The Pure Land by Alan Spence Page A

unpleasant. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, spooning up more. He waved to the owner, mimed rubbing his own stomach. Theman laughed, and so did Mackenzie. Glover felt as if he had passed a test, an initiation. When they’d eaten, they sipped some bitter green tea from rough unglazed cups.
    ‘A history lesson,’ said Mackenzie. ‘The Japanese have been working in splendid isolation for centuries. They described themselves as sakoku , the closed country. They had no desire to open their doors to us at all. But they were persuaded.’
    ‘American gunboats.’
    ‘Commodore Perry’s black ships, to be precise. They dropped anchor in Edo bay. The threat was sufficient. The Shogun agreed to limited trade with the West. We had a foot in the door. Mind you, that was five years ago, and it’s taken till this very summer for the treaty to be fully effective. As you’ll discover for yourself, the wheels grind slowly here. The Shogun and his administration, the Bakufu, make damn sure of that.’
    ‘The Shogun is the ruler?’
    ‘The Emperor, the Mikado, is effectively exiled in Kyoto. He’s a figurehead, nothing more. The Shogun rules in his stead. He was not at all happy about signing the treaty, but the Commodore gave him no choice. All the Shogun can do, to save face and placate the traditionalists, is make things as difficult as possible for us. For example …’ Mackenzie handed Glover a small piece of bamboo, a Japanese symbol painted on one side. ‘This is what passes for currency around here. And of course, they’re bloody difficult to get hold of.’
    ‘You can’t just buy them?’ Glover knew the question must be naive, even as he asked it.
    ‘Not even for pure Mexican silver dollars. Like this.’
    He produced a shining silver coin, flicked it spinning in the air towards Glover, who caught it.
    ‘Try,’ said Mackenzie, nodding towards the owner of the shop. ‘See if he’ll sell you any.’
    Another test. Glover held out the bamboo token in his left hand, the silver dollar in his right, tried to indicate that hewanted to exchange quantities of the one for the other. ‘You sell?’
    When the man realised what he was asking, he was suddenly frightened, looked around at the door, waved his hand in front of his face, mimed cutting his own throat.
    ‘He’s not exaggerating,’ said Mackenzie. ‘It’s more than his life’s worth.’
    ‘So how do you get anything done?’
    ‘Sheer bloody-mindedness! And finding out which officials have their price.’ Glover handed back the dollar and the bamboo token, but Mackenzie waved him away.
    ‘Take them as payment on account.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Glover, and he put them in his jacket pocket, felt in there the paper butterfly. He’d transferred it from his other coat, kept it with him for good luck. He knew it was foolishness, superstition. But still.
    Outside he walked with Mackenzie along the waterfront.
    ‘This is the Bund,’ said Mackenzie. ‘It’s the main thoroughfare. All these warehouses are owned by western companies; British, American, Dutch, French. They’re all investing heavily, and there’s more than enough to go round.’
    ‘Can I ask you something?’ said Glover.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘You said the treaty had only just come into effect.’
    ‘That’s right. A few months ago.’
    ‘But you’ve been trading here for over a year.’
    Mackenzie grinned. ‘Ways and means, laddie. I said it before, sheer bloody-mindedness. And a willingness to take risks.’
    He stopped outside a two-storey building, set back from the harbour. ‘Here we are, the furthest outpost of the Jardine Mathieson empire!’
    The office, on the ground floor, was simple, the furnishing sparse: basic hardwood tables and chairs, bookcases laden with ledgers. Mackenzie’s accommodation was upstairs. Through tothe back of the building was the warehouse, stacked with bales and boxes, crates and sacks. Two young Japanese men in shirtsleeves were checking a consignment of