from the poopdeck, shielding her head with a crimson sunshade, her informal white cotton kimono casually belted.
“Toranaga-sama says you look very rested, Anjin-san. The water’s invigoration.”
“Invigorating,” he said, correcting her politely. “Yes.”
“Ah, thank you—invigorating. He says please swim then.”
Toranaga was leaning carelessly against the gunwale, wiping the water out of his ears with a small towel, and when his left ear would not clear, he hung his head over and hopped on his left heel until it did. Blackthorne saw that Toranaga was very muscular and very taut, apart from his belly. Ill at ease, very conscious of Mariko, he stripped off his shirt and his codpiece and trousers until he was equally naked.
“Lord Toranaga asks if all Englishmen are as hairy as you? The hair so fair?”
“Some are,” he said.
“We—our men don’t have hair on their chests or arms like you do. Not very much. He says you’ve a very good build.”
“So has he. Please thank him.” Blackthorne walked away from her to the head of the gangplank, aware of her and the young woman, Fujiko, who was kneeling on the poop under a yellow parasol, a maid beside her, also watching him. Then, unable to contain his dignity enough to walk naked all the way down to the sea, he dived over the side into the pale blue water. It was a fine dive and the sea chill reached into him exhilaratingly. The sandy bottom was three fathoms down, seaweed waving, multitudes of fish unfrightened by the swimmers. Near the seabed his plummeting stopped and he twisted and played with the fish, then surfaced and began a seemingly lazy, easy, but very fast overarm stroke for the shore that Alban Caradoc had taught him.
The small bay was desolate: many rocks, a tiny pebbled shore, and no sign of life. Mountains climbed a thousand feet to a blue, measureless sky.
He lay on a rock sunning himself. Four samurai had swum with him and were not far away. They smiled and waved. Later he swam back, and they followed. Toranaga was still watching him.
He came up on deck. His clothes were gone. Fujiko and Mariko and two maids were still there. One of the maids bowed and offered him a ridiculously small towel, which he took and began to dry himself with, turning uneasily into the gunwale.
I order you to be at ease, he told himself. You’re at ease naked in a locked room with Felicity, aren’t you? It’s only in public when women are around—when she’s around—that you’re embarrassed. Why? They don’t notice nakedness and that’s totally sensible. You’re in Japan. You’re to do as they do. You will be like them and act like a king.
“Lord Toranaga says you swim very well. Would you teach him that stroke?” Mariko was saying.
“I’d be glad to,” he said and forced himself to turn around and lean as Toranaga was leaning. Mariko was smiling up at him—looking so pretty, he thought.
“The way you dived into the sea. We’ve—we’ve never seen that before. We always jump. He wants to learn how to do that.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
“I can teach him—at least, I can try.”
A maid was holding a cotton kimono for Blackthorne so, gratefully, he slipped it on, tying it with the belt. Now, completely relaxed, he explained how to dive, how to tuck your head between your arms and spring up and out but to beware of belly flopping.
“It’s best to start from the foot of the gangway and sort of fall in head first to begin with, without jumping or running. That’s the way we teach children.”
Toranaga listened and asked questions and then, when he was satisfied, he said through Mariko, “Good. I think I understand.” He walked to the head of the gangway. Before Blackthorne could stop him, Toranaga had launched himself toward the water, fifteen feet below. The belly flop was vicious. No one laughed. Toranaga spluttered back to the deck and tried again. Again he landed flat. Other samurai were equally unsuccessful.
“It’s not easy,” Blackthorne said. “It took me a long time to learn. Give it a rest and we’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Lord Toranaga says, ‘Tomorrow is tomorrow. Today I will learn how to dive.’?”
Blackthorne put his kimono aside and demonstrated again. Samurai aped him. Again they failed. So did Toranaga. Six times.
After another demonstration dive Blackthorne scrambled onto the foot of the gangplank and saw Mariko among them, nude, readying to launch herself into space. Her body was exquisite, the bandage on her upper arm fresh. “Wait, Mariko-san! Better to try from here. The first time.”
“Very well, Anjin-san.”
She walked down to him, the tiny crucifix enhancing her nudity. He showed her how to bend and to fall forward into the sea, catching her by the waist to turn her over so that her head went in first.
Then Toranaga tried near the waterline and was moderately successful. Mariko tried again and the touch of her skin warmed Blackthorne and he clowned momentarily and fell into the water, directing them from there until he had cooled off. Then he ran up to the deck and stood on the gunwale and showed them a deadman’s dive, which he thought might be easier, knowing that it was vital for Toranaga to succeed. “But you’ve got to keep rigid,
Several samurai came forward but Toranaga waved them aside. He held up his arms stiffly, his backbone straight. His chest and loins were scarlet from the belly flops. Then he let himself fall forward as Blackthorne had shown. His head went into the water first and his legs tumbled over him, but it was a dive and the first successful dive of any of them and a roar of approval greeted him when he surfaced. He did it again, this time better. Other men followed, some successful, others not. Then Mariko tried.
Blackthorne saw the taut little breasts and tiny waist, flat stomach and curving legs. A flicker of pain went across her face as she lifted her arms above her head. But she held herself like an arrow and fell bravely outward. She speared the water cleanly. Almost no one except him noticed.
“That was a fine dive. Really fine,” he said, giving her a hand to lift her easily out of the water onto the gangway platform. “You should stop now. You might open up the cut on your arm.”
“Yes, thank you, Anjin-san.” She stood beside him, barely reaching his shoulder, very pleased with herself. “That’s a rare sensation, the falling outward and the having to stay stiff, and most of all, the having to dominate your fear. Yes, that was a very rare sensation indeed.” She walked up the companionway and put on the kimono that the maid held out for her. Then, drying her face delicately, she went below.
Christ Jesus, that’s much woman, he thought.
That sunset Toranaga sent for Blackthorne. He was sitting on the poopdeck on clean futons near a small charcoal brazier upon which small pieces of aromatic wood were smoking. They were used to perfume the air and keep away the dusk gnats and mosquitoes. His kimono was pressed and neat, and the huge, winglike shoulders of the starched overmantle gave him a formidable presence. Yabu, too, was formally dressed, and Mariko. Fujiko was also there. Twenty samurai sat silently on guard. Flares were set into stands and the galley still swung calmly at anchor in the bay.
“Sake, Anjin-san?”
“
“Lord Toranaga says we’re staying here tonight. Tomorrow we arrive at Anjiro. He would like to hear more about your country and the world outside.”
“Of course. What would he like to know? It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Blackthorne settled himself comfortably, aware of her femininity. Too aware. Strange, I’m more conscious of her now that she’s clothed than when she wore nothing.
“Yes, very. Soon it will be humid, Anjin-san. Summer is not a good time.” She told Toranaga what she had said. “My Master says to tell you that Yedo is marshy. The mosquitoes are bad in summer, but spring and autumn are beautiful—yes, truly the birth and the dying seasons of the year are beautiful.”
