Shōgun полностью

“Absolutely.” Blackthorne beamed. “The Good Lord protect me from either, and from not giving gratification. Please ask Kiku-san to buy me three—just in case!”

Next he was shown the hiro-gumbi, Weary Armaments, thin dried stalks of a plant that, when soaked and wrapped around the Peerless Part, swell up and make it appear strong. Then there were all kinds of potents—potents to excite or increase excitement—and all kinds of salves—salves to moisten, to swell, to strengthen.

“Never to weaken?” he asked, to more hilarity.

“Oh no, Anjin-san, that would be unearthly!”

Then Kiku laid out other rings for the man to wear, ivory or elastic or silken rings with nodules or bristles or ribbons or attachments and appendages of every kind, made of ivory or horsehair or seeds or even tiny bells.

“Kiku-san says almost any of these will turn the shyest lady wanton.”

Oh God, how I would like thee wanton, he thought. “But these’re only for the man to wear, neh?” he asked.

“The more excited the lady is, the more the man’s enjoyment, neh?” Mariko was saying. “Of course, giving pleasure to the woman is equally the man’s duty, isn’t it, and with one of these, if, unhappily, he’s small or weak or old or tired, he can still pleasure her with honor.”

“You’ve used them, Mariko-san?”

“No, Anjin-san, I’ve never seen them before. These are . . . wives are not for pleasure but for childbearing and for looking after the house and the home.”

“Wives don’t expect to be pleasured?”

“No. It would not be usual. That is for the Ladies of the Willow World.” Mariko fanned herself and explained to Kiku what had been said. “She says, surely it’s the same in your world? That the man’s duty is to pleasure the lady as it is her duty to pleasure him?”

“Please tell her, so sorry, but it’s not the same, just about the opposite.”

“She says that is very bad. Saké?”

“Please tell her we’re taught to be ashamed of our bodies and pillowing and nakedness and . . . and all sorts of stupidities. It’s only being here that’s made me realize it. Now that I’m a little civilized I know better.”

Mariko translated. He drained his cup. It was refilled immediately by Kiku, who leaned over and held her long sleeve with her left hand so that it would not touch the low lacquered table as she poured with her right.

“Domo.”

“Do itashimashite, Anjin-san.”

“Kiku-san says we should all be honored that you say such things. I agree, Anjin-san. You make me feel very proud. I was very proud of you today. But surely it’s not as bad as you say.”

“It’s worse. It’s difficult to understand, let alone explain, if you’ve never been there or weren’t brought up there. You see—in truth . . .” Blackthorne saw them watching him, waiting patiently, multihued, so lovely and clean, the room so stark and uncluttered and tranquil. All at once his mind began to contrast it with the warm, friendly stench of his English home, rushes on the earth floor, smoke from the open brick fire rising to the roof hole—only three of the new fireplaces with chimneys in his whole village, and those only for the very wealthy. Two small bedrooms and then the one large untidy room of the cottage for eating, living, cooking, and talking. You walked into the cottage in your seaboots, summer or winter, mud unnoticed, dung unnoticed, and sat on a chair or bench, the oak table cluttered like the room, three or four dogs and the two children—his son and his dead brother Arthur’s girl—climbing and falling and playing higgledy piggledy, Felicity cooking, her long dress trailing in the rushes and dirt, the skivvy maid sniffing and getting in the way and Mary, Arthur’s widow, coughing in the next room he’d built for her, near death as always, but never dying.

Felicity. Dear Felicity. A bath once a month perhaps, and then in summer, very private, in the copper tub, but washing her face and hands and feet every day, always hidden to the neck and wrists, swathed in layers of heavy woolens all year long that were unwashed for months or years, reeking like everyone, lice-infested like everyone, scratching like everyone.

And all the other stupid beliefs and superstitions, that cleanliness could kill, open windows could kill, water could kill and encourage flux or bring in the plague, that lice and fleas and flies and dirt and disease were God’s punishments for sins on earth.

Fleas, flies, and fresh rushes every spring, but every day to church and twice on Sundays to hear the Word pounded into you: Nothing matters, only God and salvation.