Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [298]
“No, Anjin-san. I don’t think so.”
“Some people believe you should hang a pheasant by the tail feathers until it drops off, but that’s an old wives’ tale,” Blackthorne said. “By the neck’s the right way, then the juices stay where they belong. Some people let it hang until it drops off the neck but personally, I don’t like meat that gamy. We used to—” He stopped for she had gone a slight shade of green.
“Nan desu ka, Mariko-san?” Fujiko asked quickly.
Mariko explained. They all laughed nervously and Mariko got up, weakly patting the sheen off her forehead. “I’m sorry, Anjin-san, would you excuse me a moment …”
Your food’s just as strange, he wanted to say. What about yesterday, the raw squid—white, slimy, almost tasteless chewy meat with nothing but soya sauce to wash it down? Or the chopped octopus tentacles, again raw, with cold rice and seaweed? How about fresh jellyfish with yellow-brown, souped torfu—fermented beancurds—that looked like a bowl of dog puke? Oh yes, served beautifully in a fragile, attractive bowl, but still looking like puke! Yes, by God, enough to make any man sick!
Eventually they went to the veranda room and, after the usual interminable bowings and small talk and cha and saké, the food began to arrive. Small trays of clear fish soup and rice and raw fish, as always. And then his stew.
He lifted the lid of the pot. The steam rose and golden globules of fat danced on the shimmering surface. The rich, mouth-watering gravy-soup was heavy with meat juices and tender chunks of flesh. Proudly he offered it but they all shook their heads and begged him to eat.
“Domo,” he said.
It was good manners to drink soup directly from the small lacquered bowls and to eat anything solid in the soup with chopsticks. A ladle was on the tray. Hard put to stop his hunger, he filled the bowl and began to eat. Then he saw their eyes.
They were watching with nauseated fascination which they unsuccessfully tried to hide. His appetite began to slip away. He tried to dismiss them but could not, his stomach growling. Hiding his irritation, he put down the bowl and replaced the lid and told them gruffly it was not to his taste. He ordered Nigatsu to take it away.
“Should it be thrown away then, Fujiko asks,” Mariko said hopefully.
“Yes.”
Fujiko and Buntaro relaxed.
“Would you like more rice?” Fujiko asked.
“No, thank you.”
Mariko waved her fan, smiled encouragingly, and refilled his saké cup. But Blackthorne was not soothed and he resolved in the future to cook in the hills in private, to eat in private, and to hunt openly.
To hell with them, he thought. If Toranaga can hunt, so can I. When am I going to see him? How long do I have to wait?
“The pox on waiting and the pox on Toranaga!” he said aloud in English and felt better.
“What, Anjin-san?” Mariko asked in Portuguese.
“Nothing,” he replied. “I was just wondering when I’d see Lord Toranaga.”
“He didn’t tell me. Very soon, I imagine.”
Buntaro was slurping his saké and soup loudly as was custom. This began to annoy Blackthorne. Mariko talked cheerfully with her husband, who grunted, hardly acknowledging her. She was not eating, and it further irked him that both she and Fujiko were almost fawning on Buntaro and also that he himself had to put up with this unwanted guest.
“Tell Buntaro-sama that in my country a host toasts the honored guest.” He lifted his cup with a grim smile. “Long life and happiness!” He drank.
Buntaro listened to Mariko’s explanation. He nodded in agreement, lifted his cup in return, smiled through his teeth, and drained it.
“Health!” Blackthorne toasted again.
And again.
And again.
“Health!”
This time Buntaro did not drink. He put down the full cup and looked at Blackthorne out of his small eyes. Then Buntaro called to someone outside. The shoji slid open at once. His guard, ever present, bowed and handed him the immense bow and quiver. Buntaro took it and spoke vehemently and rapidly to Blackthorne.
“My husband—my husband says you wanted to see him shoot, Anjin-san. He thinks tomorrow is