""I will not get fat eating with these,"

Hiraga said, not yet weary of correcting Tyrer's Japanese for he had found he enjoyed teaching him. Tyrer was an apt pupil with a remarkable memory and happy disposition--and very important for himself, a continual fountain of information.

"Ah, sorry, I won't get fat eating with these. What is, sorry, what are these foods?"

"This is what we call tempura, fish fried in batter."

"So sorry, what is "batter"?"

Tyrer listened attentively, missing many of the words but understanding the gist, just as he knew the other man would miss English words. We speak more English than Japanese, he thought wryly, but never mind. Nakama's a great teacher and we seem to have made an accommodation which is fine--without him I wouldn't be here, probably not alive, either, and would certainly never have all the face I gained with Marlowe, Pallidar and Wee Willie Winkie, let alone the invaluable intelligence he is supplying. Tyrer smiled.

It pleased him to be able to think of Sir William now by his nickname when only a few days ago he had been petrified of him.

"Oh, now I understand. Batter! We also use batter."

"This food to your liking, Taira-san?"

Hiraga asked, switching to English.

"Yes, thank you." Whenever he could Tyrer would answer in Japanese. "Thank for everything, massage, bath, now caml, sorry, now calm and happy."

Some of the food he found exciting, tempura and yakitori, bite-sized pieces of chicken that were grilled with a sweet and salty sauce. Anago turned out to be grilled eel with a warm sweet-sour sauce he particularly liked.

Sushi, slivers of various raw fish of different colors and textures on a ball of rice he found difficult to swallow at first, but when dipped in a mysterious salty sauce called soy or soya they became palatable. After all, he thought, Father did advise me to try everything: "My son, since you insist on this dramatic idea of becoming a Japanese interpreter, then I advise you to hurl yourself into their way of life and foods and so on--without forgetting you're an English gentleman with obligations, a duty to the Crown, the Empire and to God..."

Wonder what the Old Man would say about Fujiko. She's certainly part of their way of life. Tyrer beamed suddenly and pointed with a chopstick, "What's this?"

"Oh sorry, Taira-san it's bad manners point with the thin end of a chopstick.

Please use the other end. This is wasabeh."

Before Hiraga could stop him, Tyrer had picked up the nodule of green paste and eaten it. At once his sinuses caught fire and he gasped, eyes watering, almost blinded. In time the conflagration passed, leaving him panting. "My Go'd," Hiraga said, copying Tyrer and trying not to laugh, "Wasabeh do not eat, just put 'ritt'er--sorry, word very hard for me--just put some in the soy to make spicy."

"My mistake." Tyrer gasped, momentarily strangled. "My God, that's lethal, worse than chilli! Next time I careful."

"You very good for man who begin, Taira-san.

And you 'rearn Japanese o'rr so quick, very good."

"Domo, Nakama-san, domo." Same with you in English. Pleased to be complimented, Tyrer concentrated on being more deft. The next morsel he tried was tako, sliced octopus tentacle. It tasted like slimy rubber even with a touch of soy and wasabeh. "This is very tasty, I like this very much."

I'm starving, he was thinking. I'd like triples of the chicken, another bowl of rice, twenty more of the tempura prawns, and Hiraga eats like a baby. Never mind, I'm being entertained by a samurai, it's not a week since he helped get us out of the Yedo Legation without an international incident, not six weeks since I first met Andr`e, yet I can already talk a little Japanese, already know more about their customs than most traders who have been here since the beginning.

If I can keep this up I'll be gazetted as an official interpreter in a few months and in line for the official salary: Four hundred pounds a year! Hooray, or Banzai as a Japanese would say. At the present rate of exchange I can easily afford another pony but before that...

His heart quickened.

Before that I'll buy Fujiko's contract.

Nakama's promised to help so I'll have no trouble. He promised. Perhaps we'll begin tonight-- thank God, Fujiko's back from visiting her grandmother. I suppose I really shouldn't on a Sunday, but never mind. Karma.

He sighed. Between Andr`e and Nakama he had discovered that word and the marvelous way it became a panacea for all happenings, good or bad, over which you had no control. "Karma!"

"What, Taira-san?"

"Nothing. Food's good."

"Food's good," Hiraga mimicked him.

"Good, thank you, I p'reased." He called for more beer and sak`e. The shoji slid back and the drinks appeared on a tray carried by a merry-faced maid who beamed at Hiraga, smiled shyly at Tyrer. With hardly a thought, Hiraga caressed her rump. "How would you like it Over the Mountain?"

"Eeee, you naughty man! Over Mountain?

Oh no, not me, nor Under, but I might Play the Flute for a gold oban!"

They both laughed at the sally--one gold oban being outrageously expensive, the fee a courtesan of the first class might charge for such a service. The maid poured the sak`e, filled Tyrer's mug and left.

"What she say, Nakama-san?"

He smiled. "So sorry, difficu't exp'rain, not words enough yet. Just joke, man-woman joke, you understand?"

"Wakarimasu. Church today, you like?" With Sir William's approval and the avid consent of the Reverend Michaelmas Tweet he had sneaked Hiraga up to the minstrel's gallery.

Dressed in his new Western clothes, made to order by the Chinese tailor with his usual unbelievable speed, and beaver top hat, Hiraga had passed as Eurasian and was hardly noticed. Except by Jamie McFay who had winked discreetly.

"Church good, and your exp'rain too,"

Hiraga said, but inside he was still trying to sift Tyrer's information into perspective, along with the astonishing sight of all these grown men, and two revolting-looking women, singing in unison, getting up, sitting down, solemnly droning out prayers, bowing their heads to their very strange God who, after the service, Tyrer had explained was actually three people, the Father, his Son who was crucified like a common criminal, and a kami.

"So ka?"' Hiraga had said perplexed.

"So, Taira-san, woman name Madonna who not God has son God--but she not God--and she pi'rrow with kami who not God but like hatomoto of God with wing who not husband, husband who o'rso not God, but father is, so father of her son is grandfather, neh?"' "No, there was no pillowing. You see..."

Again he listened, eventually pretended to understand so he could question Taira about the enmity of the two churches for he had noticed that Ori's woman was not present and had asked why. Two churches, equally powerful, constantly at war! And Ori wanted me to give up. Baka!

And when, head aching from concentration, he had discovered the reason for the schism--and the resulting scale of hatred and mass killings and universal wars--he knew for certain in some areas gai-jin were totally mad, but oh so vulnerable: the split was only because an old bonze called 'Ruther, three hundred odd years before, had decided on a different interpretation of some minor point of dogma that had been invented by another bonze fourteen or fifteen centuries before him. This man, clearly another lunatic, had decreed, amongst other things, that poverty was to be sought, and no pillowing with women would, after death, send you forever to somewhere called Heaven, where there was no sak`e, no food and no women, and you were a bird.

Barbarians are beyond belief. Who could want to go to such a place? Any one could see at once that old bonze was like any other ambitious, disgruntled fool who, after a lifetime of pretending to be chaste, just wanted to have a wife or concubine openly like any ordinary sensible bonze or person.