Parlor Games

by Maryka Biaggio

  “Yes,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The Chinese are quite devoted to their elders. They’re a very honorable people.”

  “They are, aren’t they? I’ve never felt a bit afraid among them. Not even in large crowds.”

  After we’d covered the temple grounds and buildings, Mr. Carlyle asked, “Shall we tour the business district?”

  On the drive through Shanghai’s busy streets, I could think of little other than the harmony and closeness among these people and my devotion to my own family. And whenever my thoughts turned to family, I remembered my dear papa. How intrigued he would have been by China. Papa, who had dreamed of sailing all the way up the St. Lawrence Seaway and across the ocean to France, would have relished tales of my Shanghai adventure.

  “Look here,” said Mr. Carlyle from the open-air seat of our carriage. “We’re coming into the International Settlement. You’ll find some American interests here.”

  “But mostly British, of course,” I said, nodding in the direction of the Royal Bank of London.

  “The French keep to themselves in a concession just south of here. You know those French—haughty to the end.”

  “The trade must be lucrative for everybody involved.”

  “Oh, yes. Someday this business district will rival even London’s.” Turning to me, he asked, “Have you ever been to London?”

  “No, though I should love to see it.”

  He patted my hand. “Then you must let me take you someday.”

  My friendship with Mr. Carlyle was obviously blossoming, and I truly appreciated his taking me under his wing. He was a delightful and considerate companion, and I was beginning to think I might entrust myself to his care, at least for the time being. After all, he navigated Shanghai with great ease and demonstrated agility managing the Chinese.

  We returned to the hotel, and he invited me, as he had done the previous two evenings, to join him for dinner. It was over our dessert of hasty pudding that he announced, “I’ve business in Hong Kong next week.”

  I truly regretted the prospect of parting with Mr. Carlyle, but I had no claim on him. I’d assumed that the owner of a British mining interest would be bound to move on sooner or later. “Oh, and will you be gone long?”

  “It’s hard to say. Several executives from other businesses are gathering, and I’m required to be at their disposal.”

  “I shall miss your company.”

  Mr. Carlyle massaged his chin with his fingertips. “The thing is, I hate to leave you here on your own.”

  I bowed my head. Though I had met other men in my few weeks in Shanghai, I felt safest with Mr. Carlyle. When I looked up, he was studying me.

  Steepling his fingers, he asked, “Would you care to join me?”

  In truth, from my first sight of the Shanghai Harbor bustling with rickshaws, dockworkers, and hunched-over Chinamen speeding along on errands, I’d fallen in love with the Orient. Having heard that Hong Kong also offered wonderful shopping and that its port was among the most beautiful in the world, I beamed at Mr. Carlyle. “I should like that very much.”

  Just as I began to put my faith in Mr. Carlyle, I made a most disconcerting discovery—and quite by happenstance. Upon our arrival in Hong Kong, he installed us in the Lu-Chou Hotel, which he explained was sufficiently removed from the one at which his fellow business executives had gathered to spare me “boorish blokes spouting about metals and mining morning, noon, and night.”

  The day after our arrival, Mr. Carlyle begged my indulgence. “I’ve an important meeting today, and it’s quite possible I’ll need to spend a few days away on business. I’ll send word later.”

  Of course I was disappointed. He’d dragged me all the way to a strange city and then abandoned me. To amuse and occupy myself, I strolled the area surrounding our hotel. June is quite hot and humid in Hong Kong, worse even than Chicago at its muggiest, so I stopped for a respite at a nearby hotel, the grand-looking Olympia, which obviously catered to an English-speaking clientele. Although Mr. Carlyle hadn’t named the hotel of his business compatriots, I wondered if this might be it. The ample ceiling fans cooling its lobby, as well as curiosity, drove me to explore the hotel shop, corridors, and dining room.

  To my great surprise and consternation, there, in the open-air dining room at the heart of the hotel, I spotted Mr. Carlyle lunching with a woman and three children. They sat near the middle of the room, on tightly woven rattan chairs, partially shielded by one of the room’s many potted palms. A few minutes of observation revealed that Mr. Carlyle was on quite familiar terms with the foursome, for the two girls and one boy dangled their legs impatiently, and both Mr. Carlyle and the woman I presumed to be his missus alternately chided the youngsters and exchanged the most casual of conversation.

  I’d had a late breakfast, but, overcome with befuddlement, I decided to calm myself with a spot of lunch and requested a table on the other side of the dining area. As I strolled past the little family, I offered Mr. Carlyle the slightest dip of my head. His eyes blinked rapidly and he shifted in his chair, as if to warn me against engaging him, which I had not the least intention of doing.

  Witnessing Mr. Carlyle with his family distressed me a great deal, and after lunch I hired a sedan to take me to the harbor. There, from the shelter of my covered chair, I spent a long hour watching junks and sampans crisscross the choppy waters while I contemplated my plight. The scents of onion cakes and boiling oil wafted my way from a nearby lane thick with open-air food shops, but they only stirred nausea in me. I could not have felt more alone and dejected, on my own now a world away from all that was familiar to me. First Sue Marie had deserted me, and now it appeared that Mr. Carlyle, whom I had grown quite fond of, had deceived me.

  When I returned to the Lu-Chou Hotel late that afternoon, I found Mr. Carlyle nursing a drink in our suite. He’d drawn the curtains on the room’s southern windows, leaving the room darkened but unavoidably overheated.

  He jumped to his feet. “Where have you been?”

  I opened my eyes wide and blinked to adjust to the room’s darkness. “I’ve been wandering aimlessly, worrying about what’s to become of me.”

  Despite the room’s warmth I noticed his collar remained buttoned to the top. He plopped his drink down on the side table. “Did you enjoy your lunch at the Olympia?”

  I untied my hat ribbon and cast the hat on the sandalwood dresser. “How could I, distressed as I was?”

  “It was altogether annoying, you sitting there, spying on me across the room.”

  Ripping my gloves off, I gripped them taut in my hands. “I in no way disturbed you or your lunch companions.”

  He leaned back on his heels and softened his tone. “Yes, well, my sister and her children surprised me with a visit.”

  “Your sister?” I asked. “Where is she visiting from?”

  “Liverpool.”

  “Then she’s very far from home herself.” Did he truly expect me to believe he was this upset about being discovered with his sister? “Perhaps I can keep her and the youngsters company while you attend to your business.”

  “I would rather you not.”

  “You’ll at least introduce me, won’t you?”

  Mr. Carlyle’s usually placid face flushed to radiant pink. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “And why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  I flopped my gloves on the easy chair and planted a hand on the chair back to steady myself. “If she’s your sister, and I’m your companion, what’s not proper?”

  “I don’t want you upsetting my family.”

  “And what about me? You never told me you had family here.”

  “They’re only visiting briefly. I didn’t know they were coming.”

  “And do you intend to strand me in a strange city?”

  Mr. Carlyle’s arms stiffened at his sides. “No, of course not.”

  “You’ve put me in terrible straits.”

  “I’ll pay for your return to
Shanghai.”

  “You led me to believe I was more than a dalliance.”

  The sinews of his neck tightened. “I did not.”

  “How dare you? You invite me to travel with you, and you don’t mention any family. What do you take me for?”

  “I regret the circumstances.”

  “You deceive me, and regret is the best you can muster?”

  He threw his hands up in resignation. “I’ll pay you. I’ll write a check right now.”

  “And how much do you believe my inconvenience is worth?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  I gasped. Having acquainted myself with the British currency, I understood this to be a sizable amount. Mr. Carlyle’s wealth obviously exceeded his capacity for honesty. “A thousand pounds?”

  He must have thought I judged the sum to be inadequate, for he rushed to defend it. “It’s plenty. You can live in style for a year on that.”

  Mr. Carlyle appeared altogether willing to part with his money, and I had Maman and my family’s sorry finances to consider. I glared at him, holding my head high. “And you can go back to your wife and pretend nothing happened.”

  “Leave my family out of this.”

  “I believe my troubles are worth a good three thousand pounds.”

  After I impressed upon him the dismal state of my—and his—plight, Mr. Carlyle agreed he’d done me wrong. He wrote a check for the amount I requested and packed up the remainder of his belongings.

  I was alone again, though with sufficient funds to make a fresh start and wire a goodly sum to Maman. For why, fair reader, had I ventured to strange lands if not for my dear family’s sake? But Hong Kong had left a bad taste in my mouth; I wished only to leave the city and the vexation it had visited on me far behind.

  AMERICANS IN TOKYO

  TOKYO—1890–1891

  How could I resist Japan, where women are appreciated as cultured companions and schooled in how to make careers of this fine art? I reasoned I could fare far better in Japan than the only place in the United States with female suffrage, Wyoming. Here I could apprentice under Tokyo’s revered geishas and mingle with the most distinguished men in all of Japan—businessmen selling exotic goods all over the world, owners of the fishing fleets that plied the sea’s bounties, even officials of the royal court.

  Upon arriving in Tokyo, I secured a suite at the gleaming, brand-new Imperial Hotel, a stately and imposing facility that afforded plentiful opportunities to meet wealthy Japanese as well as foreign businessmen and dignitaries. I acquired a closetful of fine silk kimonos and learned how to make my face up in the Japanese style, first by applying white powder and then the lip and eye ornamentation that stood out so vibrantly against it.

  Soon I found myself mixing with men of all nationalities. I was, however, the companion of no one man, for I was perfectly content to keep company with a variety of influential men, among them a French count and a member of the Argentine legation. My unfortunate relationships with Juan Ramón and Hugh Carlyle had taught me to exercise care in choosing a gentleman friend, and I resolved to bide my time and enjoy the freedom afforded by my unexpected wealth as long as possible.

  One festive evening claimed a regrettable place in my memories of Japan. A diplomat from the Japanese Embassy in Canada, Mr. Ishiguro, requested I accompany him to a gathering at the most exotic geisha house in Tokyo, the Yoshiwara. That evening, the house had been reserved for a gathering of Japanese businessmen from Narita. The party, apparently much impressed by having been invited to this renowned house, hired a photographer to memorialize the occasion. Before dinner the photographer summoned all of us to the main hall and arranged us, in two rows, before an expansive screen of tiny farmers plowing fields with yaks at the base of an imposing mountain.

  Now, I am not particularly keen on photography—perhaps because my first picture was taken by the police in San Francisco—but I did not wish to upset Mr. Ishiguro or the guests, and I imagined this portrait would be the private property of only the visitors. So I took my position in the front row and smiled demurely for the photographer, keeping my face cast downward in the manner of my Japanese sisters. The rest of the evening went off quite nicely, and I forgot all about the photograph until some time later.

  Each month, the Imperial Hotel hosted a reception for their honored guests in a high-ceilinged room of beige walls painted with towering bamboos and peacocks resplendent in fanned tails. It was at one of these events, in February of 1891, that I met Johnny Graham, a young New Yorker with a tall, trim silhouette and eyebrows so flaxen they blended with his fair complexion and lent his sky-blue eyes the appearance of perpetual wonderment.

  While we stood apart from the groups of conversing notables, clutching our flutes of champagne, I asked, “What brings you to Tokyo, Mr. Graham?”

  “I’m on my Wanderjahr. I’ve visited Paris, Calcutta, Peking, and gads of points in between.”

  “How exciting. I love to travel.”

  “You must. Not many American women would venture all the way to Japan.”

  “It’s the most exotic place I’ve ever seen, though I must say I’m glad for the company of an American.”

  Mr. Graham looked around the dimly lit room at the attendees settled into small clutches—European, American, and Japanese men, a few with wives or lady guests—and lowered his voice. “Don’t you find the Japanese a bit stiff?”

  After a glance this way and that, I said, “Not compared with the British.”

  Mr. Graham tossed his head back and unleashed a burst of carefree laughter. I was beginning to like Johnny Graham—his casual frankness, immaculate teeth, and hands as delicate as a piano player’s.

  Composing himself, he bent his head to me. “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Completely.”

  “Did you arrive on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “What courage. It’s not easy to navigate these foreign countries.”

  “Given enough money, one can navigate any place.” That night, I certainly looked as if I had “enough” money. I wore teardrop diamond earrings and a floor-length apricot kimono embroidered in pale-yellow and white peonies.

  “Where in the States are you from?”

  “Chicago.” I sipped my champagne. “My father was in the restaurant business.”

  He tucked a hand in his pocket and studied me. “Forgive me, but I can’t get over my amazement. You’re traveling Japan completely on your own?”

  “Yes. But why should you be amazed?” I assumed Mr. Graham was unattached. But, wary of repeating my unfortunate experience with Mr. Carlyle, I asked, “You’re doing the same, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s nothing for a man,” he said, rocking on his heels. “Do you have plans to see any other places?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “This is my last stop before the States.”

  “And what happens after your world tour?”

  “I take over my father’s business.” Mr. Graham’s eyes twinkled with the unpretentious bonhomie of one who is confident fortune will favor him. “Tokyo is my last hurrah before settling down in New York.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “Imports. Art, antiquities, furniture—that sort of thing.”

  “How impressive. That must require specialized knowledge.”

  He shrugged and said, with an utterly charming lack of pretense, “I majored in art history at Harvard.”

  Mr. Graham’s obvious good breeding blessed him with an honest cordiality, sportive cheeriness, and a dash of naïveté, all of which I found pinch-me beguiling. We fell into each other’s company that evening with the ease of long-separated friends renewing their affinity. As the reception broke up, Johnny said, “I’m not the least bit tired, and it’s a crystal-clear evening. Let’s take a rickshaw to Ueno Park.”

  The sun sets early in Tokyo in February, before six. But we’d had a string of sunny days with temperatures approaching sixty degrees, and a
s we traveled the city’s streets that evening, the cool air did not chill so much as invigorate.

  “I’ve a special spot to show you,” said Johnny after paying our driver. He trotted ahead, pointing to a row of bare cherry trees. “Come, it’s beyond those trees.”

  I lifted my kimono and broke into a shuffling run. “Wait for me.”

  “No, you catch me,” called Johnny, not slowing at all.

  We ran, laughing at our childishness, along a gravel path. We passed through a row of trees, and the landscape opened onto a rectangular pond rimmed by a grassy expanse. Johnny halted and stretched out his arms, as if embracing the world. “Look up. Look at the stars.”

  I ran to his side; he scooped me into his arms and twirled us around. Both of us cast our gaze upward, and I nearly lost my balance, save for his sure grip. We stopped, winded, our giddiness turning to wonder at the sparkling sky. Johnny let me go, shucked off his jacket, and said, “Here, lie down so you can see the whole sky.”

  He reclined beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

  Stars scattered across the moonless sky, as bright and twinkly as those of a deep Michigan night. Only here, half a world away, I felt I was seeing them anew. Then I remembered an evening I hadn’t thought of in years. “Once, when I was a little girl, my father took my two brothers and me to a meadow filled with fireflies.”

  “I love fireflies,” Johnny said.

  “I dodged and darted from one firefly to another, until I’d caught three all at once. Papa was sitting on the edge of the meadow, watching us. I scampered up to him with my treasure. ‘Look, Papa, fireflies for you,’ I said and opened my hands. As they flitted away I squealed, ‘Come back, Papa’s fireflies.’ He gathered me in his arms so that we were both looking in the same direction, and pointed at the North Star. ‘See that bright star? I’ll catch it for you.’ Then he reached his hand out and clenched it closed. Now, whenever I look at the North Star, I think of Papa.”