The Concubine's Daughter

by null

  They passed through crumbling archways into another crowded alley—“Good Luck Street, where fortune is found and life is lost with the turn of a card or the roll of a dice.” Pungent cooking smells from every corner of China greeted them on the Street of a Thousand Flavors.

  The Fish turned into a lane so narrow and darkened by overhanging balconies that lanterns burned in the middle of the day, and with stalls so close the proprietors could have shaken hands across its shadowy walkway. The air was filled with the mingled scents of joss sticks, the smoke of incense gathering to hang like mist upon a river. “This is Joss Street, where spirits trade with the living in all matters past and future.”

  Beckoning Li to follow closely, the Fish descended a short flight of stone steps to enter a sparsely lit shrine, the airless space just large enough to house a modest altar.

  Upon it stood an effigy of the White Monkey—Great Sage, Equal to Heaven; beside it, a bamboo container marked with many ancient talismans. A coil of joss stick, large as a cartwheel, hung above it, as candles burned on either side. At its feet, folded into a dusty robe of darkest purple, sat the oldest human being Li had ever seen; whether it was a man or woman was impossible to say.

  Li’s first thought was that the crumpled figure was dead, until it raised its head. The Fish bowed, then squatted before him, waiting until Li was close beside her. “Greetings, Lo-Yeh, I have brought a friend to seek your blessing and to speak with the stars.” A long, thin hand emerged from the robe’s myriad folds, its fingernails long and curled as the claws of a cat. It seemed without flesh, thin and transparent as rice paper, closing around the copper coins the Fish dropped into the outstretched palm.

  “This is Lu-Ssi, once a famous Taoist pope, now the elder of all priests,” the Fish whispered reverently. “He is an immortal—some say he is one hundred and sixty years old, but others say this is rubbish, he is only one hundred and forty. He can no longer see or hear and seldom speaks or moves from this spot where he meditates among the stars. It is believed that his spirit can leave his earthly body and return at will. His wisdom is greater than any other’s.”

  The withered claw reappeared, held out toward Li.

  “Do not be afraid; give him your hand. He must make contact with your soul.”

  The claw enclosed Li’s outstretched fingers, its grip surprisingly warm, a distinct pulse beating in the center of the palm. His fingers closed tightly over hers, robbing her of the will to withdraw; heat generated by his grip burned its way into the core of her being, draining away her chi like blood from a wound. His sightless eyes told her nothing. Seconds passed and her hand was released, her energy renewed like the gush of water filling an empty gourd.

  The priest unrolled a mat marked with mystic symbols, then reached for the bamboo container and shook it with unexpected vigor, spilling slivers of peach wood onto the mat before him. They scattered in a meaningless puzzle, each bearing lines of miniature calligraphy burned into the thin slips of wood. From somewhere above, a small bird fluttered down to settle on the pile of slivers, scratching them aside, pecking first at one and then another, hopping busily from side to side. To Li, it looked like nothing more than a common sparrow pecking for crumbs in the roadside dust.

  “It is Lu-Ssu, the heavenly rainbird, said to be the eyes of the Great White Sage.”

  The Fish had not yet finished speaking when the bird fluttered onto Li’s shoulder; she froze, feeling the tiny golden beads of its eyes so intently fixed upon her that she dared not move. Without warning it swooped back to the mat, selecting a single sliver and dropping it into the priest’s lap before winging off, swallowed again among blackened rafters. The priest felt the minute inscriptions for several silent moments—sliding delicate fingertips slowly up and down, searching like the hand of a master musician tuning the strings of a fine instrument—then began to murmur in a language Li had never heard. The Fish listened intently, nodding her understanding and asking an occasional question.

  His voice rose and fell like wind through the cracks of a window—deep in his belly, then shrill as a frightened child. “It is the voice of the Great White Sage, Equal to Heaven,” the Fish muttered close to Li’s ear. “There is no higher power in matters of the universe and our place in it.” When he was silent, scooping up the fortune-telling sticks, she stood, bowing her thanks, then backed away from the altar with Li at her side. “Let us go to the Street of a Thousand Flavors and drink sugarcane juice among the living. I will tell you then what he sees among the planets.”

  “Tell me now,” Li urged her, more than a little unnerved by the visit.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Fish gave her usual grin but failed to meet Li’s questioning eyes. “Your future is assured. The path is clear; you will reach the peak of your mountain sooner than you dreamed. You will surely find your thousand pieces of gold.” Li was strangely disappointed by the sparseness of the forecast, but the Fish hurried ahead and clearly wished to say no more.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Shop of a Thousand Poems

  For Li, the visit to Joss Street soon became a buried memory, the shrine and its ethereal guardian no more than wisps of scented smoke. As though to help her forget, the Fish gave her a silver dollar, large and round and heavy in her hand.

  “It is the master’s way,” she confided. “Only he would pay a bonded servant, and only he would give so generously. Now that you have gained his trust, you too are entitled.” It was the first money Li had seen. When told she would receive the same at the end of each month, she could not believe it. “I have done nothing to deserve this. I have taken but given nothing.”

  “Never take shelter from the winds of fortune when they blow your way.” The Fish gave her silent laugh and left Li to contemplate the wonder of the bright silver coin, heavy in her hand. Horizons opened in her mind that seemed to stretch forever. As if this gift was not enough, she could take each Sunday afternoon as her own, to do with as she chose.

  On that first Sunday, Li walked the boulevard alone, the coin carefully wrapped deep in the pocket of her sam-foo. This was a Mexican dollar, said by the Fish to be of solid silver. She wandered through the crowded lanes off the Praia, keeping the flat blue of the ocean always in sight as she had promised. Acrobats and jugglers, musicians and magicians, all tried to claim her attention, but there was only one thing more wonderful than the silver coin.

  She found what she was looking for in a busy lane, close to the market square. Among a row of little shops filled with curios and antiques stood one that sold only books and the fascinating tools of the scholar. It was small and quaint, with a bell on the door, and above it, in faded gold characters, the shop of a thousand poems. Its crowded window was filled with volumes of every shape and size and color. There were glass cases containing brushes, blocks of solid ink, seals, and all kinds of paper, in rolls and bundles tied with tapes of red and gold. It smelled of ink and oil paint, old paper and old books, dust and discovery. Here she spent her first silver dollar. The shopkeeper, whose fine white beard and whiskers were, she told herself, certainly those of a great scholar, was delighted by the interest of one so young. He invited her to explore his treasures more closely, and never tired of answering her endless questions. After many hours, she left the shop with a strong bag containing books both thick and thin, carefully discussed and decided upon, as well as an ink block, a selection of brushes, and a thick wad of fine white paper.

  Ben Devereaux had been thinking of the girl from Ten Willows for some time. He had never regretted saving her life, but now he was forced to contemplate her future, with all its uncertainties. The fact that she was legally his property and therefore his responsibility had begun to concern him. Indie had been right; he had acted on impulse.

  None of his servants were bonded to him; he had found that fair treatment, due respect, and decent pay commanded far more loyalty and reliable service than a deed of ownership—which was what the sung-tip he had signed amounted to. It was more of a person
al responsibility than a legally binding contract, a bill of sale, a receipt for goods purchased and delivered with about as much importance as the purchase of a bottle of good brandy.

  There were many things Ben admired about China and the Chinese, but its treatment of the less fortunate was not among them. Constantly amazed by its people’s capacity for work and their striving for success, he sometimes found himself appalled by the brutality and blind injustice that lurked so close to the simplest encounter. Violence so indescribable yet so readily provoked in the saving of face, that he had made it his business not to become involved with anything outside the essential demands of the China trade. This policy had seen him through hazardous times and made him one of the richest foreigners in Macao. If it had made him a few sworn enemies along with an enviable reputation and many Chinese friends, this was an unavoidable part of the life he had chosen.

  Li had been a part of his household for almost a year. Even in the little time he spent at Sky House, it had become impossible to ignore her. How quickly her ravaged hair had grown … how readily she responded to the simplest word of kindness. Always she had bowed to him, but there was nothing subservient in the gesture. She could meet his eye without looking away; and though the Cantonese dialect often sounded harsh and strident to him, he found her voice almost musical. These things he found enchanting, but above all, he was drawn to the spirit that shone from within her brightly as a flame lights a lamp.

  The Fish had given regular reports on Li’s progress—how she spent every centavo of her silver dollar on books and brushes, ink and paper; how she could hold her own in the market with any Tanka fishwife or Hakka vendor. “You tell her something, she remembers. You don’t tell her something, she asks you why. Her mind is already the mind of a scholar, and her heart is already the heart of a woman. She speaks only the truth and can be trusted in all matters.” The Fish had folded her hands and stuck out her chin, a gesture that Ben knew sealed the matter. “This one is no mooi-jai.”

  Li had grown taller and had filled out, her face aglow with health and a natural appeal more attractive to him than any female face he could recall. Beneath her square-cut sam-foo, he could not help noticing her energy and grace of movement.

  One morning, so early that light had barely touched the gardens still spangled with a heavy dew, he saw her seated on the balcony of her room poring over an open book. A small stack of others stood at her elbow; paper was laid out with ink and brushes. Something more than curiosity drew him closer.

  “These books,” he asked with casual interest, hoping not to startle her. “Where did you get them?” She could not help but spring to her feet and bow, as he picked one at random and examined its cover. “The History of Sail and Sweep in China,” he read aloud. She would have kowtowed if he had not told her sharply to stand up. “Bowing is not for scholars whose life has purpose and meaning … such persons receive the bows of others. Are you interested in such subjects as this?” Only when he had pulled out a chair and seated himself did she do the same.

  “I can think of no greater highway than the river on its journey to the sea. It is the passageway of the gods,” she said. Ben closed the book and replaced it with care.

  “I bought the books in the Old Quarter with the silver dollars you have given me, but I have done nothing to earn them.” She picked up a small pocket book, displaying an open page. “I have recorded the Mexican dollar and its value in Macao money, also the purchases I have made from the bookshop and the amount for each item. When I am able, I will repay this sum with whatever interest the Double Dragon Company may require. It is … a matter of business.”

  She spoke with such sincerity, he resisted the urge to smile. “That will not be necessary. I have seen you helping Ah-Kin in the garden and sweeping leaves; a silver dollar is little enough.”

  “You have never received my thanks, and this has troubled me.” She felt suddenly close to this man who had done so much for her. “To save a worthless life so bravely is most honorable. To give that life meaning and purpose is greatness. You took away my pain and gave me shoes to fit my feet so that I may walk among the clouds.” She picked up a book and pressed with both hands against her heart. “You have given me books and a fragrant garden to read them in … a close companion who watches over me, a heavenly room of my own to sleep in. I have given you nothing in return.”

  “You have not been well,” he said uncertainly. “You almost died from your injuries. You had to learn to walk again, and to heal the terrible wounds in your heart and in your soul. This you did by yourself.”

  “My gratitude is beyond measure,” she persisted, “but I am well now and can walk wherever I wish. I will work for you, to pay for my sung-tip.”

  He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You owe me nothing. To see you well again is reward enough. It is your own courage that has given you the world you speak of. If I have helped, it has cost me little.” It seemed to Li that he almost smiled. “Besides,” he added, “it is good to have young chi at Sky House.” He turned abruptly, as though enough had been said between them, then turned back, offering her his open hand, surprised at the strength of her grip. “I accept and appreciate your words, Miss Li, and I will think carefully about what you have said.”

  Ben returned to his study deep in thought. He was aware of the jealousy her presence had caused among those who ran his household; Ah-Ho took every opportunity to make him see that her presence was unacceptable from the Chinese point of view. He was not sure what was best to do. The words of Indie Da Silva rang in his ears: Well done, Ben; you are a hero, the owner of a half-dead Chinese chippie … yours to do with what you will.

  After a pipe and a tot or two of rum, Ben sent for Ah-Ho. The head amah remained expressionless when he told her that Li was to become his personal assistant, responsible for the study and his rooms under his supervision and assisted only by the Fish at his discretion. Ah-Ho fixed her narrowed eyes on the wall behind him as he spoke, the grim set of her jaw leaving no doubt of her feelings. When dismissed, she turned and left his presence without a word, her customary bow little more than a jerk of her head.

  Ben would have rebuked her insolence, but he knew she was right. Such an appointment was a promotion over the heads of herself and those beneath her, making a mockery of her superiority. It was, he realized, a serious loss of face. That he would raise the eyebrows of his peers as well, and give the acid tongues of their wives something to wag about, was also certain.

  Macao was rich in pleasures of the flesh, from the discreetly acceptable to dangerous extremes of depravity. Keeping a mistress or two was routine among Portuguese gentry, whose wives were too busy with the demands of high society to know or care about their husband’s peccadilloes. Even regular attendance at the city’s infamous bordellos was tolerated so long as it remained discreet. But nothing excused the man who allowed himself to be seduced by a servant under his own roof. This, of course, was the only way such a grave mistake could ever take place: The Chinese female was always seen as the scheming seductress, to be beaten and driven from the home, penniless, branded as unemployable by the foreign establishment and as the lowest of whores by her own people for sleeping with a hairy barbarian.

  Ben had never paid heed to the opinions of others, but easily recalled Indie Da Silva’s advice as he dressed for his first night as a member of the Macao Yacht Club.

  “Remember, Ben, you are about to become one among many posturing hypocrites who would have your throat cut if they could. Because you have European blood they have to admit you—grudgingly, I assure you. Because I am Macanese, the bastard of a Portuguese father and a Chinese mother, I am not worthy to wear such finery or soil the brass handles of their illustrious entrance, although I can outsail and out-navigate the lot of them.”

  He had grinned without regret. “I would rather seek the company of a good-hearted whore in a leaky sampan than of the hawkish harridans and two-faced fools who call themselves the ladies and gentlemen of Macao societ
y. These so-called gentlemen will see throats cut without a qualm, cheat at the tables, steal from a friend, bed your wife and daughter if they can, and show little shame if caught.” Indie had scowled his disgust. “They will buy a twelve-year-old mooi-jai for the price of a cheap bottle of wine, casually take her to bed, then have her beaten and thrown into the street while they enjoy a good dinner.”

  Indie had waited for his words to sink in before making his final point. “But an Englishman never beds his amah, whatever her age and whatever the circumstances. It breaks all the rules. The establishment will shun you for it and the Chinese will see you suffer. As for the girl, she may as well put an end to herself before they do it for her. This is not Edwardian England or even upper-crust Lisbon—this is China, and the foreign clubs are bastions of godliness among the heathens.” Indie had lit another of his green cheroots. “In other words, Benjamin, my friend, don’t get caught and never, never admit to it, because both sides will cast you out.”

  Christmas in Macao was a sad little affair, when expatriate European families made a brave show behind closed shutters with tinsel and fairy lights, bonbons and sugar mice. Devereaux dreaded it with a vengeance. He felt the same about the endless festivals that filled the Chinese calendar, when foreign devils knew they did not belong and retired to the library, the billiard room, or the bar until the streets were safe again.

  Ben had no place for superstition in his own life, tolerating it in others as long as it did not affect him too directly or threaten his business. He encouraged ancestral worship in the privacy of the servants’ quarters, and the keeping of shrines to the accepted gods. He had found the beliefs of the Tao and of Buddha to be both interesting and benign, and had learned much in the way of common sense in the teachings of Confucius.