On the other side of the screen, Father Leo was more attentive than usual. Normally he listened with half an ear, sadly, sure that his penitents were lying, their sins unconfessed, their level of transgression great--but no greater than in other Settlements in Asia--and the penances he ordered were merely paid lip service, or totally disregarded.

"So, my child, you have sinned," he said in his most pleasant voice, his French heavily accented.

He was fifty-five, corpulent and bearded, a Portuguese Jesuit and Believer, ordained for twenty-seven of those years and largely content with the crumbs of life he judged God permitted him. "What sins have you committed this week?"

"I forgot to ask the Madonna for forgiveness in my prayers one night," she said with perfect calm, continuing her pact, "and had many bad thoughts and dreams, and was afraid, and forgot I was in God's hands..."

At Kanagawa, the day after that night-- once she had reasoned a way out of her catastrophe--she had knelt weeping before the small crucifix she always carried with her.

"Mother of God, there's no need to explain what has happened and how I've been sinned against grievously," she had sobbed, praying with all the fervor she could gather, "or that I've no one to turn to, or that I need your help desperately, or that obviously I can't tell anyone, even at Confession, I daren't openly confess what has happened. I daren't, it would destroy the only chance...

"So please, on my knees I beg you, may we have a pact: when I say at Confession: I forgot to ask the Blessed Mother for forgiveness in my prayers, it really means that I'm confessing and telling everything that I've told you and you've seen happen to me, together with the added little white lies I may, I will have to tell to protect myself. I beg forgiveness for asking, and beg your help, there's no one else I can turn to. I know you'll forgive me and know you'll understand because you are the Mother of God and a woman--you will understand and know you will absolve me..."

She could see Father Leo's profile behind the screen and smell the wine and garlic on his breath.

She sighed, thanked the Madonna with all her heart for helping her. "Forgive me Father for I have sinned."

"Those sins don't appear to be so bad, my child."

"Thank you, Father." She stifled a yawn, preparing to accept her usual, modest penance, then to cross herself and be absolved and to thank him and to leave. Tiffin at the Club with Malcolm and Seratard, siesta in my beautiful suite next to Malcolm's, dinner at the Russian Leg-- "What kind of bad thoughts did you have?"

"Oh, just being impatient," she said without thinking, "and not content to rest in God's Hands."

"Impatient about what?"

"Oh, with, impatient with my maid," she said flustered, caught unawares, "and that, that my fianc`e is not as fit, is not as well as I'd like him to be."

"Ah yes, the tai-pan, a fine young man but grandson of a great enemy of the True Church.

Has he told you about him? His grandfather, Dirk Struan?"

"Some stories, Father," she said, even more unsettled. "About my maid I was impat--"

"Malcolm Struan's a fine young man, not like his grandfather. You have asked him to become Catholic?"

The color went out of her face. "We have discussed it, yes. Such a, such a discussion is very delicate and, and of course may not be hurried."

"Yes, yes indeed." Father Leo had heard the intake of breath and sensed her anxiety. "And I agree it is terribly important, for him and for you." He frowned, his experience telling him the girl was hiding much from him--not that that would be unusual, he thought.

He was going to leave the matter there, then suddenly realized here was a God-given opportunity both to save a soul and have a worthwhile enterprise--life in Yokohama, unlike in his beloved and happy Portugal, was drab with little to do except fish and drink and eat and pray. His church was small and dingy, his flock sparce and ungodly, the Settlement a veritable prison. "Such discussion may be delicate but it must be pressed forward. His immortal soul is in absolute jeopardy. I will pray for your success. Your children will be brought up in Mother Church --of course he has already agreed?"

"Oh we have discussed it, too, Father," she said forcing lightness, "of course our children will be Catholic."

"If they are not, you cast them into the Eternal Pit. Your immortal soul will be at risk as well." He was glad to notice her shudder. Good, he thought, one blow for the Lord against the Antichrist. "This must be formally agreed to before marriage."

Her heart was racing now, her head aching with apprehension that she fought to keep out of her voice, believing absolutely in God and the Devil, Life Everlasting and Eternal Damnation.

"Thank you for your advice, Father."

"I will talk to Mr. Struan."

"Oh no, Father, please no," she said in sudden panic, "that would be, I suggest that would be very unwise."

"Unwise?" Again he pursed his lips, scratching absently at the lice that inhabited his beard and hair and ancient cassock, quickly concluding the possible coup of Struan's conversion was a prize worth waiting for and needed careful planning. "I will pray for God's guidance and that HE will guide you too. But don't forget you are a minor, as he is. I suppose, in the absence of your father, Monsieur Seratard would legally be considered your guardian. Before any marriage could be performed or consummated permission must be granted, and these and other matters settled for the protection of your soul." He beamed, more than a little satisfied. "Now, for penance, say ten Hail Marys and read the letters of Saint John twice by next Sunday--and continue to pray for God's guidance."

"Thank you Father." Thankfully she crossed herself, her palms sweaty, and bowed her head for his benediction.

"In nomine Patri et Spiritu sancti, absolvo tuum." He made the sign of the cross over her. "Pray for me, my child," he said with finality, ending the ritual, in his mind already beginning his dialogue with Malcolm Struan.

At dusk Phillip Tyrer was sitting cross-legged opposite Hiraga in a tiny private room in the equally tiny restaurant that was half hidden beside the house of the shoya, the village elder. They were the only customers, and this was the first real Japanese meal with a Japanese host Tyrer had experienced. He was hungry and ready to taste everything. "Thank you invite me, Nakama-san."

"It is my pleasure, Taira-san.

May l say that your Japanese accent is improving. Please eat."

On the low table between them the maid had set many small dishes with different foods, some hot some cold, on decorative lacquered trays.

Shoji screens, tatami mats, small sliding windows open to the descending darkness, oil lamps giving a pleasing light, flower arrangement in the nook. Adjoining was another private room and, outside these, the rest of the restaurant, not much more than a corridor with stools that opened to an alley that led to the street--charcoal cooking brazier, sak`e and beer barrels, a cook and three maids.

Hiraga and Tyrer wore loose-belted sleeping-lounging kimonos--Tyrer enjoying its unaccustomed comfort and Hiraga relieved to get out of the European clothes that he had worn all day.

Both had been bathed and massaged in the nearby bathhouse. "Please eat."

Awkwardly Tyrer used chopsticks. In Peking, the Embassy had advised against eating any Chinese foods: "... not unless you want to get poisoned, old boy. These buggers really eat dog, drink snake's bile, spoon up insects, anything, and have an astounding but universal belief, If its back faces heaven you can eat it! Ugh!"

Hiraga corrected the way to hold the sticks. "There."

"Thank you, Nakama-san, very difficult." Tyrer laughed. "Will fat not get eating theses."