The Diamond Chariot

A HERO’S EYES




In the reception area a very serious young Japanese man, wearing a tie and steel-rimmed spectacles, rose to his feet to greet the new arrivals. Standing on the desk among the files and heaps of papers were two little flags – Russian and Japanese.

‘Allow me to introduce you,’ said Doronin. ‘Shirota. He has been working with me for more than seven years now. Translator, secretary and invaluable assistant. My guardian angel and clerk, so to speak. I trust you will get on well together.’

Taking the name ‘Shirota’ for the Russian word meaning ‘orphan’, Fandorin was rather surprised that the consul thought it necessary to inform him of his colleague’s unfortunate family situation at the moment of introduction. No doubt the sad event must have taken place only recently, although there was no sign of mourning in the clerk’s manner of dress, with the possible exception of his black satin oversleeves. Erast Petrovich bowed in sympathy, expecting a continuation, but Doronin did not say anything.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, you have forgotten to tell me his name,’ the titular counsellor reminded his superior in a low voice.

‘Shirota is his name. When I had just arrived here, I felt terribly homesick for Russia. All the Japanese looked the same to me and their names sounded like gibberish. I was stuck here all on my lonesome, there wasn’t even a consulate then. Not a single Russian sound or Russian face. So I tried to surround myself with locals whose names sounded at least a little bit more familiar. My valet was Mikita, just like the Russian name. That’s written with three hieroglyphs, and means “Field with three trees”. Shirota was my translator, the name means “White field” in Japanese. And I also have the extremely charming – as in the Russian word ‘obayanie’ – Obayasi-san, to whom I shall introduce you later.’

‘So the Japanese language is not so very alien to the Russian ear?’ Erast Petrovich asked hopefully. ‘I should very much like to learn it as soon as possible.’

‘It is both alien and difficult,’ said Vsevolod Vitalievich, dashing his hopes. ‘The discoverer of Japan, St Franciscus Xaverius, said: “This speech was invented by a concourse of devils in order to torment the devotees of the faith”. And such coincidences can sometimes play mean tricks. For instance, my surname, which in Russian is perfectly euphonious, causes me no end of bother in Japan.’

‘Why?’

‘Because “doro” means “dirt” and “nin” means “man”. “Dirty man” – what sort of name is that for the consul of a great power?’

‘And what is the meaning of “Russia” in Japanese?’ asked the titular counsellor, alarmed for the reputation of his homeland.

‘Nothing good. It is written with two hieroglyphs: Ro-koku, “Stupid country”. Our embassy has been waging a complicated diplomatic struggle for years now, to have a different hieroglyph for “ro” used in the documents, one that signifies “dew”. So far, unfortunately, with no success.’

The clerk Shirota took no part in the linguistic discussion, but simply stood there with a polite smile on his face.

‘Is everything ready for the vice-consul to be accommodated?’ Doronin asked him.

‘Yes, sir. The official apartment has been prepared. Tomorrow morning the candidates for the position of valet will come. They all have very good references, I have checked them. Where would you like to take your meals, Mr Fandorin? If you prefer to dine in your rooms, I will find a cook for you.’

The Japanese spoke Russian correctly, with almost no accent, except that he occasionally confused ‘r’ and ‘l’ in some words.

‘That is really all the same to me. I follow a very simple d-diet, so there is no need for a cook,’ the titular counsellor explained. ‘Putting on the samovar and going to the shop for provisions are tasks that a servant can deal with.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Shirota said with a bow. ‘And are we anticipating the arrival of a Mrs Vice-Consul?’

The question was formulated rather affectedly, and Erast Petrovich did not instantly grasp its meaning.

‘No, no. I am not married.’

The clerk nodded, as if he had been prepared for this answer.

‘In that case, I can offer you two candidates to choose from in order to fill the position of a wife. One for three hundred yen a month, fifteen years old, never previously married, knows one hundred English words. The second is older, twenty-one, and has been married twice. She has excellent references from the previous husbands, knows a thousand English words and is less expensive – two hundred and fifty yen. Here are the photographs.’

Erast Petrovich blinked his long eyelashes and looked at the consul in consternation.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, there’s something I don’t quite …’

‘Shirota is offering you a choice of concubines,’ Doronin explained, examining the photos with the air of a connoisseur. They showed doll-like young ladies with tall, complicated hairstyles. ‘A wife by contract.’

The titular counsellor wrinkled up his brow, but still did not understand.

‘Everyone does it. It is most convenient for officials, seamen and traders who are far from home. Not many bring their family here. Almost all the officers of our Pacific fleet have Japanese concubines, here or in Nagasaki. The contract is concluded for a year or two years, with the option to extend it. For a small sum of money you obtain domestic comfort, care and attention and the pleasures of the flesh into the bargain. If I understand correctly, you are no lover of brothels? Hmm, these are fine girls. Shirota is a good judge in this matter,’ said Doronin, and tapped his finger on one of the photos. ‘My advice to you is: take this one, who is slightly older. She has already been married to foreigners twice, you won’t have to re-educate her. Before me, my Obayasi lived with a French sea captain and an American speculator in silver. And on the subject of silver …’ Vsevolod Vitalievich turned to Shirota. ‘I asked for the vice-consul’s salary for the first month and relocation allowance for settling in to be made ready – six hundred Mexican dollars in all.’

The clerk inclined his head respectfully and started opening the safe.

‘Why Mexican?’ Fandorin asked as he signed the account book.

‘The most tradable currency in the Far East. Not too convenient, certainly,’ the consul remarked, watching Shirota drag a jangling sack out of the safe. ‘Don’t rupture yourself. There must be about a pood of silver here.’

But Erast Petrovich lifted the load with no effort, using just his finger and thumb – evidently he made good use of those cast-iron weights that he carried about in his luggage. He was about to put the bag on a chair, but he became distracted and started studying the portraits hanging above Shirota’s desk.

There were two of them. Gazing out at Fandorin on the left was Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, and on the right was a plump-cheeked Oriental with his thick eyebrows knitted in a menacing lour. The titular counsellor was already very familiar with the engraving from the portrait by Kiprensky, and it held no great interest for him, but he was intrigued by the second portrait. It was a garishly coloured wood-block print that could not have been expensive, but it had been done so expertly that the irascible fat man seemed to be glaring straight into the vice-consul’s eyes. A fat neck with naturalistic folds of flesh could be seen under the open, gold-embroidered collar, and the forehead of the Japanese was tightly bound in a white bandana with a scarlet circle at its centre.

‘Is he some kind of poet?’ Fandorin enquired.

‘Not at all. That is the great hero Field Marshal Saigo Takamori,’ Shirota replied reverently.

‘The one who rebelled against the government and committed suicide?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise. ‘Surely he is regarded as a traitor to the state?’

‘He is. But he is still a great hero. Field Marshal Saigo was a sincere man. And he died a beautiful death.’ A wistful note appeared in the clerk’s voice. ‘He ensconced himself on a mountain with samurai from his native Satsuma. The government soldiers surrounded him on all sides and started shouting: “Surrender, Your Excellency! We will deliver you to the capital with honour!” But the field marshal did not capitulate. He fought until he was hit in the stomach by a bullet, and then told his adjutant: “Chop my head from my shoulders”.’

Fandorin gazed at the heroic field marshal without speaking. How expressive those eyes were! The rendition of the portrait was truly masterful.

‘But why do you have Pushkin here?’

‘A great Russian poet,’ Shirota explained, then thought for a moment and added, ‘Also a sincere man. He died a beautiful death.’

‘There is nothing the Japanese like better than someone who died a beautiful death,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said with a smile. ‘But it’s too soon for us to die, gentlemen, there is a slew of work to be done. What’s our most urgent business?’

‘The corvette Horseman has ordered a hundred poods of salt beef and a hundred and fifty poods of rice,’ said Shirota, taking several sheets of paper out of a file as he started his report. ‘The first mate of the Cossack has requested a repair dock to be arranged in Yokosuka as soon as possible.’

‘These are matters that fall within the competence of the brokers,’ the consul explained to Fandorin. ‘The brokers are local traders who act as intermediaries and answer to me for the quality of deliveries and work performed. Carry on, Shirota.’

‘A note from the municipal police, asking if they should release the assistant engineer from the Boyan.’

‘Reply telling them to keep him until tomorrow. And first let him pay for the broken shop window. What else?’

‘A letter from the spinster Blagolepova,’ said the clerk, holding out an opened envelope to the consul. ‘She informs us that her father has died and asks us to issue a death certificate. She also petitions for the payment of a gratuity.’

Doronin frowned and took the letter.

‘“Passed away suddenly” … “completely alone now” … “do not leave me without support” … “at least something for the funeral” … Hmm, yes. There you are, Erast Petrovich. The routine but nonetheless sad side of a consul’s work. We care not only for the living, but also the dead subjects of the Russian Empire.’

He glanced at Fandorin with an expression that combined enquiry with guilt.

‘I realise perfectly well that this is infamous on my part … You have barely even arrived yet. But you know, it would be a great help to me if you could visit this Blagolepova. I still have to write a speech for the ceremony today, and it is dangerous to put off the inconsolable spinster until tomorrow. She could turn up here at any moment and give us a performance of the lamentations of Andromache … Would you go, eh? Shirota will show you the way. He can draw up everything that’s required and take any necessary action, you’ll only have to sign the death certificate.’

Fandorin, who was still contemplating the portrait of the hero who had been beheaded, was about to say: ‘Why, certainly’, but just at that moment the young man thought he saw the field marshal’s black-ink eyes glint as if they were alive – and not aimlessly, but to convey some kind of warning. Astonished, Erast Petrovich took a step forward and even leaned towards the picture. The miraculous effect instantly disappeared, leaving nothing but mere painted paper.

‘Why, certainly,’ said the titular counsellor, turning towards his superior. ‘This very moment. Only, with your permission, I shall change my outfit. It is entirely unsuitable for such a doleful mission. But who is this young lady?’

‘The daughter of Captain Blagolepov, who would appear to have departed this life.’ Vsevolod Vitalievich crossed himself, but rather perfunctorily, without any particular air of devoutness. ‘May heaven open its gates to him, as they say, although the recently deceased’s chances of gaining entry there are none too great. He was a pitiful individual, totally degenerate.’

‘He took to drinking?’

‘Worse. He took to smoking.’ Seeing his assistant’s bewilderment, the consul explained. ‘An opium addict. A rather common infirmity in the East. In actual fact, there is nothing so very terrible about smoking opium, any more than there is about drinking wine – it’s a matter of knowing where to draw the line. I myself like to smoke a pipe or two sometimes. I’ll teach you – if I see that you are a level-headed individual, unlike Blagolepov. But you know, I can remember him as a quite different man. He came here five years ago, on a contract with the Postal Steamship Company. Served as captain on a large packet boat, going backwards and forwards between here and Osaka. He bought a good house and sent for his wife and daughter from Vladivostok. Only his wife died soon afterwards, and in his grief, the captain took to the noxious weed. Little by little the habit consumed everything: his savings, his job, his house. He moved to the Native Town, and for foreigners that is regarded as the ultimate downfall. The captain’s daughter was really worn out, she was almost starving.’

‘If he lost his position, why do you still call him “captain”?’

‘By force of habit. Recently Blagolepov had been sailing a little steam launch, taking people on cruises round the bay. He didn’t sail any farther than Tokyo. He was his own captain, and able seaman, and stoker. One in three persons. At first the launch was his property, then he sold it. He worked for a salary, and for the tips. The Japanese were happy to hire him, it was a double curiosity for them: to go sailing in a miraculous boat with a chimney, and to have a gaijin dancing attendance on them. Blagolepov squandered everything he earned in the opium den. He was a hopeless case, and now he’s given up the ghost …’

Vsevolod Vitalievich took a few coins out of the safe.

‘Five dollars for her for the funeral, as prescribed by the regulations.’ He sighed a little and took another two silver discs out of his pocket. ‘And give her these, without a receipt. A ship’s chaplain will read the burial service, I’ll arrange for that. And tell Blagolepova that she should go back to Russia as soon as she’s buried him, this is no place for her. God forbid she could end up in a brothel. We’ll give her a third-class ticket to Vladivostok. Well, go on, then. My congratulations on starting your new job at the consulate.’

Before he left the room, Erast Petrovich could not resist glancing round at the portrait of Field Marshal Saigo once again. And once again he thought he glimpsed some kind of message in the hero’s gaze – either a warning or a threat.

Three ancient secrets:

Rising sun and dying moon,

And a hero’s eyes.





THE BLUE DIE DOES NOT LIKE BADGER




Semushi scratched his hump with a rustling sound and raise his hand to indicate that bets were no longer being taken. The players – there were seven of them – swayed back on their heels, all of them trying to appear impassive.

Three for ‘evens’ and four for ‘odds’, Tanuki noticed, and although he had not staked anything himself, he clenched his fists in agitation.

Semushi’s fleshy hand covered the little black cup, the dice clacked against its bamboo walls (that magical sound!) and the two little cubes, red and blue, came flying out on to the table.

The red one halted almost immediately with the 4 upwards, but the blue one clattered on to the very edge of the rice-straw mats.

‘Evens!’ thought Tanuki, and the next moment the dice stopped with the 2 upwards. Just as he thought! But if he’d placed a bet, the detestable little cube would have landed on 1 or 3. It had taken a dislike to Tanuki – that had been proved time and time again.

Three players received their winnings and four reached into their pockets to get out new coins. Not a single word, not a single exclamation. The rules of the ancient noble game prescribed absolute silence.

The hunchbacked host gestured to the waitress to pour sake for the players. The girl squatted down beside each one of them and filled their beakers. She squinted quickly at Semushi, saw that he was not looking, and quickly crawled across on her knees to Tanuki and poured some for him, although she was not supposed to.

Naturally, he did not thank her, and even deliberately turned his back. You had to be strict with women, unapproachable, that roused their spirit. If only the rolling dice could be managed that easily!

At the age of eighteen, Tanuki already knew that not many women could refuse him. That is, of course, you had to be able to sense whether a woman could be yours or not. Tanuki could sense this very clearly, it was a gift he had. If there was no chance, he didn’t even look at a woman. Why waste the time? But if – from a glance or the very slightest movement, or a smell – he could tell that there was a chance, Tanuki acted confidently and without any unnecessary fuss. The main thing was that he knew he was a good-looking man, he was handsome and knew how to inspire love.

Then what could he want, one might wonder, with this skinny servant girl? After all, he wasn’t hanging about here for his own amusement, he was on an important job. A matter of life and death, you might say, but still he hadn’t been able to refrain. The moment he saw the girl, he realised straight away that she was his kind, and without even pausing to think, he had applied all his skill in the way he acted with her: he put on a haughty face with a sultry expression in his eyes. When she came closer, he turned away; when she was at a distance, he kept his eyes fixed on her. Women notice that straight away. She had already tried to talk to him several times, but Tanuki maintained his mysterious silence. On no account must he open his own mouth too early.

It wasn’t so much that he was amused by the game with the servant girl – it was more that it helped to relieve the boredom of waiting. And then again, free sake was no bad thing either.

He had been hanging about in Semushi’s dive since yesterday morning. He had already blown almost all the money he had been given by Gonza, even though he only placed a bet every one and a half hours at the most. The accursed blue die had gobbled up all his coins, and now he only had two left: a small gold one and a large silver one, with a dragon.

Since yesterday morning he had neither eaten nor slept, only drunk sake. His belly ached. But his hara could endure it. Far worse was the fact that his head had started to spin – either from the cold or the sweetish smoke that came drifting from the corner where the opium smokers were lying and sitting: three Chinese, a red-haired sailor with his eyes closed and his mouth blissfully open, two rikshas.

Foreigners – akuma take them, let them all croak, but he felt sorry for the rikshas. They were both former samurai, that was obvious straight away. Their kind found it hardest of all to adapt to a new life. These were changed times, the samurai weren’t paid pensions any more – let them work, like everyone else. Only what if you didn’t know how to do anything except wave a sword about? But they’d even taken away the poor devils’ swords …

Tanuki guessed again – this time it would be ‘odds’, and it was! Two and 5!

But the moment he put up the silver yen, the dice betrayed him again. As usual, the red one settled first, on a 5. How he implored the blue one: give me odds, give me odds! And of course, it rolled over into a 3. His last coin but one had gone for nothing.

Snuffling in his fury, Tanuki put down his beaker, so that the servant could splash some sake into it, but this time the mischievous girl poured some for everyone except him – she was probably offended because he wasn’t looking at her.

It was stuffy in the room, the players were sitting there naked to the waist, wafting themselves with fans. If only he had a snake tattoo on his shoulder. Maybe not with three rings, like Obake’s, and not five, like Gonza’s – just one would do. Then the rotten girl would look at him differently. But never mind, if he carried out his assignment diligently, Gonza had promised him not only a fiery-red snake on his right shoulder, but even a chrysanthemum on each knee!

The very reason that Tanuki had been entrusted with this important mission was that he did not have a single decoration on his skin. He had not had any chance to earn them. But the hunchback would not have let in anyone with tattoos. That was why Fudo and Gundari had been put on the door, to prevent any Yakuza from other clans getting in. Fudo and Gundari told customers to roll up their sleeves and inspected their backs and chests. If they saw decorated skin, they threw the man out straight away.

Semushi was cautious, it was not easy to reach him. His ‘Rakuen’ gambling den had a double door: they let you in one at a time, then the first door was locked with some cunning kind of mechanism; on guard behind the inner door were Fudo and Gundari, two guards named in honour of the redoubtable buddhas who guarded the Gates of Heaven. The heavenly buddhas were truly terrible – with goggling eyes and tongues of flame instead of hair, but this pair were even worse. They were Okinawans, skilled in the art of killing with their bare hands.

There were another four guards in the hall as well, but there was no point in even thinking about them. Tanuki’s assignment was clear, he just had to let his own people in, and after that they would manage without him.

Bold Gonza had been given his nickname in honour of Gonza the Spear-Bearer from the famous puppet play – he was a really great fighter with a bamboo stick. Dankichi certainly deserved his nickname of Kusari, or ‘Chain’, too. He could knock the neck off a glass bottle with his chain, and the bottle wouldn’t even wobble. Then there was Obake the Phantom, a master of the nunchaku, and Ryu the Dragon, a former sumotori who weighed fifty kamme1 – he didn’t need any weapon at all.

Tanuki didn’t have anything with him either. First, they wouldn’t have let him in with a weapon. And secondly, he could do a lot with his hands and feet. He only looked inoffensive – short and round like a little badger (hence his nickname).2 And anyway, since the age of eight, he had practised the glorious art of jujitsu, to which, in time, he had added the Okinawan skill of fighting with the feet and legs. He could beat anyone – except, of course, for Ryu; not even a gaijin’s steam kuruma could shift him from the spot.

The plan thought up by the cunning Gonza had seemed quite simple at first.

Walk into the gambling den as if he wanted to play a bit. Wait until Fudo or Gundari, it didn’t matter which, left his post to answer a call of nature or for some other reason. Then go flying at the one who was still at the door, catch him with a good blow, open the bolt, give the prearranged shout and avoid getting killed in the few seconds before Gonza and the others came bursting in.

It was a rare thing for a novice to be given a first assignment that was so complicated and so responsible. In the normal way of things, Badger should have remained a novice for at least another three or four years, he was much too young for a fully fledged warrior. But the way things were nowadays, sticking to the old customs had become impossible. Fortune had turned her face away from the Chobei-gumi, the oldest and most glorious of all the Japanese gangs.

Who had not heard of the founder of the gang, the great Chobei, leader of the bandits of Edo, who defended the citizens against the depredations of the samurai? The life and death of the noble Yakuza were described in kabuki plays and depicted in Ukio-e engravings. The perfidious samurai Mizuno lured the hero, unarmed and alone, into his house by deception. But the Yakuza made short work of the entire band of his enemies with his bare hands, leaving only the base Mizuno alive. And he told him: ‘If I escaped alive from your trap, people would think that Chobei was too afraid for his own life. Kill me, here is my chest’. And with a hand trembling in fear Mizuno impaled Chobei on his spear. How could you possibly imagine a more exalted death?

Tanuki’s grandfather and his father had belonged to the Chobei-gumi. Since his early childhood, he had dreamed of growing up, joining the gang and making a great and respected career in it. First he would be a novice, then a warrior, then he would be promoted to the wakashu, the junior commanders, then to the wakagashira, the senior commanders, and at the age of about forty, if he survived, he would become the oyabun himself, a lord with the power of life and death over fifty valiant men, and they would start writing plays about his great feats for the kabuki theatre and the Bunraku puppet theatre.

But over the last year the clan had almost been wiped out. The enmity between two branches of the Yakuza lasts for centuries. The Tekiya, to which the Chobei-gumi belonged, were patrons of petty trade: they protected the street vendors and peddlers against the authorities, for which they received the gratitude prescribed by tradition. But the Bakuto made their living from games of chance. Those treacherous bloodsuckers never stayed anywhere for long, they flitted from place to place, leaving ruined families, tears and blood in their wake.

How well the Chobei-gumi had established themselves in the new city of Yokohama, which was positively seething with trade. But the predatory Bakuto had turned up, bent on seizing another clan’s territory. And how crafty they turned out to be! The hunchbacked owner of the ‘Rakuen’ didn’t act openly, with the two clans meeting in an honest fight and slashing away with their swords until victory is won. Semushi had proved to be a master at setting underhand traps. He informed against the oyabun to the authorities, then challenged the warriors to a battle, and there was a police ambush waiting there. The survivors had been picked off one by one, with ingenious patience. In a few short months the gang had lost nine-tenths of it membership. It was said that the hunchback had patrons in high places, that the top command of the police was actually in his pay – an entirely unprecedented disgrace!

And that was how it happened that at the age of eighteen, long before the normal time, Tanuki had moved up from the novices to become a fully fledged member of the Chobei-gumi. True, at the present time there were only five warriors left in the clan: the new oyabun Gonza, Dankichi with his chain, Obake with his nunchaku, the man-mountain Ryu and himself, Tanuki.

That wasn’t enough to keep watch over all the street trade in the city. But it was enough to get even with the hunchback.

So here was Badger, exhausted by the fatigue and the strain of it all, waiting for the second day for the moment to arrive when there would be only one guard left on the door. He couldn’t deal with two, he knew that very well. And he could only deal with one if he ran at him from behind.

Fudo and Gundari had gone away – to sleep, to eat, to rest – but the one who left was always immediately replaced by one of the men on duty in the gambling hall. Tanuki had sat there for an hour, ten hours, twenty, thirty – but all in vain.

Yesterday evening he had gone out for a short while and walked round the corner to where the others were hiding in an old shed. He had explained the reason for the delay.

Gonza told him: Go and wait. Sooner or later one man will be left on the door. And he gave Tanuki ten yen – to lose.

In the morning Tanuki had gone out again. His comrades were already tired, of course, but their determination to avenge themselves had not weakened. Gonza gave him another five coins and said: That’s all there is.

Now it was getting on for evening again, the entrance to the ‘Rakuen’ was still guarded as vigilantly as ever, and on top of everything else, Badger had only one final yen left.

Surely he wouldn’t have to leave without completing his assignment? Such disgrace! It would be better to die! To throw himself at both terrifying monsters and take his chances!

Semushi scratched his sweaty chest that was like a round-bellied barrel and jabbed a finger in Tanuki’s direction.

‘Hey, kid, have you moved in here to stay? You just keep on sitting there, but you don’t play much. Either play or get lost. Have you got any money?’

Badger nodded and took out his gold coin.

‘Then stake it!’

Tanuki gulped and put his yen down on the left of the line, where money was staked on ‘odds’. He changed his mind and moved it to ‘evens’. Then he changed his mind again and wanted to move it back, but it was too late. Semushi had raised his hand.

The dice rattled in the little cup. The red one landed on 2. The blue one rolled round in a semicircle on the straw mats and landed on 3.

Tanuki bit his lip to stop himself howling in despair. His life was ending, destroyed by a vicious little six-sided cube. Ending in vain, pointlessly.

Of course, he would try to overpower the guards. Drift quietly towards the door, hanging his head low. He would strike the long-armed Fudo first. If he could hit the mineh point on the chin and put his jaw out of joint, Fudo would lose all interest in fighting. But then he wouldn’t take Gundari by surprise, and that meant that Tanuki’s life would simply be thrown away. He wouldn’t be able to able to open the door, or let Gonza in …

Badger looked enviously at the smokers. They just carried on sleeping, and nothing mattered a damn to them. If he could just lie there like that, gazing up at the ceiling with a senseless smile, with a thread of saliva dangling out of his mouth and his fingers lazily kneading the fragrant little white ball …

He sighed and got to his feet decisively.

Suddenly Gundari opened the little window cut into the door. He glanced out and asked: ‘Who is it?’

Three people came into the room one after another. The first was a Japanese with a foreign haircut and clothes. He grimaced fastidiously while the guards searched him and didn’t look around. Then a white woman came in, or maybe a girl – you could never tell how old they were, twenty or forty. Terribly ugly: huge big arms and legs, hair a repulsive yellow colour and a nose like a raven’s beak. Tanuki had already seen her here yesterday.

Gundari searched the yellow-haired woman, while Fudo searched the third of the newcomers, an astoundingly tall, elderly gaijin. He looked round the den curiously: he looked at the players, the smokers, the low counter with the beakers and jugs. If not for his height, the gaijin would have looked like a human being: normal hair – black with venerable grey at the temples.

But when the longshanks came closer, Tanuki saw that he was a monster too. The gaijin’s eyes were an unnatural colour, the same colour as the abominable die that had ruined unfortunate Badger.

You do not toss it,

You are the one who is tossed

By the die of chance.

1 A measure of weight equal to 3.75 kilograms

2 In Japanese, ‘tanuki’ means badger