Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [297]
“You were saying, senhor?”
“It was forty years ago, in the greatest inland sea we have in Europe, Mariko-san. The Mediterranean. It was just a siege, like any siege, not worth talking about,” he lied. Such knowledge was priceless, certainly not to be given away lightly and absolutely not now. Mariko had explained many times that Osaka Castle stood inexorably between Toranaga and victory. Blackthorne was certain that the solution to Osaka might well be his passport out of the Empire, with all the riches he would need in this life.
He noticed that Mariko seemed troubled. “Senhora?”
“Nothing, senhor.” She began to translate what he had said. But he knew that she knew he was hiding something. The smell of the stew distracted him.
“Fujiko-san!”
“Hai, Anjin-san?”
“Shokuji wa madaka? Kyaku wa … sazo kufuku de oro, neh?” When’s dinner? The guests may be hungry.
“Ah, gomen nasai, hi ga kurete kara ni itashimasu.”
Blackthorne saw her point at the sun and realized that she had said “after sunset.” He nodded and grunted, which passed in Japan for a polite “thank you, I understand.”
Mariko turned again to Blackthorne. “My husband would like you to tell him about a battle you’ve been in.”
“They’re all in the War Manual, Mariko-san.”
“He says he’s read it with great interest, but it contains only brief details. Over the next days he wishes to learn everything about all your battles. One now, if it pleases you.”
“They’re all in the War Manual. Perhaps tomorrow, Mariko-san.” He wanted time to examine his blinding new thought about Osaka Castle and that battle, and he was tired of talking, tired of being cross-questioned, but most of all he wanted to eat.
“Please, Anjin-san, would you tell it again, just once, for my husband?”
He heard the careful pleading under her voice so he relented. “Of course. Which do you think he’d like?”
“The one in the Netherlands. Near ‘Zeeland’—is that how you pronounce it?”
“Yes,” he said.
So he began to tell the story of this battle which was like almost every other battle in which men died, most of the time because of the mistakes and stupidity of the officers in command.
“My husband says it’s not so here, Anjin-san. Here the commanding officers have to be very good or they die very quickly.”
“Of course, my criticisms applied to European leaders only.”
“Buntaro-sama says he will tell you about our wars and our leaders, particularly the Lord Taikō, over the days. A fair exchange for your information,” she said noncommittally.
“Domo.” Blackthorne bowed slightly, feeling Buntaro’s eyes grind into him.
What do you really want from me, you son of a bitch?
Dinner was a disaster. For everyone.
Even before they had left the garden to go to the veranda to eat, the day had become ill-omened.
“Excuse me, Anjin-san, but what’s that?” Mariko pointed. “Over there. My husband asks, what’s that?”
“Where? Oh, there! That’s a pheasant,” Blackthorne said. “Lord Toranaga sent it to me, along with a hare. We’re having that for dinner, English-style—at least I am, though there’d be enough for everyone.”
“Thank you, but … we, my husband and I, we don’t eat meat. But why is the pheasant hanging there? In this heat, shouldn’t it be put away and prepared?”
“That’s the way you prepare pheasant. You hang it to mature the meat.”
“What? Just like that? Excuse me, Anjin-san,” she said, flustered, “so sorry. But it’ll go rotten quickly. It still has its feathers and it’s not been … cleaned.”
“Pheasant meat’s dry, Mariko-san, so you hang it for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, depending on the weather. Then you pluck it, clean it, and cook it.”
“You—you leave it in the air? To rot? Just like—”
“Nan ja?” Buntaro asked impatiently.
She spoke to him apologetically and he sucked in his breath, then got up and peered at it and prodded it. A few flies buzzed, then settled back again. Hesitantly Fujiko spoke to Buntaro and he flushed.
“Your consort said you ordered that no one was to touch it but you?” Mariko asked.
“Yes. Don’t you hang