The Pure Land (7 page)

‘The trick is not to move,’ said Walsh, ‘or it feels even hotter.’

‘I had noticed!’ said Glover.

Their voices boomed as they spoke. Walsh had lit another cigar, its fragrant smoke curled, mingled with the steam from the tub.

‘Mackenzie says you’re doing good work, Tom.’

‘Does he now?’

‘Of course, he’d never tell you to your face.’

‘No. Of course not!’

‘Have you thought about setting up in business for yourself?’

‘I’ve thought about it, aye, eventually, when I’m ready.’

‘Why wait?’ said Walsh. ‘I think you’re a natural: smart, hardworking. You have the gift of the gab too, by all accounts. Add that to your height and build and you can’t go wrong. You’ll charm the pants off the women and scare the shit out of the men!’ He laughed again. ‘I’d be happy to put work your way. Mackenzie could get you a loan from Jardine’s. You can still do work for them and trade on your own account. That’s what Ken does. And let’s face it, there’s plenty to go round!’

They stepped, dripping, from the tub. The two girls, giggling again, brought towels to wrap round them, helped to dry them off. The one attending to Glover led him to a small room where a futon was laid out on tatami mats. He mimed roaring, beating his chest. She laughed and motioned to him to lie face down.
She removed the towel and sat astride him, started massaging his back, working down the spine with her tiny hands, the strokes even and firm. By the time she turned him over onto his back, he was ready, gave himself over entirely to her ministrations.

He was kneeling on the floor, blindfold. He knew the room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a flickering candle he could sense rather than see through the cotton bandana tied tight over his eyes, knotted at the back of his head. He could smell the smoke, the dripped wax, like the cold smell of an old chapel, could smell too the damp mustiness of the room, the thick fusty male-smell of tobacco-reek from much-worn coats. He was in his shirtsleeves, his shirt open at the front, baring his chest against which something hard and sharp was pressed, something he knew was the tip of a swordblade.

A voice came out of the darkness. ‘Do you feel anything?’

And he made the correct response. ‘I do.’

There was a knocking, three times on the wooden floor, then he was taken by the arm, helped to his feet and led forward a few steps.

Now he could smell incense, and paraffin.

The voice spoke again. ‘Having been kept in a state of darkness, what now is the predominant wish of your heart?’

Again he responded, as he had been instructed to do. ‘Light.’

The blindfold was removed and he blinked as he looked round him, the room now lit by lamps.

‘Do you promise to hold fast and never repeat the secrets of initiation into this mystery?’

‘Hele, conceal and never reveal.’

‘If you break this oath, your throat shall be cut, your tongue torn out and you shall be cast out, branded as void of all moral worth.’

For the first time the urge to laugh rose in him, the thought of responding,
Is that all?
But he quelled it, responded with due formality. ‘I understand.’

The man who had spoken, middle-aged, bearded, held out a Bible, leather-bound, gold-embossed.

‘Kiss the Volume of the Sacred Law.’

Glover pressed his lips to the book.

The man spoke again. ‘Let the candidate be entered as an apprentice in the First Degree.’

Behind him he heard Mackenzie’s voice. ‘So mote it be.’

The man held out to him a pure white apron, folded. ‘This emblem is a badge more ancient than the Roman Eagle, the Golden Fleece. It is a symbol of purity and the bond of friendship. I urge you never to disgrace it.’

‘I shall honour it,’ said Glover, and he heard his own voice, strange to him, and he felt for a moment absurdly moved, thought of his father, the old Bible on the kitchen table.

He looked round the room, these people, this place, saw it dreamlike but intensely clear, in the midst of it came to himself here, came to
himself
here. This was his life and this was him living it.

Then the bearded man was shaking him by the hand, pressing with the thumb in the secret Masonic grip, and Mackenzie was doing the same, and the others, welcoming him into the brotherhood.

When the ceremony was over and they’d adjourned to the Foreigners’ Club, he ordered a round of drinks.

The bearded man, the Master of the Lodge, was Barstow, a Captain in the Royal Navy. There were three young Englishmen, a year or two older than Glover, and they introduced themselves, Frederick Ringer, Edward Harrison, Francis Groom. Like Glover, each of them had come to Japan to make his mark, find his own grail, seek wealth and adventure far from home.

Harrison speculated in property, real estate. Groom gambled on the fluctuations of foreign exchange. Ringer dealt in tea, knew the business inside out. Glover could learn from all of them.

‘To friendship and brotherhood!’ he said, and they clinked glasses.

Walsh had come in to the Club, waved to him from the bar.

Glover beckoned him over. ‘Come and join us!’

‘I’ll join you,’ said Walsh, ‘but not join you, if you know what I mean.’ He touched his finger to the side of his nose, winked.

‘You could do worse, Jack,’ said Mackenzie.

‘I’m all in favour of oiling the wheels of commerce,’ said Walsh, ‘but I draw the line at rolling up my trouser-leg and giving a funny handshake.’

‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Barstow, ‘and you know it.’

‘It amazes me,’ said Walsh. ‘The settlement here is barely established and you fellows have already formed a Lodge. You’re as keen as the Catholic Church to spread your influence.’

‘There is no comparison, sir,’ said Barstow, irritated.

‘Just as well,’ said Walsh. ‘I’d hate to see you meet the fate of the early missionaries and end up disembowelled, flayed alive or boiled in oil!’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health.’

The same night, the night of Glover’s initiation into the Lodge, the community was once more shaken to its core. Hunt, the young English foreman from Jardine’s warehouse, had taken a drink or two, gone wandering off on his own towards Maruyama. He was seen by an American sailor, crossing the first bridge, and the second. He was heard roaring out, drunk, that he wanted to buy a Japanese woman, that he had a few shillings in his pocket and that was all they were worth.

What happened next was sudden and vicious. Two black-robed
figures appeared out of the dark, one in front of him, carrying a lantern, another moving up behind him. The one in front shoved the lantern in his face. As he stepped back the one behind ran him clean through with the blade of his sword, drew it out again pushing him forward, cut him down with two more swift strokes as he fell. The lantern was doused, the two men disappeared into the night.

The American had run across, sobered in an instant, looked down at the man’s remains. One stroke had filleted him, another had severed his head. The American had thrown up on the spot.

‘He should be grateful for his own squeamishness,’ said Walsh. ‘If he’d given chase, he’d have ended up in pieces too. Or in two pieces!’

‘Hunt was rather brutal with the natives,’ said Glover. ‘Maybe this was by way of reprisal.’

One wit from another firm had said Hunt’s name was obviously rhyming slang. Glover would tell that to Walsh, but not now.

‘I guess he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ said Walsh. ‘Sounds like he should have been heading for the Russian rest house instead of Maruyama!’

‘It’s a vile business,’ said Mackenzie, serious, changing the tone. ‘It smacks of Takashi and his crew.’

‘That bugger!’ said Glover. ‘I’m sure I saw him a week ago, glaring at me out the shadows, down by the warehouse. Then I looked again and he was gone.’

Mackenzie sounded even more serious, looked at Glover intently. ‘You want to be careful of that one, Tom, mind your back. He’s a fanatic, and if he’s got you in his sights, it’s a matter for concern.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Glover. ‘What has he got against me personally?’

‘I’m sure just the sight of you was enough,’ said Mackenzie, ‘that first time he saw you, the day you arrived.’

‘Hate at first sight,’ said Walsh.

‘More or less,’ said Mackenzie. ‘He’s a member of a group called
sonno-joi
, hardline traditionalists, resolutely opposed to any interaction with the West.’

‘And pledged to rid Japan of all foreign scum,’ said Walsh.

‘Or die in the attempt,’ said Mackenzie. ‘They take a fearful blood-oath, promise to end their own lives if they go back on it.’

‘Sounds a bit like your Freemasons!’ said Walsh, laughing.

‘With one difference,’ said Mackenzie, tightlipped. ‘For these men it’s more than symbolic. They really will kill, and die, for their beliefs.’

‘And the Masons won’t?’ said Walsh. ‘You disappoint me.’

Mackenzie ignored him, wouldn’t be deflected by his levity, spoke again directly to Glover.

‘It is serious, Tom. Don’t be in any doubt about it. They’ll often pursue an individual. It’s like what the Italians call a
vendetta
, and it’s a matter of honour.’

‘Isn’t it always?’ asked Walsh.

‘So it is personal?’ said Glover.

‘Randomly so,’ said Mackenzie. ‘As I said, the very sight of you that first day would be an affront to him, a threat to everything he believes in.’

‘You do loom large,’ said Walsh, ‘stand out in a crowd. Especially here.’

‘And for Takashi it would be a matter of pride to cut you down to size,’ said Mackenzie.

‘With two strokes of that sword,’ said Walsh.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Glover.

‘Well,’ said Mackenzie, ‘there’s folk would say, Hell mend you for leaving Bridge of Don! I’m not saying you should go around in fear and trepidation every minute of the day.’

‘Just keep your wits about you,’ said Walsh.

‘Did you ever learn to use a pistol?’ asked Mackenzie.

‘As a boy, aye. My father taught me. Just in case.’

‘Aye, well, we keep a few on the premises, for security. It might be no bad idea for you to have one.’

‘Just in case!’ said Walsh.

The rapidity of Glover’s rise to prominence was breathtaking. He seemed to hit his stride early on, grow in confidence with every step. In spite of his youthfulness, or perhaps because of it, he had a swagger about him, an assurance. That, allied to sheer physical presence, rendered him formidable, but it was tempered by an innate affability and graciousness, an easy charm.

Mackenzie entrusted him with ever more responsibility until he was effectively running the Nagasaki operation, freeing Mackenzie himself to make trips to Shanghai for meetings at Jardine’s offices there, the hub of their empire.

With Mackenzie’s help, and on his recommendation, Glover negotiated his first loan from the company, invested it immediately, on Harrison’s advice, in a warehouse property in Oura, right on the waterfront. There was living accommodation to the rear, and he moved in there himself. He still worked five or six hours a day for Jardine’s, but the rest of the time he was building his own business, tramping the streets and the back alleys, purchasing for himself some of the commodities he would export, the silk and tea, seaweed and dried fish, anything that would turn a profit. In his warehouse he stored the goods he imported, to sell in Nagasaki and its hinterland, herbs and medicines, quantities of cotton. He took advantage of Groom’s financial expertise, made quick gains on a few swift currency exchanges, cashing in on the time it took to transfer funds from Yokohama, or Shanghai. He made money, but not on the scale to which he aspired. He wanted to make a killing.

He spoke to Ringer, took his advice on the tea trade.

‘There’s definitely money to be made,’ said Ringer. ‘Japan exports 4,000 tons of tea in the season, and half of that goes through Nagasaki. There’s definitely money to be made.’

‘Is there any way we could steal a march on the competition?’ he asked. ‘Make the business more efficient?’

Ringer looked thoughtful. ‘The tea is picked in the interior,’ he said, ‘on hillsides that won’t support rice. It’s part-time work for the farm women. The leaves have to be dried before being shipped out, otherwise it’s damp and it just rots in the cargo hold on the long haul to Europe or America. The women do the drying out after the crop’s been picked, just heat the leaves over open-air fires.’

‘I’d imagine that’s slow,’ said Glover.

‘And not entirely effective. I’ve often thought if we established a factory where the tea could be thoroughly dried in large quantities, it would transform the industry.’

‘Well then,’ said Glover, ‘we shall do exactly that.’

He registered the company in his own name, had a sign painted and mounted on the front of the warehouse.
Glover & Co
. Groom and Harrison would be junior partners, Ringer his adviser on the tea trade. Shibata and Nakajimo would work for him parttime while continuing to hold down their jobs with Jardine’s. Mackenzie would continue to steer him clear of troubled waters, and Walsh would continue to head him right back into them, urge him to take risks.

They all stood outside the new premises, drinking a toast to the company as the sign was unveiled. Walsh had provided champagne, courtesy of Wang-Li. Their glasses sparkled and fizzed, overflowed.

‘Glover and Co!’ said Walsh.

‘Glover and Co!’

A week later Glover was woken in the middle of the night by alarm bells ringing, shouting in the street. A hammering at his door had him reaching for his pistol, but it was Nakajimo telling him there was a fire and it was spreading and he should get out quick. He could smell burning, taste it, acrid, at the back of his throat. He threw on his clothes, ran through to the warehouse, swept the contents of his desk into a canvas bag and rushed out into the street.

Mackenzie was hurrying towards him, wide-eyed and manic, his grey hair dishevelled.

‘Thank God, Tom!’ he said. ‘I thought you might have been incinerated!’