The Pure Land (5 page)

‘A Scot,’ said Glover.

‘Oh, well,’ said the Englishman. ‘Next best thing, eh?’

‘I’m Tom Glover.’

‘Charles Richardson.’

‘Montblanc,’ said the Frenchman.

‘Cheers!’

‘Down the hatch!’

‘
A la vôtre!
’

Perhaps it was his tiredness, the strangeness of the place, but he didn’t feel at ease with these men. They maintained an amused detachment, as if they were assessing him, weighing him up with an air of condescension, ready to find him wanting. The tiredness had also rendered him particularly susceptible to the beer, even this insipid brew he was drinking. Three bottles and he was drifting. The faces of his companions began to look demonic. He had to take his leave, get back to his room and sleep. He stood up to go and the room tilted, spun. The faces leered as music started up, a thin tinkling jingle from the out-of-tune piano in the corner. It was played by a huge Japanese woman; no, a man dressed as a woman, a corpulent Dutchman in a silk robe, a black wig on his head, face powdered white, lips painted a bright red pout.

The effect was clownish, grotesque, a pantomime mask.

‘Ah!’ said Richardson. ‘The entertainment!’

Montblanc had suddenly become animated, laughing shrilly and waving at the pianist who grinned back at him, teeth yellow against the make-up.

Glover sat down again, steadied himself, let the room settle. The piano continued to tinkle and from a back room came three young Japanese women, yes, this time they really were women, gliding forward with tiny, shuffling steps. They were greeted with a spatter of applause, a few ironic, desultory calls of approval,
as they moved into a dance, flicked open the fans they were carrying, bowed to their cackling, braying audience.

Glover imagined the dance must be a parody, rendered crude by the music-hall accompaniment. But even at that, there was something inherently graceful in the way the women moved, a lightness that touched him, in spite of how he was feeling.

One of the dancers came towards their table and he found himself captivated by the way she cocked her head, the coy, knowing look she gave him over the top of the fan that she fluttered in front of her face. When the music stopped, she bowed to their table, kept her eyes on Glover.

Richardson laughed. ‘I certainly have no intention of going native! As for Montblanc, I think his predilections are quite other.’ He made a grand gesture, a wave of the hand towards Glover. ‘That leaves you.’

The girl was still looking at him, still fluttering. She gave a little giggle, said, ‘I come you?’

‘Now there’s an offer!’ said Richardson, slapping the table.

And what else could this day become? And could it really have been only a day? The dreamlike quality had deepened, intensified. He had gone beyond exhaustion into another state entirely, a strange clear-eyed detachment, mind and body separate as he watched himself, watched events unfold, play out. He had stumbled out of the bar, the girl following him. The sudden change of air had gone to his head and the girl had taken him by the arm, steadied him. He’d felt the warmth of her body through the thin cotton robe she wore, smelled her perfume, been suddenly roused. He’d indicated the door to his lodgings, let her guide him up the stairs and into this room, the room that had been his for only a few hours.

Now she sat on the edge of the bed,
his
bed, and slipped the robe off her thin shoulders. He remembered a shrieking redhaired
harridan, laughing at him in a back wynd by the Aberdeen docks. This young girl, here with him now, was so different. Her black black hair was gathered up, exposed the delicate nape of her neck. Something in the vulnerability of it filled him with a kind of tenderness, made him want to kiss her just there. He thought of Annie.

‘
Atsuka
,’ said the girl, with a little nod of the head.

‘Sorry?’

She repeated it. ‘
Atsuka
.’ And she mimed fanning herself, dabbing her brow with her hand.

‘Hot?’ he said, and he tugged at his collar, blew out air in a big exaggerated sigh.

‘
Hai!
’ she said. ‘Yes. Hotu!’

He put on a deep, gravelly voice, growled the word back at her. ‘
Atsuka!
’

She let out a highpitched laugh that suddenly became a scream as something, a rock, crashed through the window, shattered the glass.

His first instinct, in the moment it took to make sense of what had happened, was to shield the girl, put a protective arm round her bare shoulders. She was shaken, trembling, clung to him as he made soothing sounds, stroked her hair. There was noise from outside, angry shouting. Tentatively he disentangled himself and she pulled on her robe, held it tight around her. He stood up, went carefully to the window and looked out. A gang of Japanese men had gathered on the mainland, on the other side of the bridge. In the flicker of light from torches and lanterns he could make out some of them, chanting, brandishing sticks, hurling stones across at the settlement.

What else could the day become? He pulled on his trousers, his jacket, his boots, told the girl it was all right, everything would be fine, and he rushed headlong down the stairs and out into the street. A few others had gathered at the bridge, looking across
at the mob on the other side. There were still two guards on duty, pikes at the ready. But they stood with their backs to the mainland, facing the island.

‘Christ!’ said Glover. ‘They’re keeping us penned in instead of driving them away!’

Richardson’s voice was languid, unconcerned. ‘I think they’re trying to prevent an incident. If anyone did manage to get across there, they’d be hacked to pieces.’

‘So we just stand here and take it?’ said Glover.

‘The Jap rabble are just making mischief, trying to provoke us. If they really wanted to cross the bridge, it would take more than those two to stop them.’

A stone landed at Glover’s feet and he picked it up, hurled it back across the bridge into the crowd. The two guards took a step forward, threatening. On the other side, a powerful figure looked ready to lead the mob onto the island. In a flare of torchlight, Glover saw him clear, the samurai Takashi he’d encountered that day, his features suddenly, sharply visible as if in limelight, held in that same intense grimace of pure hate, contained rage. His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but another man, by his side, placed a hand on his arm, restrained him. They exchanged words, the other man bowed and Takashi turned on his heel, moved off through the crowd, which parted to let him pass. The other seemed to give a command and the crowd broke up, moved away. The guards stood at ease again, motioned to the foreigners on the island to disperse.

Richardson lit a cigar, blew its fragrant smoke into the night air. ‘Whatever next?’ he said.

Aye. What else?

The girl was waiting for Glover, back in his room, and they sweated and slid together in his cramped bunk, and he lost himself in her, sank at last into oblivion.

He woke alone, thought himself in Bridge of Don and his journey a dream. But no, he was here, in Dejima. The girl had gone in the night, and now the morning light streaked in through his broken window. The fragments of glass had been swept into one corner. She must have done that before she left. He hoped she hadn’t cut those fine white hands. He’d had no money to pay her and a chit wouldn’t do. He remembered saying, Next time. And she’d laughed and said, I come you again! He could still smell her, taste her. Welcome to Nagasaki.

Christ! He had to start work today, this morning. Mackenzie would be coming to collect him.

He hauled himself upright, pulled on his clothes. Even he could recognise that he smelled choice now, stale and sour from the travelling, from wearing the same sweatstained suit for weeks on end. He opened up his old trunk, took out a rough cotton towel, a cracked lump of carbolic soap that smelled of home, laid out his only other suit of clothes. Downstairs in the bathroom was a wooden tub that could be filled from a handpump. He cranked the handle till the tub was half full. The water was cold, but there was nothing else for it. He stripped and stepped into the tub, gasped as he sat right down in it, immersed himself completely, let it shock him awake.

Back in his room he shaved, peering at a little hand mirror propped on the windowledge. Looking out through the broken window he saw Mackenzie crossing from the mainland. He wiped the last of the lather from his face, hurried down the stairs to meet him.

‘Keen,’ said Mackenzie, nodding to him. ‘And presentable. That’s a good start. Now, some facts and figures, Mister Glover. It has cost Jardine Mathieson almost three hundred pounds to send you out here. I imagine that is in the region of three times your father’s annual salary. They see you as someone with a future. So, let’s prove them right, shall we?’

Glover nodded, eager. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘I know you’ll be anxious to get to work straight away.’ Again there was that hint of humour, dry and ironic, about the eyes. ‘But first things first. Big lump of a lad like you, you’ll be needing your breakfast.’

He hadn’t wanted to mention it, but his stomach was rumbling. ‘That would be grand.’

‘We can talk as we walk,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I understand there was a bit of excitement here last night.’

‘I thought maybe it was always like that,’ said Glover.

‘Not at all,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Sometimes it gets dangerous!’

He strode across the bridge, off the island, Glover hurrying to keep up.

‘But to be serious,’ Mackenzie continued, ‘the situation is volatile, and the violence can get out of hand. Just last week, down that very street …’ He nodded to his right down a narrow lane. ‘Two American sailors were run through and beheaded.’

‘Dear God!’

‘No doubt they were drunk, and loud, and aggressive, probably stumbled towards the red light district, blundered into one of the ronin feeling more disaffected than usual.’

‘That’s all it would take?’

‘They are rather quick to take offence!’

Glover remembered the face in the torchlight, on the other side of the bridge.

‘I’m sure I saw our friend Takashi last night, leading the mob.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Mackenzie. He stopped by a low open doorway, lifted back a flap of fabric that hung across the top, white Japanese writing painted on dark blue. ‘In here,’ he said, and he stooped and entered.

Glover followed him in, to a dim room filled with the dark smoky smells of cooking. A few Japanese squatted on the floor, scooping up food from bowls. They seemed to eat with thin wooden sticks, a pair held between finger and thumb. Mackenzie exchanged greetings with the owner of the shop, placed an order
and sat on a low stool by the one table tucked in the corner. The owner bowed, pulled up another stool for Glover.

‘I’m afraid bacon and eggs are in short supply,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And oatmeal, for that matter. I hope you won’t find fish disagreeable at this hour of the day.’

‘I’m quite partial to kippers for breakfast, as it happens.’

‘Arbroath smokies!’ Mackenzie chuckled. ‘No, what they have is a wee bit different.’

‘I could eat a scabby horse,’ said Glover. ‘Scabs and all!’

‘Aye, well,’ said Mackenzie. ‘We’ll see how you get on with the local cuisine!’

The owner of the shop brought each of them a bowl, a pair of the eating-sticks, a scoop-shaped bone spoon.

‘
Arigato
,’ said Mackenzie to the man, and to Glover, ‘That means thank you.’

‘
Arigato?
’ said Glover, and the man laughed and bowed.

‘Good!’ said Mackenzie. Then he picked up the sticks. ‘These are called
hashi
. In China we called them chopsticks.’

‘
Hashi
.’

‘But I wouldn’t try eating the soup with them just yet!’ Mackenzie picked up the spoon. ‘
Bon appétit
. Or
Itadakimasu
, as they say here.’

‘
Itadakimasu
,’ repeated Glover.

The bowl was brim-full of steaming broth. Glover prodded and poked beneath the surface, saw a glut of slimy veg etables, what looked like tiny inch-long eels, a chunk of what might be a chopped-up tentacle with suckers. ‘Smells like Torry foreshore at low tide.’

‘You did mention scabs and a horse,’ said Mackenzie.

‘I have eaten tripe,’ said Glover. ‘And potted hough.’ He took a deep breath, slurped a mouthful of the soup, found it chewy and slippery once the liquid had slipped down. The taste was pungent but not unpleasant. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, spooning up more. He waved to the owner, mimed rubbing his own stomach. The
man laughed, and so did Mackenzie. Glover felt as if he had passed a test, an initiation. When they’d eaten, they sipped some bitter green tea from rough unglazed cups.

‘A history lesson,’ said Mackenzie. ‘The Japanese have been working in splendid isolation for centuries. They described themselves as
sakoku
, the closed country. They had no desire to open their doors to us at all. But they were persuaded.’

‘American gunboats.’

‘Commodore Perry’s black ships, to be precise. They dropped anchor in Edo bay. The threat was sufficient. The Shogun agreed to limited trade with the West. We had a foot in the door. Mind you, that was five years ago, and it’s taken till this very summer for the treaty to be fully effective. As you’ll discover for yourself, the wheels grind slowly here. The Shogun and his administration, the Bakufu, make damn sure of that.’

‘The Shogun is the ruler?’

‘The Emperor, the Mikado, is effectively exiled in Kyoto. He’s a figurehead, nothing more. The Shogun rules in his stead. He was not at all happy about signing the treaty, but the Commodore gave him no choice. All the Shogun can do, to save face and placate the traditionalists, is make things as difficult as possible for us. For example …’ Mackenzie handed Glover a small piece of bamboo, a Japanese symbol painted on one side. ‘This is what passes for currency around here. And of course, they’re bloody difficult to get hold of.’

‘You can’t just buy them?’ Glover knew the question must be naive, even as he asked it.