James Clavell - Gai-Jin

They have to be dealt with, permanently. The boy Nobusada and the Princess have to be neutralized, permanently.

The permanent solution for the gai-jin is clear: in any way we can devise, whatever the sacrifice, we must become richer than them, and better armed. This must be secret national policy, now and forever. How to achieve this? I do not know yet. But as policy we must flatter them to sleep, keep them off balance, using their foolish attitudes against them--and employ our superior abilities to cocoon them.

Nobusada? Equally clear. But he's not the real threat. It's her. I don't have to worry about him but her, Princess Yazu, she's the real power behind him, and in front.

The sudden, mental picture of her with a penis and Nobusada the receiver made him smile. It would make a wonderful shunga, he thought, amused. Shunga were erotic, many-colored woodcuts so popular and prized amongst Yedo's traders and shopkeepers that had been proscribed by the Shogunate for a century or more as too licentious for them, the lowest class, and too easy to be used as lampoons against their betters.

In Nippon's immutable hierarchy, instituted by the tairo, Dictator Nakamura, then made permanent by Shogun Toranaga, first were samurai, second farmers, third artisans of every kind, and last, despised by all, merchants: "leeches on all other labor," the Legacy called them. Despised because all others needed their skills and wealth--most of all their wealth. Particularly samurai.

So rules, certain rules, could be eased.

Thus in Yedo, Osaka and Nagasaki where the really rich merchants lived, shunga, though officially outlawed, were painted, carved and merrily produced by the best artists and printmakers in the land. In every epoch, artists vied with each other for fame and fortune, selling them by the thousands.

Exotic, explicit but always with gargantuan genitalia, hilariously out of all proportion, the best in perfect, moist, and mobile detail.

Equally prized, were ukiyo-every portraits of leading actors, the constant meat of gossip, scandal, and license--actresses were not permitted by law, so specially trained men, onnagata, played female roles--and, above all, prints of the most famous courtesans. "I would like someone to paint you. It's a pity Hiroshige and Hokusai are dead."

She laughed. "How should I pose, Sire?"

"Not in bed," he said, laughing with her, unusual for him to laugh, and she was pleased with the victory. "Just walking along a street, with a sunshade, green and pink, and wearing your pink and green kimono with the carp of woven gold."

"Perhaps, Sire, instead of a street, perhaps in a garden at dusk catching fireflies?"

"Ah, much better!" He smiled, remembering the rare days of his youth on summer evenings when he was released from studies. Then he and his brothers and sisters and friends would go out into the fields and hunt fireflies with gossamer nets and put the tiny insects into tiny cages and watch the light miraculously pulse on and off, composing poems, laughing and larking with no responsibilities, and young. "Like I feel with you now," he muttered.

"Sire?"

"You take me out of myself, Koiko. Everything about you."

For answer she touched his arm, saying nothing and everything, pleased with the compliment, all her mind concentrated on him, wanting to read his thoughts and needs, wanting to be perfect for him.

But this game's tiring, she thought again. This patron is too complex, too farsighted, too unpredictable, too solemn and too difficult to entertain. I wonder how long he will keep me.

I begin to hate the castle, hate confinement, hate the constant testing, hate being away from home and the ribald laughter and chatter of the other ladies, Moonbeam, Springtime, Petal and most of all my darling mama-san, Meikin.

Yes, but I glory being in the center of the world, adore the one koku a day every day, exult that I am who I am, handmaiden to the most noble lord who is really just another man and, like all men, a fractious little boy pretending to be complicated and who can be controlled by sweets and spanking as always, and who, if you are clever, decides to do only what you have already decided he may do--whatever he believes.

Her laughter trilled.

"What?"

"You make me joyous, filled with life, Sire. I shall have to call you Lord Giver of Happiness!"

Warmth pervaded him. "And so to bed?"

"And so to bed."

Arm in arm, they began to leave the moonlight.

"Look there," he said suddenly.

Far below one of the palace mansions had caught fire. Flames began gushing upwards, then more and clouds of smoke. Now, faintly, they could hear fire bells and see ants of people milling around, and soon lines of other ants forming to join the fire to the water tanks: Fire is our greatest hazard, not woman, Shogun Toranaga had written in his Legacy with rare humor. Against fire we can be prepared, never against woman.

All men and all women of marriageable age will be married. All habitations will have tanks of water within easy reach.

"They will never put it out, will they, Sire?"

"No. I suppose some fool has knocked over a lamp or candle," Yoshi said, his lips tight.

"Yes, you are right, Sire, the clumsy fool," she said at once, gentling him, sensing an unexpected anger in him--and not knowing why.

"I am so glad you are in charge of fire precautions in the castle so we can sleep safely. Whoever did it should be talked to severely. I wonder whose palace it is."

"It's the Tajima residence."

"Ah, Sire, you continue to amaze me,"

Koiko said with touching admiration, "how wonderful to be able to distinguish one palace from another amongst the hundreds so quickly, and from so far away." She bowed to hide her face, sure it was the Watasa and that now daimyo Utani must be dead and the raid successful. "You are wonderful."

"No, it is you who are wonderful, Koiko-chan." He smiled down at her, so sweet and tiny and observant and dangerous.

Three days ago his new spy, Misamoto, ever anxious to prove his worth, had reported the rumors circulating in the barracks about the tryst of Utani and the pretty boy. He had ordered Misamoto to allow the secret to be overheard by Koiko's maid, who was certain to whisper it to either her mistress or their mama-san or both, if other rumors were true: that this same mama-san, Meikin, was an avid supporter of sonno-joi, and that clandestinely she allowed her house to be a meeting place and sanctuary for shishi. The news would be passed to shishi who would instantly react at such a marvelous opportunity for a major kill. For almost two years his spies had kept her and her House under surveillance, both for this reason and because of the growing stature of Koiko.

But never once had the merest scrap of evidence appeared to support the theory and condemn them.

Ah, but now, he thought, watching the flames, Utani must be dead if the palace is fired and now I have real evidence: a whisper planted in a maid has born evil fruit. Utani was-- is--a coup for them. As I would be, even more so.

A small shudder touched him.

"Fire frightens me," she said, misinterpreting the shudder, wanting to give him face.

"Yes. Come along, we'll leave them to their karma." Arm in arm they walked away, Yoshi finding it hard to conceal his excitement. I wonder what your karma is, Koiko. Did your maid tell you and you told her to tell the mama-san and are part of the chain?

Perhaps, perhaps not. I saw no change in you when I said Tajima instead of Watasa, and I was watching very carefully. I wonder. Of course you are suspect, always were suspect, why else should I choose you, doesn't this add spice to my bed? It does, and you are everything your reputation promised. Truly I am more than satisfied, so I will wait. But now it is easy to trap you, so sorry, even easier to extract the truth from your maid, from this not-so-clever mama-san and from you, pretty one! Too easy, so sorry, when I close the trap.