The Pure Land (23 page)

‘I need somebody to oversee this contract with Hall Russell, get the work started before I go there myself.’

Mackenzie’s brow furrowed. ‘So you’re definitely going ahead with this?’

‘I’m committed,’ said Glover. ‘I’ve given my word.’

‘There’s folk would like to see you committed,’ said Mackenzie. ‘To a madhouse!’

‘Ach!’ said Glover. ‘The whole damn world is bedlam!’ Then he looked at Mackenzie, quizzical. ‘Is there anyone in particular you had in mind?’

‘Sir Harry Parkes is none too pleased with your latest capers. I’m thinking you’ll be
persona non grata
at the Legation.’

‘If Sir Harry has anything to say to me, I’ll meet him to his beard!’

‘You may get the chance, sooner rather than later.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Folk here are planning a wee shindig to mark my retirement. It’s rumoured Sir Harry may make an appearance.’

‘Good!’ said Glover. ‘I look forward to setting him straight!’ 

Sir Harry Smythe Parkes, KCB, British Minister, Represen tative of Her Majesty’s Government in Japan, expansive after supping brandy, was making a speech in honour of Mackenzie. Parkes
gave an impression of compact strength, steadiness. There was an intensity in his gaze, in the steel-blue eyes that nevertheless twinkled from time to time with good humour, fuelled by the liquor. He concluded his speech, proposed a toast.

‘We all owe a huge debt to Ken Mackenzie. He’s been a true pioneer in these parts, a firm hand on the tiller. I wish him
bon
voyage
and a safe return home.’ He raised his glass. ‘Ken Mackenzie!’

He drained the glass, replenished it. Mackenzie approached the platform to cheers and applause, a stamping of feet on the floor from the younger bucks. When the noise died down he cleared his throat, selfconscious, thanked Sir Harry for his tribute.

‘A pioneer, eh? What is it they say about fools rushing in? I have no regrets about my time here. And of course a part of me is sorry to be leaving … Who said
Which part?
But I have confidence in the younger generation coming up to succeed me, hell, surpass me! And not least of these is young Tom Glover. His too is a firm hand on the tiller, even if he does sometimes sail a bit close to the wind!’

There was more laughter, a spate of hooting in Glover’s direction, before Mackenzie continued.

‘Och, bugger it! I was never much of a one for making speeches, so I’ll get my old arse out the road.
Arigato gozaimasu
the lot of ye. Sayobloodynara once and for all!’

The assembled company roared, cheered, stamped, fell to drinking once more.

Mackenzie came straight across to Glover.

‘Thanks, Ken. I appreciate the vote of confidence.’

Mackenzie laughed. ‘Do you think I meant one word of it?’

‘Well, maybe
one
word!’

‘D’ye mind when you first arrived here? I gave you three pieces of advice. Don’t cross the samurai. Keep out of the politics.’

‘And mind where I dipped my wick.’

‘Did you pay any heed?’

‘Not a great deal!’

‘In fact, you set about systematically breaking all three injunctions.’

‘As you knew fine I would!’

‘Aye, well.’

Mackenzie glanced over as Parkes crossed the room towards them.

‘Ken!’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘Thanks again for the eulogy!’ said Mackenzie.

‘All politicians are adept at lying through their teeth!’ said Parkes, laughing.

‘This is Tom Glover,’ said Mackenzie, introducing him.

‘I thought as much,’ said Parkes. ‘So you’re the young hothead I’ve heard so much about!’

The tone was still hectoring, bantering, but that steel was there again in the gaze.

‘Pleased to meet you too, Sir Harry.’

‘Perhaps we could have a word,’ said Parkes. ‘In private.’

‘Maybe this isn’t the time.’

‘I think the sooner the better.’

Glover nodded, led the way to a club room behind the bar.

Walsh passed by, said, ‘Seconds out!’

In the room, all pretence was gone, the pleasantries dropped. Parkes rounded on him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I thought I was saying goodbye to Ken Mackenzie.’

‘You know what I’m talking about! You’ve smuggled more of these rebels out of the country.’

‘They’re from a different clan this time, to maintain some kind of balance.’

‘Balance!’ Parkes spluttered, his face reddening from more than the brandy. ‘Balance! Have you any idea of the trouble you could cause?’

‘Sometimes a wee bit trouble is what’s needed.’

‘You’re in contravention of the Shogun’s laws. You’re defying your own Government.’

‘The Shogun is on borrowed time, and his laws will soon be obsolete. And I’m sure Her Majesty’s Government will be happy to deal with the new administration, under the Emperor.’

‘Even if that were so, we cannot be seen to side with the rebels.’

‘Sooner or later,’ said Glover, ‘you’ll have to take account of these men.’

‘Men of violence, hotheaded young fools.’

‘They’re intelligent men, visionaries. Today’s revolutionaries are tomorrow’s statesmen. Think of America.’

‘Always a good idea!’ said Walsh, who had come into the room on some pretext or other.

‘Think of France,’ said Glover.

‘I am thinking of France!’ said Parkes, fired up again. ‘They’re solidly behind the Shogun. If we’re seen to be helping overthrow him, we risk another colonial war with the French.’

‘I don’t think it’ll come to that.’

‘You don’t think so?’ Parkes was flummoxed. ‘
You
don’t think so! On the basis of your vast experience of diplomacy and international affairs? Really, sir, your arrogance beggars belief!’

Mackenzie came into the room, looked anxious to mediate in the exchange. Walsh tapped on his brandy glass, as if ringing a bell.

‘End of round one!’ he said. ‘I think we’re threatening to spoil Ken’s party here. Perhaps we should postpone the rest of the bout to a later date!’

Glover nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation Parkes did the same.

‘In deference to the occasion,’ said Parkes. ‘But I remind Mister Glover that he risks losing his licence to trade, is effectively courting banishment and exile from Japan, while his would-be revolutionaries risk execution.’

‘Low blow,’ said Walsh, ‘after the bell!’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Shall we go back through, to the body of the kirk?’ 

Parkes left the next day, returned to Edo without resuming his conversation with Glover. But his position had been made clear. Glover had to toe the line.

Mackenzie was also leaving, by clipper to Shanghai then by steamer to Southampton.

‘It’ll be a different place without you,’ said Glover, seeing him off at the dock.

‘Oh aye,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Everybody will miss my crabbit face!’

‘Well, I’ll be seeing it again soon enough.’

‘It’ll be gey strange for the both of us to be back there.’

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘It will.’

‘I’m sure Hall and Russell will have reservations about the contract.’

‘That’s why I’m glad you’ll be talking to them before I get there.’

‘Listen, Tom …’

‘I’ve been listening to you for years!’

‘And not taken a blind bit of notice!’

‘Not true.’

‘Seriously …’

‘I know.’

‘Ca canny, Tom. Mind how you go.’

‘I will.’

‘Now why don’t I believe that?’

‘Safe journey, Ken. I’ll see you in three months.’

Mackenzie shook his hand, the grip as firm as ever. He strode up the gangplank, waved once. Glover turned away, surprised
at the choke of emotion in his throat, in his chest. He headed back to his office to start making preparations for his own departure.

Ken was right, it would be strange going back. So much had changed for him, yet he imagined everything at home being just the same. He knew Martha would have blossomed, there was a young man, talk of engagement. His father had retired and the family had moved out of the house by the coastguard station. Glover himself had sent money home for them to buy another place, further up the hill at Bridge of Don. He could imagine his father’s response to the gift, a pride in his son, but discomfort at feeling beholden. He could see the old man’s face, hear his voice,
Aye, well
, and it made him laugh. He could almost smell the place, its salt and reek, fish-tang in the stinging wind. 

He had packed and was ready to go, had set his business dealings in order, insofar as that was possible. It was a wrench, leaving it to others, to Harrison and Groom, to the young Japanese Shibata and Nakajimo, now his senior clerks, with instructions to refer to Walsh if a tricky situation should arise. Walsh had been flattered, said he would never match Glover for deviousness and sheer cussedness, but he’d do his best.

Walsh tried to entice him to Sakura one last time, the night before his departure, but he wanted to keep his mind clear for the journey.

‘And besides,’ he said, ‘Maki seems to have disappeared. I haven’t seen her in weeks and the madame gives me the full weight of her silence whenever I ask.’

‘These butterflies,’ said Walsh. ‘They come and they go!’

He saw Maki’s face a moment, could almost smell her perfume. Then he was taking a gruff goodbye of Walsh, heading home up Minami Yamate.

Tsuru had moved in to Ipponmatsu, stayed in one of the smaller rooms to the back. It made sense, especially with him going away, having someone to mind the place, look after it.

She had run him a hot bath, and he scrubbed himself clean, lay back and soaked in the tub, heard a light rain pattering on the roof, felt strangely content. When he’d dried himself off, he came through to his room mellow and rested, skin tingling. Tsuru had laid out his cotton yukata, now she brought him tea, poured it for him. Her movements were careful and unhurried, and he felt a kind of peacefulness in just watching her.

‘I’ll miss this when I’m back home,’ he said, touched by simple gratitude.

She bowed but he thought she seemed a little agitated, flustered. ‘You stay a long time in
Sukottorando
?’

‘As long as it takes. A few months maybe, then with the journey there and back I’ll likely be away a year.’

‘
A, so desu ka
.’ She took in the information, poured him more tea. ‘I wish you not go.’

‘Och,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you cared!’

‘Care,’ she said, nodding.

And he saw in the moment, clearly, she was moved, was struggling to stay composed. Then she was sniffling and there were tears in her eyes.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what’s this?’

‘Is nothing. I be all right.’

‘Och, lassie,’ he said. ‘Tsuru.’

Now her shoulders were shaking, her small frame wracked by real deep sobs. He put down his tea-bowl, went to her, held her to him, let her cry. He shooshed and murmured to her, like comforting a bairn. Her face was wet against the soft cotton of his yukata; he had tied the robe loosely and as he moved, it opened at the neck and he felt the warmth there, a trickle on his skin, in the hairs on his chest. He kissed her hair, the nape of her neck, felt his own nakedness under the yukata, stiffening,
rousing towards her, and her responding, pressing against him, her breath quickening to sharp gasps, unfastening her sash, letting her kimono fall open and slide to the floor, and he was carrying her to the bed, amazed at the sheer unexpectedness of this, this, this. 

Maki was certain; she had been for some weeks. The sickness and ache, the exhaustion, the missed periods. The madame had told her to go away and deal with the situation, one way or another, and she’d taken herself to a quiet place, outside town. Now it was time, she had to tell Tomu, Guraba-san. She had no idea what he would say. She had seen other gaijin who had fathered children grow angry, become redfaced devils, beat their women. She had heard of others who turned away from the mess, denied responsibility, headed home to their old life and left it all behind.

She could still get rid of it. It was not too late. There was a doctor in Naminohira, near the docks. She could take a chance, risk her miserable life, pray to Jizo, who cared for the unborn.

Or she could go to Tomu, tell him the child was his, she was sure of it, and not just from the dates, she knew, it was in her blood.

She had never minded the roughness of him, the barbarian smell, in fact she liked it, as he liked her craziness, the way she made him laugh. He had taken her to his home, showed him the tiger in its cage. Yaban! He had waved to her from that great roaring railway engine, his face black, like some wild-eyed demon.

She laughed at the memory, but was shaken by another spasm, cramped and gagged as the bile came back up her throat; she held her hair back from her face, retched and vomited into a basin beside the bed. A sudden shower of rain battered the roof, should have brought ease, but she ached, every nerve strained
and taut. The window was wide open, to let in cooling air. She leaned out, held a cotton cloth to soak in the rain, not caring that it also soaked her sleeve. She wiped her face, dabbed the back of her neck to cool herself down. He had liked to kiss her there, holding up her hair.

From nowhere a poem came to her, a tanka written by Izumi Shikibu, almost a thousand years ago.

A thousand years. Izumi had been a famous beauty, had many lovers, been hated by the Lady Murasaki. What would she have written about this? Unkempt, dishevelled, sweating, assailed by the acrid stink of her own vomit.
This
.

Maki struggled to her feet, looked out the window again, gulped in the clear washed air. The shower had stopped as suddenly as it had started. The rising moon hung low in the sky, full and heavy, blood-red. 

Glover stood on the deck of the clipper as it eased out through the long harbour, for all the world like a broad river, the hills sloping down on either side, and just for a moment he remembered arriving here for the first time, so long ago, himself so young and knowing nothing. Sometimes he thought he still knew nothing. The ship passed by the sugarloaf island of Pappenberg, tacked and headed out to sea. He took one last look back.