Flowers in the Blood (77 page)

Even in the dimness of the garden lanterns, the man could not hide his consternation. “Why do you ask?”

“I have been told he could be of some use to us.”

“Impossible!”

“But why? Isn't he an important man in the trade?”

“Not to us.” He made a raw, hawking noise deep in his throat and spat into the night. “No. Never.”

This finality, without explanation, was most exasperating. Since the subject was obviously sensitive, I decided to tread lightly. “I have heard it said that he might be of assistance with our particular difficulty.”

“What difficulty is that, may I ask?”

“I must apologize for not being more forthcoming earlier, compradore, but I am new to this business as well as to Hong Kong.” I took a deep breath. “Due to some singular circumstances, the auction prices in Calcutta ran more than twenty percent higher than usual.”

The man's cheeks sucked in with surprise. “The merchants will never buy from us at that price!”

“What if we raised it by . . .”I was going to suggest fifteen percent, but an inner voice told me to minimize it further. “. . . say, ten to twelve percent? Then, if we held it there for three seasons to come, we would make up the difference eventually.”

“There has never been an increase of more than a few points. Don't forget, we have competition from other traders and the Chinese themselves.”

“You yourself estimated the demand was there.”

“Not at ridiculous prices. You will have to accept a loss if you are to stay in business.”

“If
we
are to stay in business, compradore, I suggest we look beyond the narrow horizons of the past. Why not open your mind and think about Song Kung Ni? What could it hurt to talk with him?”

The man's eyes bulged. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Companies of the caliber of the Sassoons or Jardine, 'Matheson do not do business with men of his sort.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the very idea gave off a bad odor. “If you force my hand, I will resign.”

I backed off. “My apologies, compradore.” There was a mystery here. Perhaps Godfrey could help me unravel it. This might be a personal feud between our compradore and Mr. Song. If Godfrey thought it worthwhile to meet Song Kung Ni, I would do so. My father had warned me about the complexities of dealing with the Chinese, for they had to save “face.” By acting on my own, we might secure the help we needed, while not compromising the compradore's pride.

When we returned to the others, tea was being served in the drawing room. I looked around for Jonah, but he was nowhere in sight. Putting my concerns about the opium business aside, I decided to concentrate my worries on his potentially disastrous flirtation.

 

The morning of Chinese New Year's Eve dawned clear, with mauve and purple and pink slashes across the harbor sky. Sampans and junks dotted the horizon, their sails like the wings of distant insects. I sipped a cup of green tea and tried to organize my thoughts. The novel sights, sounds, questions, languages, and personalities had exhausted me. My new acquaintances—Godfrey Troyte, the compradore, Wu Bing—were utterly perplexing, each in his or her own way. Why did Godfrey want to bother himself with me? How could I win Mr. Ming's trust? And where would Jonah's concern for his niece lead? Thoughts of my children crowded in. What were they doing at the moment? Did they miss me? Had it been a mistake to leave them for so long? And what of Edwin?

Jonah sauntered into the room wearing his flannel dressing gown.
“Kong Hey Fat Choi,”
he greeted. “Happy New Year.”

Chen Ah Bun served him tea. “Kong Hey Fat Choi,” they said to each other.

“We will have to give the servants time off after midday. This is the most momentous holiday of their year.”

“We can manage with Gulliver.”

“Right. Now, how shall we celebrate?”

“Must we?”

“When in Rome . . .”

I sighed deeply. “I would give anything for a quiet evening at home.”

“We have several invitations,” he reminded me. “The compradore would like us to join his family, and the Davidsons are giving a party for foreigners.”

The Davidsons reminded me of Olivia and the tense auction. “I would rather not attend that one.”

“There is a gathering at Government House to see the fireworks. Your friend Godfrey Troyte will be there.”

“Couldn't I have a headache and spend the evening home?”

My brother looked crestfallen. “I suppose . . .”

“That doesn't mean you shouldn't go where you like. I'll be fine here with Gulliver.”

Brightening, he asked slowly, “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Which gala will you attend?”

“I thought I might return to the compradore's.”

“Do you think that would be wise?”

“I need to talk to Wu Bing. Tonight, with the confusion, we might have some time alone.”

“I suppose you need to settle this infatuation. When the girl learns how hopeless her quest is, she will be more realistic about her future.”

“This is not an infatuation!”

“Jonah, don't be absurd. If you want to have a fling with a servant girl, that is one thing. Anything more is absurd.”

“Wu Bing is doomed to a life of servitude because of circumstances. She comes from a good family—the same family as the compradore— and is far from ignorant. She reads and writes in Chinese and has taught herself English.”

“What are you doing, Jonah, trying to rescue her?”

“On the contrary, she will rescue me.”

“It would never work. What would Father . . . ?” I caught myself. Tears billowed behind my eyes. We were alone in the world, alone to make our own decisions for better or worse. Zilpah would be shocked, but with her own unusual background she could hardly complain. Why, even Silas' Nepalese mother had been a convert to Judaism, and Zilpah had approved of him.

“Would Wu Bing consider converting?”

“Yes, I mentioned it. Truthfully, she has no idea what being a Jew means and she would be doing it only to please me. Nevertheless, I would want our children to be Jewish; therefore it would be necessary.”

“You
are
serious about this.”

Jonah blinked anxiously. “Actually, I am unsure. As I said, I need to be with her in private. Do you remember when Edwin came to Calcutta? Didn't the time you had together help settle your minds on whether to marry?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Time for us will never be given freely. I must steal what I can and see what happens.”

“Maybe you will discover you are not suited. These matters are more obvious than one would believe. For instance, I knew from the first that Silas was the wrong match for me, but I was so young, so inexperienced, I did not know how to interpret the signals. Then, when Edwin came along, the message of Tightness was indisputable. Even so”—I searched for the words to convince him—”people who are deeply compatible continue to have difficulties as they traverse the mountains and valleys of a life together. Edwin and I shared the same faith, had agreeable parents, were of the same age and similar background. In my experience, the differences become magnified over the years, but the similarities are what pull you through.”

Jonah was quiet for a long while. The sky turned bluer and bluer. White clouds, like sails without hulls, hovered over the islands in the harbor. “You may be right,” he said, startling me, for I had expected an argument. “I must discover this truth for myself.”

51

 

T
he house was quiet. Two clocks, a porcelain one on the mantelpiece and a grandfather in the hall, ticked in opposition to each other. I drank a glass of claret as I watched the sunset dapple the harbor with an oddly greenish hue. Gulliver cooked me a supper of eggs and toast. For a moment I was so lonely, I almost asked the stocky Gurkha to take his meal with me. Fortunately, I quickly discarded the notion. Gulliver would have felt awkward, but would not have known how to agree or refuse. How inexperienced I was with being on my own. Not since Edwin had left me in Travancore had I been without a busy family life. If I was this lonely, how must my babies be feeling? Where did they think I was? Did they worry I might never return? Could the twins possibly forget me? When this business was concluded, I would rush back to Calcutta and smother my children with love.

Outside, firecrackers splintered the air. The long evening stretched before me. It had been foolhardy to presume the night would be peaceful. Perhaps something to read might be diverting. Perusing bookshelves, I pulled out Kipling's
Plain Tales from the Hills
, then closed it after the first few sentences reminded me of Darjeeling. Ignoring the row of Stevenson and Henry James in favor of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's
A Study in Scarlet
, I settled into the lumpy armchair by the window and tucked a woolen coverlet over my legs. I opened the book.

In the year of 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon . . .

Gulliver brewed a perfect cup of Luddy's finest Darjeeling tea and placed lemon biscuits on a tray. He laid an extra log on the fire. In the distance, flares of vermilion and jade green were inverse comets in the void. Intermittent showers of gold and silver rained down. The constant bangs, pops, and crackles that punctuated the night were becoming a familiar but not annoying distraction, like someone else's boisterous children. I became absorbed in the tale.

“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself . . .

Engrossed in the story and no longer sensitive to the din, I missed the knock on the door of the White Chalet. Gulliver's announcement of a visitor came as a heart-thumping jolt.

“No, please don't get up,” Godfrey Troyte insisted. “You look wonderfully settled.”

I pushed aside the comforter and straightened my gown. “Kong Hey Fat Choi,” I said.

“Well done. Kong Hey Fat Choi to you as well. I was concerned when you did not arrive at Government House.”

“We sent our regrets.”

“I heard. I hope you are not ill. Some visitors experience distress because of the new food or the water.”

“Not in the least. Only tired.”

“And your brother?”

“He had another engagement, and frankly, I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.”

A nearby rocket boom caused the windows to tremble. “You have chosen the wrong night in Hong Kong.”

“Obviously.”

“There will be plenty of time to rest over the next few days. Why not come out and enjoy the merriment in the streets?”

“I am quite content.” I realized that Godfrey was still standing and had not even taken off his coat. “That doesn't mean I am not delighted to see you. Why not stay for a few minutes? I opened a bottle of claret for my dinner, or there is sherry or port . . .”

“The claret, please.”

As Gulliver took Godfrey's coat, did I notice a flicker of displeasure in his eyes? No matter, I couldn't be impolite to the man who had come all this way on my behalf. I placed the book aside and smoothed my hair.

Sitting down, Godfrey tasted the wine and licked his pink lips. “I told Song Kung Ni about you,” he began without preface.

I decided not to react, and waited for him to continue.

“He is most anxious to meet you.”

“How kind of you to make the arrangements so swiftly. I am looking forward to hearing what assistance he might offer.”

“Excellent. I have a feeling he will clarify matters for you.”

“If so, I shall be grateful,” I said, and noticing his slight smirk, wondered if I would owe Godfrey money or favors or both. “When can the meeting be organized?”

“Whenever you wish.”

“I am available anytime.”

“How about right now?”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?”

“In the midst of the celebrations?”

“It won't make any difference to Song Kung Ni.”

“Where does he live?”

“On the other side of the city in an area called Happy Valley.”

That sounded pleasant enough, but I could not imagine going there so impulsively.

Godfrey realized I was hesitating. “The drive will take us past the most impressive illuminations. If we time it right, we can arrive at a propitious moment for you to negotiate: the Hour of the Monkey.”

“Even the hours have animal names.”

“Right. The Chinese divide the day into twelve two-hour portions, beginning at four
A.M.
with the Hour of the Rooster, then moving to the Hour of the Dog at six
A.M.
and ending at two
A.M.
with the Hour of the Sheep.”

“What time is the Hour of the Monkey?”

“Ten in the evening.”

A burst of white light glowed in the southern sky. “I suppose it would be foolish to ignore the festivities,” I said, slowly giving in. The sooner I finished up in Hong Kong, the sooner I would be on my way home to the children . . . and Edwin. “I'll need half an hour to prepare myself.” I stood and clapped for Gulliver. “Have another glass of wine, won't you?”

 

Gulliver was jittery, and every fusillade of firecrackers unnerved him further. Seeing the tension etched in his normally placid face, I realized that I had been selfish to drag him out so late. Both of us had required a respite. I should have insisted he remain behind to guard the house. Not that he would have obeyed. All I could do was hope Godfrey would not keep us out the whole night.

Huge bonfires glowed on the hilltops as we made our way down from the Peak. Houses on the terraces glowed with Chinese lanterns that looked like molten oranges. A large open carriage awaited us at the bottom of the tramway, but our passage to the road closest to the harbor was tedious because of a procession blocking the road. Dragons with frightful heads and burnished scales pranced through the streets on hundreds of legs. Drums, gongs, and bells jangled and boomed raucously as musicians weaved in and out of the lanes.

Bracelets of lights outlined many of the vessels in the harbor. At the water's edge we passed bamboo structures over three hundred feet high. “What are those for?” I wondered.

“When illuminated later, they will make pictures in fire.”

“It must look wonderful from the bay.”

“Actually, the worst place to be tonight is on a ship,” Godfrey explained. “Last year I joined a party on a large Canton riverboat, the
Hankow.
The night navigation, what with all the launches rushing about, was even riskier than getting around on land.”

That hardly seemed possible, since the crowds formed one long sinuous river. The horses weren't able to pick up speed until we were away from the densest population around the waterfront. Even along the lonely rim road, fires blazed, rockets splintered the sky, and children's faces glowed in the glare of their hand-held sticks of dazzling light.

As we arrived in Happy Valley, Godfrey pointed out the cemetery situated on the sides of the mountain that sloped gently into the valley. “A most picturesque place to spend eternity,” he assured me, although not much could be appreciated at night. “Over there is the race course. Song Kung Ni owns some of the fastest ponies on the track.”

“Is that why he chooses to live out here?”

“I suppose,” Godfrey said, launching into a description of local racing customs.

When I could slip in a word, I tried to focus on the reason for the journey. “What does Mr. Song know about me?”

“More than I told him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knew you were the taipan of the Sassoons, that your father was Benjamin of Calcutta, even your age.”

“How did he learn that?”

In the twinkling light of the lamps that lined the road, Godfrey's cat eyes gleamed with a golden tinge. “None of it is a secret.”

“Does he know about my need to raise the price of opium?”

“I hinted at your predicament.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he would like to meet you, no more, no less.” Godfrey pointed at the high wall that loomed in front of us. Beyond it I could make out the roofs of a house situated on a rise. “And here we are.” A guard with a rifle slung across his back opened the creaky iron gate. “Do you know why the Chinese like to wall their houses?” He did not wait for a reply. “To keep evil spirits out. That's the same reason their roofs curl at the corners.”

At the entrance, two eight-foot porcelain statues of fierce tigers bracketed the doorway. In the torchlight their saber teeth gleamed menacingly, and for a moment I thought I saw blood dripping from their mouths, but dismissed the image as a shadow.

Once inside, we walked along a dim hallway. The floors, walls, and ceiling were constructed from an aromatic wood that made our footsteps reverberate with the muffled beat of a faraway drum. Two servants wearing white silk caftans and black pantaloons bowed and opened double doors to a chamber lit by candles in stone lanterns. Elongated shadows curving from the floor up a red-silk-covered wall preceded our entrance into the room.

A heavyset man wearing a black Chinese cap was lying on a divan on the distant side of the room. His back was turned to us. After a long moment he rolled partially on his other side, but not enough to look directly at us. “Kong Hey Fat Choi, Godfrey,” he said with a rumbling voice.

“Happy New Year to you too. May I present Mrs. Salem, the taipan of Sassoon and Company.”

The man cocked his head to the side too quickly for me to see much of his face, then turned away as if the light bothered him. “The world of the new year appears better and better if the taipans of the future are going to look like you, madam.” Just as Godfrey had hinted, the man's lilting accent seemed slightly Indian.

A faint rustling caught my eye, and I turned to find two guards dressed in black from head to foot leaning against columns. Only their shuffling feet and the whites of their eyes betrayed them. Gulliver glided closer to me.

Slowly Mr. Song Kung Ni backed his bulky frame into a chair behind a table and sat down. His arm extended to point out cushioned stools. “Make yourselves comfortable in my lair.”

“Mr. Song, are you by any chance a tiger?” I asked to break the tension.

Without turning around, the man tilted his head deferentially. “Godfrey, you did not warn me the taipan was well-schooled in our ways.”

“Mr. Troyte taught my classes.”

“How splendid for you.” The man's jowls vibrated. “What did he tell you about us tigers?”

“Tigers are rebels,” I began, editing my remarks rapidly, since I could recall only negative images: the fault-finder, the hothead, the ringleader, the reckless and irresponsible one. “And leaders. People respect them, even those working against them, which is just as well, for the tiger prefers being obeyed to obeying.”

Song clapped, his hands, although they were too padded to make much sound. “Well done. But that is what I would expect from a monkey.”

“How did you know?” I asked, shooting a glance at Godfrey. He threw up his hands as if to say he was innocent. He must have mentioned it and then forgotten, or else he did not want me to realize how thoroughly he had briefed our host.

“My friends, I see you are well-matched,” Godfrey began in a syrupy voice. “Only the snake, who is too wise for him, and the monkey, who is too clever, can outwit the tiger.” He leaned back and waited to see who would pick up that lead.

Song did not snap at the lure. I thought he was waiting to see how I would react. Feeling that I had to reestablish myself as someone besides a monkey, I backed off the subject entirely and asked, “Did you build this magnificent house?”

“I did,” Song said, sounding bored.

“And you picked Happy Valley to be near the race course.”

“That is true.”

“Do you own many horses?”

“Many.”

A long silence ensued. No servants moved forward to offer refreshment. The room reeked with a fruity smell of incense and something I could not identify. My stomach churned. Faraway fireworks sounded like rifle shots. There was a loud blast from the settlement outside the walled enclosure, then stillness. Across the room a brass clock chimed. I counted along. Ten! The Hour of the Monkey. Now what? I tried to catch Godfrey's eye. Purposely he looked the other way.

Our host stood on wobbling legs. Without turning toward us, he walked to a table, lifted a long silver implement, and stroked it. “Don't allow Godfrey to fill your head with too much peasant nonsense,” he said with his back still to us, causing me to wonder if he was disfigured or had some other reason he didn't want us to see his face. “Primitive people are easier to manipulate if you understand their crude logic. The more external rules and regulations, the simpler it is to get them to do what you want.” The man spoke in a whining, grating voice that sounded like a nail upon glass. “A wise man uses superstitions when they are useful to him, and discards the rest.”