothing else, I’ve taught you how to throw a left hook!’

Ito’s expression remained serious. ‘You owe this country something.’

Glover spat blood. ‘Aye.’

K
agoshima had changed Glover for good. Or for ill. Only time would tell which. He felt something of Ito’s
firm
resolution, that readiness for death
at the heart of the samurai code. In Kagoshima he had seen so much death at first-hand, knew himself and everyone else already dead. He knew the imminence of his own death, not just as an idea, but in his very bones. Very well. He was already dead, so let him live.

His actions had consequences and he was answerable for them. This also he knew, irrevocably.

He aligned himself completely with Ito and the other rebels. To hell with the Shogun! To hell with the British Government! Damn them all!

He threw himself into his work with a fury, an unremitting energy, cranked everything up.

He beefed up his regular trade, in tea, silk, opium, Walsh’s ‘blessed trinity’. He bought and sold property, mortgaged from Jardine’s. He dealt in anything that would turn a quick profit, exported vegetable wax and camphor oil, imported cotton goods and woollens from home. He heard of a quantity of sapanwood some merchant had bought in Malaya and been unable to sell. The knock-down price was a dollar a picul; he bought 8,000 piculs, had it shipped in, sold it in Yokohama for 35 dollars a
picul. He invested the profits in shipping, bought a second-hand steamer, the SS
Sarah
, sold it to the Satsuma for 70,000 dollars. He argued that, in the long term, Japan had to build its own ships, in its own dry docks, mine its own coal, forge its own iron and steel. He was drunk on the dream of it.

He re-entered the floating world, spent time again in the teahouse – he had paid for repairs, made good the damage he’d done in his dark night; he’d recompensed the madame, handsomely, and was once more an honoured guest.

Tsuru came every day to Ipponmatsu; she cleaned and cooked for him, flirted a little with that fluttering lightness. But she didn’t move in; he wasn’t ready for that; and at the teahouse he enjoyed the favours of Maki Kaga, the young girl he’d met that same night. Her image had stayed with him, through his drunkenness and boorishness, and on his return he’d sought her out. There was something about her, a naturalness and ease, a lack of formality, a character he found engaging; she laughed easily; behind the mask of the courtesan she was alive, uninhibited, and that suited his mood. When she served him tea, turning the bowl, just so, or arranged a single spray of flowers, or played some haunting melody on the samisen, it was balm to his soul.

Ito had a favourite song he would sing when he was drunk. At first Glover couldn’t make out the words – it was sung in some rough throaty argot – and when they were in their cups, Glover’s Japanese deserted him and Ito’s English became imaginative and improvised. But eventually they’d worked out a rough translation.

Lying one night in Maki’s arms, he heard Ito bawling out the song from another room. He tried to join in, mangled the words, heard Ito laugh out loud, pretend to howl like a dog. Maki
laughed till the tears ran down her face, and he pulled her to him again. 

Both Ito and Maki, in their own distinct ways, taught Glover something of Zen, through stories and poems, parables and riddles. Some of it was baffling, enigmatic, some of it outrageous, ferociously illogical. It was often funny, and much of it, to Glover, seemed grounded in a kind of enlightened common sense.

‘Aye,’ he’d say, in response to some direct, clear-eyed observation. ‘That’s very like the thing.’

Maki had learned from one of her first clients, a young monk who would escape from time to time the rigours of monastic life, make his way to the Sakura. He would tell her the stories, make her smile, whether she understood them or not. She took them as a kind of part-payment for her services, treasured them, told them now to Glover.

There was one about two monks approaching a river where a beautiful young woman was waiting to cross. One monk ignored her, obeying the injunction of his master not even to look at a woman. The other, however, carried the woman on his shoulders, waded across the river, set her down on the other side, bowed and walked on. The first monk walked alongside him, clearly upset. A mile down the road he stopped, complained bitterly to the second monk about his behaviour. The second monk looked baffled, said, ‘The woman? I left her back at the river. Why are you still carrying her?’

That made Glover laugh.

As well as the stories, Maki had memorised poems she had read and loved, mainly haiku and tanka, little meditations, heartbreaking insights into the beauty and transience of the moment.

‘Very like the thing,’ said Glover.

Ito’s Zen was altogether tougher, was rooted in
Bushido
, the way of the warrior. He would draw strength from
Hagakure
, the samurai code.

Meet a difficult situation with courage and joy. The more the water, the
higher the boat
.

At other times Ito would ask Glover unanswerable questions, riddles he couldn’t fathom. Ito would call them out between drunken songs at the Sakura.

What is the sound of one hand clapping? Does a dog have Buddha
nature? What was your face before you were born?

Glover asked what were the answers. Ito said he didn’t know.

‘Have to find answers, inside,’ said Ito.

‘By thinking?’ said Glover.

‘By not thinking!’ said Ito.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘Fine.’ 

During Ito’s absence, Takashi had grown more powerful, influenced the Choshu leadership to align more firmly against the West. In spite of Kagoshima, he still thought they could drive the invaders from their shores, or, perhaps even more glorious, they would die trying.

The Choshu had gun emplacements overlooking the straits of Shimonoseki, north of Nagasaki. The straits were strategically vital, a channel between the two islands of Kyushu and Honshu, leading to the Inland Sea, the main route to Osaka and beyond, to Yokohama and Edo. It was the principal passage for western ships; it was crucial that the lanes be kept open. The Choshu mounted
a blockade, declared that no foreign ships would be allowed through, and began opening fire on any who made the attempt.

Ominously, a combined fleet of British, American, French and Dutch ships assembled in Yokohama harbour, a score of warships carrying two thousand troops.

As in the case of Richardson, an ultimatum was delivered to the Shogun, insisting that he take action against the Choshu or risk reprisals. The Shogun, playing on age-old enmities, ordered the Satsuma to send troops, attack the Choshu with a land-based force, diverting their attention from the Straits.

Still resistant to the Shogun and the West, the Satsuma were nevertheless circumspect about bringing another bombardment on their heads. But they could not resist the legitimate opportunity of doing harm to their rivals. They sent a contingent of infantry which docked at Nagasaki, marched north and took up position inland, cutting off the Choshu’s retreat.

Ito came thundering in to Glover’s office, raging. ‘I told you, Satsuma useless! Before, they very stupid but very brave, stand up to Shogun and fight West. Now they do what Shogun tell them, help West, attack Choshu!’

Glover said he was sorry to hear it, but it was the pot calling the kettle black.

‘Why you talk like this?’ said Ito, even angrier. ‘This English nonsense!’

‘It seems to me it’s the Choshu who are being headstrong and foolish.’

‘Takashi is a madman,’ said Ito. ‘
His
head too strong!’

‘It’s not so long since you agreed with him,’ said Glover.

‘Not any more.’ Ito looked offended. ‘I change.’

‘I know,’ said Glover. ‘Now your whole clan has to change.’

‘Satsuma also,’ said Ito.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘Satsuma also!’ 

Parkes was attempting diplomacy again, had written, care of Glover, to
The Honourable Prince Ito Hirobumi of the Choshu Clan
. The letter briskly outlined the current situation, the aggressive actions of the Choshu leadership, the threat to peaceful trade. It then appealed to Ito as an honoured friend of the West, one who had so recently visited Britain under the good offices of Mister Glover and with the support and goodwill of Her Majesty’s Government, one whose continued friendship would be valued, he hoped, in the years to come. It exhorted Ito to use his influence as a Prince of the Choshu Clan to dissuade the Daimyo and his advisers from their present aggressive course of action, and to persuade them to cease hostilities forthwith, or face the consequences.

Ito read the letter, looked at Glover. ‘He want me to make them stop?’

‘That’s the sum and substance of it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes,’ said Glover. ‘He wants you to make them stop.’

‘I don’t think is possible,’ said Ito, quietly. ‘Daimyo listen to Takashi.’

Glover remembered his own efforts in Kagoshima, the rock-hard intransigence of the Satsuma Daimyo. For a moment he smelled gunpowder and burning, saw Sono’s face.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’ll be difficult.’

‘But have to try,’ said Ito.

‘Aye.’ Glover knew Ito was about to risk his life, knew also he had no choice. 

Ito was set to leave the next day, with Matsuo and with Inoue Kaoru, another of the Choshu Five recently returned. Inoue was a serious-minded young man, less of a firebrand than Ito, but no less committed to change. He had come back from the West shaken and chastened by what he had seen. The three men
were to sail to Yokohama, be given safe passage from there on a British warship, dropped off at Kasato island off Shimonoseki. There they would meet leaders of their own clan, present them with a document containing the demands of the British Government and their allies.

At the last moment, Glover decided to travel with them. On a Jardine’s clipper, they sailed at night, under cover of dark, eased through the Straits without incident. At Yokohama they were met by a British delegation, including Ernest Satow, who handed Ito a scroll.

‘It’s the British ultimatum,’ said Satow, ‘translated into Japanese for the Daimyo.’ He nodded to Glover. ‘I’m afraid this all feels horribly familiar.’

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘It’s Kagoshima, again.’

They boarded the warship, HMS
Cormorant
. It would be accompanied by another, HMS
Barrosa
, in a show of strength designed to give the Choshu a foretaste of what was to come should they decide to continue being obdurate.

In charge of the
Cormorant
was Captain Barstow, the Master of the Lodge, who had once waylaid Glover and Ito returning from Shanghai with a cache of weapons. It seemed so long ago, so much had happened since.

‘Mister Glover,’ said the Captain. ‘I see you are still defending British interests.’

‘Indeed,’ said Glover. ‘Perhaps more than you know.’

‘If I recall,’ said the Captain, ‘when we last met you had the foresight to warn me of the potential danger posed by these clans, particularly the Choshu.’

‘If I mind right,’ said Glover, ‘I also told you there were honourable exceptions.’

‘Mister Ito,’ said the Captain, recognising him, nodding in his direction.

Ito stared back at him, cold and hard, said nothing.

For the whole of the journey the three Japanese sat on deck,
straightbacked, staring ahead. When the ship dropped anchor at Kasato, they stood up, bowed formally to each other then took their leave of Glover, each in turn bowing to him.

‘Good luck,’ he said.

‘Need more than luck,’ said Ito, and he smiled a tight, grim smile.

Before they disembarked onto the rowboat that would ferry them ashore, Matsuo stood in front of Glover, bowed once more with deep humility, bending almost double. Then he held out his hand, something he had never done before, shook Glover’s hand, his grip quick and firm, said, ‘
Arigato gozaimasu
. Thank you, Guraba-san.’

As they watched the boat head towards the island, Glover said, ‘God help them.’

Satow, at his shoulder, said, ‘Let us hope He does.’

‘What do you think are their chances?’

‘I’d say their chances of having their heads removed are perhaps seven out of ten.’

‘Christ!’ said Glover.

‘You might be better invoking
their
God,’ said Satow, ‘their Buddha.’

Glover remembered that huge bronze statue at Kamakura, its presence, its benign detachment. And from somewhere the words came to him.
Namu Amida Butsu
. He’d heard them chanted, at his son’s funeral, at the shrine where he’d hidden with Mackenzie, at the temple in Kagoshima; they came to him unbidden, and he said them in silence, to himself. 

The arrangement was that they would wait, at anchor, for the whole of that day. If necessary, the three men would stay overnight, continue their negotiations the next morning, return to the ship by noon.

Glover was unable to sleep, paced the deck through the dogwatch hours, looked out across the dark stretch of water to the shore. Even peering through his spyglass he could see nothing, the odd flicker of light. Imperceptibly the sky began to lighten, the island took shape. At four bells, Satow joined him on deck.

‘No sign?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Glover.

‘I would imagine,’ said Satow, ‘the longer it continues, the greater the hope.’

Towards noon there was activity on the bridge. The launch had been sighted, returning from shore. It pulled alongside, bobbing in the swell, and Ito and Inoue swung onto the rope ladder, clambered aboard. Ito’s face was grim. ‘No good. Takashi too powerful. They don’t listen.’

Glover had expected this. But at least Ito and Inoue were alive, safe. Then he realised something was amiss; he looked down at the launch, saw only the two crewmen.