The Red Thread (32 page)

Azan came out with a sheet, smiling, not understanding, thinking Charlotte had merely got wet. Charlotte was glad. Somewhere life had to be normal.

She changed in her room, listening to the sound of the rain falling on the roof tiles, gurgling off the verandah and swirling furiously round the pylons of the house. From the verandah nothing could be seen. The town, river, islands, jungle, all had disappeared. The harbour was one with the rain, the entire visible world wrapped in a grey watery sheet. She slept, and when she awoke hours later it was still raining.

She thought of him, Zhen, missing him suddenly as if this wall of water might separate them forever.

This thought immediately filled her mind. She cast around for a cloak and a hat. She would have to find him at the godown. He would be there at this hour.

Then one of Robert's peon's came towards her. She hardly recognised him. He held out a note from Robert. Her brother had sent the peon to warn her he was detained. The rain had flooded Kampong Glam by the river, and Robert was needed. He did not know when he would return. She should stay with Takouhi.

Charlotte made up her mind. She went out the back corridor and called Azan over the drumming rain.

‘Azan, I go to Mr Coleman's house tonight but first go to Boat Quay. Get a
sampan
to go to godown of Baba Tan. Understand?'

Azan understood. In this drenching rain most of the
sampans
were crowded together on the far side of the river, but he knew that there were always a few tied up by the landing stage. Why on earth the police chief's sister wanted to go over the river in this weather was beyond him, but he was now so used to the comings and goings of the household he gave it no further thought.

By the time the
sampan
arrived at the police jetty, the rain had lessened slightly and, under the big umbrella, Charlotte got into it, the boat rocking violently. The Indian boatman ferried her quickly through the choppy waters of the estuary into the mouth of the river, where the swells died down. Yelling at the other boatman to get out of the way, he pushed his way through the crowded boats to the steps. The river was high, so it was easy for Charlotte to step up to the quay. The rain had stopped but the low clouds meant that more was to come.

She carefully went under the verandah of the godown and looked inside. It was as dark as a cave, the small glow of oil lamps visible at the back and in the room immediately to the left, where she knew the baba looked over the accounts. He was not in there. There was a young boy crouched inside the door fast asleep, some sort of messenger, she supposed. He was Chinese. How could she make him understand who she wanted? Then, as if by a miracle, she saw Zhen coming through, out of the penumbra into the front of the godown.

‘Zhen,' she called, and he looked over to the door. He knew her voice.

Coming onto the verandah, he moved her into the shadows.

‘What, why come, you hurt?' His voice filled with alarm, but he was still angry with her.

‘See you. I must see you.' Charlotte burst into tears.

Zhen assessed the situation quickly. She had risked the river in this weather. She needed to see him. What for he was not sure, but she was distressed. His fury at her disappeared. They could not talk here; he would take her to his house. It was only a few minutes away. The rain would begin again any minute.

Turning into the doorway, he shook the messenger boy awake.

‘Tell the master and the old man I have been called away on
kongsi
business. You understand, blockhead?
Kongsi
business. Be back tomorrow.'

Zhen knew no one would questions this, for Baba Tan had avoided any contact with Chen Long since Chen had become head of the
kongsi
and especially since the attacks on the Catholic Chinese.

Zhen took Charlotte by the hand and led her quickly to his house, hoping Ah Pok was not at home. It was about two o'clock. What was he doing at that time usually? Zhen racked his brains but couldn't remember. He took so little interest in Ah Pok's comings and goings, only grateful to have a servant who did everything for him—including spying, of course.

The bolt was not on the door, but that meant nothing; the bolt was only used at night. At any other time the door was open to all the sundry tailors, knife sharpeners, noodle sellers, pot repairers, dhobi
wallahs
, delivery men and others who seemed to come and go at all hours of the day.

He opened the door and looked inside, could detect no movement and led Charlotte inside and onto the stairs. If Ah Pok was here, he was probably in the kitchen. Quickly he led her up the stairs and peered into the front sitting room. No one. He took her to a chair and motioned her to be quiet, fingers to lips. He ran lightly downstairs and into the kitchen. Then he heard Ah Pok and smiled. He was straining away in the dirt box. Zhen went back down the hall and slammed the front door, walking loudly along the corridor calling his name.

Ah Pok answered from inside the box.

‘Listen. There is a meeting here later, people from the
kongsi
. You are a
kongsi
man; you know this will be a private matter. When you've finished up in there, make some tea and noodles for four, and then make yourself scarce. And don't come back until after sun-up tomorrow. Get it?'

Ah Pok made a muffled sound of agreement. He knew better than to argue with Zhen when he had his
honggun
hat on. The fire was stoked and hot water boiling.

Zhen left the kitchen and returned to Charlotte, who now looked calm. She had taken off her cloak and hat and was looking out the window, down to the street, the shutters half-closed. The rain suddenly began again as he went to her side and whispered,

‘Not speak. Man here. Go soon.'

They both stood quietly, looking out at the rain. Zhen was puzzled by this meeting. He hoped it meant what he thought, but with Xia Lou he could not be sure. He had never been so hesitant with a woman before.

They watched as Ah Pok hailed the ever-present noodle hawker, who made constant rounds. He came under the verandah, and then there were some footsteps and they heard the door slam. Ah Pok was hurrying up the street towards Kampong Malacca; he had a woman up that way somewhere. Apparently Ah Pok, despite his middle age and his paunch, was something of a ladies' man. Zhen smiled at this thought; he liked Ah Pok.

Charlotte looked at his face and saw him smile. She never quite knew what he was thinking. She was suddenly angry at herself for coming like this, yet at the same time so very glad she was here. This was his house. She looked around.

The furniture was an odd mixture of English and Chinese. The tables and chairs were hard, unyielding, inlaid with marble. He noticed her gaze, shrugged.

‘Baba Tan give this. I not care.'

‘Show me the house?'

He nodded. She had gone from distressed to curious, but he did not mind. She was here, in his house. Cut off by the rain, entirely alone.

He took her downstairs, showed her the kitchen, the red altar of the Kitchen God, the wok and bowls, the chopsticks. Ah Pok had left tea and steaming bowls of noodles. He motioned her to sit at the small table and stools where he ate when he was home with Ah Pok. They were like an old married couple.

She sat and began again to try to use the chopsticks. Hopeless! Zhen took some noodles in a spoon and rolled them deftly, waiting for them to cool, then putting them in her mouth. The sensuousness of this act, the placing of the chopsticks in her mouth, her pink lips closing round them, gave him an immediate and huge erection. He blinked slowly. He had waited so long for this, and still he was not sure.

The noodles were delicious. She had never tasted anything like them. She took the spoon and drank the broth. She was suddenly ravenously hungry. He rolled more noodles and watched her eat. He was not hungry now, except for her. When she finished the bowl she lifted it to her lips and drank to the bottom. Then she noticed he had eaten nothing. His face was a mask.

‘You eat?'

‘Yes. First tea.'

He poured the tea Ah Pok had made. It was lukewarm, but Charlotte drank it, though she thought it bitter.

She rose and went into the room off the central air well. She was curious about this house and its architecture. The air well was wonderful for it allowed light and air and, at that moment drenching rain, to ventilate the house. Two water jars stood, their contents bubbling over and gurgling down a drain.

Zhen followed her, his bodily control thankfully returning.

They went into the room off the street.

‘Shop for me, china um, thing for sick man, maybe, after marry,' he told her. ‘Medicine shop' was what he wanted to explain. He frowned at his bad English.

She stiffened. Why had he mentioned the damn marriage? But it was fact. She had to accept it.

‘Come.' He took her hand and led her again to the upper floor. They sat on the hard chairs. He wanted to know what had caused her to come.

‘Why come, Xia Lou? Why cry?'

Charlotte struggled with words. ‘My friend's child sick, go away. I'm very sad, need to see you.'

Zhen watched her. Did she want him to hold her? Comfort her? He had never had such a hard time reading a woman in his life. He was as nervous as a cat, even here in his house. One wrong move, and he felt she would flee, out of his life.

Charlotte sensed his indecision. It was natural, she thought; she didn't even know what she wanted herself, why she had come.

She rose and went to the door of the next room, but it was locked. She turned quizzically to Zhen. He went to a cupboard and returned with a key, unlocking the door. This room, too, overlooked the air well. It had shutters to keep out the rain. It was very dark now, and Zhen stopped her and went back to the cupboard. He took out the lucifers. These were some new white man's invention. Quite useful, but volatile. He had taken some from a store at the godown. They fizzed a lot, but he had learned to light a spill and light the oil lamps that way.

He lit a lamp and brought it into the room. Scents of coconut filled the air. He opened the shutters, then lit another lamp. By the light she could see the strangest assortment of items. Where the other rooms were bare, this one was filled with gorgeous colours and cloths, like Aladdin's Cave. She took the oil lamp and moved around the room, running her fingers over the costumes, embroidered dark silk covered in pink and yellow flowers, clouds and fabulous golden dragons. Not dragons as she knew them, but creatures with deer horns and camel mouths, the body of a snake covered in fish scales, the claws of an eagle. A Chinese dragon. Then came lacquer trays with silver coins, candles and red packets. She saw two diamond rings flash in the light and a woman's green silk dress. She understood. These were his marriage clothes and gifts for the wedding day, for his bride.

Zhen had waited by the door, knowing she would realise. She turned and looked at him.

‘Come,' he said. ‘Not think about this.'

Charlotte walked out of the room, gave him the oil lamp and went into the corridor; she threw open the shutters to the window and breathed in the rain, which was stopping as the sky suddenly lightened.

Zhen followed behind her, putting the lamps on a table. He touched her lightly first and then firmly turned her to face him; he took one step back, saying nothing, waiting for her decision.

Charlotte thought of her mother, her father, their love so quickly cut off. She thought of her Aunt Jeannie with her spinster's caul; she thought of Robert and Shilah, of George and Takouhi, how precious was their life together, how soon it was coming to an end. Words echoed in her mind:

‘Love, all alike no seasons knows, nor clime

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time'

She took the step forward, and Zhen closed his arms around her.

31

Zhen took Charlotte's hand and led her to the bedroom. She took in the remarkable iron bed. Netting draped it like a gauzy canopy, one side tied back to the columns. A facet-edged mirrored cupboard stood against the wall on this side. She could see the bed reflected in it, knew that anyone on the bed would be reflected in it, felt a flush of blood to her face. A low table and chairs and a long chest were the only other furniture in the room.

Lifting her onto the edge of the high bed, he separated her legs, pushing the material of her skirt down, and stepped between them. He motioned to her to undo the knotted loops on his jacket. Charlotte was nervous, and her hands trembled as she released the cotton toggles. As the jacket fell loose she could not resist—as he knew she would not—running her hand over the smooth skin of his hard chest, touching the tattooed face.

Taking hold of her lower arms, he moved her hands to his stomach touching the muscles there, then round his waist to the curve of his back and lower, under the edge of his garment, to the muscular swell and deep crevasse of his backside, wanting her get the feel of him on her fingers while he was cloaked from her gaze, so that when she had left him she would not be able to free herself of this touch, his smell, the warmth of his skin. This time with her had come so unexpectedly, and his passion for her was so consuming, that he wanted to burn himself into her heart, to chain her to the wheel of samsara, unquenchable desire returning her to him in an endless cycle from which she could never escape.

Charlotte felt her heart moving and dropped her forehead onto his chest as he led her in this slow, sensual dance around his body. She had seen drawings of Greek gods, and he felt like that, contoured, sculpted but not cold stone. His skin was warm and silken. She let out a sigh of pure pleasure and kissed his chest. He had not moved.

He released her arms. She looked up into his face. He was watching her through half-closed eyes, his lips apart, his teeth lightly clenched, and she saw his emotion. Her nervousness vanished. A languorous vapour of dissipation trailed through her body. She ran her hands up his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms, her fingers detailing every dip and line of his torso, her eyes never leaving his face. She saw the tiny tremble of his lower lip, the dreaminess of his eyes.