The Skin Map (15 page)

“Never better, Masta Attu. It will bring her great joy to know that you have returned. I will send for her at once.”

“It would be lovely to see her, of course,” said the Englishman. “Later, perhaps—
after
we have done some business.”

“Let it be as you wish.” The Chinese merchant bowed.

“Then let us get to it!” said Arthur in a voice much too loud for the little shop. “I am itching to get this new design safely tucked away.”

“Please to come this way.” He led his visitor to a low couch beside a large window covered with a bamboo screen. “Be seated, sir, and allow me to bring you a cup of
chá
.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Arthur sat down on the silk-covered settee and began unlacing his shirt. “It is a very oven out there. We’ve been a-stew in our own juices for a fortnight. Hardly a breath of wind to stir the sails. Dead in the water these last two days.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Chen Hu, pouring out the pale yellow infusion. “It is the Season of the Dog. Very hot everywhere. Very bad for business. No one sells because no one buys. Very bad.” He presented the small porcelain cup with a bow, then turned to pour one for himself.

Arthur raised his cup. “Health to you, Chen Hu!” He sampled the hot liquid gingerly. “Ah! How I have missed the
chá
.” He smacked his lips in the accepted sign of satisfaction. “Thank you, my friend.”

“The pleasure is mine,” replied the merchant, inclining his head slightly.

They drank for a while in silence; it was rude to intrude on another’s enjoyment of
chá
. When the formalities had been concluded and the cups set aside, Arthur thanked his host and said, “If you have no pressing business, I would like to begin at once.”

“Your servant awaits your command, sir.”

A fair-size man with a compact frame, Arthur stood and removed his shirt, pulling the capacious garment off over his head to reveal a well-muscled trunk covered with hundreds of neatly etched designs—some no larger than a walnut, others as big as a fist; most the size of a clamshell—all meticulously rendered in deep indigo blue.

“The work of a true artist,” remarked Arthur happily. He ran a hand over the swathe of
tattaus
. “Each and every one a miniature masterpiece.”

“I am honoured, sir.”

“Now, then!” Arthur gave his belly a slap. “I have a new one that will tax your skills, Chen Hu. I believe it is the most important of them all.”

“They are all important to me, sir.”

“Of course they are.” He gazed down the bare length of his long torso. “I have just the right place for it here.” He touched a place in the lower centre of his chest just below his breastbone. “In the centre, surrounded by all the others.”

Chen Hu bent near to scrutinize the proposed location. “How big is the design to be, sir?”

“Oh! Yes, I have made a rendering of it.” He fished in the pocket of his breeches and brought out a small, much-creased bit of parchment, soft with use. He sat down and smoothed the scrap over his knee. “Here it is,” he said, his voice dropping low—whether through his customary fear of being overheard, or awe for the symbol was not certain. “I found it at last, my friend—the ultimate prize, for I do believe it to be the greatest treasure ever known.”

The Chinese artisan fixed his gaze on the swirl of lines, half circles, dots, triangles, and odd geometrical symbols. He scrutinized them carefully, pulling on his long moustache all the while. “Treasure, sir? Does this one have a name?”

“The Well of Souls,” declared Arthur Flinders-Petrie reverently.

“Ah, so . . . ,” mused the artist. “Well of Souls.”

To Chen Hu, who did not understand the significance of any of the curious designs he had rendered for his friend over the years, it looked exactly the same as all the others: a tightly controlled swash of abstract ciphers. They were, he considered, elegant in their own way as the Pinyin script was elegant, but utterly devoid of any comprehensible meaning.

But then, all foreign devils were mad. Everyone knew this. And in any case, it was not the place of the House of Wu to question the desires of its patrons.

“Very fine, sir,” Chen Hu assured him. He examined the bare patch of skin on Arthur’s chest. “May I?”

At a nod from his client, the artist took up the small rag of parchment and lifted it into place, observing how it would sit in the space indicated. If turned slightly, the design would fit perfectly well, he decided. As always, Arthur had laboured over his drawing and had planned it precisely—not like the roaring host of besotted sailors who came to him drunk in the small hours of the night demanding the names of lovers or ships or mothers entwined with anchors or angels.

Concluding his inspection, the merchant grunted with satisfaction.

“All is well?” asked Arthur.

Chen Hu inclined his head. “I need only a moment to assemble my instruments.”

“Then do so. I wish to begin as soon as possible. You don’t know how I have fretted over this tattoo—I was afraid something would happen before I could reach you.”

“You are here now. There is nothing to fear.” The merchant rose slowly. “Please, relax. I will rejoin you when all is ready. Would you like some more
chá
?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

Chen Hu poured another cup from the steaming kettle and departed, leaving his client reclining on the couch. He padded silently into the tiny back room to prepare his engraving instruments: a phalanx of long bamboo rods tipped with very sharp steel points. He gathered up a handful of the rods and placed the pins in amongst the burning coals of the brazier, turning each one before withdrawing it and setting it aside to cool. When this was finished, he prepared some of his precious ink. The ink, always freshly made using a secret recipe developed over twenty years in the trade, was only ever mixed in small batches. A Wu Chen Hu creation was a vivid blue: never muddy or, worse yet, washed out like those of the cheaper waterfront vendors. This, as much as the skill of the practitioner, set Wu’s Heavenly Tattau high above all the rest.

A Wu Chen Hu masterpiece was made to endure. He had no doubt his work would last the lifetime of its owner, and beyond.

With slow, deliberate movements, he dribbled a few drops of the rich blue ink into a small stone vessel, took up the steel-tipped rods, and arranged them on a teak tray with a stack of clean, neatly folded rags. When all was ready, he carried the tray back into the shop and placed it on a low table beside the couch. Next, he crossed to the hearth, knelt, and took up a bunch of joss sticks, lit them, and as the fragrant smoke ascended, he offered prayers to all the relevant gods to guide his hands auspiciously.

“Shall we begin?” he asked, seating himself on a stool before the settee.

“By all means,” replied Arthur with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “I place myself in your capable hands, my friend. Do with me as you will.”

The small silk-robed man settled on his stool and, leaning near, placed the scrap of parchment on his reclining client’s bare chest. He studied it for a moment, then began to lightly sketch the design in blue ink. When he was satisfied that he had rendered the proposed drawing perfectly, he rose and retrieved a small brass disk and held it against the still-damp drawing.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Arthur happily. “You may proceed.”

Replacing the brass disk, Chen Hu picked up one of the thin rods, dipped the steel point into the ink pot, and then, stretching his client’s pale skin between thumb and forefinger, he pricked it: deeply, cleanly, and repeatedly. The jabs were so quick they seemed to merge into one. The process was swiftly and deftly repeated and a smooth rhythm established, punctuated by brief pauses to dab away the odd drop of excess ink or consult the parchment before the incessant pricking resumed.

When the first pass was finished, Chen Hu carefully wiped away the ink and the ooze of blood his needling had drawn, then gathered up four more of his sharp instruments. Holding them in a cluster, he dipped them in the ink pot. When the threads of each were well soaked, he began again, this time using a small wooden paddle to drive the tightly gathered points into the skin. Soon the hot summer air was fairly humming with the rapid
clickity-clickity-click
of the wooden paddle in the artist’s hands.

Arthur Flinders-Petrie lay with his eyes closed, accepting the punishment like the willing victim that he was.

The second phase of the work was much the more painful and longer in duration. Eventually, Chen Hu rose, bowed, and went to imbibe a cup of
chá
, leaving Arthur to recover himself. Many of the House of Wu’s clients, if insufficiently drunk to be insensitive to the pain, required a moment to gather their fortitude for the final push. Arthur, however, required neither alcohol nor recuperation; a true veteran of over sixty sessions, he had long ago grown accustomed to the pain. In any case, it was a small price to pay for the peace of mind the procedure brought in the end.

Still, he welcomed the respite from the needles and was relaxing with his eyes closed and was on the verge of sleep when he felt a shadow pass over his face. Thinking Chen Hu had returned, he opened his eyes and raised his head to see not the smooth, round countenance of his Chinese tattooist, but the long, angular features of a dark-haired Caucasian. “Oh!” He sat up.

“Sorry!” said the man. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Pray, forgive the intrusion. I thought you were asleep.”

“I very nearly was,” replied Arthur. He cast a quick glance over the imposing fellow. The stranger was a large, rangy man with dark eyes; a long, somewhat narrow head; and broad features that, when taken together, gave the strong suggestion of the equine. This horsey impression was only strengthened by the stranger’s bushy sideburns and extravagant moustache. “Look here,” said Arthur, finding himself as much an item of scrutiny as the interloper. “Do I know you, sir?”

“I should think not,” said the man. “But I
do
know you.”

“Sir?”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” replied the dark man genially. “I am Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, at your service.” The fellow gave a slight bow and clicked his heels smartly. “I welcome this meeting. It is most fortuitous. For several years now I have been coming to Macau on business, and I have recently begun hearing of your exploits.”

“Indeed?” wondered Arthur. “I was not aware that any of my trivial doings were public knowledge. In fact, to be blunt, sir, I have made rather strenuous efforts the other way.”

“Oh, I am certain of it,” agreed Burleigh. “Otherwise, I have no doubt our paths would have crossed far sooner.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” asked Arthur politely, all the while thinking how he might rid himself of the stranger’s unwelcome intrusion.

“Quite the contrary,” said the earl. “I am here to offer my services in your very interesting endeavours.”

Arthur realized then that the man had been intently studying the symbols etched on his skin. He quickly pulled his shirt over his chest. “Forgive me,” he said. “I fear your offer, generous as it undoubtedly is, would be of little use to either of us. I require no assistance just now. You have my thanks all the same.”

“Let us not be too hasty,” replied the earl. “Dine with me tonight, and allow me to convince you of my sincerity of purpose.” He paused, the light glinting in his keen glance. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

Chen Hu entered the room just then and, as Burleigh turned to greet him, froze in midstep. A silent sign of recognition seemed to flit across the Oriental’s visage—there and gone again before anyone saw it. “Please, be so kind as to wait outside,” said Chen Hu. He held out a hand to indicate the doorway. “We are soon finished.”

“But of course, forgive me,” replied the earl. He moved toward the entrance. “You will find me at the waterfront inn, sir,” he said to Arthur. He gave another little bow. “Until this evening, then.”

Arthur watched from the open window as the stranger disappeared down the street. “Extraordinary fellow,” he said. “Have you ever seen him before?”

“Maybe once,” replied Chen Hu, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe twice.”

“There is something about him that sits uneasily.” He glanced to Chen Hu, who gazed back without expression or emotion. “I wonder what he wants, eh?”

“This you will discover tonight, not so?”

CHAPTER 13
In Which Respectability Suffers a Serious Setback

T
he Portuguese trading house, Martins, maintained a rough-and-ready inn down in the docklands. It had been built to serve the few foreign worthies allowed to stay ashore during the trading season. Despite its name,
A Casa de Paz
was anything but a peaceful house. A notorious centre for gambling, drinking, whoring, and the inevitable fisticuffs that served as entertainment for the guests—none of which appealed to Arthur—he stayed well away from the place, preferring instead the safe and snug confines of his shipboard cabin whenever he came to Macau.

Curiosity, however, exerted an attractive force, and as a flaming orange sun began to lower over the Mirror Sea, Arthur’s feet found their way to the door of the House of Peace Inn. One whiff of the muddy yard and he was of a mind to turn around and head the other way. Indeed, he was about to do just that when he heard his name called from within the cavern-dark interior. “Flinders, my good man! I’ve been waiting for you.”

Arthur turned, and Lord Burleigh appeared in the low doorway. “I am so glad to see you. I have ordered refreshments for us. Do you drink sherry?”

“Don’t we all?” he replied stiffly.

“Then please come join me, my friend.” Burleigh extended his hand and ushered his reluctant guest inside. The interior of the inn was a murky fug of smoke and stale air mingled with the stink of rancid fat and sour beer and other things too vulgar for a man of gentle breeding to dwell upon. But a table had been placed under the only open window, and it had been set with a range of dishes, with bread, meat, goat cheese, pewter goblets, and a heavy black bottle of the sweet Portuguese wine called sherry.