The Concubine's Daughter

by null

  Ben Devereaux was greeted on all sides; heads turned their way with every step. The exquisite jewels adorning Li’s slender neck seemed to burn her skin as she passed between the sparkling tables … feeling that every eye and every whisper branded her as one who aimed too far above her station.

  They were seated in a sumptuous alcove, sufficiently apart from other tables to allow quiet conversation. Winifred Bramble seemed very much at ease in her surroundings, wearing an evening dress of coffee-colored lace, her garnets replaced by a simple array of jet, a wrap of cream Kashmir wool about her shoulders.

  At first, the moments were spent greeting splendidly attired gentlemen who stopped or crossed the floor to speak with Ben. He introduced her as Miss Li, a student of Miss Bramble’s. Some were slightly drunk, and squeezed her hand as they raised it to their lips, their eyes meeting hers in the instant it takes to convey true thought.

  The Chinese waiters took in her every move, deftly serving the many dishes with looks and whispers, no louder or more obvious than the rustle of their passing, lost in music from the dance floor and sounds of many voices. So slyly were the insults delivered that even she could not be certain of their source or that they were meant for her: You could only have been brought here in return for your services. How does it feel to be the common slut of a foreign devil? How does it feel to have no shame? These were insults kept for Red Lantern Street by those who could not afford to cross the Bella Vista’s welcoming doors. She did not think of confronting such phantoms, any more than she would satisfy the poisonous tongues of those in Sky House.

  Li had no idea what the aromatic dishes were that were placed before her, only that they were wonderful to look upon and a delight to taste: a banquet that included swallow’s-nest soup, braised shark’s fin, abalone and asparagus, water chestnuts and Chinese cabbage, steamed Macao sole with shallots, fried Shanghai eels in black pepper sauce, chicken and cucumber with mermaid’s tresses, Emperor’s roast duck and hoysin sauce, lotus leaf porridge, and almond curd with dragon’s eye fruit. She was later able to study this list of court cuisine, when Ben presented her with a leather-bound copy of the menu as a memento of their first dinner together. When the tiny bite-size dishes finally stopped arriving and the table was cleared for coffee and wine, Miss Bramble excused herself discreetly.

  “Thank you, Captain Devereaux, for a most enjoyable evening. I am sure there are things to be talked about that do not require the observations or opinions of a rather tired old teacher. If you would be so kind as to summon the car, I would be grateful for a moment or two alone with our rather special young lady.” Ben rose immediately, excusing himself with a slight bow.

  Winifred wasted no time in reaching for Li’s hand, which she held with a smile. “I sense, my dear, that there are things for you and Ben to say to each other that no longer need the pretense of a chaperone. In my opinion, Captain Devereaux possesses a quite refreshing sense of honor. Whatever may pass between you, I believe him to be a gentleman incapable of falsehood and that you may trust his word as I hope you would trust my own.”

  A waiter brought fresh tea, and Winifred waited until he had moved on before continuing even more confidentially, but with a kindly smile of reassurance. “My Cantonese is rather rusty, and I never did understand the language of the local gutters, but I understand enough to know we are not made welcome here. I admire your dignity and your strength; they will always defeat boorishness and crass stupidity.”

  She released Li’s hand and looked closely into her eyes. “I think of you more as a much-loved niece than as merely an exceptional student. Ben Devereaux has built an empire against unimaginable odds, but I perceive his life as a lonely one. I believe, when he considers the time to be well chosen, he intends to ask you to become his wife.”

  With a wry smile and the slightest nod of her head, she indicated the soft-footed waiters a step or two away. “You, above all, need not be told of the difficulties to be faced by such a marriage, and Ben has lived here long enough to harbor no illusions.” In spite of her composure, a single tear escaped.

  “I cannot advise you on what the future holds, except that I am certain you have the character and the judgment to make any decisions that may be required of you.”

  Ben appeared at that moment, to pull back Winifred’s chair and offer his arm. Instinctively, Li rose with her, to have Miss Bramble protest quietly.

  “There is no need to make a fuss,” she said, embracing her pupil briefly. “I am perfectly capable of finding the door.”

  “Nonsense, I absolutely insist.” Ben nodded to the mâitre d’. “If you would kindly have Ah-Geet bring the car …”

  As soon as Ben was out of earshot, a waiter found reason to remove Miss Bramble’s glass, pausing with a small brush and silver tray, efficiently whisking away the smallest crumb. “How much is Di-Fo-Lo paying his whore? Is the baboon’s behind his procuress? We do not serve mooi-jai sluts in this hotel. Mooi-jai scour our pots and pans; they peel our vegetables and scrub our floors.” Smartly dressed, his polished spectacles reflecting the candlelight, his hair immaculate, the waiter looked the perfect embodiment of the famous hotel’s grand reputation for service. “Are you so stupid that you think we do not know all about you?” His words were hissed at her through clenched teeth. “Ah-Geet drinks tea in our kitchen; he knows his place. Did you not accept a silver dollar for your services to him—the same services you perform for Di-Fo-Lo?”

  Li closed her mind to the string of insults, knowing that any attempt to defend or complain would bring only blank denial and embarrassment for Ben in his defense of her. You and the young lady must be mistaken, sir … perhaps a language difficulty? the restaurant manager would surely respond, as dignified and deceitful as Ah-Ho herself. Li had often overheard laughter from the kitchen: How easy it was to confound a barbarian; every Chinese word had a dozen meanings, each with its own intonation, so slight that even an accomplished linguist could misinterpret subtle nuances that twisted the meaning of a word this way or that. “Oh, no, master,” Ah-Ho had mimicked a humble reply, “I would never say such a terrible thing.”

  The voice kept up its vicious mutterings while she prayed for Ben’s return. Suddenly filled with rage, she found herself upon her feet, determined to make the poison stop. She spoke very quietly, in a steady voice. “You can tell the fool Ah-Geet, he with the member of a very small and smelly goat, that I shall remember his lies as I shall record your insults. You have made an important guest of this hotel lose great face.” Slowly, Li shook her head from side to side, with a look of false pity. “I think you will not be working here after I have spoken.”

  As the last word was uttered, Ben appeared. “What’s wrong?” Ben asked, surprised to find her standing. “Nothing at all,” she replied, calmly resuming her seat. “The for-gia was just brushing the table.” She purposely used the lowliest term for a waiter, and he was quickly gone.

  Ben took his seat and offered Li some wine. She shook her head. “I believe I have enjoyed so much that is new to me already that wine should perhaps be tried at another time.”

  Sensing her nervousness, if not the cause, Ben smiled reassuringly and reached across the table to take her outstretched fingers in his big hands. Trying to banish all thoughts of hatred, she returned his smile and focused her every sense on him alone.

  “Wine can wait,” he said, taking a small purse of pink silk from his pocket, opening the simple clasp. A diamond ring tumbled into the palm of his hand, the square-cut stone so large and brilliant it scattered chips of light across the tablecloth. It seemed so ridiculously out of place next to his huge fingers that she wanted to tell him quickly to put it away.

  “It is a yellow diamond … as rare and remarkable as you are to me. If you accept it, we shall be married three months from today.”

  As though he realized his words were too direct, he squeezed her hand reassuringly, seeking her eyes with his, lowering his tone in sympathy with her look of bewilderment. “Please, Li
—I know this may seem sudden, and perhaps I am clumsy, but I have thought of it for many months and considered it most carefully, with the kind advice and blessing of our Miss Bramble.”

  He paused to return the farewells of a group who were leaving, then continued when they had passed. “I am building a house in Hong Kong … a villa. When I laid the first brick, it was to house a dream, a fantasy I created in the knowledge that my life was incomplete. I hoped one day to share it with someone I love, and to raise a family there. I have named it the Villa Formosa, after what to me is the most beautiful place on earth.

  “It is where my children will learn the best of both worlds, the marvels of mother China, and her association with my beautiful country of England—the imperial dragon of the Middle Kingdom and the celestial dragon of Saint George. Both are legendary and have much to teach each other.”

  Aware of his rising enthusiasm, Ben grinned like a boy trying to impress a girl—realizing that, as absurd as it might seem, that was exactly what he was. “I have said too much and this is all too sudden, and of course there is no hurry …”

  Li was all too aware of the sneering eyes invading the elegant intimacy he had meant to create. His words seemed as unreal to her as her surroundings, which she suddenly found unbearable.

  “The matter is too great for hurried thoughts and words. May I beg that we leave this place? Too many eyes are upon us and too many ears would intrude upon our privacy. I wish my reply to be heard only by you.”

  His eyes were troubled, uncertain of her meaning as she closed his hand over the radiant stone, urging him gently to conceal it. She waited while the ring was dropped back into its silk pouch and returned to his pocket without another word. She briefly covered his hand with both of hers. “I am deeply honored, but overwhelmed. May I think quietly for this night? There are many things to be considered even greater than the question of our hearts.”

  He nodded gravely. “I understand,” he said, though she knew that he did not.

  Li found it difficult to sleep. She had sat alone among the restless shadows of the garden to watch the passage of the moon in an ocean of stars. Shortly before dawn, she returned to her room and lay down. At first light, the Fish appeared with the tray of tea and a note beneath a single gardenia in a tiny crystal vase:

  Please wear this when we meet at the bend in the road beyond the main gate at seven o’clock this evening. It is best to dress as one of the boat people; I recommend bare feet. The Fish will advise you. There is no need for anyone else to know of this.

  —Ben

  What could this mean? Li knew he had been confused by her reaction to his proposal. Had he also been annoyed—could she have insulted him? This last thought gave her an almost physical pain. Why did he want her to wear old clothes, and why bare feet? Was he planning to send her away?

  The Fish would hear nothing of such thoughts, grinning secretively as she took from her camphorwood chest a fresh set of neatly folded Tanka finery: the black smock, its shoulders and skirt patterned with tiny beads of pearl shell and coral; the wide, bell-shaped wicker hat of the boat people to shade her face. Li had seen many a junk captain’s wife dressed in such a way on occasions of great importance, and always found it pleasing to the eye. “If we are going to dress you as a Tanka, we will dress you as a proud Tanka. I have kept these clothes for a very long time.” The Fish sighed. “You look as I once looked as a young girl.”

  At precisely seven o’clock, Li was at the bend of the road. Ben appeared seated comfortably in a rickshaw, dressed in a rough shirt and cut-off pantaloons, his large feet bare with the look of a man who worked the mudflats for his living. As his face lit up at the sight of Li, she felt a sudden rush of relief.

  “The dress of a fisherman’s wife suits you well,” he said, holding out his hand to help her into the seat beside him. “I don’t think you were comfortable at the Bella Vista. I should have known, but wanted you to have the best. Tonight I will take you to a place that I think may be more to your liking. It is perhaps my very favorite place in all Macao.”

  Li was delighted to take a rickshaw instead of the car and its venomous driver.

  “I thought it would be best if we made no great noise about this evening together,” Ben said. “It is no one’s business but our own, but I know that others watch and listen and play with the truth like dice.”

  His words surprised and pleased her, as though her concerns were not the great secret she had thought them to be. He seemed to read her thoughts as the slap, slap of the runner’s feet took them steadily down toward the lights of the Praia. The setting sun had dropped below the horizon, the sky turned deep violet, pricked by early stars, the yellow light of the rickshaw’s lamps fluttering on each side of the folded canopy. She felt him smiling at her with quiet approval.

  “I have lived a long time in your country, and have discovered that the less you appear to understand, the more you are likely to learn. It is the only way for a barbarian to succeed.”

  The sway of the rickshaw, open to a clean sea breeze, seemed to Li to be that of a splendid palanquin, briefly recalling the donkey cart of Giant Yun on the homeward run from the mulberry groves. She wanted to tell him so, to speak freely of the mat hut beneath the willows and the little family she had left behind.

  When they reached the waterfront, the lights of Sky House could still be seen high on the promontory, a yellow moon balanced on its gabled roof. The rickshaw pulled off the road and onto the rattling boards of an old jetty, stopping beside the vast hulk of a junk made fast to its iron bollards by creaking coir ropes, permanently moored to great plinths of stone.

  Well beyond the reach of the Praia’s bright lights, the wharf was dimly lit by smoky lanterns salvaged from ships long gone. Pitch torches threw distorted shadows as Ben took her arm to steer her safely up the rickety gangway to the deck.

  “Welcome to the Palace of Fat Crabs.” Ben spoke its name with the affection of an old and trusted friend as they stepped onto the deck. Glowing candles stood in conch shells on the upturned oyster butts and wine casks that served as tables, occupied by men and women who clearly earned their living from the sea. They were roughly dressed as though they had come straight from a working boat; they cracked big crab claws and snapped spiny legs, sucking out the chunks of succulent flesh with an air of abandon more suited to the mung-cha-cha than the Bella Vista. Others were busy over steamed and deep-fried fish taken live from bubbling tanks, spitting bones onto the deck, or swallowing fat oysters, tossing the shells over the side. Ben grinned happily. “I did not think this would be Miss Bramble’s cup of tea, although I think she would approve of its ethics.”

  Playing cards were slapped down and dice rattled over jugs of sangria and beer. Li saw that there were foreigners among the junk captains and Hokklo fisherfolk, some escorting young and pretty Chinese girls. “They have the best and freshest chili crab this side of Singapore. Only people of goodwill eat here—Portuguese, Macanese, Spaniards, even French and English. The Chinese who share their pleasure are old friends. You can speak freely; all eyes are on the feast before them, all ears on tall stories and talk of the sea.”

  As he led her by the hand through the colorful throng, many of the rowdy company greeted Ben by name, some standing to slap his back or offering bawdy compliments on his choice of companion. When they were seated in a more private spot in the junk’s prow, separated by a cordon of fancy rope work, Ben spread his arms wide and breathed in deeply the mild salt air.

  “There is no better smell than fat Macao crab fresh from the trap, sizzling in black-bean sauce with just the right mixture of chili and shallots.” He sat back, looking about him and beaming with pleasure. “We are among friends here. No tablecloths, no menus, no silverware, no crystal, and no treachery.” His merriment briefly subsided, replaced by a quiet sincerity. “Yes, I heard much of what was said last night, but I have learned that to confront such mindless villainy is to create a scene that is so much worse it is unwise to try. Su
ch cowards will always deny their insult … it is always the barbarian who has misunderstood and the female is always to blame.” He grinned suddenly. “It is why I never reveal how much Cantonese I speak and understand. You will be pleased to know that I am an old friend of the proprietor. I spoke to him when Winifred was safely in the car, and those who were responsible are no longer employed at the Bella Vista, nor will they find work in any such establishment.”

  He reached across to cover her hand with his, warm and comforting. “I am sorry to have allowed such a thing … but something told me you could deal with the situation. I had to know, for it will always surround us.” With perfect timing that broke the somber moment, the Portuguese proprietor descended upon them to greet Ben like a lost brother.

  “This is my dear, fat friend Alonzo,” Ben said. “I would trust him with my life but not my woman.” Alonzo bowed to Li and kissed her hand with a gallant flourish, congratulating Ben on his excellent taste in females, then bustled off to the galley—to return, it seemed to Li, moments later, bearing a vast, sizzling platter of seafood, followed by a boy carrying a huge wooden bowl of fresh greens and a basket of bread. The platters were plonked down in front of them without ceremony.

  “Macao mudcrab, local shrimp and lobster, mangrove oysters from Heng Quin Island, Basque salad as they make it in the mountains. Welcome to the Palace of Fat Crabs, all fresh from the sea only moments ago.” The bitter memory of the opulent dining room, with its glittering chandeliers and vicious undercurrent of resentment and ridicule, was quickly banished as Ben offered a pile of steaming-hot hand towels.

  “Eating crab with your bare hands is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Most of all, it does not allow pretense; even an emperor becomes a fisherman when there is a crab claw in his hand. We have much to talk about, but first we shall eat. Let me show you—I am an expert at this.”