What is it about them? Is it their blue eyes and white skin and fair brown pubics--in those that whore was not much different from her, in all else yes. Unconsciously his fingers toyed with the cross that he wore, half hidden around his neck.
His lips curled in a crooked smile. In the tunnel he had tricked Hiraga. The piece of metal he had thrown was the last of his gold oban. I'm glad I kept her cross--to remind me constantly. And it has been more than useful in other ways, making these stupid gai-jin think I'm Christian. What is it about their women that sends me mad?
It's karma, he told himself with finality, karma that there is no answer, never will be any answer except... except to send her onwards.
The thought of her neck in his hands, his manhood deep within, made his flesh tingle and ached him anew as though the other had not happened. Once more the room began to swim and crush him so he swung his feet to the floor, pocketed his derringer, put on a leather jerkin and went downstairs.
"Guv?" Timee coughed and got up from a plate piled with rice and stew to go with him, but he waved him back and the other man to guard upstairs and went outside.
Hiraga saw him at once. He was on the other side of the busy dirt street, sitting on a bench outside a dingy bar. In front of him was an untouched gourd of beer and around were noisy men, drinking or standing or dead drunk on benches, or heading homewards for their dormitories or rooming houses, or favorite bar or gambling rooms that crowded together here in a slum as bad or worse than any in London town. The men were a polyglot of European, Asian and mixed-race laborers and workers, armed with at least a knife and dressed similarly to him, coming from their day's toil in sail-making shops or ship's chandlers, or mechanics from the machine shops, a new profession, or from any one of the dozens of services to do with ships. Along with beggars and bums were bakers and butchers and brewers and moneylenders and others who supported this part of Yokohama or fed off it, separate from the village and "Nob Town" as they all called the trader's sector, by mutual consent.
"In Drunk Town," Tyrer had explained to him, "there are perhaps a hundred and fifty souls, most are drifters. They've few rules. It's every man for himself but woe betide anyone caught stealing, the immediate mob would beat him half to death. They've no law except army and navy patrols searching for deserters, or just trying to keep the peace between the services, breaking up fights or riots. Beer and gin parlors-- gin's a rotgut that will kill if you're not careful--they're open as long as there're customers, so are the gambling dens. Don't try any of them or Ma Fortheringill's, she loathes Japanese because of our cut-rate Yoshiwara-- bless it! At the far end, near the South Gate, off Hog Lane, is the worst part of Drunk Town. I've never been there, best stay away from it too, that's where the most depraved and lost try to survive. Opium, beggars, scum, male prostitutes. Abattoir. Cemetery.
Disease. And multitudes of rats..."
The little that Hiraga had understood had made him want, even more, to see everything for himself. Tonight was his first opportunity. Except for a few absent curses that would apply to anyone, no one bothered him as he trailed Ori easily, just enough light in the darkening sky.
His prey meandered towards the shore, seemingly without purpose and without any of the bodyguards he had been warned against. His excitement notched higher. The revolver in his pocket felt good to his touch. His fingers ached to grip it and aim it and pull the trigger to end the menace to his future here, then to begin his controlled retreat to safety through No Man's Land, or along the beach to the Legation.
Now they were nearing the small, main square beside the promenade and shore where bars and eating and rooming houses fought for custom. This was the far end of the Settlement, the narrowest part, and jammed between the sea and encircling fence where the South Gate was. As at the North Gate, the fence was strong and high and went into the surf. The only opening was the barricaded guarded South Gate.
The square was clogged. Mostly British soldiers, sailors, and merchant seamen with a few French, American and Russians, and Eurasians. Ori eased through them to stand on the edge of the promenade. He stared at the sea. The sea had a three-foot swell and was black and greasy. Northwards, half a mile away, he could see the lights of the trading houses coming on, and in the French Legation. And in the upper story of Struan's that, with Brock's, dominated the waterfront.
Tonight? Should I try tonight?
His feet began to take him that way. A sudden rumbling and the sound like that of an express train just a few feet below the surface rushed at them, the earth heaved and with everyone else in the square, he tottered, nauseated, and went down on his hands and knees, holding on to the earth as it shook and rose and fell and stopped. A moment of silence that seemed to shriek to the skies. Now a few whimpers and shouts and curses that were cut short as another shock took them. Again the earth reared, not as bad as before but bad enough, and the shakes went on and on and heaved and shuddered and stopped.
Tiles cascaded off a roof. People scuttled or crawled to safety. Silence again that was almost palpable, men silent, gulls silent, animals silent. Earth waiting everything waiting. Hugging the ground, praying, cursing, praying. Waiting.
"Is it over for God's sake?" someone called out.
"Yes..."
"No..."
"Wait I th--"
Another rumble. Wails of fear. The noise peaked, the earth twisted and cried out and became still again. Several shacks collapsed. Shouts for help. No one moved.
Again everyone held their breath. Waiting.
Moans and prayers and whimpers and supplications and curses. Waiting for the next one. The big one. Waiting, but nothing more.
Yet.
Moments that became an eternity of waiting.
Then Ori sensed that it was over and got up, the first in the square, heart dancing that he was not dead this time, that he was alive and untouched and safely reborn but instinctively ready for the next danger, an immediate dash from fire that was a normal aftermath and the greatest hazard to be endured. Every earthquake was someone's nemesis, a rebirth for all others and, from time immemorial, to be treated as such by those who lived in the Land of the Gods that was also called the Land of Tears.
Abruptly Ori's stomach had a quake of its own and fell away. Across the square, above the mass of people still grounded, many retching and cursing, he saw Hiraga standing alone watching him. Fifty yards behind Hiraga most of the samurai guards were also on their feet--some studying the two of them curiously.
At almost the same instant that Ori had sensed the earthquake had ended and had jumped up, Hiraga and the samurai had spontaneously done the same, experiencing identical, ecstatic relief and rebirth, Hiraga not realizing he was on his feet until he saw Ori staring at him. His face closed. At once he started towards him, the square rapidly coming to life as men noisily scrambled or staggered erect. Blindly Ori took to his heels but frightened angry men, some laughing hysterically, others wailing thanks to God, barred his escape --and Hiraga's pursuit--with cries of "Wot the devil's up with you..."
"Who the hell're you pushing for crissake ..."
"Hey, he's a bloody Jappo..."
Then someone bellowed, "FIRE! LOOK!"
With everyone else Ori looked northwards.
At the other end of the promenade a building was on fire. He recognized it as the two-story Struan headquarters. Perhaps next door.
Careless of anyone Ori broke out of the throng in a rush.
Hiraga pushed forward after him but at that moment a nearby gin bar collapsed, scattering people into his path, sending him reeling and others trampling him. He fought to his feet amidst the uproar. In this part of the square men were milling around aimlessly, blocking him. For a second he caught a brief sight of Ori, then the ruins of the bar began to blaze and the crowd surged backwards again, engulfing him.
When Hiraga had recovered his balance, Ori was obscured and as much as he tried to force a path in the direction of his last sighting, the less progress he could make and the more furious the crowd became: "Who you pushin' for crissake!...
It's another bleeding Jappo... Give the bugger wot for..."
By the time he had placated them and retreated and circled, finding a path out to the edge of the square, Ori was not running down the promenade as he had expected, heading for the fire, nor was he going by way of the beach--but had truly vanished.
In Struan's, Jamie McFay was running up the stairs in the semi-darkness amid cries of alarm and "Fire!" an oil lamp swinging in his hand, only the chandelier alight in the whole staircase area and it still swayed drunkenly from the shocks. He gained the landing and ran down the corridor to burst Struan's door open.
"Tai-pan, are you all right?"
The room was in shadow but for an ominous flickering glow that danced on the window curtains. Struan lay on the floor, dazed, half dressed for dinner, shaking his head to try to clear it, both oil lamps shattered, the open wick of one that was hidden by the bureau sputtered on the oil-drenched carpet. "Think so," he gasped, "must have hit my head when I got knocked over.
Christ Almighty, Angelique!"
"Here let me help you..."
"I can manage, check her, Jamie!"
Jamie tried the handle to the connecting door.
Bolted on the other side. At that moment the carpet ignited, Struan scrambled out of the way, cursing with pain, but before the blaze could spread Jamie had stamped it out. In his haste to help Struan out of the way, he dragged him up roughly.
"Oh Jesus, watch it, Jamie!"
"Sorry, sorry I didn't--"
"Never mind," Struan panted, a stabbing pain in his side where he had fallen heavily, more throbbing in his stomach where there was none before and the usual under the healed but angry scar. "Where's the fire?"
"I don't know, I was downstairs wh--"