The party was that evening. The embassy, Campbell-Ffinch, and Mr. K’ing had been invited. We had debated asking Fu Ying, but Barker reasoned she would distract everyone. The tearoom had been closed to its usual customers, although one or two had worked their way into the far corners of the room and would not be moved. There were crates of bottles with Chinese lettering, containing what I assumed was plum wine. All the staff was in the steaming kitchen, preparing course by course: noodles with prawns, sea snail dumplings, beef with peppers, stuffed fish courtesy of Billingsgate Fish Market, and even more exotic dishes such as shark’s fin soup, and an actual bear’s paw. However, by far the one that drew everyone’s attention was the fugu, the poisonous puffer fish.
Ho was in the kitchen with a small slab of translucent fillet and an assortment of knives, all on a metal-covered counter, since the regular wooden cutting boards might be poisoned by the slightest touch of the flesh. Between the heat in the kitchen and the duty he was performing, Ho’s forehead was covered in sweat and a member of the kitchen staff was wiping it constantly with a cloth. The puffer fish was sliced paper thin. He set aside the knife, picked up a second one, and excised the flesh around it. He set that knife aside, picked up a third, and sliced the meat on either side. A fourth knife was brought out and the rest of the fillet sliced into thin strips. The knives were thrown into a bucket full of brine. Ho would not risk contaminating another fillet. Finally, he ran water over the entire fish.
“I trust you know what you are doing,” I said.
“As do I. Everyone, clear the kitchen, except for the chefs!”
We were herded out. As we were, I noticed a case of bottles smaller than the plum wine.
“What are these?” I asked.
“Sake,” Barker replied. “Japanese rice wine. It’s rather potent. Lord Diosy was able to provide it for us. Take no more than a cupful. I want your head clear tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The tables had actually been polished and the floor mopped. I doubted such a thing had ever happened since the tearoom opened. Serviettes were set out, as well as chopsticks. There were little ceramic dishes at each place setting, since it was considered ill manners to allow the tips of the chopsticks to touch the table.
Paper lanterns covered in gold kanji were hung from the ceiling, and a few posters placed on the wall. This was an attempt by Ho to liven the dark room. Closer to the time of the arrival of the embassy, a small oil lamp was lit on each table.
Barker leaned in and spoke. “The menu will be a mixture of Chinese and Japanese. There is a dish which contains pork and chicken called sukiyaki, and rice and raw fish wrapped in seaweed. Ho has done his best. The embassy may criticize the menu, but I’m sure they will be too well-mannered to voice it in front of us.”
A quarter hour later, the embassy delegation arrived. There was a great deal of bowing and niceties given in three languages. Cyrus Barker stood and welcomed the guests in their own tongue. Then Ho spoke, translated by Barker.
Afterward, the Guv came over to where I stood, and murmured to me, just loudly enough for me to hear, “K’ing has not arrived.”
“He was the worse for wear when we saw him last,” I said. “Perhaps he is still somewhere in a stupor.”
“It’s not like him to miss a business opportunity.”
The general rose and bowed, and the crowd grew quiet, waiting for his speech, which he gave in English.
“The embassy appreciates your generosity,” he began. “We understand to what trouble you have gone in order to make us comfortable. I fear some of us have found the food in London to be unpalatable. We shall adapt to the cookery here eventually, I am sure, but this meal is a fine treat to us. The embassy thanks you.”
The door from the tunnel squeaked open and Trelawney Campbell-Ffinch sauntered in, the last to arrive. He made a face at the odor of the food in the room. No doubt he would have preferred boiled mutton and roasted potatoes.
The rest of the speech concerned the need for countries to come together for the support of both civilizations. Rather tactlessly, China was not mentioned. It was a rousing speech, but did not elicit a good level of enthusiasm from the audience. However, the general was satisfied, and as he returned to his seat, he was encouraged by his countrymen.
Campbell-Ffinch rose without permission from the host, and gave a short speech himself. The British government was honored to have the embassy here, and they looked forward to a long and profitable relationship. The Foreign Office was pleased. It was as if Campbell-Ffinch had set up the event himself, as a representative of the English government, and Her Majesty. For all the embassy knew, Campbell-Ffinch had gone into the kitchen and prepared the meal himself, after setting up the tables. He sat down with a smug expression, and I waited to see what would happen next.
The dishes were brought in from the kitchen. Two tables had been put together for the embassy guests, the ministers seated on one side and the bodyguards on the other. All of them looked restless. The ministers had been dragged to a social event for several hours, which they had rather spent meeting with contractors, arms dealers, and ship makers. The bodyguards, now reduced to three, were looking nervously about at the Chinese waiters, as though expecting an attack. There were half a dozen poisoned knives in the kitchen. All a waiter had to do was to stab someone and all political and diplomatic hell would break loose.
Barker sat, as usual, self-contained. He glanced about the room, taking everything in: the expression on Mononobe’s face, the unease of the guards, Campbell-Ffinch’s self-satisfied expression, and Ho glowering in the kitchen entrance.
The waiters moved about, replacing empty bottles of sake. They wore white gloves and immaculate matching jackets. To a man they presented an expressionless mask, as if they had no feelings or concerns about anything. One would not know that they were working in concert, and straining to hear every word said on one side of the room.
Things were going well, and then suddenly, they weren’t. One of the waiters served new plates to the Japanese delegation and returned. His face was pale. Barker put a hand out to stop him, but he passed by, as if he hadn’t seen it.
A minute later, Ho came to the doorway. His face was red, almost volcanic. Barker stood quickly and put an arm across the doorway, barring him from coming in.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“They have insulted my cooking. They said the beef and peppers were too dry.”
I rose and stood beside Barker, hoping to defuse the situation before it could escalate.
“Who said it?” the Guv asked.
“One of the bodyguards!”
Barker smote him on the chest, more in bonhomie than anything else.
“Why should you care what a bodyguard thinks? They are uneducated oafs. They have no knowledge of cuisine and very little else except fighting. None of the ministers have said anything. I’m sure they found nothing to complain about.”
“I shall give them something to complain of. I shall remove the poisoned fugu from the dustbin and wipe the fish with it!”
Barker still had his arm across the doorway. Ho was doing his best to move beyond it, muttering a string of Chinese oaths under his breath.
“You know, if you put the poison in the fugu, you’ll cause an international incident.”
“I don’t care,” Ho said. “My skills have been impugned. I believe I shall stop him and demand a duel.”
“Come now,” I said. “You don’t need to fight over something as unimportant as the remark of a hireling. Why don’t you bring out the fugu tray?”
Ho turned his anger my way. “As you said, why should I pay attention to something as unimportant as the remark of a hireling?” he asked.
I wasn’t going to fall for that one. “Because I know your beef and peppers is sublime, the closest thing to perfection on the planet.”
Ho’s brow was set, but he wheeled about and went back into the kitchen.
Barker nodded. “Very good, Thomas.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Everything was fine again. A few minutes later Ho brought out the fugu, on a large silver salver. The flesh had been layered to look like an imperial dragon, the slivers forming scales. Salmon and a few other fish were added to give the beast color. What a beautiful engine of death it was.
“You must try some when it comes to our table, lad.”
“What? You’ve got to be joking. I don’t know their culture. I don’t want to know. I’m not important to anything happening here. Why should I risk poisoning myself?”
I wasn’t going to add that I was affianced, having already played that card several times.
Barker sighed, much as a headmaster over a slow student. “The embassy would be quite suspicious if you refused the dish, and Ho would be insulted again.”
“Fine, sir,” I said. “I apologize.”
It seemed like only seconds until the tray was presented to us. Barker helped himself to a large helping. I took two slices. Then Barker put half of his on my plate. No one ever said he wasn’t cunning.
I put the first piece in my mouth. The fact that I had already made a will was a small comfort. Twenty-six was not a bad age at which to die. I would look better in the coffin than most, like I had just fallen into a quiet sleep, once the look of horror had been expunged from my face.
The fugu was moist and completely tasteless. No one would eat it for its flavor. Its only allure was that one might die from it. Apparently, several did every year. Even famous people in that far-off land died, officials and Kabuki actors. In fact, the meal was only for the wealthy. The poor never saw it. It was a game of edible roulette for the pampered rich.
My death would have served the Guv right. I had been shot at, stabbed, beaten, and nearly hung. It would be ironic if I died from a sliver of fish.
Needless to say, I lived. All of us did. Nobody fell to the floor, writhing in agony. I suspected that some of us were disappointed. Nothing makes one feel as totally alive as one’s neighbor keeling over dead.
That was enough excitement for one night, I told myself. Unfortunately, the evening had only begun. The waiters had been milling about in the back of the room, growing increasingly angry about the slight to Ho, his restaurant, and by association, to themselves.
Finally, one of them came to the table with another salver containing a pot of tea and some cups. He bowed several times and attempted to place the teapot on the table. Of course, the Japanese were drinking sake. They had no need for tea. In fact, bringing the tea to the table inferred that they were being drunken bores. They did not appreciate the offer.
Then the waiter attempted to insist, placing a cup by one of the bodyguards’ elbows. He tried to pour the tea, but it went down the guest’s arm. Of course, it was steaming hot. The fellow jumped up and tried to swing his fist at the waiter, which only brought the compatriots from the back of the silent room. For a moment, I thought the entire restaurant was about to break out in a brawl.
“Silence!” Barker growled in a booming voice.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He made his way to the delegates’ table, then put his hand on the waiter’s shoulder.
“Sir,” he said gravely. “You are sacked.”
The young man slunk off into the kitchen with his head down.
Barker bowed to the people at the table.
“Good sirs, I hope you won’t hold this man’s clumsiness against us or this restaurant. You are our honored guests and there are still courses to come. You have not had the bear paw yet, which was brought here at great expense.”
Mononobe rose and bowed as well. “You must forgive our behavior, sir. These men are young and hotheaded. It was merely an unfortunate accident.”
He sat. Beside him, Campbell-Ffinch looked ready to have an apoplexy. He might have a patch of gray in his hair by the morning.
Barker went into the kitchen, as composed as if he had been taking a walk in Hyde Park. I followed behind. We met a seething Ho.
“You have no right to sack one of my staff!” he shouted.
“That is correct. I am a guest here, like the embassy, and have nothing to do with the running of this establishment. I would suggest you give the young and brave fellow the rest of the night off, and possibly a bonus. I shall pay it, if you wish.”
“I will pay it! As if I could not pay my own staff!”
“We shall get back to our table. I should point out that your waiters congregating in the back of the room means they aren’t listening in on the conversations, which is the real purpose of this party.”
Ho slapped his forehead and raked his hand down his face. Then he marched out of the kitchen.
“Come, lad,” my employer said. “I hope there is still some fugu left.”