The Concubine's Daughter (52 page)

Bedecked in the full regalia of the imperial court, he who was once a mandarin fussed about her, perspiring freely under the magnificence of his raiment. “You will sit still and say nothing unless you are told to. She who comes to look at you will have none of your insolence. If you fail to please her, you will be given to Ah-Kwok and nothing will save you.”

Tamiko-san, the Golden One, arrived in a splendid palanquin carried by four uniformed footmen. She hurried up the steps with a handkerchief pressed to her nose. A woman of average height, her catlike body was sheathed in a cheongsam of black silk, its high collar emphasizing her long neck and tiny, gold-studded ears, the only break in its severity a single peony flower fashioned in gold high on her breast.

Her hair was piled high in the way of the Japanese
mama-san
, held in place by combs and decorations that were also of gold. More gold
adorned her wrists and fingers, the long curved nails sheathed and glittering. Her face told nothing of her age, only the grace of her movement suggesting a feline strength.
She is both yin and yang
, Sing thought.
Both sun and moon, night and day, or good and bad
.

Tamiko-san’s eyes were hooded by flat upper lids, as carefully lined with kohl as her perfect brows, as they peered over a large fan of black lacquer ribbed with silver. Siu-Sing felt no fear of her close scrutiny, although the Golden One displayed nothing of the instant approval Fat Fan had clearly hoped for. She stood before Siu-Sing, her head tilted, her eyes the color of frozen honey. Siu-Sing had seen such eyes before, when a river hawk settled on the gunwale of the reed-cutters’ boat long enough to swallow a live fish whole. For just that fraction of time, its golden eye had looked into hers, neither afraid nor threatening—
I am here and so are you
. Now such an eye found her again.

“Is she not splendid as the rising phoenix?” Fat Fan twittered eagerly. “So-as the throat of a turtledove? Firm as a spring peach, white as ginger blossom, and gentle as a fawn?”

The Golden One ignored him, saying to Siu-Sing, “Stand up, if you will.” Her voice was not unkind. Siu-Sing did as she was asked.

“Did I not tell you? Am I not correct?” Fat Fan insisted.

The Golden One cast him a withering glance. “You must think me a fool. This girl is of mixed blood.” She turned, closing the black fan with a snap as though to leave. “Few men would find her pleasing. She has the hands and feet of a field hand. Her eyes are round as leeches and pale as dishwater. She is not white as ginger blossom—the powder ends at her throat, and she has the skin of a tinker. You have wasted my time.”

Siu-Sing held her breath, while a large pearl of sweat escaped from beneath Fat Fan’s black silk hat. “Ah, but to an enlightened one who seeks the mysterious, the extraordinary, and the untouched”—his pink mouth quivered—“to a man of taste, she will be priceless as a pink finger jade.”

Tamiko-san’s eyes fixed unsmilingly on the maker of sausages. “Untouched? Since when have the
mooi-jai
of your house remained untouched?”

Fan raised his hands in feeble protest. “She has only been under this
unworthy roof for three weeks. I swear by all gods, this exquisite creature has not been tampered with.”

The Golden One’s gaze remained fixed upon his perspiring face. “Not once? You should know I am no dealer in secondhand goods, so be sure of what you say to me.”

The contempt in her voice brought pink spots to his cheeks. “One light touch, less than a moment of sheer enchantment; I was most careful. On the word of my ancestors, she is pure as a lily not yet opened by the morning sun.”

“It is true, madam; he has not taken me. He is too fat to try. It was I who tore the threads of fortune from his chin to avoid his sweaty hands.” The sound of Siu-Sing’s voice was so unexpected, Fat Fan blushed red with fury. He would have struck her if the Golden One had not leaned forward with renewed interest.

“Let her speak. I will hear what she has to say.”

“Thank you, madam,” Siu-Sing said. “I cannot see you deceived as I have been deceived. I was brought here by treachery, sold to this house as
mooi-jai
for fifty Hong Kong dollars by one who claimed to be my brother. I am no
mooi-jai
; I can read and write and play the
er-hu.
If you take me, madam, I promise to become your brightest jewel.”

While Fat Fan searched for words, the Golden One counted out the price of the
sung-tip
. Moments later, Sing left the gates of Double Happiness, exactly as she had entered them—the Tanka sling fastened on her back, the
er-hu
in its velvet sleeve across her shoulder. She stepped into the palanquin, to be carried away on a perfumed cloud—contented with the thought that her last act as
mooi-jai
in the House of Double Happiness had been to open the door of every cage in the anteroom and watch the birds spiral through an open fanlight into the clear blue sky.

T
he crimson moon gates
of the Tavern of Cascading Jewels seemed as welcoming to Siu-Sing as the towering walls of Double Happiness had been forbidding. Solid as a fort, the grand old establishment was set among cedar and juniper trees of great age, towering giants that jealously guarded its privacy. The building combined the yellowed stones, stained-glass windows, and arched, heavily carved doors of a Lisbon tavern with the red-tiled roof, upswept eaves, and ornately carved pillars of the Summer Palace.

A cobbled bridge spanned a waterway so filled with lilies and teeming with fish that Sing felt she could have walked upon it. Swans groomed themselves along its banks, while mandarin ducks ruffled their brightly colored feathers on small rocky islands. Peacocks roamed beneath the dark green skirts of the cedars. Through the boughs of the trees, Siu-Sing glimpsed secluded pavilions set in gardens beside ornamental ponds.

A peony tree of great age spread a canopy of bloodred blooms the size of rice bowls above the tavern’s entrance, where an elderly gardener was whisking a carpet of fallen petals from the steps with a willow-twig broom.

The reception hall was pleasantly cooled by slow-turning ceiling fans. Stately furniture stood in every well-lit corner, and paintings of great value looked down from their heavily gilded frames. Three doorways led from the vestibule, each heavily draped in burgundy velvet. Above them in a place of honor, Giu-Choy-Fut—the everlastingly jolly god of
earthly pleasures—reclined in his scarlet shrine, incense smoldering at his feet.

Curtains parted to admit a dark-skinned woman. A robe of rose-colored silk, so fine it drifted with every graceful movement, was wound around her shapely body and over her shoulder, leaving her small waist and the slight swell of her belly exposed. Through a gossamer veil that covered half of the woman’s oval face, Siu-Sing could see dark shining hair and large round eyes of startling gray. Between strong black brows a single jewel, red as a droplet of blood, was suspended by a golden chain. An elusive perfume accompanied her, along with the slightest tinkling from an anklet of tiny silver bells. Her small feet were bare, their toenails tinted the same rose pink as her robe.

“This is Ruby, my head pipe-maker—the best and most gifted of her kind in all Macao,” the madam said amiably. “In Hong Kong and Shanghai too, I have no doubt.”

The pipe-maker’s luminous eyes fell upon Siu-Sing.
She is not Chinese
, Siu-Sing thought, returning her serious, unblinking gaze.
There is something about her that is different from others—as different as I am thought to be.
The notion was strangely pleasing.

“This poor girl comes to us from cruel and stupid people,” the Golden One said to Ruby. “Her street name is Siu-Sing. She has no one to care for her. See that she is bathed, fed, and allowed to rest.”

Sing felt she must speak at this. “Forgive me, madam, but I have spoken the truth. I am the daughter of a great and famous taipan. His name among the Cantonese is Di-Fo-Lo; to the foreigner he is Devereaux. My father can be found on the Golden Hill. I have his picture and can assure you of a rich reward if he can be found.”

Tamiko-san had stepped through the heavy drapes of the center arch, but turned back to glance at Sing. “We have all had a father and a mother somewhere, sometime, whether of this world or the next—but if we are lost to them we are left with nothing but dreams. Dreams are welcome here … but it is I who has fetched you from the hands of the sausage-maker, and I who paid well to own your
sung-tip
. This is the only truth.”

The black fan spread wide with a flick of her wrist. “You have entered
the Tavern of Cascading Jewels through my opinion of your value. You have no past, only the future. This you must understand and never question.” The fan fluttered harmlessly as the wings of a butterfly, and her voice was agreeable again. “Be grateful and light joss sticks to whatever god you pray to that it is I who found you in the place of pigs and not a whoremonger from Red Lantern Street, or a slave trader from Ling Nam. Now, go with Ruby. If she finds you worthy of my time, we will talk of such things.”

The pipe-maker turned to lead the way, Sing following through paneled hallways softly lit by candelabras, doors on either side, carpet soft and silent underfoot. Ruby’s calming voice was punctuated by the hypnotic jingling of her tread. “These are the quarters of the Silver Sisters, those who make the pipes and attend the sleeping dragons. You will meet them when you are rested and prepared.”

Ruby’s private room was small and simply furnished: a pair of four-poster canopied beds spread with brightly colored quilts, each curtained for privacy; a dressing table crowded with small personal things; two sets of drawers; a tall, hand-painted wardrobe; shelves filled with books and ornaments; and a divan scattered with bright cushions. On a low table of black lacquer stood a wooden bowl laden with fruit, a number of round bamboo food containers, and a pot warmer containing a teapot and two small cups.

In a corner something stood mysteriously apart, veiled in black silk. Sing wondered what it could be. Through the open window came the scent of wisteria, the murmur of doves, and the tinkling of prayer bells.

“You will stay here with me until Ah-Jin decides what your place will be.” Ruby noticed Siu-Sing’s confusion. “Ah-Jin is our name for Tamiko-san, the Golden One, who is our gracious mother. You will always address her as Mama-san.” Siu-Sing knew the Cantonese word for gold was
qian
, and saw that this was a respectful abbreviation: “the Gold.”

Ruby indicated the wardrobe with a nod of her head. “If you are to remain here, you will be given clothes and the things you will need. You may keep them in there with mine.” She watched as Siu-Sing loosened
the buckles and took the beaded sling from her back to place it carefully beside the
er-hu.
“I see you are a musician. This will be a good thing for you. Music is also an important part of pleasure in the eyes of Ah-Jin.”

From a drawer, she took a folded cotton nightdress and towel, tossing them onto the bed nearest the window. “The things in this drawer are for you until you are properly received. You may sleep in this bed; I have seen the trees and smelled the blossoms and listened to the mating of doves too often to notice them.”

Opening an adjoining door, where a large round bathtub stood on clawed feet, the pipe-maker showed Siu-Sing how to turn the shiny brass taps to fill the bath with clean, fresh water heated to the touch of her hand, and how to sprinkle sweet-smelling oils into the steamy clouds. “To be clean at all times is the first rule. I will leave you to bathe and take some food, then rest. You will not be disturbed.”

At the door she paused briefly. “Ah-Jin is the mother of reason unless you anger her—then she is the mother of fury.” A smile touched the luster of the pipe-maker’s eyes. “But you have nothing to fear. I will guide you gently and fairly; it will not take long to prove your worth. If you are obedient and deserving of her judgment and her trust, she will receive you kindly and your initiation will begin. If you are not”—she gave the slightest shrug—“then that will be a pity. Meanwhile, do not leave this room unless I accompany you.”

The smile in her eyes seemed to deepen. “Sleep well; think only pleasant things. It is a great honor to be chosen by the Golden One.”

The door was quietly closed, and Siu-Sing ate hungrily from a bowl of tasty noodles and flavored shreds of tender chicken kept warm in the bamboo steamers. She drank deeply from the pot of tea the pipe-maker had said would calm her and help her sleep. Dazed by her sudden change of fortune, she was soon lost among the wonders of her first bathtub, a mound of radiant bubbles at her fingertip’s command.

She slept soundly until late the following morning. By the afternoon, Siu-Sing was eager to explore this place and learn what was expected of her.

Ruby brought a folded gown of lilac silk, along with two crystal flasks and two tiny, thimble-size cups beside a bamboo whisk on a lacquered tray. With a practiced flourish, she held the first flask high and allowed an exact measure of its golden liquid to half fill each cup. From the second flask, she added to the cups drop by drop, then whisked the contents with greatest care.