‘Oh, yes you will,’ said the titular counsellor, taking him by the elbow. ‘Let’s go to my rooms. That damned p-plum rain has started falling again.’
Raise no umbrella
When the sky is scattering
Its springtime plum rain
SIRIUS
The night smelled of tar and green slime – that was from the dirty River Yosidagawa splashing near by, squeezed in between the godaunsand the cargo wharves. Erast Petrovich’s valet was sitting at the agreed spot, under the wooden bridge, pondering the vicissitudes of fate and waiting. When Semushi appeared, the master would howl like a dog – Masa had taught him how. In fact they had spent a whole hour on a renshu duet, until the neighbours came to the consulate and said they would complain about the Russians to the police if they didn’t stop torturing that poor dog. They had been forced to abandon the renshu rehearsal, but the master could already do it quite well.
There were lots of dogs in Yokohama, and they often howled at night, so neither Semushi nor the police agents would be suspicious. The main concern was something else – not to confuse the sound with a genuine dog. But Masa hoped he wouldn’t get confused. It would be shameful for a vassal not to be able to tell his master’s noble voice from the howl of some mongrel.
Masa had to sit under the bridge very quietly, without moving at all, but he could do that. In his former life, when he was still an apprentice in the honourable Chobei-gumi gang, he had sat and waited on watch duty or in an ambush many, many times. It wasn’t boring at all, because an intelligent man could always find something to think about.
It was absolutely out of the question to make any noise or move about, because there was a police agent, disguised as a beggar, hanging about on the wooden bridge right over his head. When someone out late walked by, the agent started intoning sutras through his nose, and very naturally too – a couple of times a copper coin even jangled against the planking. Masa wondered whether the agent handed in the alms to his boss afterwards or not. And if he did, whether the coppers went into the imperial treasury.
There were detectives stationed all the way along the road leading from the Rakuen to Semushi’s home: one agent at every crossroads. Some were hiding in gateways, some in the ditch. The senior agent, the most experienced, prowled along after Semushi. He was shrouded in a grey cloak, he had soundless felt sandals on his feet, and he could hide so quickly that no matter how many times you looked round, you would never spot anyone behind you.
Hanging back about fifty paces behind the senior agent were another three – just in case something unforeseen happened. Then the senior agent would give them a quick flash from the lamp under his cloak, and they would run up to him.
That was how strictly they were following Semushi, there was no way he could get away from the police agents. But the master and Masa had thought and thought and come up with a plan. As soon as the Vice-Consul of the Russian Empire started howling in the distance, Masa had to…
But just at that moment Masa heard a wail that he recognised immediately. Erast Petrovich howled quite authentically, but even so, not like one of Yokohama’s stray mutts – there was something thoroughbred about that melancholy sound, as if it were being made by a bloodhound or, at the very least, a basset.
It was time to move from thought to action.
Masa strolled silently under the planks until he was behind the ‘beggar’s’ back. He took three small steps on tiptoe, and when the agent turned round at the rustling sound, he leapt forward and smacked him gently below the ear with the edge of his hand. The ‘beggar’ gave a quiet sob and tumbled over on to his side. A whole heap of coppers spilled out of his cup.
Masa took the coins for himself – so that everything would look right and, in general, they would come in handy. His Imperial Highness could manage without them somehow.
He squatted down beside the unconscious man in the shadow of the parapet and started watching.
There was a fine drizzle falling, but the corner from which Semushi ought to appear was lit up by two street lamps. The hunchback would walk across the little bridge over the canal, then cut across a plot of wasteland to the bridge over the Yosidagawa. So he would have the junction of the river and the canal on his right, one bridge ahead of him, another behind him, and nothing on his left but the dark wasteland – and that was the whole point of the plan.
There was the squat, lumpish figure. The hunchback moved with a heavy, plodding walk, waddling slightly from side to side.
It probably wasn’t easy lugging a hump around all the time, thought Masa. And how easy could it be to live with a deformity like that? When he was little, the other boys must have teased him. When he grew a bit, the girls all turned their noses up. That was why Semushi had turned out so villainous and spiteful. Or maybe it wasn’t because of that at all. On the street where Masa grew up, there had been a hunchback, a street sweeper. Even more hunched and crooked than this one, he could barely hobble along. But he was kind, everyone liked him. And they used to say: He’s so good because the Buddha gave him a hump. It wasn’t the hump that mattered, but what kind of kokoro a man had. If the kokoro was right, a hump would only make you better, but if it was rotten, you would hate the whole wide world.
Meanwhile, the owner of a vicious kokoro had crossed the little bridge.
Erast Petrovich’s servant told himself: ‘Now the master will pull the string’ – and at that very moment there was a loud crash. Suddenly, out of the blue, a cart that was standing on the little bridge had lurched over sideways – its axle must have snapped. The large barrel standing on the cart smashed down on to the ground and burst open, releasing a stream of black tar that flooded the planking surface – no one could walk or drive across now…
Semushi swung round when he heard the crash and put his hand inside his jacket, but he saw that nothing dangerous had happened. There wasn’t a single soul to be seen. The cart driver must have left his goods close to the market yesterday and settled down in some nearby eating-house where he could get a meal and a bed for the night. But his kuruma was old and decrepit, ready to break down at any moment.
The hunchback stood still for a minute or so, turning his head in all directions. Finally he was satisfied and walked on.
A grey shadow appeared on the far side of the bridge – Masa could see it. It stepped into the black puddle and stuck there.
Of course it did! Masa had bought the tar himself. He had chosen the very lousiest kind, as runny as possible and so sticky you could never get out of it.
There was a gleam of light – that had to be the agent signalling to the others. Three more shadows appeared. They started rushing about on the bank, not knowing what to do. One decided to risk it after all and got stuck fast too.
Then Semushi looked round, enjoyed the sight for a moment, shrugged and went on his way. What was it to him? He knew there were probably agents up ahead as well.
When the hunchback reached the river, Masa growled and dashed out to meet him. He was holding a wakizashi, a short sword, and brandishing it wildly – it was a treat to see the way the blade glinted in the light of the street lamp.
‘For the Chobei-gumi!!’ Masa shouted out, but not too loudly: so that Semushi could hear, but the stuck policemen couldn’t. ‘Do you recognise me, Hunchback? You’re done for now!’
He deliberately leapt out sooner than he should have done if he really wanted to kill the rotten snake.
Semushi had time to recoil and pull out his revolver, that vile weapon of cowards. But Masa wasn’t afraid of the revolver – he knew that the senior police agent, a man with very deft hands, had filed down the hammer the day before yesterday.