Brother Fish (113 page)

She explained that she'd already made several donations to the Tao to no avail, and hoped a different God would produce better results. She complained that her husband was treated like a yellow dog working on her father's sampan, carrying cargo back and forth from the junks and ships on Victoria Harbour. The women joined in, laughing at the vicissitudes of life and at a woman's difficult lot, each with her own sad story to tell.

Po Lin Temple sparked Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan's interest from this first introduction to it. She later bought a book that contained several articles on the major points of interest in and around Hong Kong Island. In it she discovered an article about Lantau Island and the seemingly contradictory Buddhist monastery, in the grounds of which stands the Taoist temple.

The peasant women with whom she'd shared lunch had spoken in reverential tones about Wang Po. He was considered the greatest seer throughout all of China, who, in the women's own words, ‘no longer counts the years but those who count them for him claim he has passed his 110th year by the Chinese Lunar calendar.' She had at first thought this might be women's talk, but an article authored by a professor of anthropology at Cambridge confirmed Wang Po's venerable status, and quoted his age as being well beyond a hundred years. The article went on to say that he had been given the status of an ‘immortal' and that it was extremely difficult to gain an audience with him even though his faculties, with the exception of his failing eyesight, were at the time of writing perfectly intact. The author then suggested that those who held the monastery purse strings could, in the event of a donation of suitable largesse, bring an audience about. She looked at the front of the book to see when it had been printed, and discovered it was only two years earlier.

The concept of two religions living in apparent harmony side by side intrigued her – she couldn't imagine Protestants and Catholics sharing a cathedral, or Muslims and Christians a mosque. The venerated seer was said to wear both the rich purple robe of a Buddhist abbot and the black hat of a Taoist pope. She decided to visit the island, and the following morning rose early and took the tram down from the Peak, then the ferry to Silvermine Bay, from where she rode a rattletrap bus as far as it would take her and joined the other passengers, a throng of peasants, to climb a steep path a further mile up to the monastery.

On a sudden whim she purchased some joss sticks. As she belonged to neither faith, she felt she should be even-handed and burned them at the feet of both the statue of Lao Tzu, the ‘source' of Taoism, and Buddha, asking for the safety of her daughter. It was a simple, heartfelt gesture – more to give a purpose to the journey than from conviction. But that night as she lay in bed an idea began to form that seemed at first impossible but was nevertheless enormously compelling. She rose at dawn and ate a little rice and, without waking the
amah
, slipped out of the flat. The first tram left the Peak again at five a.m., having made the first trip of the day up to bring the gardeners, cleaners and other humble folk that arrived each day to attend to the needs of the wealthy. She took the ferry to Silvermine Bay, then once again the old bus, which creaked and bumped and farted blue smoke and finally climbed the last mile, to be among the first of the day's pilgrims to reach the monastery.

Here she bought a red-and-gold packet adorned with the ripe peach of prosperity, and enclosed what by the standards of a normal donation would have been considered a large amount of money, to be used towards the planned construction of a likeness of the Lord Buddha. This monument was to commemorate the life and service of the venerable Wang Po and was to be the biggest and grandest of its kind in Asia. She then walked over to the Pearl Pagoda situated within the temple grounds, where the tomb of the great abbot had been prepared for the time he must eventually leave the monastery to join the celestials. Here she waited for several hours to offer her donation to an elder, with the request that she be granted an audience with Wang Po. The elder took the package, examined its contents briefly, and without changing expression handed it back to her. Over the following fortnight she returned to the temple a further seven times, rising at dawn and always increasing her offering, but to no effect. After each visit she returned to her flat well after sundown, often too exhausted to eat the food her
amah
had prepared.

With each rejection she grew more determined. Prior to her ninth visit she went to the Bank of China and removed a good portion of the gold Sir Victor had placed together with her precious icon in the safety-deposit box. Then, in a nearby market, she purchased a wooden box painted red and gold with the emblem of the pine tree and the peach carved into it, the pine signifying longevity. She placed the gold bars inside the box. Even for the rich this was a significant donation. The following morning, following her usual pre-dawn routine, she returned to the island monastery where she prepared to wait to present her offering to the elder. As if by some predetermined sign, this time she was not required to wait several hours before seeing him. Instead he called out, ‘The
jarp jung
woman may step forward!'
Jarp jung
simply means mixed blood. This time, when he opened the presentation box, his right eyebrow twitched and he asked her to wait, affecting a discernibly polite tone.

He returned half an hour later with a request that she follow him into the temple's inner sanctum. In the half-light created by the fragrant haze of burning incense, she saw that the walls contained what seemed to be several hundred small niches, in each of which was placed a gold Buddha. Passing through a small door she found herself in a tranquil, walled courtyard garden. She was led through stands of sacred bamboo to a scarlet bridge that crossed an ornamental lake, where sacred carp swam, flashes of gold among the floating lotus, and a dragonfly poised above a pink blossom. On the far side of the miniature lake she saw a graceful pavilion. As she ascended the arch of the bridge she saw, standing at the far end, Abbot Wang Po in his traditional robe of purple and wearing the black hat of a Taoist pope. His wide sleeves were rolled back to the elbow to reveal arms so thin that they seemed to contain no flesh, although his hands were surprisingly large, with long bony fingers and curved fingernails that gave the impression of being the talons of a bird of prey. He showed no signs of tremors as he tossed scraps from a bowl to the carp agitating the water to the side of the bridge.

He didn't look up as the Countess approached, and when she was quietly announced by the elder he merely nodded his head. The elder bowed and, turning, took his leave. When the abbot spoke there was not a hint of the thin, reedy sound of an old man's voice. ‘Do not be confused by the Buddha and the Tao. There is nothing to say we should not take all paths to find God.' At first the Countess thought this was a formal opening remark, but then realised that this religious ambiguity had been her first thought when she'd been told about the island monastery. She almost panicked – had he already discovered her latent scepticism and her purpose for seeing him?

‘I am deeply honoured that you would agree to see me, lord abbot,' she said softly.

The old man looked up for the first time and she was startled to see his eyes appeared almost luminescent, his irises the colour of grey pearls. She had forgotten that the article she had read had said that he was losing his eyesight and now, two years later, he appeared to be completely blind. ‘The Gods have taken my sight so that I may see more clearly,' he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Come with me.' He walked without hesitation towards the pavilion, and she followed. Seating himself in a comfortable chair of aged wicker within the pavilion, he motioned towards another. ‘You may sit,' he offered. She declined – the idea of sitting beside him rather than standing before him seemed unthinkable.

‘I have been told of your numerous visits and I already know you are not Chinese, although this is of no importance – nor is your generosity. What allows you to enter this garden is your determination. I am honoured by such patience and will do what I can to help you. You must tell me why you are here.'

He listened patiently as she explained about the abduction of her child and the reasons behind it and then, choking back her grief, she asked if he could somehow ensure that Big Boss Yu would not abandon her child but care for her until she could take care of herself.

‘Are you asking me to send him a warning?' Wang Po eventually asked.

‘Lord abbot, I am told it is within your power.'

A wicker pot-warmer stood on a low table within his easy reach, and with practised ease he filled two lidded cups with tea, handing one to her. ‘What you ask is not a horoscope, not even a foretelling of fortune or a prediction of an uncertain future. What you ask is conspiracy – you could even call it trickery.'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan was plainly shocked. While, of course, he was correct, she had not thought of her request as deceitful. She had lost her daughter because of an evil man's superstition and she was convinced that using the same weapon against him was fair.

‘I am sorry, my lord abbot, I have acted wrongly,' she said, fighting back her tears.

He smiled. ‘That would be so if you stood to gain wealth or good fortune or love and happiness, or even health and long life, but you have asked nothing for yourself. The life of a child and the sanctity of a spirit I cannot refuse.' He looked up at her, his sightless gaze seeming even more penetrating than if he had been able to see. ‘I cannot do anything to return your child to you. Such a deception would become too apparent – this man would see it was brought about by the child's mother and disregard it.'

‘Lord abbot, I want only that you ensure her safety,' she pleaded.

‘This dragonhead, Yu Ya-ching, you say may be found in Shanghai. I will see that what you want is done.'

As this instalment unfolded at the hotel in Hobart we were all feeling somewhat mellow from the effects of the wine, and I don't know about Jimmy, but I was feeling decidedly ambivalent about the action the Countess had taken. On the one hand her exchange with Wang Po may have been a psychological masterstroke, but on the other it was potentially an incredible waste of money. At the time, the gold she'd donated to the building of the giant Buddha on Lantau Island would have bought a damn good house in Australia. For once Jimmy was lost for words, and I was the one who spoke up.

‘But how did you know the old man, the abbot, would keep his word? I mean, he could have just taken your money and left you . . . well, feeling you'd done something to help your daughter.'

She looked at me sharply. ‘I can see you don't approve, Jack.'

‘Well, I mean . . .'

Jimmy jumped in, rescuing me. ‘Countess, dat a sad time for yoh.'

‘What you're both suggesting is that I acted in an irrational manner.' She seemed to think about this for a moment, and then said, ‘You see, there was a part of me that thought like a Chinese peasant, where choosing between rational thinking and superstition usually means reason is abandoned. Over the centuries Chinese peasants have never had any control over the circumstances of their lives. Often acts of God, but more commonly acts of man, have completely disrupted any attempt to lead a rational and normal existence. Hard work seldom reaps its just rewards or even puts sufficient rice into the family bowl to prevent them from starving. Luck is everything. The throw of the dice or the spinning of a wheel is a better bet in a peasant's mind than a well-contoured rice paddy and a reliable ox. It is for this reason that the Chinese are inveterate gamblers. It is not that they believe the odds will favour them, but that the odds against them are already insurmountable. Because life is purely a matter of luck, they are forever on the lookout for signs and portents and, of course, a talisman is of the utmost importance.

‘You may remember that the first time I met Big Boss Yu it was as a fifteen-year-old in the nightclub in Harbin when he asked for a lock of my hair. That night, I was later told, he won a considerable fortune at roulette. Later still I became his living talisman, while the plait of my hair in the dragon box became the actual talisman. With my help he made millions of dollars from raisins, and everything else he touched seemed to turn to gold too. When he discovered my affair with Sir Victor he not only believed I had betrayed him but, in his mind, the talisman – the plait – lost its power. The opium-smuggling operation was discovered by the Americans, and this had the potential to discredit him in the eyes of Shanghai's international community. Unlike his partner in crime, Big Ears Du of the French Concession, Big Boss Yu craved respectability above everything. He needed to be seen as a legitimate taipan. So I became the scapegoat. But he still had to contend with the prophecy the incense master had given him when I consulted him about cutting my hair.'

‘What, the message he left in the dragon box when he kidnapped your daughter?' I asked.

‘No. It is doubtful even you will have remembered, Jack. The incense master's prophecy, which he had instructed me to tell Big Boss Yu, concerned Yu's joss: “It is good for now but it will sail away across the seas and return again later to his dragonhead.” Big Boss Yu's message left in the dragon box, “The good joss will return in one generation”, was his attempt to bring his luck back and fulfil the prophecy. I would escape and sail over the seas, taking the dragon box containing the discredited talisman, the plait, with me. By kidnapping my daughter and bringing her back “over the seas” as “the next generation” he would bring back his good luck and thus fulfil the prophecy.'