"And the, the discomfort? How long will that be?"
Andr`e was feeling very tired, uncomfortable and now furious that he had allowed himself to become embroiled, however many the potential, permanent advantages. "She told me it depends on the girl, her age, if this has been done before. If it hasn't it should be easy."
"But how many days of sickness will there be?"
"Mon Dieu, she didn't say and I didn't ask her. I didn't ask her. If you have specific questions write them down and I'll try to get you the answers. Now if you'll excuse me..." He got up. Instantly she allowed her eyes to fill with tears. "Oh Andr`e, thank you, I'm so sorry, you're so kind to help me and I'm sorry to upset you," she sobbed and was pleased to see him melt at once.
"Don't cry, Angelique, I'm not upset with you, it's not your fault, it's... I apologize, it must be terrible for you but please don't worry, I'll fetch the medicine on time and help all I can, just write down the questions and in the next few days I'll have the answers for you. Sorry, it's... I've not been feeling well recently..."
She had pretended to comfort him and, after he had left, she weighed what he had told her, looking out through the flyspecked curtains to High Street, seeing nothing.
Thirty days? Never mind. I can live with the delay, nothing will show, she was thinking over and over, wanting to convince herself. Twenty-two more days won't matter.
To make sure she took out her diary, unlocked it and began counting. Then she re-counted and reached the same day. November 7th.
Friday. The saint day of Saint Theodore.
Who is he? I'll light candles to him every Sunday. No need to mark the day, she thought with a shiver. Nonetheless, she put a small cross in the corner. What about confession?
God understands. HE understands everything.
I can wait--but what if.
What if it doesn't work or Andr`e gets sick or lost or killed, or the mama-san fails me, or any one of a thousand reasons?
This gnawed at her. It obliterated her resolve. Real tears wet her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she remembered what her father had once said, years upon years ago, just before he had deserted her and her little brother, in Paris...
"Yes he deserted us," she said out loud, the first time she had ever articulated that truth. "He did. Mon Dieu, from what I know now, probably that's just as well. He would have sold us, certainly sold me long since."
Her father had quoted his idol, Napoleon Bonaparte: "A wise general always has a line of retreat planned, from which to launch the hammer blow of victory."
What is my line of retreat?
Then something Andr`e Poncin had said weeks ago slid into her mind. She smiled, all her care vanishing.
Phillip Tyrer was putting the final touches to the draft of Sir William's reply to the roju in his best copper plate writing.
Unlike all previous communications, Sir William was sending the original in English and a copy in Dutch which Johann had been told to prepare.
"There, Johann, I'm done." He finished the tail of the B of Sir William Aylesbury, K.c.b. with an intricate twirl.
"Scheiss in mein Hut!" Johann beamed. "That's the best writing I've ever seen.
No wonder Wee Willie wants you to copy all his London dispatches."
"Shigata ga nai!" Tyrer said without thinking. It doesn't matter.
"You're really working at it, the Japanese, eh?"
"Yes, yes I am, and between us, for God's sake don't tell Willie, enjoy it immensely. What do you think of his ploy?"
Johann sighed. "With Jappos I don't think. Me, I think Jappo mealy-mouthing has scrambled his head."
The message read: To His Excellency, Nori Anjo, Esq., Chief roju. I have your dispatch of yesterday and inform you it is rejected entirely.
If you do not pay the agreed installment of the indemnity for the murder of two British soldiers on time, the amount owing will be quadrupled for every day of delay.
I am sorry to learn you are clearly not masters of your own calender. I will correct this for you at once. I will leave for Kyoto on my flagship with an escorting squadron, twelve days from today, docking at Osaka. Then, with a mounted escort and obligatory sixty-pound cannon of our mounted Royal Artillery for royal salutes, I and the other Ministers will proceed at once to Kyoto to seek redress for you from His young Majesty, Shogun Nobusada personally or, if he is not available, from His Imperial Highness, Emperor Komei personally, promising full royal honours with a twenty-one-cannon salute. Please inform them of our impending arrival. (signed) Her Britannic Majesty's Minister and Ambassador, Sir William Aylesbury, K.c.b....
"Emperor? What Emperor?" Johann said disgustedly. "There's only the Midako, Mikado, some name like that, and he's only a kind of minor pope without power, not like Pius the Ninth, who meddles and connives and plays politics and, like all Gottverdampt Catholics, wants us back on the stake!"
"Come now, Johann, they're not all bad.
Now English Catholics can vote and even stand for Parliament like anyone who's eligible."
"The pox on Catholics. I'm Swiss and we don't forget."
"Then why are the Pope's personal guards all Swiss?"
"They're Catholic mercenaries." Johann shrugged. "Give me the rough copy of the dispatch and I'll get to work."
"Sir Willie says you're not renewing your contract."
"It's time to move on and leave the field to younger and wiser." Johann beamed suddenly.
"Y."
"That's not funny. Please send Nakama in, I think he's in the garden."
"Don't trust that bastard. Best watch him, Phillip."
Tyrer wondered what Johann would say if he knew the real truth about him.
Hiraga opened the door. "Hai, Taira-san?"
"Ikimasho, Nakama-sensei, old chap, hai?" Let's go, all right? Tyrer said, beaming, still marvelling at the change.
When Hiraga had arrived at dawn this morning, gone were the dirt and rags and most of all the samurai haircut--his short hair now similar to that of almost any commoner. In his neat, starched but ordinary kimono, new sun hat hanging by its thong on his back, new tabi and thongs, he was like the son of a prosperous merchant.
"My God, you look terrific, Nakama," he had burst out, "that haircut suits you."
"Ah Taira-san," Hiraga had said hesitantly, with pretended humility, following the ploy he and Ori had formulated. "I think what you say me, he'rp me give up samurai, stop be samurai. Soon go back Choshu, become farmer 'rike grandfather, or in beer or sak`e factory."
"Give up samurai? Is that possible?"' "Hai. Possib're. P'rease not want say more, yes?"' "All right. But it's a wise decision, congratulations."
Involuntarily Hiraga ran his hand over his head, the close shorn sides and newness itching.