‘Don’t I know it!’ said Bond from the heart. ‘Some of our chaps wear a box when they think they’re in for a rough house. I don’t care for them. Too uncomfortable.’
‘What is a box?’
‘It is what our cricketers wear to protect those parts when they go out to bat. It is a light padded shield of aluminium.’
‘I regret that we have nothing of that nature. We do not play cricket in Japan. Only baseball.’
‘Lucky for you you weren’t occupied by the British,’ commented Bond. ‘Cricket is a much more difficult and skilful game.’
‘The Americans say otherwise.’
‘Naturally. They want to sell you baseball equipment.’They arrived at Beppu in the southern island of Kyūshū as the sun was setting. Tiger said that this was just the time to see the famous geysers and fumaroles of the little spa. In any case, there would be no time in the morning as they would have to start early for Fukuoka, their final destination. Bond shivered slightly at the name. The moment was rapidly approaching when the saké and sightseeing would have to stop.
Above the town of Beppu, they visited in turn the ten spectacular ‘hells’ as they are officially designated. The stink of sulphur was disgusting, and each bubbling, burping nest of volcanic fumaroles was more horrific than the last. The steaming mud and belching geysers were of different colours – red, blue and orange – and everywhere there were warning notices and skulls and crossbones to keep visitors at a safe distance. The tenth ‘hell’ announced in English and Japanese that there would be an eruption punctually every twenty minutes. They joined a small group of spectators under the arc lights that pinpointed a small quiescent crater in a rock area bespattered with mud. Sure enough, in five minutes, there came a rumbling from underground and a jet of steaming grey mud shot twenty feet up into the air and splashed down inside the enclosure. As Bond was turning away, he noticed a large red painted wheel, heavily padlocked and surrounded by wire-netting in a small separate enclosure. There were warning notices above it and a particularly menacing skull and crossbones. Bond asked Tiger what it was.
‘It says that this wheel controls the pulse of the geyser. It says that if this wheel were screwed down it could result in the destruction of the entire establishment. It gives the explosive force of the volcano, if the exhaust valve of the geyser were to be closed, as the equivalent of a thousand pounds of T.N.T. It is, of course, all a bit of nonsense to attract the tourists. But now, back to the town, Bondo-san! Since it is our last day together,’ he added hastily, ‘on this particular voyage, I have arranged a special treat. I ordered it by radio from the ship. A fugu feast!’
Bond cursed silently. The memory of his eggs Benedict the night before was intolerably sweet. What new monstrosity was this? he asked.
‘Fugu is the Japanese blow-fish. In the water, it looks like a brown owl, but when captured it blows itself up into a ball covered with wounding spines. We sometimes dry the skins and put candles inside and use them as lanterns. But the flesh is particularly delicious. It is the staple food of the sumo wrestlers because it is supposed to be very strength-giving. The fish is also very popular with suicides and murderers because its liver and sex glands contain a poison which brings death instantaneously.’
‘That’s just what I would have chosen for dinner. How thoughtful of you, Tiger.’
‘Have no fear, Bondo-san. Because of the dangerous properties of the fish, every fugu restaurant has to be manned by experts and be registered with the State.’
They left their bags at a Japanese inn where Tiger had reserved rooms, enjoyed the o-furo, honourable bath, together in the blue-tiled miniature swimming pool whose water was very hot and smelled of sulphur and then, totally relaxed, went off down the street leading to the sea.
(Bond had become enamoured of the civilized, vaguely Roman, bathing habits of the Japanese. Was it because of these, because they washed outside the bath instead of wallowing in their own effluvia, that they all smelled so clean? Tiger said bluntly that, at the very best, Westerners smelled of sweet pork.)
The restaurant had a giant blow-fish hanging as a sign above the door, and inside, to Bond’s relief, there were Western-style chairs and tables at which a smattering of people were eating with the intense concentration of the Japanese. They were expected and their table had been prepared. Bond said, ‘Now then, Tiger, I’m not going to commit honourable suicide without at least five bottles of saké inside me.’ The flasks were brought, all five of them, to the accompaniment of much tittering by the waitresses. Bond downed the lot, tumbler by tumbler, and expressed himself satisfied. ‘Now you can bring on this blasted blow-fish,’ he said belligerently, ‘and if it kills me it will be doing a good turn to our friend the doctor in his castle.’
A very beautiful white porcelain dish as big as a bicycle wheel was brought forward with much ceremony. On it were arranged, in the pattern of a huge flower, petal upon petal of a very thinly sliced and rather transparent white fish. Bond followed Tiger’s example and set to with his chopsticks. He was proud of the fact that he had reached Black Belt standard with these instruments – the ability to eat an underdone fried egg with them.
The fish tasted of nothing, not even of fish. But it was very pleasant on the palate and Bond was effusive in his compliments because Tiger, smacking his lips over each morsel, obviously expected it of him. There followed various side-dishes containing other parts of the fish, and more saké, but this time containing raw fugu fins.
Bond sat back and lit a cigarette. He said, ‘Well, Tiger. This is nearly the end of my education. Tomorrow you say I am to leave the nest. How many marks out of a hundred?’
Tiger looked at him quizzically. ‘You have done well, Bondo-san. Apart from your inclination to make Western jokes about Eastern customs. Fortunately I am a man of infinite patience, and I must admit that your company has given me much pleasure and a certain amount of amusement. I will award you seventy-five marks out of a possible hundred.’
As they rose to go, a man brushed past Bond to get to the exit. He was a stocky man with a white masko over his mouth and he wore an ugly leather hat. The man on the train!
Well, well! thought Bond. If he shows up on the last lap to Fukuoka, I’ll get him. If not I’ll reluctantly put it down to ‘Funny Coincidence Department’. But it looks like nought out of a hundred to Tiger for powers of observation.
PART TWO | … THAN TO ARRIVE’
12 | APPOINTMENT IN SAMARA
At six in the morning, a car from the Prefect of Police in Fukuoka came for them. There were two police corporals in the front seat. They went off northwards on the coast road at a good pace. After a while, Bond said, ‘Tiger, we’re being followed. I don’t care what you say. The man who stole my wallet was in the fugu restaurant last night, and he’s now a mile behind on a motor-cycle – or I’ll eat my hat. Be a good chap and tell the driver to dodge up a side-road and then go after him and get him. I’ve got a sharp nose for these things and I ask you to do what I say.’
Tiger grunted. He looked back and then issued rapid instructions to the driver. The driver said, ‘Hai!’ briskly, and the corporal at his side unbuttoned the holster of his M-14 automatic. Tiger flexed his powerful fingers.