The Pure Land (9 page)

‘And I also know if you sup with the Devil you need a long spoon.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The Shogun’s a powerful man, Tom.’

‘That’s why I’m doing business with him.’

‘He has enemies.’

‘Hell, I’ll trade with them too!’

‘You’re dealing with forces beyond your control!’

Glover stood his ground. ‘I know fine what I’m dealing with, and I’m not afraid to take risks.’

‘Ach, Tom,’ said Mackenzie, shaking his head. ‘Tom.’

Glover was undeterred, took another order from the Shogun’s agent, made a return trip to Shanghai, exhilarated. Again the delivery was made at night, the consignment transferred directly to the Shogun’s own ships. Once more Glover was disparaging about the state of the vessels, and this time the agent indicated the Shogun might indeed be interested in the purchase of Scottish-built ships. The agent also asked about bigger and better weaponry, specifically cannon. Glover remained businesslike, said he would make discreet enquiries, but his heart was thudding in his chest.

The combined profits on his two previous deals amounted to $10,000. The order under discussion would be worth ten times as much. He discussed it with Walsh, who let out a rush of air through his teeth. ‘Serious money, Tom.’

It would take time, an order on this scale would probably have to go to Europe. Glover set things in motion right away. He contacted Armstrong & Co., the munitions manufacturers in Newcastle, worked out costs. He met the Shogun’s agent again, discussed specifics, drew up a detailed order, for delivery to ‘The Japanese Government’. It was for some 15 muzzle-loaders, 70-pounders with carriages and slides, 20 breech-loaders and, in total, 700 tons of shot and shell.

Walsh was impressed. ‘Christ, Tom, you really are learning fast!’

A down payment on the consignment, in the sum of $40,000, was paid into Glover’s account. 

Glover had still been living in the clapboard house behind the warehouse. Now he wanted something more in keeping with his ambitions. His credit was good; he took advice and employed a master craftsman, the architect Hidenoshin Koyama, to design and build a bungalow. No half measures, he wanted the best.

The site was spectacular, on Minami Yamate, the southern
hillside. Koyama had chosen it for its outlook, down to the waterfront, north to Dejima, across the bay to the hills beyond. Koyama spoke no English, had no intention of learning. Glover’s Japanese, though improving, was still basic: the sweet-talk of the teahouse, the formalised evasiveness of the business gambit. They communicated in signs and gestures, where necessary used an interpreter. Koyama made sketches and diagrams, full-blown plans, showed them to Glover, pacing out dimensions and layout. Glover took a liking to him, his energy, his straightforward workmanlike manner. There was a sense of strength contained, disciplined and held in check, nothing wasted.

There was one thing that was not negotiable. Koyama insisted on it. In the centre of the open space which would be the garden was a pine tree. Koyama was adamant it should stay, not be uprooted. The language he used did not readily translate. One word in particular seemed to recur.
Wabi
. The translator had difficulty, came up with
emptiness
.

‘
Wabi
,’ said Koyama again, and he pointed at the tree. ‘
Ipponmatsu
.’

‘Lone pine,’ said the translator.

‘Fine,’ said Glover. ‘Ipponmatsu it is.’

At the next meeting, though, he had to set his mind at rest about this
wabi
, this emptiness.

‘I mean,’ he said, ‘I’m not wanting tatami mats and cushions. I want room inside, proper tables and chairs.’

The translator explained. Koyama chuckled, twinkled. ‘
Hai.
So desu!
’

Glover needn’t have worried. Even from the finished drawings he could see it would be something special.

The building had a character all of its own, its three sections honeycomb-shaped, interlinked. It was a marriage of East and
West: solid foundations, spacious, airy rooms, meticulous attention to the detail, the craftwork – ceramic roof-tiles, a hardwood porch, a rising sun design in the windowframes. When it was complete, Glover held a reception for his colleagues and friends – Mackenzie and Walsh, Groom and Harrison, Shibata and Nakajimo, Ringer and a few others.

They stood sipping drinks on the lawn, looking out across the bay as the evening light touched the hills opposite.

‘You’ve done well for yourself, Tom,’ said Mackenzie.

‘Success!’ said Walsh, raising his glass.

‘To all of us,’ said Glover.

Koyama had arrived and Glover hurried across to him, bowed respectfully. He bowed in return, just a little less deeply.

‘Koyama-san,’ said Glover. ‘Thank you once more. The house is magnificent.’

‘
Do-
itashimashite
,’ said Koyama, accepting, acknowledging and disregarding the compliment all at once. It was nothing.

His assistant, the translator, was carrying something, heavy by the look of it, elaborately wrapped in thick ricepaper.

‘
Dozo
,’ said Koyama, taking the package and handing it ceremoniously to Glover.

He mimed being weighed down by it, out of breath at the effort. Koyama smiled, indicated he should open it.

It was a piece of rough stone, two ideograms carved into it, the lines graceful and fluid.

‘Is Koyama-sensei’s own calligraphy,’ said the translator, pointing to the symbols. ‘
Ippon. Matsu
.’

‘
Arigato gozaimasu
,’ said Glover, bowing to Koyama more deeply than before.

Again Koyama nodded, accepting the thanks as his due, but happy nonetheless at Glover’s response. He supervised the placing of the stone, just so, inside the gateway.

‘I guess that’s your house named,’ said Walsh.

‘I like it fine,’ said Glover.

Before Koyama left, he stood in front of the tree, intensely silent. Then he bowed to it, placed his hands a moment on the trunk, nodded once more to Glover and was gone.

Walsh lingered after the others had left; he savoured a last drink, one more cigar.

‘It’s a wonderful house,’ he said. ‘But you know what it needs now? A woman’s touch.’

‘I can get somebody to come in and clean,’ said Glover. ‘Keep it tidy.’

‘You want more than that,’ said Walsh. ‘You should get a
musume
, a little mistress to move in.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Conveniently meets
all
your needs,’ said Walsh. ‘And no strings. Simple business arrangement. There’s hardly a westerner living here who doesn’t have his little musume tucked away. Hell, I’ve had three of ’em!’

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘I know.’

‘What else is a fellow to do?’ said Walsh. ‘There are no western women, apart from the occasional trader’s wife or horsefaced daughter. And we’re not exactly welcome in the upper echelons of Japanese society, so any romantic liaison there is out of the question. And hell, let’s face it, marriage is just legalised prostitution anyway, except you’re paying for life! So what do you say?’

He felt big and out-of-place in the small room; his legs ached from kneeling on the floor; the incense was starting to cloy, the koto music grate. This was foolishness. He should never have listened to Walsh.

The madame of the teahouse, the
okama
, herself an ageing courtesan, sat in front of the shoji screen. The screen was decorated with paintings of a garden, birds and blossoms, a bridge leading to a pavilion, a lovers’ meeting. Each time the screen
opened, a different young girl was kneeling there, bowing to him, making eye contact then looking away, all coy and shy.

It was one thing to come here, visit the girls, pay for their services. But to have one move in with him, effectively buy a wife, felt unnatural. He would end the business now, thank the
okami
and go home. His knees creaked as he stood painfully up. The screen opened one more time and he stopped, stood there gaping. The madame made to close the screen again but he told her to wait.

This was the one, unbelievably beautiful, with the same easy grace as all the rest, but something more besides, a spark in the eyes; in behind the worldliness, an innocence.

He went forward, held out his hand. She took it in hers, such a lightness in her touch, stepped into the room.

‘Your name?’ he asked her. ‘
O namae wa?
’

She bowed. ‘Sono
desu
.’

‘Sono,’ he said, enjoying the sound of it. He smiled, pointed to himself. ‘Thomas Blake Glover.’

She looked confused, covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Thomas,’ he said, pronouncing it carefully.

She repeated it. ‘Tomasu.’

‘Blake.’

‘Bureku.’

‘Glover.’

‘Guraba.
Hai
. Guraba-san.’

‘Tom,’ he said.

‘Tomu.’

She nodded, very serious. He laughed and so did she, again putting her hand to her mouth. Her black black hair was held up by a silver clasp shaped like a butterfly. The line of her neck was exquisite, exposed by the curve of her kimono collar. The silk of the garment swished as she moved. He caught her scent and he was lost, undone.

Later, back at his house, he led her into the bedroom. She
looked round, giggled in delight at the western furniture, the carved armchairs, the heavy iron bedstead. She laughed too at his eagerness – he was pulling off his own clothes, hurried and clumsy, leading her to the bed, not even waiting for her to undress, groping in the folds of her clothes for the moist warmth, and she was reaching up to unclasp her hair, let the blackness of it shimmer free, engulf him as she straddled, mounted him, guided him in, and he bucked and bucked and came into her quick.

Sono moved in the next day, brought a small bundle of her few belongings. Glover had to work, but when he came home at the end of the day, she was already settled, at home. She had made tea, poured it for him.

On the table was a little doll, rounded at the bottom.

‘Is yours?’ he asked.

For a moment she looked alarmed. ‘Is all right?’

‘Of course it is.’ He tipped the doll over, let it rock back upright.

‘
Hai
,’ she said, doing the same. ‘Is Daruma. Bodhidharma.’

The doll had the painted face of a fierce-looking patriarch, staring eyes, bristling whiskers.

‘Bring good luck,’ she said, struggling with the words. Again she pushed it over. ‘Down.’ She let it go. ‘Up.’

‘Bounces back,’ he said. ‘Every time. I like it!’

She clapped her hands, laughed. He leaned forward and kissed her sweet mouth.

He was settled, ensconced, in his favourite leather armchair in the lounge of the Foreigners’ Club, by an open window that looked out over the Bund. He’d been turning the pages of the
Nagasaki Advertiser
, glancing at the news reports tucked away among the shipping lists.

Walsh came in, flicked the paper to get his attention.

‘Good evening, Guraba-san!’ he said, and made an exaggerated bow.

‘Bugger off!’ said Glover. ‘I’m trying to read.’

‘Keeping your finger on the pulse.’

‘This eminent journal reliably informs me that Her Majesty the Queen is suffering from a nervous depression, that her time of life is a very critical period for ladies, that there is a certain excitability inherent in the Royal Family, and that all of this, taken together, is giving rise to great anxiety with respect to Her Majesty’s health.’

‘I can see the anxiety writ large on your face!’ said Walsh.

‘There are reports from your own neck of the woods,’ said Glover. ‘President Lincoln has issued a proclamation calling for the recruitment of 75,000 troops.’

‘A good time to be in Nagasaki,’ said Walsh.

‘The hub of the universe,’ said Glover. ‘There is an account of last week’s performances here by Baron von Hohenlohe and Signor Spectacolini. They sang duets then took part in a comic opera entitled
Little Toddlekins
.’

‘I was heartbroken at being unable to attend,’ said Walsh.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘Me too. The report praises their performance, then continues,
Both men were excellent. But what shall we say
of Miss Belle Chimer as Mrs Whiffleton?
’

‘What indeed?’ said Walsh. ‘But if I can drag your attention away from such riveting accounts, I have something for you.’

He took from his waistcoat pocket a small, shining, silver coin, held it up so it glinted in the light. He flipped it through the air to Glover, who caught it.

‘It’s called
itzibu
,’ said Walsh.

‘Pretty,’ said Glover, turning the coin, a Japanese symbol imprinted on either side.

‘Of course,’ said Walsh.

‘Trust them to go for silver instead of gold.’

‘More subtle, right? But there’s a problem.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘They were introduced in Yokohama,’ said Walsh. ‘American traders threw their dollars in the scales at the Customs House, got these in exchange.’

‘But not enough?’

‘Exactly. The rate is distinctly unfavourable. There was practically a riot!’

‘Christ!’ said Glover. ‘They’ll have to sort this out.’

‘Oh, they will,’ said Walsh. ‘In their own good time.’

Glover turned the coin between finger and thumb, spun it and plucked it from the air, pocketed it.

He sat facing Sono across the dining-room table, took the silver coin from his pocket with a flourish.

‘Itzibu,’ he said, and placed it on the table beside three inverted sake cups. ‘Silver.’

‘
Hai!
’ she said, nodding and smiling at him. ‘Siruba.’

‘Now watch.’

He put one of the cups over the coin, did the old conjurer’s trick of switching the cups around rapidly. He’d learned this as a boy, so long ago, from a tattered pamphlet he’d bought for a penny at Inverurie fair. Secrets of Magic. Prestidigitation. Sleight of hand. Sono looked on, bamboozled. He motioned to her to guess where the coin was. She focused all her attention, a wee pucker of concentration between her perfectly arched eyebrows; she swithered a moment then pointed decisively at the middle cup.