Shanghai (88 page)

As he approached the turn onto Bubbling Spring Road he hit the accelerator at the same time as he slammed the gearshift from third to second, to gain some traction. Then right in the curve itself, at the base of the large safety wall, he shoved the gearshift into first and furiously spun the steering wheel to the left.

Beneath MacMillan, the silk cords attached to the gearbox and the steering column came as close to each other as they could, thereby hooking the lever that engaged the blade that Silas had secured there. The blade pivoted as he had intended and dug deep into the racing car's right front tire.

MacMillan felt something give and suddenly he was spinning up the safety wall, somersaulting left to right, completely out of control. The only thing he remembered seeing was something that he assumed was a delusion: a Black man throwing himself at the car with dozens of Chinese children cowering behind him.

—

Edward saw the car's front tire blow out and the car begin to spin up the safety wall. It turned over and over like a chicken on a rotisserie, he thought. Then he heard the screams of the children all around him and saw the car barrelling toward them. He threw himself at the car with all his might and managed to change the direction of the car just a little, just enough that it did not hit the children—although Edward, the African from Boston, was so badly hurt that his voyage to the better place was swift, and sure.

—

Then Silas heard it—the screams. He sensed the movement of thousands of people as they ran toward the accident. He hoped that MacMillan was okay. Hoped that none of the children on the safety wall were hurt. He gave no thought to the large Black man he had seen there as he carried the Tusk inside the blanket as swiftly as he could along the wharf and into the two-man junk—all, he believed, without a single eye seeing his going.

Late that night, Silas came on deck for the first time and wondered if somehow, in the moonlight, he was dreaming. But he stopped wondering when the Captain approached, wiped his raw, veined nose on his filthy sleeve, and said, “I was told to put those on deck in open display.”

“Those” were thirteen other ivory tusks, strapped beneath the gunwales on both sides of the junk. Before Silas could ask, “By whom?” the ship swayed in a deep swell and Silas's stomach rose. He teetered and grabbed at the mast for support. The junk's Captain was completely unaffected by the pitch and roll of his vessel.

“I was told not to answer questions but just to get the Tusk you carry and put it in with the others.”

Not knowing what else to do, Silas nodded.

The Captain returned to his tiller, readjusted his course, and lashed it off. Then he said, “You are not as clever as all that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Did you really believe that no one would figure out your plan? That no one would follow this very ship and try to steal the relic?”

Silas suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. All his planning, and yet … “How did you know…?”

“Shanghai is not a good place to keep secrets secret. But let that stand. The real danger to the relic is you, Mr. Hordoon. So be quick now because our time is short. Bring the Tusk up on deck.”

Silas found himself somehow unable to control the motion of his legs and arms as he went below deck, knelt down, and pulled the Tusk in its Takrit carpet from beneath the berth. As if still in a trance, Silas carried the Tusk up on deck and then followed the Captain to the port side, where several other tusks were hanging. One set of straps in the midst of the other tusks dangled free. The Captain pointed to them, and Silas unwrapped the Tusk from the carpet, guided the relic into the waiting space, and belted it into place.

“Now, lad, be smart, turn the relic so that the back, not the opened portals, faces the deck.”

Silas shook his head at his own idiocy and did as the Captain requested. Then he stepped back. In the shadows cast by the overhanging railings no one would be able to see the filigree etchings on the Tusk's surface, so it would appear to be just one of the many ivories destined for the carving factories upriver.

Silas turned to go, but the Captain's massive hand pulled at his belt buckle. “If you return to your berth you will not see the morning. On this, trust me. There is
a bumboat lashed to our port side. It is already manned. Take it and get safely off this ship. I will meet you with the Tusk at Chinkiang—the City of Suicides—in two days.”

Silas stared at the Captain. “And just leave the relic …?”

“With God. Yes. Now hurry.” Then the Captain pointed astern. Two large war junks were closing on them quickly. “The men in the bumboat think you are going ashore to find a concubine.” The Captain smiled. “The best lie I could come up with on short notice. Hurry now. You are the greatest danger to the Narwhal Tusk. Get into that bumboat—time to stop doing the Devil's work.”

Silas glanced at the Captain. It must have just been the light behind him, but he seemed to glow slightly. He turned and headed toward the bumboat but stopped when the Captain called after him. “Don't forget this,” he said, holding out the packet containing Richard's journals. Silas was in a hurry or he would have realized that the packet had grown since Mai Bao had given it to him—grown by the weight of a Bible.

“But who are you?” Silas finally demanded.

The man just smiled. Finally he said, “I am who I am. That will have to be enough for you. Now go.”

As Silas scrambled over the side of the junk, the Captain returned to his tiller and awaited the assault.

—

Gangster Tu's ships closed fast on the two-man junk, and in moments the smaller ship was grappled, bow and stern, and pulled tight to the larger ships. Tu Yueh-sen
stepped onboard the small junk. The grizzled Captain demanded an explanation.

Tu answered simply, “Do you want to keep the eyes you have in your foolish head, or not?”

The Captain backed away, allowing Gangster Tu and his Red Poles, one of whom was Loa Wei Fen, to come aboard.

The Assassin saw the etched filigree of the Sacred Tusk catch the moonlight and he gave a quick prayer of thanks that earlier in the week he had carved the cobra on his younger son's back. The boy had accepted the pain without a whimper. Loa Wei Fen had then instructed the boy in his duties in the Ivory Compact should something happen to him. And he knew that something was going to happen on this tiny, rocking junk. Something that might propel his son into the Compact very shortly.

Gangster Tu ordered two Red Poles to light torches and the others to unleash the ivory tusks. One after another the valuable tusks were presented to Tu, who tossed them aside like so much rubbish. Then his men brought forward the Narwhal Tusk.

Loa Wei Fen's hand slid to his swalto blade and he stilled his breathing. The torches in the hands of the Red Poles cast roving shadows as the small boat bobbed on the swell of the great river. For a moment Loa Wei Fen felt his father's touch on his shoulders, his gentle voice in his ear. He remembered touching his own son's shoulders and the look of pride in the boy's eyes. The swalto blade turned in his hand and found purchase. The great snake on his back filled with blood and its hood flared.

“Bring the torches closer!” Big-Eared Tu shouted.

The Narwhal Tusk was suddenly in the full glare of the torchlight. Tu Yueh-sen let out a cry of joy and pointed to the exposed relic.

Loa Wei Fen didn't hesitate, he leaped high in the air and grabbed a torch with one hand while he stuck his blade deep into Gangster Tu's throat with the other. Blood sprayed across the men on the boat and lathered the Tusk. Before a Red Pole could bring out a weapon, a second, then a third lieutenant lay dying on the floor of the boat.

Loa Wei Fen heard his name called and he whirled around just in time to see the Captain throw himself at the remaining Red Pole, whose torch fell into the water as his pistol rattled to the deck. Loa Wei Fen cut the junk's bonds to the other boats, then hurled the torches onto their decks. “Turn the boat, open your sails, and head before the wind,” Loa Wei Fen yelled at the Captain as he swung up to the larger ship, using the rope he had unhooked from the junk's bow.

One ship caught fire. The other had to deal with the Assassin, who killed seven more of Tu's men before a volley of rifle fire tore his sturdy frame into a dozen pieces.

But before the men on the ship could reorganize themselves without Gangster Tu to lead them, the two-man junk—with the Narwhal Tusk—had escaped.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER the gruff Captain met up with Silas at Chinkiang. From there they and their precious rug-enwrapped cargo continued together for another three days, until Silas met his caravan for the long trek across the great desert and along the Silk Road—another
Journey to the West, worthy of only a History Teller's telling.

Silas's journey lasted many months. And of the glories he saw and the wonders revealed to him only one moment stood out in his mind: the night he discovered both the Bible the junk's Captain had secreted amongst his father's journals and an entry in his father's journals he had never read before.

Silas was shocked when he read the entry. Beneath the blue dome of the desert night, leaning against the rug-shrouded Narwhal Tusk, with his caravan companions gathered in the distance around a small manure-fuelled fire, he once again opened his father's journals. The night was so clear that he could, with only a little effort, read by the light of the moon and stars. He shuddered. He thought he had read every entry in his father's journals, but somehow he had missed this one. And he read it in the blue glow of the stars—then read it again.

When he had first learned that his father was Bible-read he was surprised. But this journal entry staggered him. For a moment he felt a deep ache in his heart. Why had his father kept all this to himself? Why had he
never taken Silas into his confidence? Why had they never talked about the important things in their lives?

The diary entry was entitled simply “The Covenant,” and Silas saw quickly that his father's handwriting was not the tiny spider twitchings that he made while writing under the influence of opium. Here the letters were round and full, and written in Farsi. It began:

¨ ¨ ¨

 

So either God made a promise, then broke that promise, or there was no promise made. In either case, the Covenant—the oh-so-ballyhooed Covenant between Him and us—is clearly null and void. More likely it was just a fantasy of a heated mind anxious to unite a disunited and argumentative tribe.

—

Then there was a space on the page. When the writing picked up again, the colour of the ink was slightly altered. The completion of the entry evidently happened at a later time.

¨ ¨ ¨

 

The bargain agreed to was, as related in the Book, quite simple. Jews obey all the rules God sets out and God protects His people. So either Jews disobeyed a whole lot of rules or God didn't hold up his end, because the Assyrians and the Babylonians and the Romans certainly were not defeated by God. They trounced the Israelites. They destroyed the land. They vanquished the “chosen” people. Probably because the people were not chosen at all.
Probably because there was no covenant. Probably because the fabulists from the desert were invoking a hoax to unite the people under the rule of priests who claimed divine direction. All one need do is meet these “holy men” to know one of two things: Either these men are just charlatans, or God is a fool to entrust His word to such individuals. Either way leads to disaster.

I have never denied that I am a Jew. But I am not a Jew like you. I am not a covenant Jew. I do not believe I or we have a special place at the side, at the feet, or in the heart of the Almighty. How could we, to the exclusion of others? If we are the chosen, then they are not. How could the obvious and overwhelming goodness of Lily, for example, go unrewarded because she says the wrong prayers in the wrong order and bows in the wrong direction, or doesn't bow at all? Lily's very life is an act of holy contrition. How could she not have a heavenly reward? Because she is not one of the chosen? Idiocy! Although, I do believe there is a God. But I believe our holiness is here. Our sacredness is ourselves. I do not believe He is worthy of our worship. I believe that we are actually here to fight against that overweening power of His and all His agents on this earth. That His whimsical, profane potency is the enemy of man and all that man does. “We are the gods' tennis balls.” Well hit me, and I hit back. We live, we thrive, we work—and when we cannot work any more, we return to the earth, to the mighty spirit that lives there. In opposition to the whimsical, capricious power of the God of the desert, the spirit in the ground is our very wellspring. Once you see that, it's all actually quite simple. Farcically simple. It's all one. One of which we are all a part.

—

Silas closed the journal. His caravan companions had long ago smothered their fire with sand and gone to sleep. The blue darkness and a profound silence enwrapped him. Silas stretched out on his side, his back against the length of the rug-covered Narwhal Tusk. The deep blue dome of the desert sky was pierced by a new moon low on the western horizon. And as Silas drifted off to sleep, he sensed a presence softly pad toward him. But he did not stir as the great desert lion approached and gently sniffed his ear.

—

Two months later, Silas, with the Narwhal Tusk still hidden in its carpet but now easily carried on his shoulder, walked into the great city of his father's birth—Baghdad.

Silas sat quietly on a bench across the street from Baghdad's largest synagogue. The cold winter sunshine cleanly etched the outline of the buildings, as acid does on copper. Silas waited patiently, something his long trek had taught him. He checked his pocket for the letter of introduction he had from the rabbi he had employed for the little synagogue in the Garden.