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The splash of his bulk hitting the water was lost in a roar of approval. No one moved to raise the alarm. The tracker was a bully, best left to battle the river alone … but they feared Ah-Keung, the Forceful One, even more.
“Donkey-fart was right, the one who travels with me is Red Lotus, disciple of To-Tze, grand master of White Crane wu-shu. She is under my protection.” He grinned around the ring of faces. “But perhaps I protect you from her … there is not a man aboard that she would not make a fool of.”
Ah-Keung’s shock of coal-black hair seemed to bristle like the hackles on the neck of a dog aroused to action. “If she is touched, this twisted foot will find you and you will swim to Wuhan with the tracker.” He looked around at the silent faces, grinning. “Now, let us throw the dice and see where they fall.”
In the days along the coast and through the Formosa Strait, Siu-Sing pondered the question of Ah-Keung. That night the men had gambled until the first signs of sunrise, and slept where they lay. The junk had left the gorges and their treacherous waters, and hoisted the huge, mud-colored sails. She stood upright in the prow as daylight swept the river with watery sunshine, to see the white dolphins of the Yangtze spearing the bow wave, and breathe the breeze across the choppy yellow waters.
Ah-Keung had spoken convincingly in her defense; he had seen her fed well from the crew’s galley, and made sure she was left in peace. He had already found work on the Gum Sarn, he said, and a place to stay. Yes, he knew people who would help her find her father. His manner was sincere, and she had seen how greatly the death of Master To had affected him. But she realized there was much she did not know about the Forceful One, who would forever wear the snarl of the tiger on his chest and the venom of the cobra on his back.
Amid a colony of sampans and cargo scows so packed you could walk from one to the other, they sailed slowly into Macao’s typhoon shelter. Siu-Sing found it best to avoid the eyes of those who turned her way. Some swore, some laughed, others sneered, but none said welcome. She fought her creeping fear in the only way she knew, making it her enemy and raising a wall around her heart, with every rampart guarded. She did not join the loud-voiced people crowding the decks, herding noisy children, hoisting baggage in feverish haste to disembark. Instead, she waited in the bow for the bedlam to pass.
The junk closed slowly with the wharf, rats skittering among barnacle-encrusted pilings, pigeons hovering for spilled grain. Never in the solitude of the lake-lands had Siu-Sing felt so alone or helpless. Ah-Keung shouted to her across the deck: “Why are you hiding up there? Come and see the world beyond the mountains.”
Ah-Keung shouldered his bundle, ready to stride down the narrow gangplank. Securing the sling, the er-hu slung like a sword across her back, Siu-Sing hastened to join him, jostled and cursed in a sea of hostile humanity beyond anything she had imagined.
“This is the wondrous city of Macao, where all things are possible.” He turned to her, his eyes shining with a new zeal, as one who had known hunger and was about to enjoy a feast.
“It is called the city of broken promises. It is where the rich gwai-lo keeps his mistress, then sails away and leaves her with a broken heart. The place where the taipans come to roll the dice and smoke the pipe. They pay well for pretty girls.”
He giggled at the thought, quick to reassure her when she did not speak.
“The Golden Hill lies close across the water. I shall go there to find out what I can and return to take you to your father’s door.”
“I must come with you … ,” she began. “No, I have found a safe place for you here. There is nowhere for us to stay on the Golden Hill. I will go first and return for you.”
He left no room for more to be said as the gangplank bounced beneath their feet.
They threaded through the godowns, quickly leaving the noise and stink of the waterfront behind; along cobbled streets and narrow lanes, past sawmills and metal shops, purveyors of meat and fish, coffin makers and joss houses. Curbside vendors peddled their goods and beggars muttered at their passing. They walked for perhaps a half a mile.
Ah-Keung stopped outside a pair of towering iron gates topped with sharpened spikes, The tidal stink of the waterfront had given way to the stench of the slaughter house. Dreadful squeals came from behind high walls; bricks so old and scarred that weeds sprouted from every crack were crowned with shards of jagged glass. Above the gates, in a bent and buckled arch of hammered steel, large painted characters spelled the words in red: double happiness.
Ah-Keung tugged hard on an iron ring set into the wall, setting off a grinding of chain somewhere inside and the rusty croak of a bell. “This is the House of Double Happiness, the palace of Fan-Lu-Wei, one who was once a red-button mandarin of the ninth grade,” he said with great respect. “A most important and very rich man here in Macao. We are fortunate that he has agreed to help you.”
A slot in the gate revealed a reddened eye that swam like a fish in a bowl. A voice, harsh with suspicion, demanded to know their business. Ah-Keung shouted his name, placing a protective arm about Siu-Sing’s shoulders as bolts were drawn and one of the gates dragged partway open.
“Don’t worry, Little Star,” he whispered hurriedly. “You will be given good rice and a place to sleep. Be respectful to Lord Fan; do not forget to bow and you will be treated well.”
“He will help to find my father?”
“Yes, yes, Lord Fan is known to all. If your barbarian father exists, he will know of it.”
He gestured for her to enter the half-open gate. “Be patient, Little Star. You will be safe here. I will always know where you are, and when your rich father is found, I will claim my reward.”
The gate closed with an echoing boom, trapping Siu-Sing inside, with Ah-Keung no longer beside her. She heard his laughter with a flush of shame. How easy it had been to betray her.
CHAPTER 25
The House of Double Happiness
Siu-Sing took in a long stretch of cobbled courtyard faced by a row of low-roofed sheds. Pens of mud-caked pigs were crammed against towering walls that echoed with their squeals. Behind a hedge of flowering shrubs that separated it from the rest of the compound, Siu-Sing saw a garden surrounding a great house that reared over the yard with the aging columns and rotting eaves of a forgotten palace.
The man who had opened the gate grabbed her by the arm, peering at her with shortsighted impatience. Under his arm he carried a brass-tipped rod, worn smooth as ivory, mounted by the polished skull of a monkey. On his large ears rested a battered peaked cap bearing a Double Happiness badge. Dangling from the rope around his pinched gut hung a large ring of keys. To Siu-Sing, it seemed the odor of death and decay had found its source in him.
She allowed herself to be marched across the courtyard to a flight of steps where two stone Fu dogs, green with age, guarded the entrance to the house. The gatekeeper’s hand twisted hard into her hair, wrenching her head back; her eyes closed tight against the glare of the sun overhead. She heard the sound of doors opening. Then, as unexpected as a kiss, a gentle hand, no more intrusive than the feet of a fly, caressed her chin, her cheek, her throat—turning her face first one way, then the other.
“There is no need to be afraid. Mr. Kwok means you no harm.” The words were quietly spoken in a voice that could have been that of a man or woman. The smells of rich sauces on pungent breath and strong body odors were disguised by sickly-sweet perfume.
“Careful, Mr. Kwok. This pretty head is not the rear end of a donkey.” The voice rose peevishly, punctuated by a delicate cough. Fan-Lu-Wei, once a mandarin, seemed to fill the entrance of his decaying mansion. His enormous body reclined on a throne of faded splendor; a quilted tunic of finely embroidered silk strained across his massive girth. A long gray gown almost reached his small feet, encased in white cotton stockings and black silk slippers. The mangy tail feather of a peacock was attached to a large bead of red glass set on the crown of his round black hat.
The hand that so lightly caresse
d her chin, so-and white as a woman’s, trembled slightly. Long fingernails, shining with lacquer, grasped a switch of white horsehair attached to a jeweled handle, which he flicked at flies attracted by his perfumed finery. A cream-colored Pekingese sleeve dog grumbled from the security of his lap, shoe-button eyes glistening with malice. There were dark pouches beneath Fan-Lu-Wei’s narrow eyes that powder could not hide. He is ill, Siu-Sing thought. His liver is not good.
He smiled down at her with mild approval, his pudgy cheeks white as lard. Several long black hairs sprouted from a mole on his chin the size of a stranded cockroach, straggling down to lie among the ropes of colored beads on the slope of his chest. Two spindly mustaches drooped on either side of his weak, pink mouth. He looked, Siu-Sing decided, like an ailing Buddha.
Behind him stood two white-jacketed amahs, each wafting a large goose-feather fan. They were short and squat as wrestlers, their round heads sunk into sloping shoulders, graying hair drawn back and wound into a tight bun held in place by identical jade combs. Each wore a jade bangle on the left wrist, a jade ring on the right hand, and a jade talisman on a headband of black silk in the center of the forehead. They are strong, Siu-Sing concluded, but also heavy, too well fed for speed and stamina.
“You may leave her in my care now, Mr. Kwok,” Fan-Lu-Wei wheezed, then turned to Siu-Sing. “There is nothing to fear. Our poor gatekeeper was only earning his rice. Come, the jade amahs will show you your place.” The throne began to turn around on wooden wheels that groaned beneath his weight.
“Your brother has told me his sad story and signed the sung-tip—you are fortunate to have such a loving brother so concerned for the welfare of his little sister. He has sold you to me as Number-Two mooi-jai, to save your family from starvation. Yes, you are most fortunate to have been brought here to the House of Double Happiness.”
Siu-Sing backed away from the unsmiling amahs, remembering to bow and show respect as Master To had taught her.
“Forgive me, but the one who brought me here is not my brother; he has deceived you, as he has deceived me.”
The piping voice cut her short. “Do not deny the care of an elder brother and question your good fortune. You will obey the jade amahs, or they have my permission to beat you.”
“But you can see, my lord, I am not of his blood or his clan. I have white ancestors as well as Chinese. My father is a foreign sea captain, a taipan of the silk and tea trade. He seeks me and will pay many taels of silver for my safe return. He is known as Di-Fo-Lo. Help me to find him, my lord, and he will be most generous.”
Fat Fan belched uncomfortably, his thin black brows drawn together in a frown of annoyance. “I know nothing of that. The sung-tip is signed and witnessed and the price paid. You belong to me now. If you do your work, do not steal, do not complain, tell no more lies, and cause no trouble, you will be treated well. If you are ungrateful and displease the jade amahs, they will report it to me and you will wish you had never entered the gates of Double Happiness.”
He gestured fretfully with the fly switch and the throne continued to turn. “If your gwai-lo father comes to find you, we will talk business. Until then, you are Number-Two mooi-jai. We will have no more nonsense about rich foreign devils.”
As the rumbling wheels trundled into the gloom, Siu-Sing followed the amahs, the steady squeak, squeak, squeak of the wheeled throne leading the way through a beaded curtain that opened upon an anteroom made entirely of dingy glass and filled with the twittering, chirping, warbling, and full-throated singing of birds. Cages of every shape and size were suspended among glazed dragon pots filled with flowering plants. From their tiny prisons, the birds chattered and trilled in ceaseless disharmony. Siu-Sing was instantly transported to the bamboo groves high on the slopes of Tung-Ting, and for a moment her heart ached for the Place of Clear Water.
Seated among them in a peacock chair was a woman, thin and gaunt, her hunched shoulders hung with a padded jacket of black silk and a layer of woolen shawls. One hand clutched them close about her throat, while the other dabbed a handkerchief to her mouth. Her voice crackled with anger, forced from her with labored breath. “So, you have found yourself another alley cat.”
The heavy pouch of flesh that hung from Fan’s dimpled chin trembled as he replied feebly, “A mooi-jai, a homeless child for the scullery.” He held up one hand, its fat fingers glittering with rings. “A bargain, my flower of flowers, only fifty Hong Kong dollars.”
“Wasted money, brains of a horny goat.” She waved a dismissive hand, snuffling her contempt, then collapsed in a fit of coughing. “See that she does not eat too much and is kept to the kitchen, or she will feel the rod of Ah-Kwok.”
Siu-Sing was put to work among oily woks and endless baskets of vegetables in the great echoing kitchen. Sides of bacon, cured hams, and pickled pigs’ heads hung from the ceiling, together with ropes of garlic, bunches of dried herbs, and rows of cured ducks. Ah-Soo, the cook, showed Siu-Sing her sleeping place adjoining the storeroom. The wooden stretcher that was her bed was covered with a thin quilt. A calendar hung on one wall, the only touch of brightness in a confined and windowless space. A single candlestick threw unsteady light into corners stacked with sacks of rice and baskets of vegetables, shelves crammed with earthen pots and jars of wine, pickles, and preserves.
A smoke-blackened image of Tsao-Wang, the kitchen god beside his heavenly horse, looked down from its grimy niche—the sole witness to the hiding place Siu-Sing found for the Tanka sling. On the first night in this new place so far from all she had known, she held the orange-peel finger jade tightly in the palm of her hand and sought the voice of Master To and the twinkling eye of the Fish. They were instantly with her, reminding her that they had taught her not to let obstacles or treachery stand in her way.
By the light of the candle, she considered her position. Restricted to the kitchen and its small yard, the jade amahs ever watchful, she would not escape easily. The walls of Double Happiness were unassailable, the gates locked and guarded. Ah-Kwok the gatekeeper and his monkey-skull rod would welcome any attempt to evade them. This was a time for observation, for patience and strategy.
One of Siu-Sing’s duties as mooi-jai was to be Fan Lu-Wei’s official food taster. In the small private room where he who was once a mandarin took his meals, he watched impatiently as the array of dishes was laid before her on a side table. Beside them, resting upon an ivory tablet, was a pair of silver chopsticks. Under the watchful eyes of the jade amahs she was ordered to use the chopsticks to taste a single mouthful from each dish. The chopsticks were thin and heavy to her fingers, the food like none she had known but filled with rich and pleasant flavors as she chewed and swallowed each morsel. This done, she was sent back to the kitchen without a further word.
“He is a cautious man,” Ah-Soo said when Siu-Sing returned in some confusion. “It was the way of all mandarins to have their food tasted by one whose life was of no importance. Chopsticks of solid silver will turn black if they touch the slightest impurity.” The cook laughed secretively. “Don’t worry, I will not poison him, and neither will the jade amahs as long as he pays them well. He eats apart from Madam Fan and the rest of his family because he thinks some of them would kill him for his fortune.”
Siu-Sing fetched water from the pump, prepared vegetables, cleaned cooking pots, scrubbed tables, and mopped floors. She worked hard and without complaint, learning much from Ah-Soo, who soon recognized a trusted ear and was glad of her company. The cook spoke cautiously of Fat Fan, as though listening for the creak of his wheeled throne, or the soft footfall of the jade amahs.
“He who was once a mandarin is no longer seen as one of noble birth and great power. Now he is a dealer in offal and dead flesh, as bloated as the pigs he fattens. How proud he is to be the greatest of all sausage makers. His secret family recipe makes the great Fan-Lu-Wei one of the richest merchants in Macao.
“Those sacred hairs that sprout from his chin,” she whispered, “are his heavenly luck—
given him, he believes, by Lu-Hsing, the star god of affluence. He bathes them three times a day in oil of roses; and at festival time, on the birthday of the star god, they are coated in liquid gold.” Ah-Soo tossed a sizzling wok on her roaring stove. “Fat Fan lives only to eat, drink brandy, fornicate, and smoke the pig-bone pipe.”
They were seated on the kitchen doorstep, drinking tea in a moment of rest. Ah-Soo’s voice took on a tone of closest confidence. “I neither believe nor disbelieve your story of the rich taipan you seek. Our past and our future should be our own affair and not the business of others. But even such as we are entitled to our dreams.”
Ah-Soo paused for a moment, tossing a handful of grain to the chickens pecking for worms among the cabbages. “Did the one who claimed to be your brother speak the truth … that you are untouched?”
Siu-Sing could only nod her head. “I am from Lake Tung-Ting in Hunan. I have lived my life protected by two who loved me. I know nothing of men and before leaving had met none but my master and the one who betrayed me. But it is true; my father is a foreign taipan and I have come to find him on the Golden Hill.”
“Then be ready. Fat Fan will send for you; it is his way with all mooi-jai. Because he owns your sung-tip, he also owns your body and your soul … but there is a way to use them in your favor. I have seen a dozen girls no older than you come and go through those iron gates. If they pleased him well, their lives were bearable, but when he tired of them he sold them as I would sell a chicken or a duck.”
Ah-Soo looked over her shoulder, to check that they were truly alone. “Listen to me carefully; we cannot speak of this again. Fat Fan is stupid and lazy; he seldom leaves this place. The making of sausages is left to Ah-Kwok, Keeper of the Gate. Business matters are in the hands of Fan-Tai, the first wife, who dies slowly from consumption. He is afraid of her and awaits her death with great impatience. The pipe has taken his courage as surely as the fall of the Ching has taken his dignity, and he is easily beaten. He would not know a jewel’s value if it were held in the palm of his greedy hand.”
