A Most Immoral Woman (26 page)

The following day as they drove in a hired carriage from Shinbashi Station into the milky sunshine, Morrison sensed a dark undercurrent to Mae’s mood.

At a French restaurant in Uyeno Park, she pushed her food around her plate with a fork, her lips a moue of discontent.

‘What’s wrong, Maysie?’

She put down her fork and sighed. ‘Martin quarrelled with me. He was most disagreeable. He fiercely opposed my coming here to meet you.’

‘Ah.’

‘He demanded to know where Mrs Goodnow was hiding herself, saying she was a shockingly poor chaperone. I retorted that she was no doubt enjoying herself with a certain Yokohama sea captain and that her failures of duty had never bothered him before. He claimed then that I was humiliating him. He said that his friends had warned him that I would never be faithful but that he had assured them that I listen to him.’

Morrison suppressed a smile. ‘And do you?’

‘Would I be here if I did? I was incensed at his boast. “Actions speak louder than words,” said I, and grabbed my hat and gloves. He then told me to go to blazes. I said, “Fine with me; wasn’t it your friend Jack London who said, ‘I’d rather be ashes than dust’?”’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘That he would see me tomorrow evening as planned for an official reception hosted by the American minister in Tokio in honour of the visiting Under Secretary of State.’

His hide will stand any rebuff
. ‘He is constant, I will give him that.’

Mae tsked. ‘I don’t wish us to speak of this unpleasant topic any longer. I shall remain quite unable to eat if we do. Tell me something amusing, honey. Tell me how things are going with your little boat.’

After lunch, they strolled along the edge of Uyeno’s Shinobazu Pond under a swollen, celadon sky. Waterfowl honked,
oh-up, oh-up
, and wagtails twittered. The park was filled with the pastel fireworks of hydrangeas. A quick, sulphurous smell told of an impending shower. Almost instantaneously, fat drops of rain began pearling on the lotus pads in the pond. Morrison raised his umbrella. A pink-breasted wigeon whistled noisily for its mate, the eerie note wending through the patter of the raindrops.

The circumstances were close to idyllic. But although they had not spoken of it again, Mae’s quarrel with Egan had laid a pall over their mood. And Morrison did have the
Haimun—
his ‘little boat’—on his mind; were he to see her off at the station now, he could make good use of the rest of the afternoon. ‘Should we…?’ he began.

‘Go to the hot springs? Why not.’

‘Because—’

‘I’ve reserved two rooms there. One for myself and one for my protector and medical attendant.’

She didn’t even consult with me.
‘And that would be…’

‘Honey, do you really need to ask?’

‘Sometimes, yes, I think I do.’

‘Oh, Ernest, don’t sound so cross.’

Morrison thought of the work he could—
should—
be doing.

‘Besides, I don’t want to go back to Martin tonight.’

Somewhat mollified by the realisation that he would be besting Egan once more, Morrison put on a happier face. ‘Now that you mention it, a bath at the hot springs would be delightful.’

It was a cosy and beautiful inn that Mae had booked. Seated opposite her in a tub crafted from lemon-scented hinoki wood, their naked bodies reddening in the near-scalding water, her feet flat against his shins, Morrison listened to the gentle music of the rain on the roof tiles and felt himself fill with a light-headed contentment. Afterwards, they towelled each other dry. Mae grew playful and it was not long before they were wrestling on the plump futons.

Resting in identical cotton
yukata
, they took dinner in the room—slices of raw fish rolled with rice and pickles into little packages tied with seaweed and displayed on a bamboo raft, grilled vegetables and bowls of a cloudy, piquant soup washed down with tiny cups of heated rice wine. Sated, they fell asleep under a quilt filled with goose down, the silver rain outside a welcome barrier between them and the rest of the fretful world. They awoke at four-thirty, Maysie absurdly fresh and Morrison, hearing it was still pouring and knowing he faced a day of meetings, somewhat less so.

After breakfast, Morrison called for the bill and suffered a palpitation when it was presented: sixteen and a half Mexican dollars. The tide of contentment receded. He extracted the notes from his wallet, painful as pulling teeth, and watched her as she hummed and preened, no doubt thinking of her imminent return to the other.

James leapt from his seat with an expression of relief the moment Morrison entered the hotel. Sir Claude would be meeting the Japanese foreign minister at two. He and James were to take afternoon tea with the influential elder statesman Count Matsukata. Best of all, that evening they would be the guests of Admiral Saito. James had sent a note to Brinkley asking him to lunch with them. Their colleague, though lacking in enthusiasm for the project, might at least be able to offer some useful advice for the day’s meetings.

Brinkley brought his wife to lunch at the Imperial. She was very pretty, with a sweet manner and intelligent eyes. When Morrison told them that they were to be entertained by both Matsukata and Saito, Brinkley’s eyes widened. He looked at his wife. The faintest shadow of a frown clouded her brow. ‘I thought so,’ Brinkley said, turning back to the men. ‘It would appear,’ he said, ‘that they are determined not to grant your request.’

Morrison noticed Martin Egan enter the dining room. Egan crossed to the other side of the room as though he had not seen Morrison, though their table was in clear view of the door.
He is being unusually petty
.

As it turned out, Egan was the only correspondent who didn’t approach their table that day. Word had got out about Morrison
and James’s appointments. The first to steam up was burly Bennett Burleigh, reporter for London’s
Daily Telegraph
, carrying along the mild-mannered war artist Melton Prior in his wake.

‘Tell them we need more access,’ Burleigh demanded, pounding fist into palm. ‘Less courtesy and more frankness.’ He had tramped all over Manchuria when he’d first arrived and hadn’t asked for anyone’s say-so. He’d be filing first-class reports if it wasn’t for the damned Japanese. ‘I mean no offence, madam,’ he added, with a nod in the direction of Brinkley’s wife, who inclined her head as if to say none taken, though Morrison expected, even hoped, otherwise.
Boastful braggart.
Morrison had no sooner sent Burleigh and Prior on their way with vague assurances than other correspondents swarmed up.
My editor’s demanding…bored senseless…must get to the front…they listen to you…

When they were left alone again, Brinkley nodded as though to himself. ‘Never mind the
Haimun
,’ he said. ‘If anyone can argue the case for more general access to the war, it’s you, G.E. Good luck.’

James and Morrison took advantage of a break in the rain to take a stroll after lunch. Up and down the streets came the newspaper boys with their bells, extra editions of war news stacked high in lacquered boxes on the ends of their carrying-poles. Men and women crowded around them, eager for news. Finding a vendor with copies of the
Japanese Graphic
, Morrison and James pored over the Western-style illustrations with their English captions.

The news was less then encouraging. The Russians had recently sunk Japanese transports carrying heavy siege guns, railway building materials and some 1400 men. And whilst the
Japanese were making some advances on land, occupying several Russian positions, it had been at the cost of thousands of additional lives.

James shook his head. ‘No one foresaw the Russians putting up such resistance.’

Just then, they sighted a woman crossing the street with her little daughter. Her kimono was patterned with portraits of generals and drawings of battleships. Her daughter’s costume was decorated with even more vivid illustrations of torpedoes and submarine mines.

‘This is a nation that will not lose,’ Morrison said. ‘And there’s a lesson for us in their determination. Let us see what the day’s meetings have in store.’

Count Matsukata’s residence was grand, but without ostentation, its splendour in the fine craftsmanship of every carved lintel and sliding-door handle. The reception room opened onto a garden that had been manicured into a simulacrum of natural beauty, studded here and there with stone lanterns and arched bridges painted ochre. On the walls of the reception room itself hung an ink painting of Mount Fuji that consisted of a single expressive brushstroke.

Morrison could not help but think of Mae and how she would delight in the artfulness of the residence. At times her irrationality and frivolousness confounded him to the point of irritation. Whereas he had occupation, she had recreation. And yet for all he had applied himself to the study of important matters such as politics, economics and empire, he knew that when it came to
appreciating beauty, whether that of a vase, a scroll or a touch, she would always be his teacher.

Their host entered. His powerful build seemed at odds with his graceful bearing. All bowed. The Count invited Morrison and James to seat themselves on silk cushions on the tatami floor, then took his place in a rich susurrus of settling brocades.

Aided by his interpreter, the Count welcomed them warmly, saying he had long wanted to meet the legendary Morrison. He had relatives who’d been in Peking during the siege; they had spoken with awe of his valour. Despite Brinkley’s warning, Morrison felt his hopes rise. Over bowls of whisked green tea, Matsukata spoke about the gold reserve, asked after mutual acquaintances and showed them the finest collection of old and rare photos of Japan that Morrison had ever seen. In response to a comment on a miniature pine in one of the photographs, he discoursed eloquently on the art of bonsai and its origins in Han Dynasty China. Not a word about ships or correspondents passed his lips and he deflected any attempt to bring the conversation round to that topic. Morrison’s hopes fell once more. His leg muscles burned and cramped and rheumatism agonised his knees. When the audience was over and they all rose, he had to concentrate to avoid stumbling. Mae came into his head again, but this time it felt like a blessed relief that she was not there to see him looking so much like a pathetic old man.

‘Blast this damned Oriental obfuscation!’ They had barely finished their leave-taking when James expressed his opinion of the meeting with typical bluntness.

‘Perhaps we shall have better luck tonight,’ Morrison said. Although he considered that Brinkley and his wife were probably right after all, he didn’t deem it propitious to share the thought with James. ‘In any case, I suggest you do something to get some Oriental calm and patience about you before we proceed to dinner.’

When they met to share a carriage to the dinner, Morrison was intrigued to see James looking not only calm but smug.

‘Saito is to tell us that the
Haimun
is free to sail at last,’ James announced.

‘Your source?’

‘Sir Claude.’

‘His source?’

‘He promises it is a good one.’

Morrison again kept his doubts to himself. In front of a gracious, two-storey wooden building down a quiet lane, an aide-de-camp of Admiral Saito, a man with a deep voice and a deeper bow, welcomed them and led them into an exquisite room with walls of gold lacquer blackened by candle smoke.

Admiral Saito, the son of a samurai, had a broad forehead, melancholy lips and a heavy-lidded stare that conveyed both understanding and weariness. His hospitality, like his pedigree, was flawless: thirty-eight delicately flavoured courses, each displayed with the utmost artistry and served on a unique piece of porcelain; ethereally beautiful geishas whose long, shimmering sleeves brushed the floor as they made their fluttering entrance; and musical entertainment. The Admiral gave Morrison and James everything but the response they craved. He gave them no answer at all—and no chance to ask the question, either.

Like a rumbling volcano, James seethed all the way back to the hotel. Morrison remained silent, worn out by the anticipation, the
unflagging courtesy of their host and the quantity of sake he had drunk at his urging.

James finally erupted. ‘Sir Claude gave me his word!’

Morrison imagined lava trickling from the crown of James’s head. ‘You know what they say. An ambassador is an honest man sent abroad to lie for his country. As for giving you his word, Sir Claude has used me often and given me nothing in return but bad dinners.’

Entering the Imperial, James glanced up at the ancient bonsai pine that commanded the centre of the hotel parlour. ‘Well, I may never be able to witness the battle for Port Arthur but I could write a picturesque on the art of the bonsai.’

Morrison’s lips twisted into a wry smile. ‘That’s what they do to us,’ he said, tracing the little tree’s twisted, cramped branches with his finger. ‘The Japanese, our editors, our diplomats, colleagues, censors, all those who would limit and control us. They tie us up with copper wires of querulousness and nitpicking when we should be out in the field doing our job. They twist and torture every impulse for greatness out of us.’

James shook his head. ‘Perhaps it’s time, G.E., that I gave up this dream of mine and accept that I am simply a man ahead of my time. Perhaps I should take what the Japanese offer me in the way of accreditation and hope it’s more than just a sop. I shall mount my horse and take it to the line of battle along with my usual anxieties about messengers and pigeons and all the rest, and leave the revolutionary advances of which I’ve dreamed to future generations of correspondents.’

‘It’s not fair.’ Morrison frowned, more distressed than he had expected he would be by James’s proposed surrender.

‘As in love, so in war—and especially in war correspondence—all is fair,’ James replied. ‘Or so they say. Not sure I believe it myself.’