Her little smile did not change. A sigh.
Then, with every movement leisured, long fingers untied her obi and she stood and let the outer kimono fall, all the time watching him, tranquil as a statue. Then the under-kimono, then the first slip and the second, and then the loincloth. She turned without haste showing herself to him, and then again and stood before him. Perfect in every way.
Hardly breathing, he watched her kneel, pick up her cup and sip, then sip again, the pulse in his head and neck and loins pushing him to the limit of control.
He had planned over the days to be gallant with words and gestures and movements, so Gallic and Japanese and worldly and practiced, to be the best lover she had ever had, would ever have without regrets, to make their first joining a memorable and wonderful experience. It was memorable but not wonderful. His will snapped. He reached out for her and hurried her to the futons and there he was subhuman.
Since that night he had not seen her, or Raiko, avoiding them and the Yoshiwara.
The next day he had sent a message to Hinodeh, saying that he would inform her when he next intended to visit her. In the interim he had had delivered another payment of gold to Raiko, his salary pledged for two years to pay the contract price--and then much more.
Yesterday he had said he would visit her tonight.
He hesitated on their veranda threshold.
Shoji screens shut out the night. An inner golden light beckoned him. His pulse was pounding as before, throat choked. Inner voices overflowed with vile language directed at himself, shouting at him to leave, to kill himself--anything to avoid her eyes and the disgusting mirror image of himself that had been therein. Leave her in peace!
All of him wanted to run and all of him wanted to possess her again, in any way, every way, worse than before, whatever the cost, hating himself, better to die and end it but first her. I must.
He forced his feet out of his shoes and slid the door aside. She was kneeling exactly as before, same costume, same smile, same beauty, same delicate hand motioning him to sit near her, same gentle voice: "The sak`e is as I was told you would like it. Cool. Do you always drink sak`e cool?"
He gaped at her. The eyes that had been filled with so much hate when he had stumbled away from her, now were smiling at him with the shy sweetness as in the first moment. "What?"
Again, as though she had never said it, she repeated in the same tone, "The sak`e is as I was told you would like it. Cool. Do you always drink sak`e cool?"
"I, I, yes, yes I do," he said hardly hearing himself over the roar in his ears.
She smiled. "Strange to drink cold drinks in winter. Is your heart cold in winter and summer?"
Parrot-like he muttered the correct responses, no difficulty in remembering every word and happening, indelibly recorded, and though his voice was erratic, she did not seem to hear it, just continued as before, her eyes slanting and calm.
Nothing changed. "Would you like to eat?" she asked.
"At moment, I, I am not hungry."
Her smile did not change. Nor the sigh.
She got up. But now she turned down the oil lamps and went into the bedroom that he had defiled and doused those lights completely.
When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he saw that the tiniest glimmer came through the shoji panels from the veranda lamp, barely enough to see her shape.
She was disrobing. In moments the sound of the coverlet being pulled back.
When he could stand he groped to his feet and went into the room and knelt beside the bed, long since realizing she had been trying to save face, his, to blot out that which could never be blotted out.
"From my mind, never," he muttered in misery, wet with tears, "I don't know about you, Hinodeh, but it never will. I'm so sorry, so sorry. Mon Dieu, I wish, oh how I wish..."
"Nan desu ka, Furansu-sama?"
It took him a little time to adjust to use Japanese words, and he said, breaking, "Hinodeh, I say... just thank Hinodeh.
Please excuse me, I so sorry..."
"But there is nothing to be sorry for. Tonight we begin. This is our beginning."
Wednesday, 3rd December
Wednesday, 3rd December: Hiraga caught a passing reflection in the butcher's shop window and did not recognize himself. Passersby on the High Street barely noticed him. He retraced his steps, stared at his shadowed image--and new disguise. Top hat, high collar and cravat, a broad-shouldered, waisted frock coat of dark broadcloth, waistcoat of blue silk, stainless steel chain across it joining the toggle to a fob watch, tight trousers and leather boots. All the gift of H.m. Government, except the watch given him by Tyrer--for services rendered. He took off his hat and looked at himself, this way and that. Now his hair covered his pate and was growing fast, nowhere near as long as Phillip Tyrer's but certainly long enough to be considered European. Clean-shaven.
The quality and cheapness of British razors had impressed him greatly, another stunning example of manufacturing prowess.
He smiled at himself, pleased with his masquerade, then took out his watch, admiring it, noting the time, 11:16. As if sixteen minutes mattered, he thought scornfully, though pleased he had learned gai-jin timekeeping so quickly. I have learned much.
Not enough yet but a beginning.
"Want 'ter buy a nice leg of frozen Aussie mutton, off the mail ship's ice hold, me Lord, or wot'tabout some nice fat bacon, Hong Kong smoked?" The butcher was big-bellied, bald, with arms like cannons and a bloodstained apron.
"Oh!" Then Hiraga noticed the meats and offal and game hanging on the other side of the windows with their swarms of flies. "No, no thanks. I just 'rooking. Good day, sir," he said, hiding his revulsion. With a flourish he replaced his hat at a jaunty Tyrer tilt and continued down High Street towards Drunk Town and the village, politely raising his hat to other pedestrians or riders who replied in kind. This pleased him even more for it signified acceptance, by their standards, so different from Japanese customs--from civilized standards.
Fools. Just because I use their dress and begin to wear like them they think I am changed. They are still enemy, even Taira. Stupid of Taira to change his mind over Fujiko, what is the matter with him? That does not fit into my plan at all.
Hiraga caught sight of Struan hobbling out of his building with Jamie McFay, Ori's woman between them in animated conversation. This reminded him of his meeting with the Noble House Number Two man. His head was still reeling from Western facts and figures, and still limp from all the information McFay had extracted from him about moneylenders and rice merchants like the Gyokoyama. "Jami-san, perhap possib'er you meet one these men, if secret," he had told him in desperation to escape, "I interpret if keep secret."
The shoya was waiting for him. Sensing the man's eagerness to learn what he had learned, Hiraga toyed with him, accepted the offer of a massage.
Then, relaxed in a proper yukata, and over a delicate lunch of rice, dried squid, morning fresh sea bass sliced paper thin with soya, daikon--horseradish--and sak`e, he said he had had talks with important gai-jin and they had answered his questions. He sipped his sak`e and volunteered none of it.
Important information needed encouragement.
Reciprocity. "What news from Kyoto?"
"It is all strange," the shoya said, glad that the opening had been given him. "My Masters informed me the Shogun and the Princess Yazu arrived safely and are inside the Palace.
Three more ambushes by Ogama patrols of shishi ... no so sorry, no details yet of how many killed. Lord Ogama and Lord Yoshi hardly move from behind their walls... But Shogunate samurai now guard the Gates, as in the past."
Hiraga's eyes widened. "They do?"
"Yes, Otami-sama." The shoya was delighted that the bait was taken. "Strangely, a little distance from all Gates, there are secret pickets of Ogama samurai, and, from time to time the opposing captains confer secretly."