Flowers in the Blood (78 page)

“I see.”

“Do you?” he challenged, but before I could respond, he asked, “Has our mutual friend told you about
fung shui
?
”

The term was unfamiliar. “No.”

“Fung shui,” he repeated disgustedly. “Literally it means 'wind and water.' It is a divination system the Chinese use to determine where the site for anything—from a grave to a house to an office building— should be placed to have the most propitious influence on the people concerned. All it does is create a high-paying job for the local charlatan who claims to have special powers to arrange these matters.”

“Fung shui created Happy Valley,” Godfrey rebutted in a conciliatory manner. “A grave in the southern cleft between two hills helps the dead appreciate the warm winds of winter, the cool winds of summer—as you do.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my friend. The experts rejected this site for a house,” he went on in an irritating whine. “They said the 'expression of its dragon was wrong.' Apparently even on this hill it is too low for a tiger, thus placing me at risk.” He gave a hollow laugh.

“You seem well enough guarded to me,” Godfrey said.

“That doesn't have anything to do with fung shui,” Song said with annoyance. “Enough of this nonsense.” Seeing him turn at last, I tried to take in his features, but they were hard to discern in the gloom. At least there was nothing abhorrent about them, although the long nose, which had a sharp twist, and the ripples of fat on his jowls and chin were hardly handsome. Godfrey had been right: the man definitely was not Chinese. He looked more like an Arab with golden skin.

There was something else, though. I swallowed hard, fighting nausea. Must be the incense, I told myself. No, it was Song. My baffled expression alerted Gulliver, and he sidled even closer behind me.

Our host looked out from the squinting eyes that had seemed Oriental at first. “A Gurkha—how clever. More devoted than dogs, or so I have been told.” The candlelight seemed to disturb him, so he shielded his face.

I felt insulted for Gulliver, who never would have registered his feelings.

“My first husband left him to me. I am afraid he takes his responsibilities seriously.”

“Have him wait outside.”

“He would not do that. He has sworn to protect me. Besides, you yourself have guards.”

“Fung shui,” Godfrey reminded.

“Phooey on fung shui!” Song said, laughing uproariously at his joke. “Guards! Those cowards? Ha! They are here to light my pipe and fetch my slippers.”

Pipe! That was what he twisted in his hand. What I smelled was opium mixed with a sandalwood incense. The man was under its effect right now. I would have to be more circumspect. I could settle nothing with someone who was impaired, for he might come back with a different version of a deal or claim I had taken advantage of him unfairly.

“Then why not send them away?” Godfrey wondered testily.

“Shall I tell them to leave us?” Song asked me.

“As you wish,” I said in a deliberately offhand manner.

Song shot a terse Chinese command and the men in black fled the room. I waited for him to return to the subject of Gulliver, but a huge explosion, followed by myriad poppings and sparks, diverted him. He blinked his eyes and waved the air in front of him, as though shooing invisible flies. Was this the opium or some other distortion in his mind? “Now, where were we?” he said, scratching his genitals through his silk trousers.

“Why don't we discuss the reason we are here?” Godfrey interjected mercifully.

“You know how I hate to be rushed, God.” He chortled. “Our mutual friend quite likes my pet name for him.” His next laugh was more like a cackle.

There was something I had to know. “When did you leave India?” I forced myself to ask in a steady voice.

Song picked at his coat. “How did you know?”

“Your accent.”

“It must be twenty years . . . a long time ago.”

“Have you been back?”

“Once.”

There were shouts of children running inside the walls; then a long string of firecrackers trembled the floor beneath our feet. Godfrey stood and went to look out. He waved the youngsters away, but remained at the window to make sure they did not return. I was forced to fend for myself with the revolting man. The sooner I brought up the matter of the opium prices, the sooner we could get away.

“I suppose you know both sides of the trade.”

Song's face relaxed slightly and a tinge of a smile raised his many chins. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you understand the needs of a Calcutta as well as a Co-Hong merchant.”

“You might say that.”

“Mr. Troyte seems to think you could assist us this season.”

“Perhaps.” His voice oozed like rancid oil. “What do you require?”

“Customers willing to purchase Benares and Patna at prices significantly higher than last year's.”

Song waved his hands as though he was dismissing me. “I know about that. Who cares about the price? You tell me the figure you want and I will find someone who will pay it.”

“Up to twenty percent higher?”

“Why not? The demand is always larger than the supply, the demand does not diminish, and the customer cannot ignore his desire.”

“Will they take seven thousand chests?”

“Eventually. It might take a year to sell them into depleted markets. My name, 'Song,' is from the same Chinese character as 'deliver.' Ask around. See if I do not deliver what I say I will.” An odd obsequiousness had crept into his voice, one that put me on guard. “I would welcome this opportunity to represent the Sassoon interests in Hong Kong.”

I was about to ask how we would work together, since I was certain the matter could not be as simple as he made it seem, when he placed the mouthpiece of his pipe to his lips and closed his eyes. Long eyelashes fluttered as the smoke satisfied his urgency. The pipe drooped in his hand. He gave a mild shudder and his lower lip protruded, moist and florid. A flash—either of fireworks or my memory—brought a picture to mind: a man on a veranda, with his lip puckered in the same unflattering position, mimicking the sweet song of a bulbul for a little girl.

A wave of dizziness washed over me. Sensing I would need my wits about me, I summoned strength from every cell. “You know Calcutta, don't you?”

“How perceptive you are, Madam Sassoon,” he said as his eyes flickered open.

“Salem,” Godfrey interrupted. “She is Mrs. Salem now.”

Ignoring my escort, I plunged on, while trying desperately to recall who had imitated the songbird. “Obviously, Song Kung Ni is not your birth name,” I said, and as I did, comprehension washed over me. Ni . . . was for 'Nissim.' Song Kung was for . . .

“Sadka?” The word bubbled from my mouth like rising vomit. “My God!” I jumped up and stumbled backward, but one of the posts that supported the high peaks of the ceiling blocked my escape.

Taking my violent reaction for the thrill of coincidence, Godfrey asked, “You know him?” with bemused amazement.

Our host nervously licked his lips. Then his face became more composed and he spoke genially. “ 'Uncle Nissim' is what she once called me.”

“He killed my mother!”

“Now, Dinah, I did not,” he crooned, advancing on me. Reacting to his fetid breath, I recoiled. Gulliver was just to one side of me. “I may call you Dinah, may I not? After all, that is what I knew you as many years ago in Theatre Road.” He saw the distress in my eyes at the familiarity, but pressed on. “Yes, Theatre Road. Is it still the same? Such a splendid house.” He spoke very slowly. Each word seemed an enormous effort. “That is why I wanted so much to meet you again. Perhaps my own inquisitiveness got the better of me. Perhaps I should have restrained myself, since an old cat like Godfrey would lecture on the adverse effects of curiosity. Nevertheless, I hoped you would not recognize me after so much time had passed. You were a young child. I thought you would have forgotten. Besides, I am thrice the size of my old self.” A guttural laugh shook his belly.

Sparks burst in front of me. Whether they were from without or within, I could not tell. “I was at the trial! I know what happened. There were witnesses. Everybody agreed you did it.”

“The judge did not concur,” Sadka replied with infuriating confidence as he waddled back behind the wide lacquered table where his pipe had been.

“Who killed her then?” My voice was high and thin, like a child's.

“Why dredge up that sad case? Wouldn't it be better to move forward? Let us resume the business at hand. Perhaps I can make it up to you now by extricating you from the terrible mess the Sassoons are in.”

“We are not in a mess,” I spat. “We had a business deal to propose, but now that I know your identity, we could never work with you.” I stood boldly in front of the table, supporting myself by gripping the edge slightly.

“Come now, let us not become sentimental, taipan.”

His condescension cut through me like a knife, but after the first painful slice, something changed inside me. It was as if my blood had frozen. The wild churning diminished. My heartbeat slowed from erratic pips to long, steady beats. Even my hands did not tremble. I released the table and took one step backward. My eyes focused on his double chin and drooping cheeks. Behind that flesh was a glimmer of the man in that Calcutta courtroom long ago. “If you did not murder Luna Sassoon, who did?” I asked without a quaver.

“I cared for your mother. If you must blame someone,” he groaned, “I suppose you must look to Moosa Chachuk.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

Sadka shrugged. “These affairs cannot be reduced to simple explanations. Your mother was a confused woman. She was dangerous to herself, to others.” His mouth turned down ominously at the corners.

“And dangerous to you?” I thought of placid, dreamy Luna lying on her chaise longue reading
Lorna Doom.
Nobody was less deserving of the savage, hideous end. . . . “What could she have done to you?” I watched Sadka for any sign that he would rise up and strike me, but he seemed deflated. Something I had said had touched him. What? What had she done to him to cause him to want her dead? I had never thought this through before. Always I had seen my mother as the innocent victim of a senseless crime. Now she was something else. She had become a target because she had frightened him.

“But why? If you really cared for her, you would have protected her, unless what they said was true.”

“And what is that?”

“You were jealous.”

“I might have been, but crimes of passion are not planned.”

He was right. Ladders weren't purchased, or knives, or chloroform. Yet if you loved someone and had decided you had to kill her, chloroform would have been a kindness. The doctor had thought Luna had not cried out because she had not felt the pain. The memories of her wounds rose up like tentacles and clutched me, pulling me down.

“Then you were angry with my mother for something she did to you,” I guessed in a subdued voice.

“Not really.”

I pursued him. “You arranged for Chachuk to kill her for a reason. She refused to see you anymore. There was another man”— I was groping blindly—”my father was returning . . .” Sadka allowed me to struggle on. “You were worried she would tell someone else, tell my father . . .” There! A shadow passed in front of Sadka's heavy-lidded eyes. The irises opened wide and wondering. I pointed a finger at him. “You were frightened she would . . .” Glassy buttons of sweat beaded on his brow as he removed his silk cap and revealed a shiny bald head. He was twitching. The vulnerable spot had been pressed. Sadka reached over the table and opened a tiny box. He popped something in his mouth and closed his eyes momentarily.

The sight sickened me. As I backed farther away, a piece of furniture— the divan—tripped me. Gulliver reached to catch me, but I sat right down. For a few seconds I held my head in my hands. I could not force the truth. My only hope was to coax it, but how? There is a soothing tone mothers revert to when mollifying angry children. I harnessed it like a lifeline and looked up. “How terrible for you. You must have been concerned that somehow she could hurt you. Is that what it was?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he rasped.

“She knew about . . .” I prompted.

“About my business dealings. We had shared many pipes of opium, many glasses of wine, many nights of love. She was easy to be with, undemanding, amusing, but silly. She lacked common sense. One day she tired of me. I am not certain why. I had not tired of her. On the contrary, the rejection excited me. She became more of a challenge. I determined to win her back, and for a while I did. Then she told me not to return. I was impulsive. I pressed her too hard. She became unhinged—women do at times like those—and told me . . . no, threatened me . . . to stay away. And if I did not . . .” With sinister speed he came around the table and loomed over me.

“Yes,” I said, forcing myself not to shrink from his bulk.

“She warned that she would tell what she knew. I became deranged. In those days I was afraid of the police. I had smuggled, had dealt in stolen goods. In retrospect, I doubt she would have said anything to anyone, because she would have had to tell how she knew. Why would she want to compromise herself? But I was young, scared. And my friend Chachuk was alarmed. He stood to lose even more.”

How ordinary he made it sound. A woman knew too much about his illegal dealings. She did not want to see him anymore. He pressed her. She frightened him. He had her killed. I fought my mounting fury. “You admit this freely now. Why didn't the judge—?”

“By then I had learned about sprinkling rupees.”

“You couldn't bribe a High Court justice!”

“Everyone has a price. His was less than you might imagine.” Sadka's tone was tinged with pride.

My head pounded. There was something else I had to know. “Where is Moosa Chachuk?”

Sadka shook his head. “Such an idiotic man. He could never learn to stay out of trouble. About five years ago he was killed in a brawl in Singapore in some dispute over a woman. Doesn't that come as a relief to you? As far as you are concerned, the sad business is over. We were found not guilty by a court of law and the perpetrator is dead. Now, let me make this up to you in a deal that will be advantageous to us both.” His lips curled with a smile of satisfaction.