Shōgun полностью

"They're all in the War Manual. Perhaps tomorrow, Mariko-san." He wanted time to examine his blinding new thought about Osaka Castle and that battle, and he was tired of talking, tired of being cross-questioned, but most of all he wanted to eat.

"Please, Anjin-san, would you tell it again, just once, for my husband?"

He heard the careful pleading under her voice so he relented. "Of course. Which do you think he'd like?"

"The one in the Netherlands. Near 'Zeeland'-is that how you pronounce it?"

"Yes," he said.

So he began to tell the story of this battle which was like almost every other battle in which men died, most of the time because of the mistakes and stupidity of the officers in command.

"My husband says it's not so here, Anjin-san. Here the commanding officers have to be very good or they die very quickly."

"Of course, my criticisms applied to European leaders only."

"Buntaro-sama says he will tell you about our wars and our leaders, particularly the Lord Taikō, over the days. A fair exchange for your information," she said noncommittally.

"Domo." Blackthorne bowed slightly, feeling Buntaro's eyes grind into him.

What do you really want from me, you son of a bitch?

Dinner was a disaster. For everyone.

Even before they had left the garden to go to the veranda to eat, the day had become ill-omened.

"Excuse me, Anjin-san, but what's that?" Mariko pointed. "Over there. My husband asks, what's that?"

"Where? Oh, there! That's a pheasant," Blackthorne said. "Lord Toranaga sent it to me, along with a hare. We're having that for dinner, English-style-at least I am, though there'd be enough for everyone."

"Thank you, but… we, my husband and I, we don't eat meat. But why is the pheasant hanging there? In this heat, shouldn't it be put away and prepared?"

"That's the way you prepare pheasant. You hang it to mature the meat."

"What? Just like that? Excuse me, Anjin-san," she said, flustered, "so sorry. But it'll go rotten quickly. It still has its feathers and it's not been… cleaned."

"Pheasant meat's dry, Mariko-san, so you hang it for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks, depending on the weather. Then you pluck it, clean it, and cook it."

"You-you leave it in the air? To rot? Just like-"

"Nan ja?" Buntaro asked impatiently.

She spoke to him apologetically and he sucked in his breath, then got up and peered at it and prodded it. A few flies buzzed, then settled back again. Hesitantly Fujiko spoke to Buntaro and he flushed.

"Your consort said you ordered that no one was to touch it but you?" Mariko asked.

"Yes. Don't you hang game here? Not everyone's Buddhist."

"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 bean curds-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 gravysoup 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."