Flowers in the Blood (76 page)

“He works for us.”

“Now, Madam Monkey, you must be shrewd enough to see the Co-Hong merchants are the ones who really work for you. Without them you would have no sales. Or, looking at it from a cat's perspective,
you
work for the merchants.”

Squirming, I replied, “I hadn't thought of it that way.” There was something about the man that made me feel as though I was tied in knots. Then, after a few moments' quiet, my brain began to unravel the twisted skein, until I found the end. “There is another point that shifts the balance back in our favor. According to everything we have been able to learn, there is more demand than supply. Therefore we should be able to set the prices.”

“Yes, you have a point. However, while opium eaters may not be able to stop, they can cut back on consumption, dilute their pipes, buy more locally grown flowers, make deals on the side with some of the other Indian merchants . . .”

“I see.” This was something I had to work out for myself. What was the worst that might happen? Prices could not be moved more than, say, five percent, and I would have lost a considerable portion of the currency from the Luddy inheritance. Even so, I would not have to touch the land and other assets I had promised to keep intact; and no matter what, the Lanyados still would have been routed.

Godfrey interrupted my contemplations. “Cats and monkeys can go around and around forever. I will not string you along when I have an answer to your problem.”

I sat up straighter. “Yes?”

“There is a man who works outside the system of Indian trading companies and Co-Hong merchants.” He drew Chinese characters on the window while he spoke. “Sometimes he buys whole shipments and keeps them back until he senses a shortage, then brings his on the market at a higher price. As you might imagine, he is not well-liked, since he squeezes his share from each side of the deal. But he is influential.” My mentor turned to face me. “If anyone can help you, he can”—he gave a lopsided grin—”as long as he would profit in the end.”

“Who is he?”

“Song Kung Ni is the name he goes by. He's not Chinese, or at least not full-blooded. His past is somewhat mysterious. Some say he was born in Macao from parents of mixed backgrounds—some combination of Portuguese, Chinese, Indian . . . who knows? Others suggest he came from India, since he knows Hindustani.” He gestured for Chen Ah Bun to bring his coat. “If you are willing, I could arrange an introduction.”

“Does the monkey need to tell the cat what she would like to do?”

“No,” he replied as he dressed to leave. “Consider it done.”

 

On Friday we were expected at the compradore's dinner party. Mr. Ming had not visited Mount Gough since our arrival because I preferred for Jonah to deal with him at a distance until, armed with a deeper knowledge, I was ready to discuss our pricing structure. In preparation, I was using the time to pump Godfrey further and study the data Jonah supplied. After the New Year was over, I would commence discussions in earnest. For the present, I thought it best to keep our evening at the Ming home purely social.

“I wonder what year Mr. Ming was born?” I asked my brother as we made our way down the mountain.

“Why?”

“Remember what I told you about Chinese astrology?”

“That nonsense!”

“I thought the same at first, but the coincidences I found in Godfrey's chart were uncanny.”

“In what way?”

“It said you are a rat and so was our father, which means you should be able to follow in his footsteps with ease.”

“I'm flattered, I suppose.”

“And Amar is a charming goat with a weak will who makes noises like a leader but fools nobody.”

“That sounds like the man you described.”

“Also, poor Silas was a typical dragon: idealistic, a perfectionist, demanding, but generous. The chart suggested that dragon men should choose artistic professions instead of business, said they usually marry late or not at all. Even odder, dragons are often the cause of some drama of despair. How can the system be so uncannily accurate?”

“Perhaps because you interpret generalities too closely.”

“What do you mean?”

“What did it say about Uncle Samuel?”

“I believe he is a dog. They're always on the defensive, alert, watching for an opportunity. That fits.”

“Aren't dogs supposed to be loyal?”

“Yes, but—”

“You can read anything into those descriptions you want, picking and choosing what applies, discarding what does not.”

“I suppose you are right, Mr. Rat, but I find it amusing nevertheless.” Piqued that he had found holes in my new interest, I changed the subject. “Have you ever been to the compradore's house before?”

“Once with Father, but not for dinner. This is quite an honor, especially for a woman.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “I am certain you will like his family. He has four sons.”

“Any daughters?”

“No, but he has a niece who was sent to live with him as a child.” Jonah's placid face became animated. “Her name is Wu Bing. 'Bing' means 'ice,' which doesn't suit her, for she has a round, gentle face . . . and the prettiest hands you ever saw, even if she does act as the Mings' unpaid servant.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's their
mui tsai
, literally a younger sister, who was given to the family because they were better able to feed and clothe her. To the Chinese, a daughter is a financial drain. Only sons carry on the family name and inherit its wealth.”

“Do they treat her well?”

“Yes, by their standards. She waits on the wife and does other household chores.”

“What does she get in return?”

“Her parents received a packet of 'lucky money' to help pay off their debts, and the Mings have assumed responsibility for her future.”

“Does she ever get to leave?”

“If she contracts a suitable marriage.”

“When did you meet this girl?” I asked slowly.

“I told you, when we visited the Mings last year.”

“You said you were there only once. She must have made quite an impression.”

He looked away. “She did.”

I would have pursued, the matter if the carriage had not stopped in front of a moon gate. The house, built up on several terraces, had many layers of tiled roofs curved like prows at the corners. It was as opulent as many on the Peak.

“Why has the compradore chosen to live close to the harbor, when the government officials and wealthier families prefer the Peak?”

“Only the members of the British and European community are permitted to live on the Peak.”

“That seems unfair, when it was Chinese originally.”

Jonah seemed distracted as he took my arm. “Come, there is someone I want you to meet.”

Mr. Ming Hien Chang, who was wearing his Victoria Jubilee medal, greeted us cordially. He introduced us to the compradores of Melchers and Co., Siemssen and Co., the Chartered Bank, the Davidson Company, and of course Jardine, Matheson. Each had three names, with the last name first, generational name second, and first name last. In a few moments I was hopelessly confused. As soon as possible, Jonah bowed to the men and whisked me away to a humid conservatory.

“This is Wu Bing,” he said, his voice echoing off the glass panels.

I looked around. From the leafy shadows came a trembling movement. A hesitant girl kowtowed to me. “An honor to meet the venerable sister of Mr. Jonah.”

Startled by her lilting accent and sweet upturned face, I looked at my brother for an explanation. He was watching me intently. Turning back to the child, I found her not as young as I had first thought. Her wide, luminous eyes studied my reaction. Something in her hopeful expression touched me.

“Who is this?”

“The youngest daughter of Mr. Ming's second brother.”

“That is not what I meant.” I saw his gaze lock with hers. As though she bathed in the light of a dozen candles, Wu Bing glowed in my brother's presence. Phrasing my words carefully so as not to hurt the girl's feelings, I continued, “Who is she to you?”

“I care for her,” he said simply.

“No wonder the compradore has been suspicious of us,” I said too harshly, then lowered my voice. “Has he seen you with her?”

“I have never spent more than a few minutes with her.”

“Then how could you ever consider his niece if you hardly know her?”

“Who are you to criticize me?” he asked, grinning mischievously. “I seem to remember you fell in love with Edwin after one glimpse from a balcony—and he with you.”

“That's not what happened.”

“Oh, no? That first, evening when you thought he might accept Ruby, you became hysterical. We wondered whether you had lost your mind. Have you forgotten?”

“I suppose I did become entranced rather quickly with him,” I said, feeling a bit dizzy in the fragrant closeness of the hothouse, “but our friendship deepened when we became better acquainted.”

“Anyway, it worked out in the end for you both. There has never been a happier marriage in our family, at least that is what everyone says.” Jonah waited for me to contradict him.

Unwilling to confess anything about our current estrangement, I did not argue. Thankfully, a gong clanged. We were being called to dinner.

At the doorway, the compradore introduced me to his wife, a bony woman with snow-white hair, and then with the inverse modesty of the Chinese, to his sons. “My eldest son, a lazy boy who needs to study harder; my second son, who eats too much to play a proper game of tennis; my third son, who prefers girls to hard work; and my fourth, who is probably the most backward of the lot.”

Jonah knew the ritual. “Oh, but isn't your eldest son the top boy in his class and your second the captain of his team . . . ?” Pleased that he had learned so much on his earlier trip, I nodded and smiled and let my brother smooth our way.

Instead of one long table, the dining room contained many round ones with eight to twelve places at each. In a side room a small army of cooks tended woks over charcoal fires. Jonah and I were given seats at the table with the eldest son and some of the other compradores we had met earlier, including a plump man who was with Russell and Company, the leading American opium firm. Immediately I noticed that no other women were seated in the room. Even Mrs. Ming had disappeared.

During the week Jonah had coached me in the use of chopsticks, so I did not feel overly awkward as I attempted the first platter: stewed pigeon eggs and vegetables. Lord Hargreaves' warning made me wary at first, but it was tasty. I went on to enjoy fried quail with bamboo shoots, a soup which did include the controversial sharks' fins, a dish with slippery noodles and prawns (I avoided the shellfish not entirely successfully), and chicken flavored with a curious spice. Only a mushroom-and-fish concoction did not please my palate, and Jonah warned me when pork was served. Since the Chinese did not seem to include milk products in their cuisine, I finished most of the courses feeling relatively secure that I had not violated the dietary laws too blatantly, although I had far exceeded the usual limits of my stomach's capacity.

Just when I was certain the meal was ending, platters of carp were passed. Mr. Ming, who was circulating through the room, stopped at our table and asked, “May I offer you some fish?”

I thanked him politely.

The head of the fish was placed before me. Its huge glassy eye stared at me accusingly.

“The guest of honor is given the head,” Jonah explained.

“I am flattered,” I said, trying to hide my queasiness.

“To eat the eye is to bring good luck,” Mr. Ming said in a manner that did not indicate this was a joke.

Carefully I lifted the eye from its socket and deftly offered it to Jonah. “Fortune has smiled upon me. I have a wonderful husband and three fine sons. My brother should be the one to have this honor.” I gave Jonah a sly grin. As far back as childhood, he had had a reputation for eating anything. He did not disappoint me.

With one gulp he swallowed the eye. “What could be better to see in the new year?” he quipped, pleasing Mr. Ming and astonishing me.

The compradore gave him a bow of respect, then asked me, “Would you like to see my garden?”

Grateful for the excuse to avoid more food, I nodded and went outside. Gulliver followed at a safe but respectful distance without rankling the compradore, who accepted that a woman required protection, even from him.

The house, which looked impressive from the road, climbed several levels on the hill behind to reveal a substantial mansion. The compradore walked me out into his terraced garden, linked by flights of steps and winding pathways. There was a concrete tennis court, currently used as a nursery for plants, and a large vegetable patch at the highest level, where Mr. Ming said he preferred to do much of the work himself, “to clear my head after a day in the office.” From there we had a fine view of the harbor below. He pointed out the mat-sheds, temporary structures of bamboo and palm leaves which were being set up for the next day's celebrations, then led me into a rose arboretum.

Gardening had never been a particular interest of mine, so I could not uphold my end of the conversation. After dutifully admiring the blossoms, I impulsively abandoned my decision to avoid business that night and asked the main question running around in my head. “Compradore, are you acquainted with a Mr. Song Kung Ni?”