The Concubine's Daughter (50 page)

Ah-Keung had spoken convincingly in her defense; he had seen her fed well from the crew’s galley, and made sure she was left in peace. He had already found work on the Gum Sarn, he said, and a place to stay. Yes, he knew people who would help her find her father. His manner was sincere, and she had seen how greatly the death of Master To had affected him. But she realized there was much she did not know about the Forceful One, who would forever wear the snarl of the tiger on his chest and the venom of the cobra on his back.

Amid a colony of sampans and cargo scows so packed you could walk from one to the other, they sailed slowly into Macao’s typhoon shelter. Siu-Sing found it best to avoid the eyes of those who turned her way. Some swore, some laughed, others sneered, but none said welcome. She fought her creeping fear in the only way she knew, making it her enemy and raising a wall around her heart, with every rampart guarded. She did not join the loud-voiced people crowding the decks, herding noisy children, hoisting baggage in feverish haste to disembark. Instead, she waited in the bow for the bedlam to pass.

The junk closed slowly with the wharf, rats skittering among barnacle-encrusted pilings, pigeons hovering for spilled grain. Never in the solitude of the lake-lands had Siu-Sing felt so alone or helpless. Ah-Keung shouted to her across the deck: “Why are you hiding up there? Come and see the world beyond the mountains.”

Ah-Keung shouldered his bundle, ready to stride down the narrow gangplank. Securing the sling, the
er-hu
slung like a sword across her back, Siu-Sing hastened to join him, jostled and cursed in a sea of hostile humanity beyond anything she had imagined.

“This is the wondrous city of Macao, where all things are possible.” He turned to her, his eyes shining with a new zeal, as one who had known hunger and was about to enjoy a feast.

“It is called the city of broken promises. It is where the rich
gwai-lo
keeps his mistress, then sails away and leaves her with a broken heart. The place where the taipans come to roll the dice and smoke the pipe. They pay well for pretty girls.”

He giggled at the thought, quick to reassure her when she did not speak.

“The Golden Hill lies close across the water. I shall go there to find out what I can and return to take you to your father’s door.”

“I must come with you … ,” she began. “No, I have found a safe place for you here. There is nowhere for us to stay on the Golden Hill. I will go first and return for you.”

He left no room for more to be said as the gangplank bounced beneath their feet.

They threaded through the godowns, quickly leaving the noise and stink of the waterfront behind; along cobbled streets and narrow lanes, past sawmills and metal shops, purveyors of meat and fish, coffin makers and joss houses. Curbside vendors peddled their goods and beggars muttered at their passing. They walked for perhaps a half a mile.

Ah-Keung stopped outside a pair of towering iron gates topped with sharpened spikes, The tidal stink of the waterfront had given way to the stench of the slaughter house. Dreadful squeals came from behind high walls; bricks so old and scarred that weeds sprouted from every crack were crowned with shards of jagged glass. Above the gates, in a bent and buckled arch of hammered steel, large painted characters spelled the words in red: double happiness.

Ah-Keung tugged hard on an iron ring set into the wall, setting off a grinding of chain somewhere inside and the rusty croak of a bell. “This is the House of Double Happiness, the palace of Fan-Lu-Wei, one who
was once a red-button mandarin of the ninth grade,” he said with great respect. “A most important and very rich man here in Macao. We are fortunate that he has agreed to help you.”

A slot in the gate revealed a reddened eye that swam like a fish in a bowl. A voice, harsh with suspicion, demanded to know their business. Ah-Keung shouted his name, placing a protective arm about Siu-Sing’s shoulders as bolts were drawn and one of the gates dragged partway open.

“Don’t worry, Little Star,” he whispered hurriedly. “You will be given good rice and a place to sleep. Be respectful to Lord Fan; do not forget to bow and you will be treated well.”

“He will help to find my father?”

“Yes, yes, Lord Fan is known to all. If your barbarian father exists, he will know of it.”

He gestured for her to enter the half-open gate. “Be patient, Little Star. You will be safe here. I will always know where you are, and when your rich father is found, I will claim my reward.”

The gate closed with an echoing boom, trapping Siu-Sing inside, with Ah-Keung no longer beside her. She heard his laughter with a flush of shame. How easy it had been to betray her.

S
iu-Sing took in a
long stretch of cobbled courtyard faced by a row of low-roofed sheds. Pens of mud-caked pigs were crammed against towering walls that echoed with their squeals. Behind a hedge of flowering shrubs that separated it from the rest of the compound, Siu-Sing saw a garden surrounding a great house that reared over the yard with the aging columns and rotting eaves of a forgotten palace.

The man who had opened the gate grabbed her by the arm, peering at her with shortsighted impatience. Under his arm he carried a brass-tipped rod, worn smooth as ivory, mounted by the polished skull of a monkey. On his large ears rested a battered peaked cap bearing a Double Happiness badge. Dangling from the rope around his pinched gut hung a large ring of keys. To Siu-Sing, it seemed the odor of death and decay had found its source in him.

She allowed herself to be marched across the courtyard to a flight of steps where two stone Fu dogs, green with age, guarded the entrance to the house. The gatekeeper’s hand twisted hard into her hair, wrenching her head back; her eyes closed tight against the glare of the sun overhead. She heard the sound of doors opening. Then, as unexpected as a kiss, a gentle hand, no more intrusive than the feet of a fly, caressed her chin, her cheek, her throat—turning her face first one way, then the other.

“There is no need to be afraid. Mr. Kwok means you no harm.” The words were quietly spoken in a voice that could have been that of a man
or woman. The smells of rich sauces on pungent breath and strong body odors were disguised by sickly-sweet perfume.

“Careful, Mr. Kwok. This pretty head is not the rear end of a donkey.” The voice rose peevishly, punctuated by a delicate cough. Fan-Lu-Wei, once a mandarin, seemed to fill the entrance of his decaying mansion. His enormous body reclined on a throne of faded splendor; a quilted tunic of finely embroidered silk strained across his massive girth. A long gray gown almost reached his small feet, encased in white cotton stockings and black silk slippers. The mangy tail feather of a peacock was attached to a large bead of red glass set on the crown of his round black hat.

The hand that so lightly caressed her chin, so-and white as a woman’s, trembled slightly. Long fingernails, shining with lacquer, grasped a switch of white horsehair attached to a jeweled handle, which he flicked at flies attracted by his perfumed finery. A cream-colored Pekingese sleeve dog grumbled from the security of his lap, shoe-button eyes glistening with malice. There were dark pouches beneath Fan-Lu-Wei’s narrow eyes that powder could not hide.
He is ill
, Siu-Sing thought.
His liver is not good.

He smiled down at her with mild approval, his pudgy cheeks white as lard. Several long black hairs sprouted from a mole on his chin the size of a stranded cockroach, straggling down to lie among the ropes of colored beads on the slope of his chest. Two spindly mustaches drooped on either side of his weak, pink mouth. He looked, Siu-Sing decided, like an ailing Buddha.

Behind him stood two white-jacketed amahs, each wafting a large goose-feather fan. They were short and squat as wrestlers, their round heads sunk into sloping shoulders, graying hair drawn back and wound into a tight bun held in place by identical jade combs. Each wore a jade bangle on the left wrist, a jade ring on the right hand, and a jade talisman on a headband of black silk in the center of the forehead.
They are strong
, Siu-Sing concluded,
but also heavy, too well fed for speed and stamina.

“You may leave her in my care now, Mr. Kwok,” Fan-Lu-Wei wheezed,
then turned to Siu-Sing. “There is nothing to fear. Our poor gatekeeper was only earning his rice. Come, the jade amahs will show you your place.” The throne began to turn around on wooden wheels that groaned beneath his weight.

“Your brother has told me his sad story and signed the
sung-tip
—you are fortunate to have such a loving brother so concerned for the welfare of his little sister. He has sold you to me as Number-Two
mooi-jai
, to save your family from starvation. Yes, you are most fortunate to have been brought here to the House of Double Happiness.”

Siu-Sing backed away from the unsmiling amahs, remembering to bow and show respect as Master To had taught her.

“Forgive me, but the one who brought me here is not my brother; he has deceived you, as he has deceived me.”

The piping voice cut her short. “Do not deny the care of an elder brother and question your good fortune. You will obey the jade amahs, or they have my permission to beat you.”

“But you can see, my lord, I am not of his blood or his clan. I have white ancestors as well as Chinese. My father is a foreign sea captain, a taipan of the silk and tea trade. He seeks me and will pay many taels of silver for my safe return. He is known as Di-Fo-Lo. Help me to find him, my lord, and he will be most generous.”

Fat Fan belched uncomfortably, his thin black brows drawn together in a frown of annoyance. “I know nothing of that. The
sung-tip
is signed and witnessed and the price paid. You belong to me now. If you do your work, do not steal, do not complain, tell no more lies, and cause no trouble, you will be treated well. If you are ungrateful and displease the jade amahs, they will report it to me and you will wish you had never entered the gates of Double Happiness.”

He gestured fretfully with the fly switch and the throne continued to turn. “If your
gwai-lo
father comes to find you, we will talk business. Until then, you are Number-Two
mooi-jai
. We will have no more nonsense about rich foreign devils.”

As the rumbling wheels trundled into the gloom, Siu-Sing followed the amahs, the steady
squeak
,
squeak
,
squeak
of the wheeled throne
leading the way through a beaded curtain that opened upon an anteroom made entirely of dingy glass and filled with the twittering, chirping, warbling, and full-throated singing of birds. Cages of every shape and size were suspended among glazed dragon pots filled with flowering plants. From their tiny prisons, the birds chattered and trilled in ceaseless disharmony. Siu-Sing was instantly transported to the bamboo groves high on the slopes of Tung-Ting, and for a moment her heart ached for the Place of Clear Water.

Seated among them in a peacock chair was a woman, thin and gaunt, her hunched shoulders hung with a padded jacket of black silk and a layer of woolen shawls. One hand clutched them close about her throat, while the other dabbed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her voice crackled with anger, forced from her with labored breath. “So, you have found yourself another alley cat.”

The heavy pouch of flesh that hung from Fan’s dimpled chin trembled as he replied feebly, “A
mooi-jai
, a homeless child for the scullery.” He held up one hand, its fat fingers glittering with rings. “A bargain, my flower of flowers, only fifty Hong Kong dollars.”

“Wasted money, brains of a horny goat.” She waved a dismissive hand, snuffling her contempt, then collapsed in a fit of coughing. “See that she does not eat too much and is kept to the kitchen, or she will feel the rod of Ah-Kwok.”