Gai-Jin (110 page)
Authors: James Clavell
“Perfect, any time. If you want to change it, fine.”
“No, at eleven. About what, Sir William?”
“It can wait, nothing that can’t wait.”
“About what, Sir William?” He saw pity in the eyes studying him, perhaps compassion. His discomfort increased. “It’s about my mother’s letter, isn’t it—she said she was writing to you by today’s mail.”
“Yes, it was, but only partially, I had been warned to expect a letter. The first matter was Norbert, now that he’s back. I hope this duel nonsense is out of both your heads.”
“Of course.”
Sir William grunted, unconvinced, but let it rest. He could do no more than warn both parties and then, if they proceeded, to enforce the law. “You’re both warned.”
“Thank you. Second?”
“Second was that I have been informed officially of the Government’s plan to outlaw all trade in opium by British nationals, to forbid the trade in all British ships, to destroy our Bengal opium plantations and replant with tea. As you had led the delegation to ask and complain about the rumors I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“That will ruin our Asian trade, our China trade, and completely upset the British economy.”
“In the short run it will certainly cause a major problem for the Exchequer but it is the only moral course. Should have been done years ago. Of course, I understand the unsolvable silver-opium-tea triangle and the chaos of lost revenue it will cause the Exchequer.” Sir William blew his nose, already weary of the problem that had harassed and aggravated the Foreign Office for years. “Think I’m getting a cold. I suggest you convene a meeting next week to see how we can minimize the confusion.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Growing our own tea is a good idea, Malcolm,” Sir William said. “Marvelous idea! It might interest you to know the first Bengal test plantations producing crops were grown from seeds smuggled out of China and brought back to Kew Gardens by Sir William Longstaff, Hong Kong’s governor in your grandfather’s day, when he returned home.”
“Yes, I know, we’ve even tasted the tea, it’s bitter and black with none of
the delicacy of China, even Japanese tea,” Malcolm said, impatiently. Tea could certainly wait until tomorrow. “Next?”
“Last, your mother’s letter,” Sir William added, more formally. “It’s not the policy of Her Majesty’s Government, or her officials, to interfere with the private life of her citizens. However, your mother points out you are a minor, she is your surviving parent and legal guardian. I am obliged not to approve any marriage without the legal guardian’s consent, in this case of both parties. Sorry, but that’s the law.”
“Laws are made to be bent.”
“Some laws, Malcolm,” Sir William said kindly. “Listen, I don’t know what the problem is between you and your mother, nor do I wish to know–she did draw my attention to the piece in the
Times
, which can be read in several ways, not all of them good. When you are back in Hong Kong I’m sure you can bring her to your side, and in any event, you are of age in May, which isn’t far away.”
“Wrong, Sir William,” he said, remembering the same advice from Gordon Chen—advice from men who don’t know what love is, he thought without malice, just sorry for them. “It’s a million years away.”
“Well, be that as it may. I’m sure it will all work out for you both. Henri’s of the same opinion.”
“You’ve discussed the matter with him?”
“Privately, of course. The French consul in Hong Kong is, er, aware of Angelique and her affection for you, your mutual affection. She’s a wonderful person, she’ll make a wonderful wife, whatever the problem with her father.”
Malcolm reddened. “You know about him too?”
The lines in Sir William’s face etched deeper. “French officials in Siam are most concerned,” he said delicately. “Naturally they informed Henri, who rightly informed me, asking our assistance. Sorry, but it is an official matter of interest. You must be aware that, in fact, anything to do with the Noble House is a matter of interest.” Adding sadly, for he liked Malcolm and regretted the Tokaidō as barbarism, “The price of fame, eh?”
“If—if you hear anything I would appreciate hearing first, privately, as—as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, I can keep you informed. Privately.”
Malcolm reached for the brandy bottle. “Sure you won’t?”
“No, thanks.”
“Is there an answer to my problem?”
“I’ve given it to you.” Sir William kept his voice formal to hide a sudden wave of irritation. As if a few months really mattered—the girl’s not dead as Vertinskya’s dead, nor anywhere near as marvelous! “Your birthday’s soon and Hong Kong only eight or nine days away. Of course you’re welcome at
eleven tomorrow, or any time, but that’s all that I wanted to chat about. ’Night, Malcolm, and thanks again for the party.”
It was past midnight. Malcolm and Angelique were kissing passionately in the corridor outside their adjoining suites. The corridor was dark, just a few night lights. She was trying to hold back but she was enjoying him, more every day, his heat warming her more than yesterday—tonight his need, and hers, almost crushing.
“Je t’aime,”
she murmured, meaning it.
“Je t’aime aussi
, Angel.”
She kissed him again, searching, then again stumbled back from the brink, and held on to him until she caught her breath.
“Je t’aime
, and it was such a lovely party.”
“You were like champagne.”
She kissed his ear, her arms around him. Before Tokaidō she would have to stand on tiptoe. She did not notice it, though he did. “I’m so sorry we sleep alone.”
“Me too. Not long now,” he said. Abruptly his pain soared but he bore it a fraction longer. “So,” he said, looking at her deeply. “Sleep well, my darling.”
They touched lips and murmured good night, many times, then she was gone. Her bolt slid home. He picked up his sticks and dragged himself into his own rooms, happy and sad and worried and not worried at all. The evening had been a success, Angelique had been content, his guests had enjoyed themselves, he had contained his disappointment over the wreckage of his plan, and he had faced himself over the mails, not allowing Jamie to decide for him.
That decision was right, he thought, though Dirk’s would have been better. Never mind, I can never be him, but he’s dead and I’m alive, and Heavenly has promised to devise a solution to her letters and the new twist in my joss: “There must be an answer, Tai-pan,” Heavenly had said, “there must be an answer. I’ll come up with something before I leave for Hong Kong, you’ll need that proof whatever happens.”
His eyes went to their communicating door, still bolted permanently at night by mutual consent. I won’t think about Angelique or the bolt or that she’s alone. Nor about my failure over our marriage. I made that promise early and I’ll keep it. Tomorrow will take care of tomorrow.
The usual half carafe of wine was on the bedside table, with some fruit—lychee and mangoes from Nagasaki—English cheese, cold tea that he always drank instead of water, a glass and the small bottle. The bed was turned down, his sleeping gown laid out. The door swung open. “Hello, Tai-pan.”
It was Chen, his Number One Boy, with his wide, toothed beam that always pleased him—Chen had looked after him as long as he could remember,
as Ah Tok had been his amah, both totally loyal, completely possessive, and always at loggerheads. He was squat and very strong, his pigtail luxurious, his face round with a permanent smile though the eyes did not always. “Your feast was worthy of Emperor Kung.”
“Ayeeyah,” Malcolm said sourly at once, knowing what the old man meant. “May the great cow urinate on your immediate generations. Get on with your work and keep your opinions to yourself and don’t act as though you were born under the sign of the Monkey.” This was the Zodiac sign for clever people.
Chen’s seeming pleasantry, like most in Chinese, had many meanings: Emperor Kung, who ruled China almost four millennia ago, was famous for three things: his epicurean tastes, the lavish banquets he staged, and for his “book.”
In those days there were no books as such, only scrolls. He had filled a scroll with a detailed treatise, the first “pillow book” ever, the source of all others that, by definition, dealt with the joinings of man and woman in all their possibilities and hazards, how to improve the climactic moment, names for the various positions and their minutiae, descriptions of devices, medicines, techniques—deep thrusts and shallow—how to choose the perfect physical partner, amongst other wisdoms saying,
… obviously, a man whose One-eyed Monk has the misfortune to be small should not be embattled with Jade Gate like that of a mare.
Let it be known for all time, the gods have decreed that those parts, though appearing the same, are never the same but vary greatly. Extreme care must be used to avoid the trap of the gods who, while bequeathing man the means, as well as a need as strong and as permanent as the needle that seeks the North Star, to taste Heaven while on Earth—the moment of the Clouds and the Rain is such—at the same time, for their own amusement, they have set manifold obstacles in the way of the Yang’s quest for the Yin, some easy to avoid, most impossible, all complex. As man should taste as much of Heaven while on Earth as he can—who knows if gods are really gods—the tao, the Path to the Gorgeous Gully must be scrutinized, examined, pursued and studied even more severely than the transmutation of lead into gold….
Chen bustled about the room, pained though pleased with his Master’s knowledge. He was only doing his duty, drawing attention to the strength of the Yin, particularly tonight, the flaunting of it, her dancing and kissing, titillating the Master’s Yang about which the Emperor had been very specific:
A nervous and unrequited Yang in any household, if it be the Master’s, will upset the
whole household, therefore all the household should make every effort to relieve the unrelieved
.
And our house is in turmoil, he thought disgustedly. Ah Tok is more difficult than ever, Ah Soh grumbling about the extra work and worry, the cooks complaining about his loss of appetite, the houseboys moaning that nothing pleases him, and all because this cowlike barbarian whore won’t just do her duty. General opinion amongst the staff was that she must have one of those Rapacious Ravines Emperor Kung warned against:
There are some the gods have lined with demons, their magnetic force so strong as to send men mad, and make them forget an immortal truth that one Yin is like another when the need is great, and worse, when at last one such Ravine opens to receive the Yang, this Heaven becomes Hell for there is never enough.
“Ayeeyah, Tai-pan,” Chen said, aiding him to undress. “This person was only saying your banquet pleased everyone.”
“Your Lord and Master knows exactly what you were saying.” Malcolm struggled out of his shirt. His uncle, Gordon Chen, whom he treasured, had lectured him about the Emperor Kung’s work, telling him this information, and other pieces of important knowledge about the Yang and Yin, was just between them and to be kept secret from his mother.
“You are an impertinent bugger,” Malcolm said in English, his main defense with both Chen and Ah Tok. He could never seem to best them in Cantonese, but speaking English to them infuriated them. “And I know you were trying to be snide about the Mistress, but you’d better stop, by God.”
The round face twisted. “Tai-pan,” Chen said, in his best Cantonese, helping him into bed, “this person has only the interests of his Master before all else.”
“Ayeeyah!” Malcolm scoffed. “Words from a forked tongue are as precious as mildewed fish bones to a starving man.” He noticed an envelope propped on the bureau. “What’s that?”
Chen hurried to fetch it, happy that the subject had changed from him. “A foreign devil arrived tonight to see you. Our shroff Vargas saw him. The foreign devil said the letter was urgent so the shroff asked this person to put it here in case our Illustrious Master wanted it.”
The writing was not familiar. “Which foreign devil?”
“I don’t know, Tai-pan. Is there anything else?”
Malcolm shook his head, yawned and put the envelope on the side table and dismissed him. The medicine bottle beckoned. “I won’t,” he said firmly, started to turn down the oil flame, then changed his mind and opened the letter with sudden expectation, thinking it was from Heavenly, or even Father Leo.
Dear Mr. Struan: Perhaps I may introduce myself, Edward Gornt of Rothwell’s, Shanghai, late of Virginia, presently here in Yokohama for training with Mr. Norbert Greyforth at the request of Sir Morgan Brock
.
Mr. Greyforth has asked me to act as his second in the private, though pressing matter of the duel you challenged him to. Perhaps I could wait upon you tomorrow? Would the morning be convenient, say noon or thereabouts? I have the honor to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, Edward Gornt
.
The signature was as neat as the copperplate writing.
TUESDAY, 2ND DECEMBER:
“’Morning, Mr. Gornt. May I introduce Mr. McFay, chief of Struan’s, Japan. Please make yourself comfortable—Jamie, you too. Coffee, tea, sherry, champagne?”
“Nothing, thank you, Mr. Struan.”
“Mr. McFay’s one of my seconds. Details are supposed to be arranged by seconds, I believe. Yes?”
“Yes, suh. I’ve met Mr. Syborodin but didn’t discuss anything with him, according to Mr. Greyforth’s wishes.”
The two young men studied each other. From the first instant both had experienced the same strange sensation: an intense attraction to the other. Each was thinking, How odd you could instantly like some people, for no apparent reason, while disliking others, loathing some, dismissing many. Even so, both were sure that however fierce their initial affinity, it would make no difference. Soon—today, tomorrow, even in the next few minutes—something would as quickly revert them to normality, to the comfortable historic enmity that bound their firms together and would reach down the ages, dismissing the first affinity as a peculiar aberration.
Malcolm said, “What can I—we—do for you?”