Flowers in the Blood (62 page)

 

A matter more profound than the problems of leadership at Sassoon and Company occupied Edwin's mind. When, we received word that my father and Jonah's return would be delayed a month, his agitation was more acute, but he did not share his concerns with me. Unaware as yet that the consequences of my uncle's dissatisfaction were soon to propel me into the center of the family arena, I did my best not to provoke Edwin.

When my father did arrive, we were relieved to learn that business had gone well: the price of opium had stabilized at a record high. Illness had kept my father in Hong Kong for several extra weeks, a malady he described as a monsoon fever. He looked tired, but that was to be expected after a sea journey. I thought his skin seemed more ashen than usual, his voice shakier, but Edwin reminded me these voyages were strenuous and the man was not getting younger. Jonah, who was flushed with success, had escaped the ailment.

“When the fever first struck, we had to postpone the journey, but once it broke, I kept after Father to start home. There was an awful stench to Hong Kong and I thought the sea air would do him good. I was right, as it turned out. Except for one relapse during the crossing, he's been looking better and better.”

“That's true,” my father said to console everyone, especially Zilpah. “All I need is a few bowls of
marag
to set me right.”

With several nights of rest, we did see a change for the better in my father. And after a week back at his desk in Clive Street, Edwin reported the pecking order was becoming reestablished and the churning seas of discontent were subsiding to postmonsoon levels. Unfortunately, the relief we experienced at my father's revival was short-lived. His chills and fever returned. Without hesitation Dr. Hyam made the diagnosis: malaria.

“Are you certain?” Zilpah asked outside the door to the sickroom.

“Every sign is positive. His spleen is enlarged, the periodic attacks come at the expected intervals, and he has been in a malarious region lately.”

“Can he be cured or . . . ?” Zilpah pursed her lips, letting the unfinished question hang in the air.

“We can treat the febrile spells, but they probably will return.”

“People live for many years with malaria. If they didn't, the British Empire would have faded away long ago.” I forced a weak laugh.

“What can I do?” Zilpah asked the doctor.

“During an attack he must rest in a cool, darkened room. First we'll try this prescription.” He made certain we understood the correct proportions of the dosage, consisting of strychnine, arsenious acid, iron by hydrogen, quinine, and aloe. “That should be made up into twenty tablets and Benu should take one pill every three hours.”

“When will he be well enough to return to work?” I wondered, thinking of the chaos at Clive Street that would ensue in his absence.

“In a week or two. He will know when he is able, but he must not travel to areas where the disease is endemic.”

“You mean China?”

“Yes, I do.”

Zilpah paled. “Never again?”

“At least not until he has been free of the acute state of the illness for a year, probably two.”

“He won't obey,” Zilpah said helplessly.

The doctor shrugged. “A reinfection could be fatal.”

 

My father did not visit his office for a week, nor two, nor even after a month had passed. Frequent malarial bouts racked his body. Between them he gathered strength for the next onslaught. Either Zilpah or I had to be in the house to medicate the various stages. Cinchona was to be administered at the first signs. If he had not rallied after twelve hours, ipecacuanha had to be offered. In the early morning, when the cold state racked his bones, arnica was taken. Veratrum was substituted when he felt icy on the outside but feverish internally. If the sweating became profuse, somebody had to force him to drink drafts laced with sambucus. During the worst periods, when he would have two or more attacks within twenty-four hours, belladonna alternated with hyoscyamus was required to prevent seizures.

In the brief periods of relief, my father tried to cheer us. “I don't know why you are making a fuss. Just a touch of malaria. Most fellows live with it quite peacefully, accepting it as a visit from an old, if not entirely congenial, friend.” In a few hours, or if he was fortunate, a few days, it would start again. Each time, the fever broke as suddenly as it came, leaving him soaking wet and weaker than when it had begun.

“A terrible case. One of the worst in my career,” Dr. Hyam said, as though that were consolation for my father's inability to respond to the treatments.

One evening nothing helped my father's misery. The night was hot and damp, he was surrounded by hot-water bottles, but still he shivered. “I can't take it!” he shouted. “Every bone feels as if. it is being twisted by some malevolent hand.”

“Dr. Hyam said this would pass, but it only gets worse,” I said, feeling desperate. “Can't we do
something?”
I begged Zilpah, but she had no answers, either.

While tending to my father occupied all my time away from my children, Edwin toiled harder at the office, since matters there had deteriorated. One day when it seemed my father was on the mend at last, Edwin approached me at Theatre Road as I assisted Seti with her Hebrew. “I need to talk to you, Dinah.”

“Of course, darling. Is something wrong?” His grim expression made me think he had some news about my father's condition that I had not yet been told. “Seti, copy the next three lines. I'll check your work later.”

I followed Edwin out to the terrace. We stood a few feet from the spot where we had discovered how much we had in common. Nothing had changed; and yet everything had changed.

“I need your help,” he began.

“What can I do? All the doctors haven't—”

“The problem concerns a matter at Clive Street.” At first I thought he meant the usual discontent, but his look was far too pained for that. “For a long time now I have been suspicious. Since I don't have access to any of the books except those from the ryots, I decided to wait for your father's return and match up his figures. His first days back didn't give me enough time, and now . . .”

“What is it?”

“There are discrepancies. I confirmed the matter with Jonah. He told me some of the figures on his side, and they don't balance with mine.”

“What can I do?”

“You've worked with these ledgers before. Maybe you can detect what I cannot.”

“How would we get hold of them? I can't ask my father. We wouldn't want to worry him now, not when he is finally improving. Perhaps in a few weeks—”

“I've waited too long already. We could go to Clive Street together late some afternoon. The durwan would let us in. I know where everything is kept. We could say we were getting papers for your father.”

“When?” I asked with a mixture of excitement and dread.

“Saturday evening, just after sundown.”

This seemed like a prudent time. Family members often stopped by for a few hours' work on Sunday, especially during busy seasons, but it was rare for anyone to come in on the Sabbath, except a few of the non-Jewish employees, and they would be gone by one o'clock. To set the stage, Edwin worked right up until sundown on Friday. When he left, he complained to Ram Singh, the evening durwan, about how much work was yet undone and how he might have to return to complete it before Monday morning. “Besides,” he had said, “with all this rain, the children are out of sorts and it isn't always serene at home.”

The durwan readily nodded, for it had poured for two days and nights. Everyone was anxious for the monsoon to break. The following evening, the clouds had blown out to sea, and the quiet streets of the commercial section gleamed in the glow of the setting sun.

“Sahib, this is a surprise,” Ram Singh said to Edwin when he opened the door to our office jaun. “When the rain stopped, I thought you would stay at home.”

“The rain from above may have ceased, but the storm on my desk remains,” Edwin said as he helped me out of the carriage.

“Memsahib!” the durwan said with a bright smile when he saw me alight. “A pleasure to see you again. How is your father?”

“Better every day, Ram Singh.”

As the Indian put his hands together and bowed, I followed Edwin to his office on the third floor.

Edwin opened a drawer in his rolltop desk and pulled out a tall ledger book. “These are the Patna accounts for the past three seasons.” He showed me the totals on the summary sheets, which I noted on a paper I had already prepared for entering the calculations. “Come, follow me.” We walked down the hall to Uncle Reuben's larger office, where there were also desks for his sons, Noah and Nathaniel. The Chinese accounts kept there were based on figures supplied by my father. The room was extraordinarily tidy thanks to Noah, who had the reputation for being as meticulous about his work as he was sloppy about his person. The figures in his ledger, translated from the Chinese notes by his father, looked as if they had been engraved upon the page. Since I had seen these records in the past, I knew exactly where to look.

Immediately my sheet showed an enormous shortfall when one compared what had been earmarked for purchase at auction and what had been sold overseas. Before I could reach any conclusions, however, these figures had to be reconciled with several other sources: the auction records, the amount of opium in storage, the amount held back for poor quality, grades to determine market value, additional expenses to customs agents, shipping companies, railroads, and the “special fees” that greased the way to China.

“Did you check Uncle Saul's office while I was talking to Ram Singh?”

“Yes, it is locked.”

“Do you want me to ask for the key?”

“No, I'll do it. You stay here. If you come downstairs, he will feel he has to accompany you up the stairs and unlock it for you, and then he will wait around for us. If I go down, I can give him a bit of
baksheesh
for his trouble and send him off to buy some refreshment. After all, we're here to look after the premises.”

A few minutes later he returned with the ring of keys. “All's well. He bought my story about leaving a folder there on Friday. We did have a conference and I did leave it, so it wasn't a lie.”

“How long do we have?”

“An hour at least. Ram Singh has many friends on the street, and enough money to buy several rounds.”

“Good. But we will have to hurry.”

Once inside, I walked around the corner room with the long mahogany table which had belonged to my grandfather. I still thought of the office as belonging to his eldest son, Saul, even though it had been taken over by Samuel Lanyado on a “temporary” basis until it was decided who would be Saul's successor. Neither Reuben nor Ezra had embraced the responsibility, and Saul's eldest son, Adam, showed little aptitude for heading the firm. When I reached the end of the conference table, I stood behind the green leather chair and ran my fingers over the polished curve of the back rail. If my father retired from his travels, he might take this position at the head of the table.

At the far side of the room, Edwin unlocked the chest that held the remainder of the record books. He opened each one, checked its contents, and marked which pages I should examine. “Sit down, I'll bring them to you.”

“Where?”

“Right there is fine.”

A thrilling sensation shot up my spine as I, eased myself into the founder's seat. Leaning back, I could see all the way along Clive Street. In the distance, factories belched curls of black smoke, smudging the yolk of the setting sun. I thought about how much money was controlled from this chair, the many lives affected by the opium commerce, Uncle Saul's benevolent approach to managing the family trade compared with Samuel's bullying tactics. What right did Bellore's husband have to sit here in the first place? No more than I did. I smiled to myself. The sooner my father deposed his brother-in-law from his “temporary” perch, the better!

In the distance the bells of St. John's Church tolled, and a wave of anxiety swept over me. “Edwin, we should hurry.”

“If it was simple to mark the right pages, this wouldn't have turned into such a puzzle.” He flipped open the last ledger. “Here they are.”

There were so many ledgers and so many pages to check, I had to walk around the table, stopping to mark various totals on my work sheet.

“What do you think?” Edwin asked when I wasn't even halfway finished.

“I can't say. I'm taking down the figures. I can do the calculations later. There are several ways to do it, and there isn't time now.”

“Shall I put the books away?”

I scanned the table. “I suppose you can.” He closed the first one. “Wait!” Edwin froze. “Which one is that?”

He read the heading: “Accounts Payable to Vendors.”

I looked down at my sheet. “Just a minute.” I walked over and reopened the book. In the waning light the figures were blurry, and I carried it over to the window to see better. Flipping through the pages, I mentally rounded off the totals and added them. For six pages the cumulative totals seemed in order, but on the seventh the total fell short by ten thousand rupees. A simple clerical error. This incorrect total was carried forward for another six pages. Then another ten thousand rupees vanished! With my heart beating wildly, I counted ahead six more pages. Again! I pulled over the next ledger. This one seemed in order on the sixth page, the seventh, the tenth, but on the twelfth—there is was! And on the twenty-fourth, the thirty-sixth, and so on. There were no discrepancies in the volume listing salaries to nonfamily employees, or none that I could immediately discern. We both began opening books at random and trying to find the system, for each was different.