by Jean Moran
‘Oh. Then perhaps I could know their names.’
The two who had smiled were introduced as Sai Po and Dai Lee. The haughtier woman was named Koto.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you all.’
The opening formalities over, she accepted Sai Po’s invitation to sit down.
Nobody offered her tea. Their discomfort was almost palpable, as was hers. To alleviate the situation, she fixed on the pink flower pinned in Sai Po’s hair. ‘That’s very pretty.’
Luli translated.
Sai Po blushed and raised her hand to stroke the bloom, as though she’d forgotten it was there.
She noticed Dai Lee was rubbing her ink-stained fingers with a cloth. ‘Have you been writing?’
‘Dai Lee cannot write.’
‘Can she read?’
Luli shook her head. ‘No. Not allowed.’
‘Tell them I think they are very pretty.’
Once her comment was translated, the two women smiled bashfully and nodded in a gesture of thanks.
The third woman continued to stare at her, her stunningly beautiful eyes larger and more feline than those of the other two. Out of the three she was the most beautiful, yet there was something in those eyes and the tight red lips that made her think Koto would rather she had not come.
After exchanging a few words, Sai Po and Dai Lee seemed to come to a sudden decision. Whatever the conclusion was, they mentioned it to Koto, who jerked her chin in agreement, her steely gaze remaining fixed on Rowena’s face.
Sai Po went to the door and pulled across a piece of wood, barring entry. Rowena and Luli watched as the two women went to the back wall, which was panelled in squares of red and green and held in place by black framework. Between them the women removed a panel consisting of four squares, two red and two green, revealing a small aperture. Placing the panel carefully to one side, they knelt down and reached into the revealed cavity.
‘Luli, what are they doing?’
‘It is a secret. We must not tell.’
Luli got up and went to take a closer look. Rowena thought about doing the same but Koto’s frown stilled her.
Having completed their task, the two came back carrying rolled-up pieces of paper, making small comments to each other before unfurling them one by one, laying each in front of Rowena and inviting her to comment.
One was an exquisite watercolour of floating water lilies beneath drooping willow trees in front of far blue mountain peaks. The other was of two figures running from a pagoda to cross a bridge, more weeping willows on the other side and two birds that looked like swallows swooping in the sky.
Each woman said something, pointed at the paper, then at themselves, patting their chests.
Rowena realised why Dai Lee had been wiping stains from her fingers. She had been painting and the works of art had been hidden before she’d arrived – their secret hobby that Kim did not know about. Sai Po claimed the water lilies and Dai Lee the two lovers running across the bridge to be turned into swallows or bluebirds on the other side – a story repeated on dinner plates set on many British tables, thought Rowena. ‘They’re beautiful. Tell them so, Luli. They’re beautiful.’
The two women basked in her praise, their clear porcelain cheeks suffused with pink.
Koto had said nothing, sitting on the divan as though she was made of a rare pale jade.
Having won over the others, Rowena decided it was time to break through Koto’s prickly manner. ‘And you, Koto? Do you also paint?’
Before Luli had a chance to interpret, Koto snapped an order. Luli started then leaped to obey, getting down on her hands and knees and groping inside the secret cavity.
The expression now on Koto’s face was less hostile, instead seeming to challenge Rowena to dare criticise whatever she was about to see.
Clearly Luli wasn’t moving fast enough: Koto snapped at her again.
Dust clinging to her hair, her face red with effort, Luli came back with yet another roll of paper. Rowena prepared herself for yet another delightful, though predictable painting of flowers, trees and birds. Koto’s work took her by surprise and she leaned forward for a closer look. She found herself gazing at something very different indeed. Laid on the floor in front of her was what looked like a pictorial map of the kind that was done in Europe in the early middle ages. There was little in the way of writing, but plenty of detail – alleys, streets and a waterfront. A group of Chinese characters was painted in the most elegant calligraphy in the bottom right-hand corner. The pictures of flowers had been beautiful, but this was exquisitely executed and refined.
She raised her eyes. Koto was still sitting rigidly, like a cat: watchful and ready to pounce should she say the wrong thing. Rowena turned to Luli. ‘Tell her this is glorious. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Koto turned her head slightly as Luli interpreted Rowena’s comments. Her expression seemed to soften and she spoke.
‘It is a map of Shanghai as she remembers it,’ Luli said.
‘She was born there?’
‘Yes. Until her parents sold her to a warlord when she was thirteen years old. He sold her to the luoban.’
‘It’s a work of art. Even I could find my way around Shanghai with a map like that.’
Whispered warnings ran from one woman to the next, Koto sounding more urgent than the others.
The paintings were returned speedily to their hiding place where, no doubt, the paints were also stored. The panel was reinserted and the door unbarred.
Tea was fetched, and although Koto was still not entirely at ease, she seemed satisfied that Rowena had meant what she’d said.
Through Luli she asked them why they hid their paintings.
‘It is not allowed.’
‘So what do they do all day?’
‘Devise ways to entertain.’
Rowena frowned. ‘Time must drag if they’re not allowed to do anything else. And they can’t read.’
Luli repeated her comments to the women. ‘They are not allowed to read, but they do have a book.’
Koto pressed for an immediate interpretation. Once she knew what had been said, she tucked her hand under a cushion, brought out a book and gave it to her.
‘Ah,’ said Rowena, on seeing the title. ‘They don’t speak English.’
‘Have you read this?’ asked Luli. The others leaned forward, expectant interest alight in their eyes.
‘Yes. A long time ago.’
It was The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells.
‘I brought it from the mission,’ said Luli. ‘The pastor and his wife knew English but didn’t want too many people to speak it, especially a book like this. A Bible in English was acceptable, but not this.’
Rowena turned the book in her hands, noting the gilt swirls down the spine. She thought of the long hours alone in her room, waiting for a single hour in the morning with her daughter, some time at night with her lover, the anticipation of him coming either to dine or sleep with her building up throughout the day. She imagined these women did the same. The book would help pass the time. Surely Kim wouldn’t object to her reading. Just as she couldn’t believe he would object to the women painting to pass their time.
‘May I have it?’
‘Yes. It is too difficult for me to read and translate to them. Anyway, they prefer stories about handsome princes, fairies and genies.’
‘What about their children? They do have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do they live here with them?’
‘Yes. This is the house of women. Only women and children are allowed here.’
‘But why hide the paintings?’
‘Women must do womanly things that do not tax their minds.’
‘Like thinking,’ murmured Rowena, under her breath.
‘Sometimes Zu Mu comes here to search through their things.’
‘Ah,’ said Rowena, nodding. It seemed Kim had only recently ordered his grandmother to remain in Kowloon.
Luli was becomin
g agitated. ‘The children will be home soon. We have to go.’
Her first inclination was to ask Luli to bring Dawn to her the minute she got back, but she refrained. Somebody, perhaps the cook, one of the men guarding the gate or even one of these sweet-faced women, might tell Kim. If this arrangement – having other children around her and going to school – made the little girl happy, there was no reason to alter it. Not for the first time Rowena felt guilty at relinquishing control over her daughter’s life. There were still times when she looked at Dawn’s pretty face and remembered how brutal her conception had been. Never would she forget those faces.
Before the door closed behind them, she saw Koto raising her feet onto the divan, an opium pipe cradled in her arms. ‘I will not fall into that trap,’ she muttered grimly. At least I’ll have a book to read, she thought, as she made her way back across the courtyard clutching the handsome tome.
Within an hour of being back in her own room, she heard excited laughter as the children ran into the courtyard towards the carp pond. She smiled at the sight of her daughter’s glossy head, her black hair falling around her face. A movement to one side drew her attention and there was Ching, the man on the boat whom she’d suspected of being about to toss her daughter into the sea.
Chilled, she ran to the door, meaning to go out and drag her daughter away regardless of what Kim might say when he found out.
Tug as she might, the door did not budge. Somebody had been ordered to bar it once she was back in her room.
It would do no good to shout. Nobody would come.
From behind a fretwork screen, her heart pounding, she eyed the view outside her window hearing the children’s laughter as they ran around the pond, ornamental but also a source of food. Her fear lessened on seeing that Ching had disappeared. There was only Luli, Dai Lee and Sai Po. In the midst of the excited babble, she heard her daughter singing ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’, which Luli had taught her.
Hearing a song in English brought back the times when she’d sung at the camp, and before when she’d sung with Connor. His features, especially his blue eyes, came easily to mind as did the sound of his voice and his Irish songs. She smiled at the thought of his singing, at Dawn’s singing and also of the time immediately before their world had shattered. She remembered the sight of him asleep beneath the stars in the grounds of the hospital, an opium pipe cradled in his arm – just like Koto.
*
The food was prepared and she’d taken extra care in dressing to please him. Nine o’clock was again the designated time, so there she sat, waiting for him to come.
The food looked and smelt delicious, but when yet again he failed to appear, she did not eat, even though she was very hungry. He would come eventually.
Two hours went by. Without being ordered to do so, a serving man, wearing black satin and soft shoes, came and began clearing everything away.
It crossed her mind to grab something and gobble it before she went to bed, but she restrained herself. The thought of him coming to her bed reinforced her will. She wanted to please him and in doing so perhaps gain some small indulgences, time with the other women, with her daughter, a drive in the car, even to accompany him, though on reflection she might end up disliking him if she saw what he did at first hand.
She went to bed where, accompanied by the sound of crickets and caged birds, she read for a while, then followed the other women’s example and hid the book.
She was disturbed by the sound of his footsteps, then the hush of silk garments falling to the floor as he removed his clothes. Her first inclination was to remark that he had been late in coming home, but she said instead, ‘I’ve missed you.’
She waited for him to slide under the heavily embroidered silk eiderdown and enfold her in his arms and was disappointed when he remained on top of the bedding, his naked body glistening in the glow of the single lantern that was still alight.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No. I was waiting for you.’
‘Good.’
She wanted to ask whether he had eaten but held back because, deep down, she knew that he had.
His lips were cool on hers as he stroked her hair, fanning it on the pillow, like a great sunburst of blackness.
He heaved a great sigh against her hair but when he moved away she saw that his mouth was set in a grim line. ‘What did you do with the book?’
‘Book?’
He moved his hand, the weight of it against her windpipe, his fingers applying pressure in a light but ultimately lethal squeeze. ‘The one they gave you.’
‘It’s in the clothes chest. I don’t understand...’
‘I did not say you could have a book.’
‘Please...’
Her head slammed against the pillow when he let her go. Then he got off the bed and went to the clothes chest, took out the book and proceeded to tear out the pages. ‘Just paper,’ he said, as page after page fluttered to the floor.
In that one act, all her desire for him vanished.
‘I want to read it.’
It was the wrong thing to say. The slap sent her flying back onto the bed.
His eyes remained fixed on her face, as though he had no desire for her body, only for her soul.
The realisation shook her. So did the fact that one of the three women who painted so beautifully had betrayed her. Perhaps Koto, who had given her the book and eyed her with such hostility.
He left her there with her cheek burning.
In the morning she awaited breakfast, but it didn’t come. She awaited her prescribed visit from Dawn and Luli but they didn’t appear.
Even before she tugged at the door to her room, she knew it wouldn’t open. She was locked in without food or water, smoke from the burning pages of the book rising from a bronze brazier with dragon claw legs.
All that day she paced the room or lay down on the divan, nursing her sore face.
War of the Worlds. That’s what had happened here. Her predicament was as a consequence of war: war between the cultures of East and West, war now seething between her and the exotic man who, she thought, had cured her disgust with men, but who now had reignited it.
He was playing with her, like a child with a pet dog, one moment making it feel truly loved, then teasing it, scolding it and slowly bending it to his will. That, she decided, was what he wanted.
All day then all night without food or water. On the following morning her breakfast was brought by the silent man with the soft shoes, and even before he’d left the room, she snatched at the fruit and drank from the bowl of milky broth laced with honey. Then she fell into a deep sleep.
When she awoke the lights were lit outside, their glow diffused through the fretwork screens that had been closed from the outside therefore restricting her view of the courtyard and the rest of the house. The only movement she could discern was of the chrysanthemums nodding in the breeze, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’
Food had been left on the low japanned table, sweetmeats, fruit and another bowl of the milky broth laced with honey.
Her hunger partly satiated, she ate only part of what had been left for her. Again she fell asleep, waking mid-morning to find the same fare waiting for her again. Although the outside shutters were still closed sunbeams darted through the intricate pattern, like golden rods lifting the gloom. A shadow seemed suddenly to prevent them entering. At first she thought more solid shutters had been closed and panicked at the thought of seeing no daylight at all.
Then she heard a faint sound. ‘Psst.’
Struggling to her feet, she staggered to the window, her fingers hanging on to the patterned wood to keep her upright.
‘Luli?’
‘Are you all right, madam?’
‘I feel drowsy.’
‘Ah, yes.’
Ah, yes? What was that supposed to mean?
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Four days.’
She gave a little cry of alarm. Four days! Yet
to her it seemed only half that. ‘The others. Are they all right?’
‘Yes. They were punished for allowing you to visit. Sai Po and Dai Lee handed over their drawings and Koto mentioned giving you a book.’
‘And you? Were you punished for taking me there?’
‘They beat the soles of my feet. It does not hurt too much. They said they were sorry afterwards. They did not want to do it.’
Luli was referring to the three women. Kim hadn’t beaten her: he’d made them do it.
Meanwhile she was imprisoned.
‘Where’s Dawn?’
‘At the mission.’
Rowena sighed with relief. It seemed her daughter was out of harm’s way. ‘How long am I to stay in my room?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sensing somebody was coming, Luli rushed away and Rowena dragged herself back to her bed.
Her head hurt, her throat was dry and her heart was pounding. Something about the room had changed. Something was there that had not been before.
The brazier, now cold and containing only ashes, was still there. Laid out on the window sill next to it was an opium pipe and plugs of the expensive, destructive drug on which Kim had made his fortune.
Overcome by an unfamiliar lethargy, she tried to get her thoughts in some order. There had to be a reason why she felt as she did. If Kim came to her in the night, she was not aware of it. Then why should he? What possible reason was there for wanting her to be here if it wasn’t a mutual passion?
The following morning there was fruit and again the bowl of milky broth laced with honey.
She had already decided that her lethargy had to be due to what she was eating and drinking. Fruit was not a good vehicle for administering a sleeping draught or poison. The sweetmeats were a possibility, but the broth had to be the cause of her exhaustion.
Deciding her eating habits might be reported, she picked up the spoon as though she would eat the bowl’s contents first. The glum-faced servant retreated.
Spitting out the sole spoonful she had eaten, she looked for a way to make it seem as though she had finished the broth and rebuked herself for being a fool. She should have realised sooner that her food was being drugged.
‘Now what?’ she murmured. ‘Plan,’ came the immediate answer. ‘You must plan this carefully.’
