The Skin Map (28 page)

He entered the house and quickly ascertained that Chen Hu was napping in the rear garden, which was just how he wanted it. He found Xian-Li in the tiny kitchen at the rear of the house and joined her there. She gave him a forlorn smile as he entered the room. “My love, I—”

“Shh!” She raised her hand and placed her fingers to his lips. “We must not speak of it again.”

Taking her hand, he kissed her fingertips, then removed the round iron wok from the fire and led her from the room. “Come, I want to show you something.”

In the room where Chen Hu performed his artistry, he sat Xian-Li on the tattoo couch and took his place before her. “Look here,” he said. Unlacing his shirt, he drew it over his head and tossed it aside. He put a hand to his chest and lightly brushed the intricate deep blue designs there. “These
tattaus
which your father has made for me these past few years are not mere fancies—meaningless scribbles as many believe. They are symbols of my own devising, and each one bears a fantastic secret, an incredible secret.”

Xian-Li, all attention, sat with her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.

“My love,” continued Arthur, his voice low but earnest, “I am going to tell you something I have never told another living soul. I am going to share with you the secret of the symbols.”

“Arthur, no,” she protested. “It is not necessary.”

“But it is,” he countered, “very necessary—because, you see, I have a way to travel the world without ships or any other man-made conveyance. Each of these
tattaus
”—he touched one of the indigo symbols—“represents a different place I have travelled.” He paused and waited to see how she would receive this next revelation. “Xian-Li, I am not a businessman as you suppose. I am an adventurer and an explorer.”

Xian-Li bit her lip, but said nothing.

“Listen carefully,” he said, dropping his voice still further. “The places to which I go are not of this world.”

“Arthur, no . . .”

“It is true,” he insisted. “Difficult as it may be to believe, it is true. The universe is not only greater than we imagine, it is far stranger. There are dimensions unknown and unguessed by the mass of mankind, and I have discovered a way to travel through them to worlds beyond our own. Each place I have visited is on a different plane of existence.” He touched another tattoo. “These marks represent my travels. They are the record of not only where to find the alien world, but how to get there. They are a map written on my skin so that it can never be lost, never taken from me. It is written here so that wherever I am, however far across the universe, I can always find my way home.”

Xian-Li stared at him.

“Come with me, my love. I will show you wonders you never dreamed possible. There are endless new worlds to explore. We will explore them together, you and I. Say yes and let us make a start.”

He reached for her, and she stood and took one tentative step nearer. She stretched her hand toward his bare torso, fingers shaking slightly, and delicately traced one of the blue marks and then another.

“I ask again, and I will keep on asking,” he said, folding her hand into his own, “will you marry me?”

“It was impossible before,” she began, hesitantly. “It is even more impossible now. I know nothing of this life of which you speak.”

“You will learn. I will teach you.” He smiled. “It will be the most glorious adventure ever known. I do not ask you to believe me, Xian-Li. All I ask right now is that you trust me. Can you do that, my love? Can you trust me?”

She looked at him a long time, then nodded.

“Good. Marry me and let us make a beginning.”

She wavered before the force of his insistence, then pulled away. “I must think, Arthur,” she said. “Please, I need a little time.”

“If it were mine to give, I would give you all the time you needed,” he told her gently. “But we have only tomorrow, and then I must depart.”

“Tomorrow will be time enough,” she said.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he allowed. He retrieved his shirt and pulled it on, did up the laces and tucked it into his breeches while Xian-Li padded away to the kitchen to resume her preparation of the meal. Wanting to allow her time to herself, Arthur went out to the back garden to join Wu Chen Hu, who was now awake.

The elder man smiled when he saw his friend, and he poured another cup of rice wine from the small jar in his hand. “It is good to see you looking strong again,” he said, handing him the cup.

“Thanks to you, Chen Hu, and your daughter, I am hale and healthy once more.” He raised the cup and saluted his host, taking a sip and passing back the cup. He sat down and leaned against the smooth trunk of the plum tree.

“And soon you must leave us.”

“Yes, tomorrow—otherwise the Gongbú will throw me into prison.”

“Those fellows can be very unforgiving,” sympathized Chen Hu. “Perhaps next season you will return for another
tattau
.”

“For a certainty, I will,” vowed Arthur. “I feel in many ways that my travels have only begun. I have many more places to visit”—he smiled and patted himself on the chest—“and many empty spaces to fill with
tattaus
. Yes, I will come back.”

“That is good to hear.” The older man sipped some wine and returned the cup to his guest. “I have another daughter, you know.”

“I did not know that.”

“Yes.” Chen Hu nodded slowly. “She lives in Zhaoqin—two days from here. She lives with her husband and two little boys. But a few days ago I received word from a friend who was in Zhaoqin that her husband is being sent to Macau—he is an official on the Líbú, and he goes where they tell him to go. He has been given a promotion and increased pay.”

“Good for him,” mused Arthur, “and good for your daughter.”

“And good for Chen Hu too. I will have someone nearby to help look after me, so Xian-Li’s burden will be eased greatly.”

“I had not thought of that,” replied Arthur, wondering why his old friend had introduced this line of conversation. Were his feelings for the old man’s daughter so obvious, so transparent?

Wu Chen Hu, a little tipsy with the strong, sour wine, leaned forward unsteadily. “To speak truth,” he confided, “Hana-Li is a better cook than Xian-Li.” He grinned raffishly. “I am sorry, my friend, but it is true. You should know this, I think.”

“And you should know, Chen Hu,” he said, “that I worship your daughter. She is light and life to me. I do not care what kind of cook she might be.”

“You will!” chuckled the old man. “You will!”

And the thing was done. An understanding had been reached between the two men, and nothing more was said or needed to be said. All that remained was Xian-Li’s assent.

He still faced the difficulty of smuggling the young woman out of the country, but that, he considered, could be overcome one way or another. Where there was a will, there was a way: no one believed that more fiercely, more ardently than did Arthur Flinders-Petrie, who had greater validation for this belief than anyone might reasonably expect.

Later, after the three of them had shared the evening meal and walked a little in the night market, viewing the stalls of the merchants and artisans—looking for a few trinkets Arthur might take home to his young nephew and niece back in England—they said good night and went to their respective rooms. Arthur was sitting on the edge of his pallet, removing his shoes, when the door opened silently and Xian-Li entered. She took but two steps into the room.

One glance at the expression on her face and he put his shoes aside and stood, waiting for her to speak.

“My father told me about my sister returning to Macau,” she said. “He has set me free to follow my own heart.”

“Where does your heart lead you?”

“It would bring me happiness to marry you, Arthur,” she said.

He crossed the room in three strides and gathered her into his arms. “My darling,” he sighed. “There is so much I would show you, share with you. We will make a fine life together.” He bent his head and kissed her; she returned his kiss fully and freely. He held her close and felt her strong hands on his back and neck as she strained against him. “We will be happy, my love,” he whispered, kissing her again. “We
will
be happy.”

CHAPTER 25
In Which the Alchemy of Coffee Is Discovered

T
he Grand Kaffeehaus opened on the Old Town Square to such heightened anticipation that a line of patrons stretched from the door out into the busy marketplace. This, of course, drew even more attention, which caused the crowd to swell further. Englebert and Wilhelmina and their four uniformed assistants were very soon overwhelmed by the crowds. All were run off their feet before the day was half through, and the shelves were stripped of pastries, pies, and cakes by midday; after that, they served coffee only until they locked the door at sunset on the first day. Just after they had closed the shutters, Herr Arnostovi appeared bearing a bottle of Riesling wine that he opened in celebration of their triumph.

“You should be proud of yourselves, my friends,” he said, filling the cups and passing them out to Mina, Etzel, and the serving staff. “A successful opening in this city is rare enough to be remarkable. Word will reach the highest levels of society. Even now, the news is spreading through the great houses. You will be famous in Prague.”

“Thank you, Herr Arnostovi,” said Etzel simply. “We know it could not have been achieved without your help.”

“I only looked after my own interests,” replied Arnostovi. “Nothing more.”

“You did far more than that,” Mina chided lightly. “Etzel is right; we could not have come this far this fast without your guidance, Herr Arnostovi. Your help in these past days made all the difference.”

Delighted by this fulsome praise, the tall, thin man made a low, solemn bow, his arm swept wide. “It has been entirely my pleasure,” he replied. Then, raising his cup, he cried, “May God grant you every success!”

Englebert, whose own joy could not easily be confined, joined the salute. “It is right to remember God at this time,” he said when they had drunk the first toast. “For without God, nothing is possible.” Lofting his cup, he said, “To our Wise Provider, Benefactor, and Friend. May all our efforts bring praise and glory to His name!”

Herr Arnostovi smiled. “Although I am a Jew, with this we can all agree, and I say to you, ‘Amen, and amen!’”

They finished the bottle of sweet white wine, and the helpers were dismissed to mix the dough and prepare the oven for the next day’s baking. Wilhelmina and Englebert were treated to a fine dinner by their landlord, who took his partners to an eating house where he often dined with his intimates. There they enjoyed a splendid night’s celebration and the following morning opened their doors to another great crowd of curious and enthusiastic customers. For Wilhelmina, the clamour, though hectic, was most gratifying. Finally, for once in her life, her skills were being rewarded—lauded even—by a business under her complete control, putting into practice her own ideals and being run to her exact specifications. Such, she reasoned, would never have happened back in London.

Thinking of London and of her former life there put her in a melancholy mood—not because she missed it very much . . . but because she did
not
. At first she had wondered how she would ever survive such a wrenching displacement—being stranded in an antique time and strange, alien place—but the truth as it gradually dawned on her was that she had not only survived, but thrived beyond all reasonable expectation, thanks largely to Englebert, it had to be said, but prospering all the same. Her life before the leap had taken on the quality of a dream and, like a dream, had faded with the passing days, growing increasingly remote; her waking reality was here and now, and she liked it very much indeed. In all honesty, she was forced to conclude that she did not miss twenty-first-century London at all: not her friends, her apartment, her family, or anything else. Not even Kit. She had not spared her miserable boyfriend more than a fleeting thought since arriving in Prague. He, like everything else in her swiftly receding past, had simply relinquished any hold on her heart. Curiously, the thought made her a little sad, though she could not say why.

Perhaps the lack of sentiment revealed the poverty of her former existence, and it was that which cast her into a melancholy mood. In any event, this fit of introspection did not last long. Ever the practical person, Mina viewed such musings as wholly unproductive, and when they threatened to interfere with forward progress, she shoved them firmly behind her. Instead, she got on with business—and what a business to be getting on with! She and Etzel and their new helpers found themselves the centre of a whirlwind of sensation and acclaim. The worthy citizens of Prague simply could not get enough coffee. Every day, Englebert was forced to close the shutters with customers still waiting to get in. Far from discouraging their patrons, this random exclusivity only made them more determined.

The first week passed into the second, and so on, the first month into the next, and still the flood of custom did not subside. It did, however, become slightly more regulated as people began working out when was the best time to arrive for whatever social gathering one hoped to meet. Wilhelmina saw patterns emerging and was fascinated by their relations: businessmen, many of whom were fellow merchants on the square, arrived as soon as the doors opened but did not linger—they ate and drank, conversed quickly, and then hurried off to their affairs. By midmorning society’s aristocrats, would-be aristocrats, and climbers were firmly installed; they dawdled over their steaming cups so that each and all could admire clothes, company, rank, and bearing. The more ordinary worthies and the curious came next, mostly just to exchange gossip and partake of the city’s latest sensation. The next group to colonise the coffeehouse Mina could only describe as the intellectuals and intelligentsia—professors and lecturers from Charles University along with some of the more exalted doctoral candidates and students—finishing their day and mingling with the creative class made up of poets, artists, musicians, and other bright young things whose days were just beginning. Lastly came what Mina considered the radicals: dark and furtive men who gathered to give vent to the dangerous ideas percolating in their fanatic and militant souls.