Masa hesitated. Inspector Asagawa was a real yoriki, he couldn’t be fooled. He’d spot that he was being followed in an instant. And, moreover, he was a serious man, responsible. The master could be trusted to a man like that.
Anyway, he didn’t go. That was why he was in anguish. From all appearances, this business that his master had set out on was no laughing matter. The bag that he had packed in secret contained a night spy’s outfit. Oh, how hard was the life of a vassal who could not make himself understood in words to the person he served! If only he knew the language of the northern barbarians, Masa would have told his master: ‘You do not have and never will have a more faithful and diligent helper than me. You wound my heart and my honour painfully when you disdain my help. I am obliged to be with you everywhere and always, it is my duty’. Never mind, the master was very clever, every day he knew more and more Japanese words, and the day was not far off when it would be possible to talk to him in proper human language, without making gestures and pulling faces. Then Masa would be able to serve him properly.
But in the meantime he did what he could; first, he didn’t sleep; secondly he didn’t allow Natsuko into his bed, even though she turned sulky, because she really wanted Masa’a karada very badly (never mind, she could wait, the karada had to obey the spirit); thirdly he had recited eight hundred and eighty-eight times a dependable incantation against calamities of the night that he had learned from a certain courtesan. The sovereign of that woman’s heart was a night bandit. Every time he went off to work, she received no clients, but burned incense and prayed to the big-bellied god Hotei, the patron of all whose fate depended on luck. And every time her beloved returned in the morning with a sack full of booty over his shoulder and, most importantly, alive and unhurt – that was how powerful the incantation was. But one day the stupid woman lost count and, just to be on the safe side, she repeated the prayer more times than necessary. And what happened? That very night the unfortunate robber was seized by the guards, and the next day his head was already grinning at passers-by from the bridge across the Sakuragawa. The courtesan, of course, jabbed a hairpin through her neck, and everyone said that was what she deserved, the irresponsible fool.
To make sure he didn’t lose count, Masa gathered rice grains together into little heaps. He recited and added a grain, recited and added a grain. The little heaps of eight grains built up into bigger heaps, consisting of ten little ones. Morning had arrived by the time there were eleven of the big heaps. Masa chanted the prayer unhurriedly another eight times. As he added the final grain to the heap he glanced out of the window and saw a shiny black-lacquered carriage of indescribable beauty drive up to the gates of the consulate, harnessed to a team of four horses. The haughty driver sitting on the box was covered in gold braid and he had feathers in his hat.
The door opened and the master jumped down lightly on to the pavement. He didn’t actually have a sack over his shoulders, but he was alive and unhurt. And then, surely a carriage was as good as any sack! Hail to the magical incantation!
Masa dashed over to meet him.
Even more wonderful was the change that had taken place in the master. After that cursed night when he had left the pavilion earlier than usual and stumbled all the way home, like a blind man, the master’s face had become like the mask of the Ground Spider in the Noh theatre – dark and stiff – and his nose, which was long enough already, had turned so sharp, it was a ghastly sight.
The reason why O-Yumi-san had chosen the red-haired Englishman was clear: he was much richer, he had a big, beautiful house and eight servants, not just one. The master was suffering terribly from jealousy, and just to look at him plunged Masa into despair too. He even started wondering whether he ought to kill the worthless woman. The master would be sad, of course, but that was still better than destroying your liver by imagining your beloved squirming in someone else’s embrace.
But now a miracle had happened, and the evil enchantment had been dispersed. Masa saw that straight away. Thanks to the kind god Hotei, or perhaps for some other reason, the master had been healed. His eyes glowed with confidence and the corners of his mouth were no longer turned down.
‘Masa, big job,’ he said in Japanese, in a strong voice. ‘Very big. Help, all right?’
A man in a crumpled, grimy frock coat climbed out of the carriage, skinny backside foremost, turned round and then swayed so violently that he almost fell.
To judge from his hook-nosed face, pampered skin and elegant little hands, he was an aristocrat.
‘He… live… home,’ the master said, snapping his fingers impatiently because he couldn’t immediately remember the words he wanted.
That means he’s a guest, Masa realised, and he bowed politely to the stranger, who hiccuped and staggered again. He was either ill or drunk – Masa couldn’t tell which.
They went into the building, with the master walking sideways somehow, as if he were shielding his guest from the windows of the Dirty Man.
The master walked along the corridor, thought for a moment and said:
‘There. He live there.’
Masa tried to explain that no one could live there, it was a cupboard. There were suitcases, a sack of rice, jars of pickled radish and ginger root in there, but the master wouldn’t listen to him.
‘Guarudu, guarudu…’ – he spoke the incomprehensible word twice. Then he muttered ‘Dammit’ (Masa knew that word, it meant ‘chikusho!’), brought the dictionary from his study and translated. ‘Guard. You he guard. Understand?’
‘Understand,’ Masa said with a nod.
He should have said so straight away. Masa grabbed the man with the hooked nose and pushed him into the cupboard. The man started whinging pitifully and sat down limply on the floor.
‘Polite,’ the master ordered strictly, using the dictionary again. ‘Guard. Strict. But polite.’
Very well, politely. Masa brought a mattress, pillow and blanket from his own room and said to the prisoner:
‘Please make yourself comfortable.’
The aristocrat tearfully asked the master about something in English. Masa recognised only the familiar word ‘puriidz’.
The master sighed deeply and took a little box out of his pocket. There were tiny bottles of some kind of liquid lying in it, and a syringe, like the ones they used for smallpox inoculations. He gave the little box to the sniveller and locked the door of the cupboard.
‘Watch. Guard. Strict. Polite,’ he repeated, pointing his forefinger up in the air and wagging it about for some reason.
He turned round and almost ran out of the apartment.
He got into the carriage. He drove away.
For the first minute, out of sheer inertia, Erast Petrovich carried on thinking about the witness imprisoned in the cupboard. Masa could be relied on. He wouldn’t leave the door and he wouldn’t let anyone come close. The devil only knew what the servant thought about all this. Unfortunately, the vice-consul couldn’t explain – he didn’t have enough words.
The toll of disasters for which the titular counsellor would have to answer was increasing by the hour. Breaking into the lair of the head of police wasn’t enough for him, now he had added the concealment of an unauthorised individual on the premises of the consulate without his superior’s knowledge. He couldn’t tell anyone about the hidden prince, neither Doronin nor Shirota – at least not for the time being.
However, while this high-handed behaviour could at least be kept secret, the next act of folly that the titular counsellor intended to commit would inevitably lead to a high-profile scandal.
Strangely enough, that did not bother Erast Petrovich at all just at the moment.