Son of Fortune (35 page)

There were twelve people at Xie's table, including two other Chinese men, one some kind of builder, one an official of the Chinese police. The American guests were two couples and three other men. Aiden knew one of the couples slightly, Mr. and Mrs. Larson, parents of a school friend of Christopher's. He recognized one of the men as a city councilman.

Despite his anxiety, Aiden felt enormously hungry and began to eat the soup. The broth was rich and delicious, with a dark, sweet saltiness he had never tasted before. He was halfway through the bowl before he looked up to see the other American guests either sitting silently before their untouched bowls or simply pushing their spoons around. Aiden gulped. The Chinese men were eating their soup, so he knew it was the right time. He had not slurped or sloshed. He had no idea what he had done wrong, but the American guests were looking at him like he was insane. He put the spoon down. There was an awkward silence.

“I was admiring the Chinese paintings,” Mrs. Larson said, rescuing the conversation. “I do like landscapes. Though ours usually have more”—she glanced back at the paintings, trying to decide exactly what was wrong—“scenery in them.”

There were murmurs of agreement among the Americans as the comments were translated. Aiden knew what Mrs. Larson meant about more scenery. Landscape paintings in rich houses were full of mountains and clouds, usually with a waterfall and some grazing deer. They were thick with oil paint. The Chinese paintings looked like they had been painted by little birds with tinted water on their feathers.

“I am happy that you see the beauty in these paintings.” Silamu Xie's translator spoke. “I regret we do not have finer examples to show to you here.” The tone of her voice did not change as she said this, but she stiffened and her dark eyes flashed. Xie went on talking. “The artist of these paintings is a member of my household who has some simple talent and a little training,” the translator continued. “I give her permission now to speak to you herself.”

Then Silamu Xie stopped talking and nodded to the young translator, waving his hand, as if in a royal permission.

“I am the painter,” the woman said, addressing the guests for the first time as her own person. “I will graciously be happy to answer your questions.”

“You painted those pictures?” the councilman said with surprise.

“Yes, sir. I have studied painting in China since I was a small girl.”

“Girls can be very good at watercolors,” Mr. Larson said dismissively. “It's simple, you know. Not like real painting.”

The other men nodded in agreement.

“Thank you for the kind compliment,” the woman said. Her expression did not change, but her jaw tightened with anger at the insult. Aiden wished he could get up and punch the man.

“What is your name, dear?” asked Mrs. Larson, who, with her kindly nature, also recognized her husband's slight toward the girl.

“I am called Ming.”

“Well, Ming, I think they're lovely just the way they are. Your flowers are especially pretty. They aren't realistic at all, not like botanical prints, yet somehow I think they're even more real. Do you know what I mean?” She looked around the table. “What do you think, Aiden?”

“Uh, yes,” Aiden said. “It's like, well, when you left out all the details, you painted what most made it be a flower.” That sounded extra-stupid. It wasn't like a flower would otherwise be a buffalo. But he didn't know how else to say it. Ming smiled at him. Aiden felt his face flush and wondered if there had been hot peppers in the soup that he hadn't tasted at first.

“Chinese art show philosophy of China is unity of heaven, earth and human,” the police official broke in. His English was not nearly as good as Ming's and he didn't seem particularly artistic, but he spoke with authority regardless. “Order of all in picture is great way of Chinese picture.”

The American guests looked confused.

“He points out that in our tradition, a painter seeks to capture the essence, not the detail. To show the balance of man, nature and the spirit,” Ming explained. “But of course I am not a great painter,” she added quickly. “I am still on the journey of learning.”

Silamu Xie raised his hand, and the servants swooped in to clear the soup bowls. Aiden tried to think of anything to say that might keep her talking. She was a member of the household, he thought excitedly. While some kind of servant, then, she must have standing. She spoke English and had studied painting. If Jian Zhang's family was indeed very wealthy, Lijia must have brought a maidservant with her from China. Assuming Lijia had some education, she would have wanted a girl who could be a companion to her as well.

“Did you paint the invitations too?” Aiden asked, trying to think of ways to learn more about her.

“It was my honor to be asked.”

“And the calligraphy?”

Ming brightened. “Yes,” she said. “You know Chinese calligraphy?”

“Oh no!” Aiden said quickly. “I mean, I've read about it.”

Mrs. Larson looked vaguely scandalized. Oriental crafts were not generally in the curriculum for refined young men.

“Calligraphy most fine art supreme!” the police chief broke in. “Best Chinese great art!” He gestured back at the place card with a flick of his long, curved fingernail. “This okay. Better than child make.”

Ming's expression did not change, but Aiden saw angry rays beam off her, like the sun at noon in the desert. He almost laughed out loud. She was like one of her paintings, communicating much more with what she left out. Then Silamu Xie began to talk, and Ming's voice once again became his tool as the conversation switched to manly topics: building and the railroad.

The Americans were served steak, boiled carrots and potatoes for their dinner, but there were also platters of Chinese food offered. Aiden watched the other guests devouring the beef and realized the reason they hadn't touched the soup was simply because they distrusted Chinese food. It was said that the Orientals ate all kinds of awful things, but this smelled delicious to Aiden. Heck, he had eaten bugs; how much worse could this be? It turned out to be not worse by any means—and in fact really delicious. Layers of flavor and texture rippled through his mouth like waves. Crunchy things and soft things and spicy, sweet, sour things.

“The dinner is delicious,” Aiden said with sudden inspiration. “Does your wife prepare this kind of food in your own home?” he asked Silamu Xie.

“Some of these dishes are special for the New Year celebration,” Ming translated his reply. “But my cook is very good.”

Of course he would have a cook!

“And are you married, Mr. Xie?” Mrs. Larson asked, unintentionally helping Aiden out with a more direct approach.

“I regret that my wife was unable to attend tonight,” he said.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said.

You can't begin to imagine how sorry, Aiden thought. Slammed up in a dead end—where to go now?

After dinner, there was a singer from the Chinese opera. Aiden wasn't sure what to make of it. She sang notes he hadn't known even existed—like notes between the regular notes. He kept his eyes on the singer, but all he could really see, at the edge of his vision, was Ming. She sat perfectly still and also watched the singer, but somehow Aiden knew she was looking at him too.

“Very nice!” Mrs. Larson said, clapping enthusiastically though looking bewildered.

Chairs scraped throughout the room as people stood to leave. The American guests were almost racing to the door. The duty was done—everyone could go home and have nothing to do with each other for another year. Aiden felt desperate. He had to find a way to talk to Ming in private—even for just five minutes. She was most certainly his path to Lijia. But she had not been farther than two steps from Silamu Xie all night. Aiden wrenched his brain for an idea.

“Mr. Xie,” he said. “I hope it is not presumptuous to ask, but my associate Mr. Worthington has five daughters who are quite devoted students of the arts.” He paused to let Ming translate. “I wonder, would you consider…” Aiden groped for the right word. He couldn't ask to hire her—that would be insulting. But neither could he make it sound like a social invitation, for that could also be interpreted as mocking, since there were no social dealings between the races. “Perhaps consider honoring our household by allowing Miss Ming to visit one afternoon to demonstrate this beautiful traditional Chinese style of painting and calligraphy. I am sure Mr. Worthington would be very appreciative.”

Ming fixed her gaze on Aiden as she translated this, and that gaze was surprised, amused, shy, excited—all expressions shifting within a few seconds, like a summer storm passing on the prairie. Silamu Xie pulled a silk handkerchief from the sleeve of his robe and dabbed along the arc of his flaking forehead. He had not drunk much wine at dinner—Aiden had been watching—but his face was flushed.

“It would be my honor to share with you the modest talents of my servant in this way,” Ming translated, dropping her gaze and bowing her head now. Aiden saw her small hands trembling slightly.

“Thank you,” Aiden said. “If you will send a note to the house informing us when Miss Ming would be available, I will make the arrangements.”

The streets of Chinatown were still crowded and noisy with New Year's revelers as Aiden left the banquet hall. Lingering smoke from the firecrackers tinged the foggy air, and bits of red paper fluttered everywhere. He felt relieved and lighter than he had in months. His mission was not yet achieved, but he could at least see a clear path to it. Ming would carry a letter to Lijia. His duty to Jian would be done. He could not have dreamed up a better messenger. Ming might even know how to help Lijia. She was clearly smart and, as a translator, probably more in touch with the outside world. And, he thought with a shiver, he would get to see Ming again. But he should not even think about that. This lightness he felt now, this fluttery distraction, was from relief, nothing more. Anything more was impossible. Even if she were just an ordinary Chinese girl, it was impossible, but she was a servant in the house of the villain. This feeling was relief, nothing more.

he ducklings were excited about their visitor. None of them had ever seen a Chinese lady before.

“Can she see?” Annalise asked.

“Of course she can see,” Aiden replied, puzzled. “She's a painter! Why would you think she couldn't see?”

“Chinese don't have eyes,” the girl replied.

Aiden realized the only Chinese she had seen were the cartoons in the newspapers, where caricatured drawings gave them only slits for eyes.

“Their eyes are just a different shape,” he explained. “Miss Ming has very pretty eyes.”

Mrs. Worthington was apprehensive, but Aiden assured her that Ming was a most respectable young woman. Elizabeth, who had no interest in painting at all but loved the idea of meeting an exotic Oriental, finally persuaded her mother to allow the lesson.

“But how will she come here?” Mrs. Worthington fretted. “Do they have a carriage?”

The Worthington estate wasn't even a half mile from Chinatown, but Aiden knew it was a problem. A Chinese servant might walk or catch a ride in a laundry cart, but Ming wasn't a servant. An American cab would not transport a Chinese person, and Aiden didn't know if the Chinese had cabs or carriages.

Silamu Xie solved the problem by promising to arrange the transportation himself. So then there was debate about whether Ming should be brought to the front door, to the garden door or through the servants' entrance and whether she should be offered tea and, if so, which china to use. Racism, Aiden thought, was really an awful lot of work.

But eventually, after several days of notes sent back and forth, all the details were sorted out. Mrs. Worthington, unable to decide how to handle the social protocol for having a Chinese woman in her home, even if only to give an art demonstration, had decided to avoid the encounter altogether by scheduling a tea that afternoon with the cotillion committee to discuss plans for the spring ball season. On the appointed afternoon, the ducklings waited in a row by the window, eager for the first glimpse of her. Even Christopher, who tried to appear his usual nonchalant self, was hanging about the house. Finally a small buggy driven by a Chinese man pulled up in the gravel driveway. The horse and buggy were modest, but both had been cleaned and polished so they gleamed.

“Oh,” Charlotte gasped when Ming stepped out of the carriage. “She looks just like a doll!”

“She's ethereal,” Daisy sighed.

Ming wore a blue silk skirt and blouse embroidered with yellow and blue flowers—clothing much finer than what she had worn at the dinner, clothing chosen to impress. Elizabeth was clearly impressed. Aiden was not sure what he was—dizzy, mostly, like he'd been slammed to the ground in a lumberjack fight. Elizabeth, seeing him frozen dumb, stepped in to make introductions.

“I'm Elizabeth Worthington,” she said. “These are my sisters, Charlotte, Annalise, Annabelle and Daisy. We are so pleased to meet you, Miss Ming.”

“It is my pleasure.” Ming bowed.

Aiden recovered his voice. “Yes. Thank you for coming.”

Then a Chinese man walked around from the other side of the buggy. He was big as a cathedral and as scary-looking as one of its gargoyles. It was something Aiden had not anticipated, but should have. Of course no Chinese woman would travel outside Chinatown by herself, especially one who was a member of an important household. Still, it was a problem. The front door had been allowed for Ming, but a Chinese manservant could not come in the front door or be received into the family areas of the home. The servants would not welcome him in their kitchen, but he could not be left to wait outside like the laundryman.

“This is Gouzhi,” Ming said. “He has kindly accompanied me today. I wonder if you would allow him to visit Mr. Worthington's most renowned zoo while I am visiting with the delightful girls.”

“Yes, of course,” Aiden said, relieved. She had rescued them all with grace.

Gouzhi was a big man, for either American or Chinese. He was only an inch or so taller than Aiden, but more broadly built, with heavy bones and ample muscle connecting them. He wore the typical Chinese quilted jacket and loose trousers, and his hair was braided into a traditional pigtail down his back. He was solid and expressionless as a wall, and Aiden suspected he was more bodyguard than servant.

“Aiden,” Elizabeth said, subtly kicking his ankle. “Why don't you show Mr. Gouzhi around back to the zoo while I take Miss Ming inside to the nursery.” She smiled at Ming. “We are looking forward to our painting lesson.”

Aiden led the silent Gouzhi along the side of the house, past the conservatory and up to the gate of the zoo.

“You're welcome to stroll as you wish,” Aiden said. He had no idea if the man spoke English. “The polar bears are our main attraction.”

Gouzhi didn't seem quite as eager to see the animals as Ming had reported, however, and simply sat himself down on a stone bench where he could see the house and the buggy that had brought them.

“All right, then,” Aiden said. “You're also welcome to sit there.”

Aiden went back inside, stopping in the kitchen to cajole the cook to send tea outside for the man. She glowered at him but pulled out a battered old tray and a chipped old teacup.

“No toast,” she muttered as she scooped a meager spoonful of tea into the pot. “Look at the great size of him already! I'm not fattening up any Chinaman on Mr. Worthington's good bread and butter.”

“Thank you, Cook,” Aiden said. He sprinted back up the stairs but forced himself to slow down as he neared the nursery. He nervously fingered the letter in his pocket. It had taken him two days to write it, facing a blank page each night with an equally blank mind. The letter had to be perfect. It had to tell her everything, but not really everything. Lijia did not need to know the details of the guano island. She did not have to know how horribly her brother had lived the many months of his imprisonment there, or about the rock. She certainly did not need to know all the details surrounding his death. It was unlikely Aiden would ever meet her in person. There might be a few more notes between them, but he would worry about that if it came to it.

It
is
with
regret
that
I
must
tell
you
that
your
brother
died
in
a
tragic
shooting…a tragic occurrence…a tragic accident…

He finished each night with many burned pages and no letter. Should Lijia know that her husband was responsible for Jian's kidnapping? Did she already know—or suspect? What could she do about it if she did know? The final letter was short.

I had occasion to meet your brother Jian Zhang on my recent trip to Peru. I was working with some scientists, and he brought us samples of ancient pottery. I am terribly sorry to have to inform you that unfortunate events led to his untimely death. He wished me to convey to you his enduring love and affection.

In the nursery, Elizabeth and the ducklings were already sitting around the table. Peter's chair was parked nearby. Ming had brought several of her paintings to show them, which she propped against the wall on top of their bookcase. She was even prettier than he had remembered. His skin felt prickly and his heart was still beating fast. He leaned in the doorway, feeling like an intruder on such a scene.

“This style of painting is called
shui-mo
,” Ming said. “It is ink and water. It is more than one thousand years old.” She opened her bag and took out brushes, sheets of paper and a little wooden box that held an inkstone and a stick of ink.

“These are called the four treasures,” Ming said. Her voice was different from the voice Aiden had heard as she translated for Silamu Xie at the banquet. It was softer but clear, with a tiny precision to the hard consonants, like a little silver bell. “The inkstone, the ink stick, the paper and the brush. With the four treasures, you may show all of the earth and the heavens! I have brought one that each of you may try.”

She set out little boxes in front of each girl. The inkstones had smooth depressions in their centers. The ink sticks were the size of dominoes, with gold Chinese characters pressed into them. Ming dipped her brush into a cup of water and made a small puddle on the stone. Then she picked up the ink stick and began to rub it in circles against the stone. “You must not grind the ink,” she said. “Let the ink come willing. As you make the ink, your mind will come away from the world and change.”

The girls began rubbing their ink sticks. Not one of them made a sound or even shifted in her chair. When the ink puddles were glossy and the consistency of melted butter, Ming gave them each a sheet of paper and demonstrated how to hold the brush.

“One brush has in it one hundred different strokes,” she said. She dipped a brush in the ink and drew a fine black line as thin as a cat's whisker. Next she turned the brush slightly and made a pale swoosh that looked like a curled ribbon. Then she pushed the brush tip down and spun it up again with the tiniest flick of her wrist, leaving dainty blossoms.

“Please try now!” She smiled at the ducklings. “Do not worry to be perfect. Only learn how to feel the brush.”

Elizabeth, who had endured more years of restraint at the Clairidge School for Ladies, was tentative, carefully trying to copy Ming's examples. But the little girls began to swoop and twirl their brushes across their papers. They scrubbed the bristles against the inkstones and splattered droplets on their smocks. Ming never reprimanded them, except with demonstration of her own tranquillity. With a few strokes of her brush, she painted a rabbit. The ducklings clapped with delight.

“Why don't you paint with colors?” Annabelle asked. “We have colored paints.”

“Sometimes I do,” Ming said. “But plain ink…” She hesitated. “You must feel the shape and weight of a thing—what is the essence. With color, I may paint a pretty picture of a bird. With ink, I must make the bird alive.” With a dozen quick strokes, Ming painted a swallow soaring across the page.