The Pure Land (36 page)

Lawrence took a step back. ‘I apologise, Mister Glover. I meant no offence.’

‘Aye, well,’ said Glover. ‘Just mind you’re in my house.’

‘Indeed.’ Lawrence looked at Yuko, shrugged and smiled. She didn’t respond, cleared away the tray, the empty glasses.

Glover waited till she’d gone, levelled his gaze again at Lawrence.

‘I don’t recall the British and American press being anything less than enthusiastic about the outcome of these skirmishes. In fact, there was general rejoicing, especially over the Russian Bear having its nose bloodied.’

‘By the Japanese Monkey!’ said Lawrence.

‘Quite,’ said Glover. ‘Ito was incensed by that particular caricature of his people.’

‘That’s journalists for you!’

The young man was trying to restore a measure of jocularity, amiability. But Glover remained serious.

‘I did hear other reports,’ he said, ‘after the fighting with China, but I tended to discount them.’

‘Tales of barbarism, brutality, excessive cruelty.’

Glover nodded. ‘Those were the rumours.’

‘It was documented by one of my countrymen who chanced to be present,’ said Lawrence, ‘a vagabond and gunrunner by the name of James Allan. He wrote a rather lurid account of the whole business, and it’s not for the squeamish. What he describes is nothing less than carnage, the Japanese army running amok with a savagery that beggared belief – wanton killing, beheaded corpses piled up in the street, severed heads impaled on spikes.’

‘You describe the imagined scene with some relish, Mister Lawrence. Perhaps you should turn your hand to the writing of penny dreadfuls. I am sure your Mister Allan could do the same.’

‘To my knowledge,’ said Lawrence, ‘he has written nothing other than his account of this atrocity and what he deemed his miraculous escape.’

‘You called him a vagabond,’ said Glover. ‘Perhaps he embellished his story somewhat.’

‘Perhaps.’

They were silent a while, Glover staring into the fire, then they both spoke at once.

‘I …’

‘It …’

‘Pray continue,’ said Lawrence, deferring.

‘I was going to say it may have been that the Japanese soldiers grew drunk on the ease of their success. This was Japan’s first military engagement outside its own borders for two hundred years.’

‘Well then,’ said Lawrence. ‘They are making up for lost time. Their defeat of Russia was as swift as it was unexpected.’

‘Russia had been belligerent ever since the Chinese affair. They have had their own designs on the region, of course, backed up by the persuasive power of their navy, and they forced the return of the disputed territories. For the Japanese it became a matter of honour.’

‘Isn’t it always?’

‘They live by a code,’ said Glover. ‘And that is not something to be dismissed so lightly.’

Mounted on the wall, in its sheath, was Matsuo’s sword.

Lawrence was looking at the photographs, indicated the one of Glover with the naval officers.

‘I see you have made the acquaintance of Admiral Togo.’

‘On more than one occasion,’ said Glover. ‘I know him well.’

‘His handling of the Russian campaign was described by one observer as bushido in action, his attacks like the swift stroke of a samurai sword.’

‘I am sure the Admiral would be proud of such a description. You know, as a young boy he manned a gun emplacement at the bombardment of Kagoshima.’

‘Indeed?’

‘And instead of making him angry, it filled him with admiration, the desire to match and emulate that British and American sea power.’

‘I would say he’s well on the way to fulfilling that desire,’ said Lawrence. ‘With no little assistance from you.’ He looked at the portrait of Glover, wearing his medal. ‘I take it that’s the decoration you received from the Emperor.’

‘Just a year ago,’ said Glover, straightening his back. ‘The Order of the Rising Sun. I was greatly honoured.’

Again he took a sharp intake of breath, as if in pain.

‘Forgive me,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’ve taken up a great deal of your time.’

‘It’s been a pleasure,’ said Glover, recovering. ‘For the most part!’ He shook the young man’s hand, his grip still firm, his gaze still clear, direct.

‘Thank you,’ said Lawrence. ‘You’re part of the history of this country, these times.’

‘An ancient monument!’

‘You changed things,’ said Lawrence. ‘How many of us can say that?’

Glover looked again at the photographs on the wall.

His life.

‘I don’t think any of us realised how quick the changes would be. Japan’s gone from the Middle Ages to the twentieth century in forty years. And of course it’s been messy. But what we have here is a dynamic, forward-looking nation. I think Ito and the others have worked wonders. They not only got rid of the Shogun and the all-controlling Bakufu, they took power away from the Daimyo, stopped the samurai strutting the streets with their overweening arrogance, expecting everyone to kowtow. You know there were whole strata of society, the poorest working folk, the
eta
, lower down the social scale than the peasants, in fact right off the scale altogether. They had no rights whatsoever.’

‘Like the untouchables in India.’

‘Exactly so. Legally they did not exist at all, and were completely ignored. Except, of course, when it came to the dirty work that nobody else would touch. Slaughtering animals and butchering the carcasses, burying the dead, assisting at executions.’

‘And their situation has changed?’

‘The Emperor has decreed it. The eta are human beings, have rights and freedoms. They can live and work where they choose, and like the peasants they are now known as
heimin
, the common people.’

‘Progress!’ said Lawrence.

‘It is,’ said Glover, narrowing his eyes, staring Lawrence down. ‘Not democracy yet, but a step in that direction.’

‘A democracy presided over by the Emperor, the Son of Heaven.’

‘He is a figurehead. He leads by example in embracing the new ways. When he cut off his top-knot, half the nation’s menfolk copied him!’

‘Have you met Mister Rudyard Kipling?’ asked Lawrence.

‘
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and
blaming it on you
. Now that’s great poetry!’

‘It is.’

‘Yes, he visited Nagasaki some years ago. I met him at a reception in the Foreigners’ Club. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just that I met him too. In fact, I interviewed him. And he was complaining about some of the changes, what he thought the
too
rapid modernisation.’

‘I seem to recall he hated the sight of Japanese men in western suits! He said perhaps their forebears had the right idea in turning the first Christian missionaries into beefsteak!’

‘A character indeed!’

Without being summoned, Yuko had appeared, brought Lawrence’s hat and overcoat.

‘
Arigato gozaimasu
.’ He bowed.

‘
Do itashimashite
.’ She bowed lower.

He turned to Glover again. ‘Did you also meet another writer, a Frenchman by the name of Pierre Loti?’

‘Once, I think, in passing. Why, did you meet him too?’

‘No, his sojourn in Nagasaki was before my time. I just wondered if your paths had crossed, that’s all. He wrote a rather successful novel called
Madame Chrysanthème
.’

‘I’d heard some talk of it. But I’m afraid I haven’t read novels since I was a boy. Adventure tales.
Treasure Island. Robinson
Crusoe
.’

‘Fine books. I read them too! No, this Loti fellow was none too enamoured of the Japanese, and it shows in his writing. Yet it’s spawned a fashion for
japonisme, japonaiserie
. An American named Long has written a rather more sympathetic tale entitled
Madame Butterfly
, and that’s been dramatised and turned into an opera by Signor Puccini.’

‘As I said, I’m not a devotee of the opera.’

‘No, of course.’ Lawrence buttoned up his coat. ‘Forgive me. I’m just making small talk. Idle curiosity. But if I may, I’ll track down copies of these novels and send them to you with a recording from
Madame Butterfly
.’

‘You’re too kind,’ said Glover.

‘I’d be interested in what you make of them,’ said Lawrence. He was about to say more, changed his mind, made a comment instead about the house, how fine it was, what an excellent location.

‘Small talk indeed!’ said Glover. ‘But, yes, it’s a fine house, effectively bought and paid for by Mitsubishi, with a little help from Ito-san.’

‘The district is called Azabu?’

‘It is. We’re really in the country, Shiba Park. The only drawback is that we’re three miles from the Mitsubishi office at Marunouchi. Until recently I was still going there most days, but it was a devil of a journey by jinrikisha along these wretched rutted roads. Of course in this weather it would be out of the question.’

‘Six inches of snow on some of the roads.’

‘And in any case, I am no longer fit for the journey.’

‘Perhaps come the spring.’

‘Perhaps.’

Lawrence was suddenly awkward, felt an almost unbearable weight in the words and in the silences between. They were discussing mortality, not discussing it.

‘My carriage should be waiting at the road-end,’ he said.

‘Godspeed on your own journey,’ said Glover, and they shook hands again.

Yuko opened the door and the wind blew in a flurry of snow. She slammed it quick shut when the visitor had gone, then she ushered the old man into the living room, stoked the fire in the grate, and he sat staring into it, watching it flicker and glow.

It was still cold, though the snow had begun to clear, a few weeks later when Tomisaburo came to visit. Glover was fond of his son, was always glad to see him, but he regretted the stiffness
and formality that seemed to characterise their dealings.

Hana was her father’s daughter through and through, had inherited his feistiness and fire, knew how to banter with him, placate him, make him laugh. But with Tomi there was always that distance, a reserve.

That damned journalist had touched on it, hit a raw nerve. He’d been happy to talk to the man, bask in the memory of it all. But the interview had tired him, left him irritated in ways he didn’t quite understand.

Yuko had taken Tomisaburo’s coat and hat and he’d bowed to her, slightly awkward as he always was with young women. Now he sat in the armchair by the fire, facing his father, sipping his tea as the old man told him of the journalist’s visit, how it had unsettled him.

‘You probably told him too much,’ said Tomisaburo.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘Right enough. He’ll likely be turning it into a lurid article for some scandal sheet!’ He laughed and it set him coughing, brought the jab of pain stabbing at his side. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘If I can’t even have a laugh, there’s not much left.’

‘You should rest more,’ said Tomisaburo, anxious.

‘Ach!’ said his father. ‘I’ve an eternity of that ahead of me, one way or another. Now, what brings you to Tokyo?’

Tomisaburo’s eyes brightened. ‘I wanted to see you, of course. But I also wanted to check a consignment of handmade paper, for the book.’

‘Ah!’ said Glover. ‘Your atlas.’

‘I have commissioned a few more artists, and the work is well under way. By my reckoning there are 558 species of fish in the waters around Kyushu, and the book will contain in excess of 800 illustrations, including drawings of shellfish and whales.’

‘Impressive!’ said Glover, meaning it. Then he couldn’t help adding, wry, ‘And of course you have Admiral Togo to thank for the progress of your project.’

Tomisaburo looked bemused. ‘How so?’

‘It was his victory over the Russians that extended Japanese fishing grounds.’

‘Ah,’ said Tomisaburo, seriously. ‘Yes.’

‘And how goes the fishing industry? How fares the
Smokey Joe
?’

‘Very well,’ said Tomisaburo, back on safer ground. ‘Another steam trawler is on its way from Aberdeen, and two more are being built in the Mitsubishi yard.’

‘Excellent.’

‘And we are planning, as an experiment, to send shipments of fish to the markets in Osaka by the new railroad.’

‘If folk had listened to me,’ said Glover, ‘the railroad would have been built forty years ago!’

The railtrack laid along the Bund, the engine roaring along in clouds of
steam, the crowds waving, Glover sounding the whistle, firing his pistol in
the air
.

‘Perhaps the country was not ready, the time not right.’

‘Ach!’ said Glover. ‘You always did err on the side of caution!’

Tomisaburo was tightlipped. ‘I am who I am, and what my life has made me.’

‘Have more tea for God’s sake!’ said Glover. ‘And tell me what else is happening in Nagasaki.’

Tomisaburo unclenched a little. ‘I am hoping to be elected Chairman of the Nagasaki Golf Association,’ he said. ‘There are plans to open a public course at Unzen.’

Glover laughed. ‘I mind hacking my way round the course on the clifftop at Stonehaven! I believe there was a suggestion made that the game might catch on in Japan. But that was one development I didn’t foresee!’

Flags in the wind off the North Sea. Unfinished business
.

‘The International Club is flourishing,’ said Tomisaburo, with a kind of hesitant pride. ‘I am on the committee.’

‘You are a busy lad,’ said Glover.

‘We recently held a meeting to inaugurate our new meeting rooms. And you’ll never guess where they’re located.’

‘In Maruyama,’ said Glover, ‘in the flower quarter.’

‘No,’ said Tomisaburo, patient. ‘In Dejima.’

‘Dejima!’ said Glover. ‘Now that
is
appropriate!’

His younger self, all gauche and eager. The mob across the bridge,
smashed windows. The hot night. That first young girl
.

‘It is indeed,’ said Tomisaburo. ‘Singularly so! There were seventy-six members at the meeting, Japanese alongside Americans and Europeans, even Russians and Chinese.’

‘You do surprise me. Perhaps there really is hope for the future.’

‘That’s why the club exists,’ said Tomisaburo, serious again, ‘to foster that hope through the bonds of friendship and understanding.’