The Pure Land (32 page)

The bed beside him was empty.

‘Tsuru?’

He got up, lit the lamp and went through to the next door room where Hana slept. Tsuru was sitting there in the dark, in her nightgown, her hair undone, beside the child’s bed. She looked up, startled, as he shone the lamp, and in its flicker he saw she was crying.

‘Tsuru,’ he said.

She hung her head, sobbed.

‘What is it, lassie?’

He moved closer to her, put a hand on her arm, let the crying subside.

She sniffed, wiped her face.

‘Now you have son,’ she said. This was difficult for her. ‘Tsuru not have son, ever. Maybe you want marry other one, bring son here. Send Tsuru and Hana away.’

‘Tsuru,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake! You’re my wife! Hana’s my daughter! Do you think I’d just throw you out?’

‘I not know,’ she said. ‘How I know? Not know gaijin way.’

‘Christ Almighty! Or should that be, In the name of Buddha? Amida Almighty!’

He could see she didn’t understand what he was saying, but his manner, the cajoling reassurance, seemed to reach her, and she laugh-cried. He put an arm round her shoulder, took her back through to the bedroom, blew out the lamp and lay down beside her, held her in his arms till she fell asleep. But he still lay awake, staring into the dark.

Jardine’s were still pressing him for payment and the currency fluctuations continued. He was in the process of selling his slipdock to the new government for $130,000, a profit of $60,000 – a bargain for them and it would buy him time, breathing space. A second battleship, the
Jho Sho Maru
, was on its way from Aberdeen. It was larger than its predecessor, more powerful, more heavily armed. The Japanese would learn to build on that scale themselves. With Scottish expertise they would build bigger and better docks, develop their own industry, mine their own coal, forge their own iron and steel. He would be part of that, would ride out this storm. He had already invested in a coal mine, on Takashima island in Nagasaki Bay. When the operation was up and running, it would produce coal at a cost of $2 a ton; that would sell in Nagasaki at $4.50. If it produced 300 tons a day, working 20 days a month, that would make a profit of what?

He was tired. Tsuru moaned in her sleep. He saw Maki’s face, the boy, his son. $2.50 a ton. Pure profit. The price of coal. Work it out. 300 tons. The
Jho Sho Maru
cleaving through the waves. He couldn’t concentrate. It kept slipsliding away. Like trying to hold water cupped in your hands. Like trying to thread a needle. Ito laughing. Fluctuations. Profit and loss. Those stupid unanswerable questions. One hand clapping. The wee small hours.

Maki didn’t come the next day. He waited in his office into the evening, paced the floor, peered out the window, watched the sky darken, the lamps flicker in the shops and stalls, but there was no sign of her. It began to rain. He locked up and headed home, took a detour through the market again, just in case. He found the place even more irritating, the noises and the smells. He saw the stallholder who’d been rude to Maki swiftly filleting fish with a razorsharp chopping knife, his movements practised, deft. The man caught his eye, smiled, a twitch of the lip, half-obsequious half-ironic, and Glover was overwhelmed with the urge to punch him in the face. He imagined himself going further, grabbing the knife from the man’s grasp, slicing his throat, gutting him. The ferocity of the thought, its sheer violence, shocked him. His hands were clammy, damp. He turned away, headed for home, felt the night air cool the sweat on his face.

He was curt with Tsuru when she asked if he was all right, told her brusquely that Maki hadn’t showed up and he hadn’t taken her address, had no way of contacting her right away. Tsuru nodded, looked relieved, and that annoyed him even more. He said he would track down Maki through the madame at the Sakura; she would lead him to Yumi and he would take it from there. But it would all have to wait a few days; he had to go to Tokyo for a meeting with Ito.

Tsuru bowed low, kept her head down. He saw she was sobbing and it tore at him.

‘Och, lassie,’ he said. ‘The boy’s my son.’

‘I know,’ she said, her voice bleak. ‘I know.’

Prince Ito Hirobumi of the Choshu clan, Prime Minister designate of the Meiji government, was waiting to receive him, in a
spacious office furnished with heavy European chairs, an oak table.

‘Guraba-san! It is good to see you!’

‘Ito-san! It is an honour to be ushered into your magisterial presence!’

‘You rascal!’

‘You rogue!’

A painting of the Emperor hung on the wall behind him, further along a smaller portrait of Ito himself looking massively dignified, a row of medals on the jacket of his well-cut English suit.

‘Impressive,’ said Glover.

‘Thank you,’ said Ito, offering him a cigar, motioning him to sit in one of the chairs, upholstered in dark leather.

They discussed again the devaluation of the currency. Ito expressed his regret that Glover had suffered losses.

‘That was the chance I took.’

‘Situation should calm down,’ said Ito. ‘Get on even keel.’

‘I hope so,’ said Glover. He told Ito about his debts, his investment in the mine, his other plans. And he told him about Maki and the boy.

‘Son make it complicated,’ said Ito.

‘Like one of your damn riddles,’ said Glover. ‘Those bloody infuriating conundrums.’

‘Koan,’ said Ito. ‘
Hai
.’

‘Insoluble.’

‘My favourite is one about master Nansen,’ said Ito. ‘He come into meditation hall one day and two monks are fighting over a cat, both say it belong to them. He take up the cat in one hand, take sword in the other. He say if one of them can say good word they can save the cat. They tonguetied, say nothing. He cut the cat in two.’

‘Good God!’

Ito mimed slashing with a swordblade. ‘Ha!’

The story was still troubling Glover when Ito said there was someone he wanted him to meet. He struck a little brass bell that sat on his desk and a young man came hurrying in to the room, bowed low. Ito barked a command at him, and the young man backed out, returned with the visitor, a middle-aged Japanese businessman, dressed, like Ito, in a western suit, a collar and tie.

‘Guraba-san,’ said Ito. ‘This is Iwasaki-san. He is anxious to meet you.’

‘
Hajimemashite
,’ said Glover. ‘
Dozo yoroshiku
.’

‘An honour,’ said Iwasaki.

They bowed, each to each, equally.

‘I admire what you do for Japan,’ said Iwasaki. ‘For Japanese industry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Slipdock. Now coalmining.’

‘Not to mention the battleships!’

‘
Hai, so desu!
’

‘Iwasaki-san also has big plans,’ said Ito.

‘Indeed?’

‘Japan need to build these things here, make for ourselves.’

‘Exactly! Develop heavy industry. Compete with the West.’

‘I form company, for shipbuilding, engineering.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I would be honoured if you would be adviser to company.’

Glover was silent a moment, puffed at his cigar. ‘I am honoured that you should ask me,’ he said at last. ‘Of course I have other commitments.’

‘I am sure we can make agreement,’ said Iwasaki. ‘Make worthwhile.’

‘I shall give it serious consideration,’ said Glover.

‘Company named after clan crest. Call it Three Diamond.
Mitsu-bishi
.’

‘I like the sound of that. It has a ring to it.’

They bowed again, shook hands.

‘
Mitsubishi
.’

Glover had taken a battering and his creditors were closing in. There was a further communication from Jardine’s, regretfully requesting payment in full. The letter angered him. After all these years, the work he had done for them, the commitment he had shown, to be treated as just one more bad debt was intolerable. He crumpled up the letter, threw it across the room.

There was a letter also from the City of Glasgow Bank, demanding repayment of a loan he’d taken to help finance the building of the
Jho Sho Maru
. Even if the clans paid him in full for the ship, the devalued currency meant he would lose on the deal.

He had gone, cap in hand, to the agent of the Netherlands Trading Company, who had themselves invested heavily in Japan. He’d asked them to invest in him as part of the country’s future. Now they had written, agreeing to underwrite his debts, but only on condition that he sign over the coal mine as security. He had no alternative but to accept. He was effectively sunk, bankrupt.

The Daruma doll sat on his desk, stared at him with its fierce-comic face. He cuffed it, knocked it over, watched it roll and right itself, bounce back up.

He crossed the two bridges, Hesitation and Decision, into the pleasure quarter, went straight to the Sakura. It looked different during the day, somehow smaller and shabbier, unprepossessing. By night it had always held a magic, an allure: glow of lantern-light, shadows on the shoji screens, sweet scent of incense. This daylight was too harsh for it, rendered it ordinary.

He stepped onto the porch, slid open the screen, and in a moment it all came back to him; he breathed in the smell, the very atmosphere, remembered the boy he had been, an acolyte entering the temple. The sliding of the screen. Sono’s face. The intensity of those nights with Maki that had restored him to some kind of life.

Maki.

A figure moved in the dimness inside, the madame, recognising him, clapping her hands, welcoming him in, calling two of the young girls through to attend to him. It was good to have him back, and at this time of day he must be keen, she had somebody special for him, would take years off his life.

He laughed, explained he couldn’t stay, had only come to ask her a favour. He had to find Maki. The madame looked disappointed. He told her the story and her face was all exaggerated sympathy. She was sorry, she had heard that Maki had a child, but she didn’t know where she lived. But Yumi, perhaps she knew where Yumi lived? Yes, she knew, she could write down the address, it wasn’t too far, he could go in a jinrikisha. And he must come back soon, she missed them all: Ito-san, the American Walsh, but especially Guraba-san, it was good time and they could make good time again.

He thanked her, sincerely, bowed and backed out, retraced his steps over the two bridges, hailed a rickshaw and showed the driver the piece of paper with the address in the madame’s scribbled, effortlessly graceful calligraphy. The driver nodded, indicated Glover should climb aboard. Glover looked apologetic, mimed being big and heavy, cumbersome. The driver laughed, held up his skinny arms, flexing them. But he was wiry.

‘
Tsuyoi!
’ he said.

‘Strong!’ said Glover.

‘
Hai!
’

He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, set off at a trot, dragging the rickshaw laden with Glover’s bulk.

They crossed
Motokago-machi
, a busy road lined with shops and market stalls, cut down quieter side streets, rutted lanes, eventually came to a stop outside a compact wooden house on two floors.

‘This is it?’

The man nodded.

‘You wait?’ Glover took out his pocket watch, traced the passage of the hands, time passing. The man nodded, hunkered down on the ground beside his rickshaw.

Glover approached the house, called out.

‘
Yumi-
san! Gomen kudasai!
’

There was no reply. The wind ruffled a pine tree behind the house. He tried the shoji screen door and it slid open easily. He called in.

‘Hello! Yumi! Are you there?’

There was a rustling inside the house, the sliding of another screen, and Yumi was shuffling towards the door, the look on her face wary, apprehensive.

‘Yumi!’ he said again, and her eyes widened in startled recognition.

‘Guraba-san!’

She fluttered, seemed to be trying, at the same time, to bow, to step forward to welcome him and to turn and step back inside, no doubt anxious to tidy some imagined clutter before receiving a guest.

‘It’s all right!’ he said.

She bowed and bowed, ushered him inside. ‘
Dozo!
’

He took off his boots, left them in the entranceway, followed her in. She flustered round him, plumped up cushions for him to sit on, went through to the kitchen area and filled a small iron kettle, set it to heat on the stove.

She came back through, tidying her hair, smoothing her blue kimono. He noticed for the first time she was pregnant.

‘Congratulations,’ he said.

‘Thank you!’ she said, delighted, embarrassed, then as if remembering herself, put her hand to her mouth. ‘You want Maki. So sorry, she not here today. She come tomorrow, no, yesterday.’

‘I need to find her,’ he said.

‘
Hai,
’ she said. ‘I show you where.’

She fetched the kettle, brought it through, made tea for him as a matter of course, without giving it a moment’s thought. She whisked it in the bowl, frothed the bright green bitter mix, turned the bowl and handed it to him.

‘
Dozo
.’

‘
Arigato
, Yumi-san.’ He took a sip. ‘
Itadakimasu
.’

She nodded, pleased. Normally they would make ritual, formalised small talk about the weather, the quality of the tea, the glaze of the bowl. Instead he said again he had to find Maki.

‘I met her. I know about the boy.’

‘She tell me,’ said Yumi.

‘She said she would come next day, to talk.’

‘She not want. Too sad.’

‘I understand. But …’

‘Your son,’ she said.

‘
Hai
.’

She explained where Maki lived, further out this same road.

‘Far?’ he asked.

‘Past temple,’ she said. ‘Long way.’

She offered him more tea and he was about to refuse, then remembered the formalities, thanked her, accepted another cup, drank it.

‘Your husband is a very lucky man,’ he said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I lucky one. Now, you go find Maki.’

Outside the driver was dozing beside his rickshaw. He woke and jumped up as they approached. Yumi brought him a cup of water, explained where he should go next. He caught
Glover’s eye, flexed his muscles again, gave a wee half-smile, conspiratorial.