“Then it will be the biggest in the world,” Blackthorne said.
“That was Lord Toranaga’s plan.” Her voice was grave. “Shigata ga nai, neh?” At last they came to the final bridge. “There, Anjin-san, you can see the castle’s the hub of Yedo, neh? The center of a web of streets that angle out to become the city. Ten years ago there was only a little fishing village here. Now, who knows? Three hundred thousand? Two? Four? Lord Toranaga hasn’t counted his people yet. But they’re all here for one purpose only: to serve the castle that protects the port and the plains that feed the armies.”
“Nothing else?” he asked.
“No.”
There’s no need to be worried, Mariko, and look so solemn, he thought happily. I’ve solved all that. Toranaga will grant all my requests.
At the far side of the flare-lit Ichi-bashi—First Bridge—that led to the city proper, she stopped. “I must leave you now, Anjin-san.”
“When can I see you?”
“Tomorrow. At the Hour of the Goat. I’ll wait in the forecourt for you.”
“I can’t see you tonight? If I’m back early?”
“No, so sorry, please excuse me. Not tonight.” Then she bowed formally. “Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”
He bowed. As a samurai. He watched her going back across the bridge, some of the flare-carriers going with her, insects milling the stationary flares that were stuck in holders on stanchions. Soon she was swallowed up by the crowds and the night.
Then, his excitement increasing, he put his back to the castle and set off after the guide.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“The barbarians live there, Anjin-san.” The samurai motioned ahead.
Ill at ease, Blackthorne squinted into the darkness, the air breathless and sultry. “Where? That house? There?”
“Yes. That’s right, so sorry. You see it?”
Another nest of hovels and alleys was a hundred paces ahead, beyond this bare patch of marshy ground, and dominating them was a large house etched vaguely against the jet sky.
Blackthorne looked around for a moment to get his approximate bearings, using his fan against the encroaching bugs. Very soon, once they had left First Bridge, he had become lost in the maze.
Their way had led through innumerable streets and alleys, initially toward the shore, skirting it eastward for a time, over bridges and lesser bridges, then northward again along the bank of another stream which meandered through the outskirts, the land low-lying and moist. The farther from the castle, the meaner were the roads, the poorer the dwellings. The people were more obsequious, and fewer glimmers of light came from the shojis. Yedo was a sprawling mass which seemed to him to be made up of hamlets separated merely by roads or streams.
Here on the southeastern edge of the city it was quite marshy and the road oozed putridly. For some time the stench had been thickening perceptibly, a miasma of seaweed and feces and mud flats, and overlying these an acrid sweet smell he could not place, but that seemed familiar.
“Stinks like Billingsgate at low tide,” he muttered, killing another night pest that had landed on his cheek. His whole body was clammy with sweat.
Then he heard the faintest snatch of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. “Is that Vinck?”
Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.
Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part Japanese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that clustered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.
The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.
“Ahhhhh,” he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. “Nothing like a piss.”
“Isn’t there?” Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. “Why don’t you use a bucket?”
“Eh?” Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. “JesusGodinheavensamurai!” He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. “Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichiban gomen nasai to all monkey-samas.” He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, “I’m drunker’n I thought. Thought the bastard sonofawhore spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?” he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.
“Hey, Baccus, don’t you know better than to foul your own nest?”
“What?” Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly. “Pilot?” he choked out. “Is that you, Pilot? God damn my eyes, I can’t see. Pilot, for the love of God, is that you?”
Blackthorne laughed. His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his penis hanging out. “Yes, it’s me!” Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, “Matte kudasai.” Wait for me, please.
“Hai, Anjin-san.”
Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden. Distastefully he stepped out of the clogs and ran up the steps. “Hello, Baccus, you’re fatter than when we left Rotterdam, neh?” He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.
“Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?”
“Yes, of course it’s me.”
“We’d given you up for dead, long ago.” Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming. “Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered. Pilot, what happened to you, where’ve you come from? It’s a miracle! Is it truly you?”
“Yes. Now please put your cod in place and let’s go inside,” Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.
“What? Oh! Oh sorry, I . . .” Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks. “Oh Jesus, Pilot . . . I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again. Come on, but let me announce you, hey?”
He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy. Blackthorne followed. Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, “Lads! Look what Father Christmas’s brought us!” He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.
Silence was instantaneous.
It took a moment for Blackthorne’s eyes to adjust to the light. The fetid air was almost choking him. He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith. Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time. “Pilot, where’ve you come from—Have a drink—Christ, is it possible—Piss in my hat, it’s great to see you—We’d given you up for dead—No, we’re all right at least mostly all right—Get out of the chair, you whore, the Pilot-sama’s to sit in the best sodding chair—Hey, grog, neh, quickGodcursed quick! Goddamn my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand. . . .”