Outrun the Moon (9 page)

AT THE APPOINTED TIME OF SIX O'CLOCK, I wait at the curb for my ride to the Benevolent Association, rehearsing my argument one more time.

The thought of seeing Tom ties an extra band around my stomach. Have the few days apart worked in my favor or against? Maybe Ling-Ling has already wormed her way into his heart, that is if her ma has not knocked him over the head and dragged him off like a prized goat.

I scold the worries away. As Ma likes to say, you cannot control the wind, but you can control your sails.

The great door of St. Clare's opens behind me. Elodie emerges in a pin-striped suit with ruffles around the wrists and neck and a smart gray hat on her head. I'm suddenly conscious of my uniform, which looks drab as a feed sack by comparison.

She sashays down the stoop and glides to a spot a few feet away, not acknowledging me. What is
she
doing here?

“Going out?” I ask.

She rummages in her beaded handbag and takes out a mirror. A pearl ring, delicate as a tear, adorns her gloved finger. “I'm coming with you. Papa made me second-in-command with
executive authority. I am entitled to know everything that happens with the business, even the unsavory aspects.” A smarmy grin wings up her face. Seeing me squirm has quickly become a favorite pastime of hers.

Unsinkable as a cork,
I remind myself.

The blond car finally sails to the curb, but Monsieur is not inside. William calls over the engine, “I'm sorry, ladies, but he was called to New York. Wants you to reschedule the meeting.”

I gape. “
New York?
How long will he be gone?”

“Hard to say. The express takes a few days each way. He had pressing business to attend to.”

Elodie rolls her eyes. “Right. Business
 . . .”
she mutters.

My heels sink into the pavement. “But we
 . . .
we had an arrangement,” I say lamely. The sweet taste of victory tastes more like bitter melon. “The association will be waiting for us. I can't not show up.” I cringe, thinking about their reactions.

William frowns in sympathy. He draws out a wooden box with satin ribbon and offers it to Elodie. “He says he's sorry about your birthday and that you should still see
Carmen
. He had these truffles made for you.”

It's her birthday? Elodie doesn't bother to take the box but instead turns on her heel to march back to the house. My anger flares. Tom went through a great deal of trouble to get this appointment. We're going to keep it, Monsieur or not.

I step in front of her, blocking her path. “You said yourself, you are second-in-command. That means you can fulfill business obligations as proxy. Or do you not have executive authority as you said?”

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish as she looks from me to William. The man's jaw moves, like he's sucking on a chaw of tobacco. She's probably waiting for him to defend her, but I wonder if he's thinking about how she didn't even acknowledge the box he's still holding.

No one says anything, and so I twist the screw a little more. “I would hate for your papa to be in breach of contract, especially when his daughter could have done something about it.”

“Well, I
never
—” Elodie huffs. She pushes past me up the stairs.

“Bet your papa would be right proud of you for filling in.” William's words slow Elodie in her tracks. For a moment, I think she might even turn around.

But then she continues her ascent.

The door shuts behind her with a heavy thud. My dreams, gone in a cloud of pinstripes.

William's gaze falls to the box. “He forgets that chocolate makes her mouth itch.”

I gape. “She's adverse to chocolate? How will she work in the business?”

“She is bright and capable. One day her father will see it.” He leans over the car door and places the chocolate on the front seat. “Do you still need a ride to Chinatown?”

“Thank you.”

Just as William pulls on his goggles, the front door of St. Clare's opens again. We glance up at Elodie sweeping down the stairs.

She casts me a black look, then announces, “I've decided to accompany you.”

William smoothly opens the door to the automobile, a smile lurking around his freckled cheeks, and at last, we set sail.

The familiar scents of gasoline, horse manure, and salty ocean air blow around us as we descend toward downtown.

Elodie tosses back her hair, freshly ironed into curls. “How does this association work?”

“Chinese people group themselves into ‘companies' according to family villages, which look out for their welfare, help them find jobs, things like that. The association governs the companies, much like the federal government oversees the states. It's made up of six company presidents who we call the Six.”

“Who knew you were so organized,” she says with a smirk. “Who's the head mandarin?”

I cringe. “We are not oranges. The
chairman
is Mr. Leung, and he is fair, though he has no vote. Mr. Ng is the vice chairman, and he is prickly. He's the most likely to turn us down, but a majority can overrule him.” Once, he chased a traveling salesman all the way to Market Street for trying to sell him a dog leash. “Then there's Mr. Chow
 . . .”
I pause, remembering the soft-spoken man with the fondness for the black tar. He might support us if he can stay awake long enough to vote. “Also, Mr. Cruz, who's half-Portuguese; Ah-Suk—that is,
Dr. Gunn
—our herbalist; and ‘Just Bob,' who's a butcher.”

“Just Bob.” Elodie's voice is sticky with sarcasm.

“His real name is Mok Wai-Keung. You may call him that if you prefer.”

She makes a
tsch
sound with her tongue. May she remember that, tonight, we're on the same side.

A collision forces us to detour down Market Street, and my legs begin to bounce with nervous energy. The Benevolent Association values punctuality.

Businesses of every nature cram this crowded street—gun shops, barbershops, moving picture theaters. A tall knot of buildings—the Call, Mutual Bank, and the Chronicle—compete for who can reach the stars first. To many San Franciscans, those behemoths
are
San Francisco, tall and proud, survivors in a rough landscape.

I will survive, too, with or without Elodie's help.

When we enter Chinatown, William stops where I direct him. We pile out of the automobile, and my eyes catch on the box of chocolate. “Do you mind if we—” I begin to ask him.

But before I can finish, Elodie leans over and snatches up the box herself. “It is
my
chocolate, and I will hold it.”

It's good to smell the smoky cabbage and ginseng aroma of the old neighborhood. Most shops have closed for the night, but a crowd collects around a restaurant with a fan-tan hall in the back. Chinese love that game, especially the unemployed, who can least afford to play it.

Elodie clutches her box tightly, hurrying to keep pace with me as men eye us with curiosity. “These people do not look like our ideal customers.”

“You prefer them fleshier? Paler?”

She fixes me with a glare that wars with her bouncing curls. “I hope you have a strategy.”

“Of course. I plan to use the benefits versus features model, followed by an analysis of potential revenue streams.” Mrs. Lowry
explained this in detail, using graphs and flow charts, though I hardly expect Elodie to understand.

“Potential revenue streams,” Elodie says carefully. “We can also offer incentives, if sales volume meets expectations, joint accounting of course.”

My mouth drops as she marches on, a smart clip to her step. I never thought I would hear the term
joint accounting
from her coralline lips.

“What about bulk discounts?” I ask, testing her. “Product redemption for low demand?”

She shakes her head. “No redemption. Chocolate has a short shelf life, and that would be impossible. Now, these six gentlemen, how shall I address them?”

“
Sin-saang
is the honorific title.”

“Shing-shing,” she attempts in an accent that makes me wince.

“Maybe it's better to say ‘Sirs.' Most speak English.”

We slow in front of the Chinese Benevolent Association building. Its red, yellow, and green colors are believed to bring luck, power, and prosperity. A pair of stone lions guards the entrance, one male with his paw upon an embroidered ball to represent dominion over the world, and one female, playing with her cub. A figure moves near the door.

“Tom!” My happiness at seeing him spins inside me like a coin. He put on his good jacket—navy silk with gold frog closures down the front. His hair is combed off his forehead, and his cheeks look freshly shaven. He reaches for me, and his quick embrace is both familiar and enthralling. I glance around, as if
Ling-Ling and her mother might spring out of the darkness. But only men populate the street at this hour.

Tom glances at Elodie and asks me in rather sarcastic Cantonese, “Make a new friend?”

“May I introduce Mr. Tom Gunn, son of Dr. Gunn? Tom, this is Miss Elodie Du Lac. Her father was called away on business.”

Tom bows, the polite thing to do. I expect Elodie to do something saucy like just plain ignore him, but to my surprise, she curtsies. “How charmed I am to make your acquaintance.”

“It is kind of you to come.”

Elodie smirks at me. She is probably trying to gauge how things lie between Tom and me, so I force myself to appear disinterested.

Tom holds the door for us, and we file into the anteroom with its elaborately carved wooden panels. “Wait here.” He slips through a set of red doors leading to the main room.

The familiar sweet scent of incense perfumes the air. Elodie holds herself tightly, looking like she got off at the wrong trolley stop. I begin to doubt the wisdom of bringing her along. But moments later, Tom reappears and beckons us in.

Ready or not, it's time to sell chocolate.

THE SIX STARE DOWN AT US FROM THEIR table atop a raised platform that spans the length of the room. Though I've grown up knowing these men, the sight of them lined up with such serious expressions makes me stand straighter.

All are garbed in traditional
sam-fu
trousers and jackets, queues draping from their black skullcaps, with the exception of my favorite, Just Bob, who sports a flannel shirt with elbow patches over his compact frame. He winks at me. He can get away with wearing the “foreign devil” clothes because he looks like a devil most of the time, wielding his cleaver, and with bloodstains on his apron. The heavyset Mr. Cruz spreads out at the end, his gouty leg stretched to one side. He can also wear western clothes, because he is half-Portuguese.

“Greetings, sirs,” I say in Cantonese, bowing low. I can smell the fragrant chrysanthemum tea they are drinking, and wish I had a cup to soothe my nerves. “Thank you for accepting this humble girl's request for a hearing.”

I introduce the chocolatier's daughter. Elodie bobs a deep curtsy, and the Six incline their heads.

“You're late,” Mr. Ng barks in Cantonese. He slouches back
in his chair, and his neck disappears. Ma says people with “firecracker necks” have short fuses.

“My apologies, Ng
sin-saang
. Please forgive my slow feet.”

He grunts, and Elodie looks at me for translation. I ignore her. There are many rabbit holes of cultural misunderstanding to fall into here, and not everything requires a translation.

Mr. Leung shushes Mr. Ng. To us, he says, “Please sit.”

We sit on a two-seater bench with the box of chocolate between us. Tom takes his place at the small desk where he records the minutes. He pulls the cap off his calligraphy brush and rolls it in the ink. His hands are as at home with a brush as they are with a spench.

The sight of a pink pastry box at one corner of his desk, stamped with the insignia for Number Nine Bakery, puts a hot coal in my firebox. The two-headed snake—Ling-Ling and her ma—strikes again. Tom doesn't fritter away his money on sweets. They must have given it to him. Clearly they are on a campaign to win him over.

Elodie catches me watching him.

“I heard you are attending a new school, Mercy,” says Mr. Leung in lightly accented English. Mr. Chow translates for Tom's father, the only one who doesn't speak the “barbarian clackety-clack,” English. “It is good to see you broadening your horizons.”

“Thank you, Leung
sin-saang
.”

Mr. Ng leans forward again and places his pointy elbows on the table. The man can't sit still. He says in Cantonese, “Girls
do not need school. You should find a nice boy to marry and have some babies. We need more babies here.”

Mr. Leung shushes Mr. Ng again and steers the conversation back in English. “Do your parents know you're here?”

“No. This is a recent endeavor.”

“Why is Monsieur Du Lac himself not here?” asks Mr. Cruz in a hale voice that seems to rattle the teacups. The Portuguese man only has one volume: loud.

“Monsieur Du Lac had to be out of town unexpectedly, but has great confidence in his daughter, and has authorized Miss Du Lac to act on his behalf. She will take over his business one day.”

Mr. Leung makes a triangle of his fingers, nodding thoughtfully. It strikes me that Elodie's presence adds a measure of credibility to my plan, more than if her father had been the one to come. Mr. Ng, in particular, might have been suspicious of my partnership with a seasoned businessman.

Just Bob folds his sleeves meticulously. His chopping arm, the right, is more muscular. “You were always enterprising, Mercy.” To the others, he says, “Her ma sent her to buy a five-pound chicken when she was seven. Mercy told me she wanted five pounds of drumsticks, since chicken is chicken.” He smiles, and a pang of guilt niggles me.

“You honor me with your memories, Just Bob.”

“Get on with it. What is this proposal?” asks Mr. Ng testily.

“As some of you might know, Chocolatier Du Lac is the largest chocolate business in the country. They would like approval to sell chocolates in Chinatown. I believe this is an opportunity for Chinese people to elevate their status with
gwai lo
.” I don't
translate the Chinese word for “ghost man,” an unflattering term. “The more dealings we have with reputable
gwai lo
like Monsieur Du Lac, the more Chinatown will be seen as a worthy trading partner.”

Mr. Ng snorts. “That will never happen.
Gwai lo
do not respect us. They only seek to exploit us.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Ng, a trip of a thousand miles begins with one step.” Ma always says that when I don't want to get out of bed.

The men begin to argue in Cantonese, but Mr. Leung puts his hand up for quiet. He addresses Elodie. “Please tell us about your father's company so we know who we are dealing with.”

Elodie's suit rustles as she shifts about on the bench. “Certainly. Our main manufacturing plant is off Bay Street, where we also run a very successful boutique. Most of the business, however, is distribution through grocers and luxury goods stores located throughout the country. Our sales average half a million dollars every year.”

Tom's brush pauses as an appreciative murmur ripples through the room. Money follows money, as the saying goes.

After Mr. Chow translates, Ah-Suk's gray eyes narrow. “Yes, but are you profitable?” His knobby fingers tap together. The doctor is the shrewdest of the Six.

I translate for Elodie. She arranges her gloved hands prettily in her lap. “We have been profitable for the past twenty-two years.”

“I heard that many of your workers jumped ship to Li'l Betties,” Mr. Ng says with a sneer. “Maybe your house is not so prosperous on the inside.”

I expect a sharp rebuke from Elodie, but instead, she tilts her chin, managing to look almost charming. “It is no secret that Li'l Betties poached some of our workers three months ago. They promised higher wages. But their facility has
no
safety protocols or industrial sickness funds—benefits that more than make up for our ‘lower wages.' We are doing our best to find new workers, and expect to return to normal productivity in the next few months.”

The men begin to grumble in Cantonese.

Mr. Ng slices the air with his finger. “I would not trust her. Anyone can see the mark under that girl's nose.” Everyone focuses on Elodie's beauty mark.

“A mark like that can simply mean she doesn't gossip,” I pipe up. If someone had told me I would one day be defending Elodie's mole, I would've told him to go push a cow up a tree. “One would need to consult a fortune-teller to be sure.” Let them remember who my mother is, and who, by default, is the expert in this room.

Elodie rubs her nose, probably wondering why everyone is staring at it. “What are they saying?” she hisses at me.

“They are commiserating with your father's troubles,” I whisper back. Before any further objections are raised, I say, “We have brought samples. You can judge the quality for yourself.”

Elodie carries the box to the table. With a flick of her wrist, she slips off the ribbon and unhinges the lid. Nestled like eggs in shredded wax paper lay a dozen bonbons, even more beautiful than the ones in the shop. “Our best sellers are caramel and strawberry cream.”

“Like gemstones,” breathes Mr. Chow, who in addition to the black tar, loves to eat.

Mr. Ng scowls. “Who will buy something so fancy?”

“If we wrapped them in white, they would make excellent offerings to the ancestors,” I volunteer.

Elodie shoots me a dirty look. “They make excellent gifts for your wives, and lady friends.”

“There are few wives or ladies here,” Mr. Ng snaps. “The government prohibits us from bringing them from China. You come to us without knowing this basic fact about our population? It's an insult.”

Elodie's face pinkens, and Mr. Leung chastises Mr. Ng in Cantonese.

“Of course Miss Du Lac knows this,” I jump in. “She is simply vouching for the high quality of the product.”

Mr. Leung rubs at his smooth chin, looking deep in thought. Without a caution, Mr. Chow plucks a bonbon out of Elodie's box and pops it into his mouth. We all watch his round cheeks puff up as he chews, then swallows.

“Smooth as duck yolk,” he proclaims.

Mr. Leung points at the box. “How much do they cost?”

“They retail for fifty cents per bonbon,” chirps Elodie.

The men begin a loud protest in Cantonese.

“Highway robbery!”

“That's a box of good Cubans, hey?”

Even the butcher scratches his head, his kind face crinkling.

Elodie, who can't understand the men's chattering, casts me a black look.

I say in English, “While the cost may seem high, it is no higher than the prices paid for similar luxury goods already offered in Chinatown. A good bag of oolong tea. A single abalone. Chocolatier Du Lac is willing to make bulk discounts available. The benefits are numerous, starting with the merchants, who will not only get a share of profits but also increased traffic—”

“It is no good,” says Ah-Suk, holding a half-nibbled bonbon. He puts down the sweet and sips from his teacup, swishing a few times, as if trying to rid himself of the taste. “This food will lead to too much dampness in the gut, too much overstimulation of the heart doors.”

“Let's take a vote,” says Mr. Ng.

“But—” I haven't even gotten to my benefits analysis.

The door opens, and a man pokes in his head. “Are you ready for us?”

“Not yet,” Mr. Leung replies, consulting a clock on the wall. We have overstayed our welcome by ten minutes already.

The man nods and closes the door again.

“All in favor of approving this proposal, say
hai
,” instructs Mr. Ng.

Mr. Leung frowns at his colleague. “Who's the chairman here?”

“If you please,” says a voice from the side of the room. Tom bows to his father and says in Cantonese, “Ba, you have taught me that no food is all good or all bad. How a particular food affects us depends on many factors, including the quantity, the health of the person, and the season. Have you not said that
wine in proper amounts can aid energy circulation? Surely chocolate is no worse than wine.”

That's my Tom. I give him a bright smile, though he's locked in a gaze with his father. Ah-Suk holds his jaw so tightly that the joints bump out on either side.

A tense moment passes. Ah-Suk glowers at his son. “You are young and naïve, Tom, as are these schoolgirls.” His cold eyes flicker to me. “If the
gwai lo
truly had our interests at heart, they would be selling our products in
their
neighborhoods. Instead, they want to drain
our
dollars, and then buy our homes right from under our noses.”

Mr. Cruz tugs at his mustache, nodding. Just Bob gazes into his teacup. Mr. Chow snores softly, done in by a single bonbon. The only one who looks untroubled is Mr. Ng, who now stares into space with the serenity of Buddha.

I dig my arms into my rib cage. While it is true that wealthy businessmen have been pressuring the Chinese to sell their land for years, it is unfair to blame Chocolatier Du Lac. By “protecting” Chinatown they make it harder for us to interact with the rest of the world. Chinese should have the same freedom and choices available to whites, including where to live, where to go to school, and when to eat chocolate.

Elodie backs away from the table and plants herself on the bench.

“
Now
can we vote?” Mr. Ng gestures to the door. “We have more important matters to discuss with the Yu-Pei Family Association.”

Mr. Leung sighs. “All in favor of allowing the sale of Du Lac chocolates in Chinatown, say
hai
.”

Only one man says
hai
: Just Bob. Even if Mr. Chow were awake, we would still not have a majority. The frustration sits like a hot ball in my throat, and I watch my tenuous connection to St. Clare's begin to break, thread by thread.

Elodie's gaze leans heavy on me, and an idea suddenly comes. I feel for the Indian head penny in my pocket. “Mr. Ng, the issue of unemployment is of grave concern here in Chinatown, true?”

He cuts his jittery gaze to me. “One of many concerns, yes.”

“I believe there is an opportunity here. Monsieur Du Lac needs workers. We have workers in abundance, such as members of the Yu-Pei Family Association.”

Elodie tugs sharply at my uniform, and she hisses in my ear, “What are you doing?”

Mr. Leung rubs his finger along the edge of his teacup, nodding. Just Bob elbows Mr. Chow, who jerks awake, bloodshot eyes bobbing as he gets his bearings.

When I have everyone's attention, I say, “I propose we provide workers for Chocolatier Du Lac, at the going wage, in return for giving them the right to sell chocolate in Chinatown.”

Elodie gasps. “But Papa would never, I can't—” she begins to whisper.

Mr. Ng watches us carefully as Mr. Chow translates for Ah-Suk.

Before Elodie can erase our facade, I whisper, “It's a bold
move, but I have no doubt your father would benefit. Chinese are the hardest workers you'll find. Loyal, too.”

Mr. Cruz drums his large fingers on the table, making the teacups rattle. “
If
we were to consider this, we would need assurances of fair work practices, plus we would require Du Lac to consult with someone from Chinatown on hiring decisions.”

Elodie's brow knits, and she tugs her gloves back on, as if getting ready to leave. She casts me an irritated gaze, and any hope I felt slinks away. She never wanted me at St. Clare's. How could I fool myself into thinking that she might be an ally?

“We would need to hand-select this consultant,” she says.

I go still, not sure I heard correctly.