Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  Sheeling was more than valuable to the Noble House. All three men knew it. And his inflexibility. Malcolm nodded, hurt even so. “Have a safe voyage, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir. And … and good luck, Mr. Struan, in everything. And you, Jamie.” As he strode for the door Malcolm broke the first seal on the pouch, but before the Captain touched the handle, the door opened. Angelique stood there. Bonnet, navy blue dress, gloves, and parasol. All three men caught their breath at her radiance.

  “Oh, sorry, chéri, I didn’t know you were busy …”

  “That’s all right, come in.” Malcolm had clambered to his feet. “May I present Captain Sheeling, of Dancing Cloud.”

  “La, Monsieur, what a gorgeous ship, how lucky you are.”

  “Yes, yes, I am, Miss. Thank you,” Sheeling said, smiling back. By God, he thought, never having seen her before, who could blame Malcolm? “’Morning, Miss.” He saluted and left, not wishing to leave now, not for a little while.

  “So sorry to interrupt, Malcolm, but you said to collect you for lunch, it’s to be with Sir William—and you haven’t forgotten I have a piano lesson this afternoon with André and I’ve arranged for us to have our daguerreotype taken at five. Hello, Jamie!”

  “Our picture?”

  “Yes, you remember the funny Italian who arrived on the last mail ship from Hong Kong for a season, he makes them, he guarantees we will look very handsome!”

  Most of Malcolm’s concern had left him and he felt all of her presence, doting on her, even though he had seen her an hour ago—coffee in his suite at eleven, a habit she had instituted and he enjoyed immensely. Over the last two or three weeks her loving disposition seemed to him to have blossomed even more though she spent much of her time riding, or at archery, or piano lessons, or planning soirees, and at her journal and letter writing—a way of life for all of them. But every moment she was with him she was as attentive and tender as any woman could be. His love and his need for her grew daily, overwhelming him with its power.

  “Lunch is at one, darling, it’s just after twelve,” he said, and as much as he didn’t want her to leave added, “Will you give us a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” With her grace, she seemed to dance over to him and kissed him and went to her suite next door. Her perfume lingered as a delicious memory.

  His fingers trembled, breaking the last seal. Inside were three letters. Two from his mother, one for him, one for Jamie. The third letter was from Gordon Chen, their compradore and his uncle. “Here,” he said, handing Jamie his letter, his heart beating furiously, wishing that Sheeling had not arrived. His two letters were burning his fingers.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Jamie said.

  “No. Bad news needs company.” Malcolm looked up. “Open yours.” Jamie obeyed and read rapidly. His face became red.

  “Is it private, Jamie?”

  “It says: ‘Dear Jamie’—that’s the first time she’s used the old way of writing me for a long time—‘you may show this to my son, if you wish. I’m sending Albert MacStruan as soon as I can arrange it from our Shanghai office. You are to make him your deputy and teach him all you can about our entire Japanese operation, so that, unless two things happen, he can adequately take over from you when you leave Struan’s. The first is that my son is in Hong Kong by Christmas. The second is that you accompany him.’” Jamie stared at him helplessly. “That’s it. Just a signature.”

  “That’s not it,” Malcolm said, his own face hot. “As soon as Albert arrives he can bloody go back.”

  “No harm in him staying a few days and letting him look over the place. He’s a good fellow.”

  “Mother’s … I never thought she could be so cruel: if I don’t obey and kowtow, you get fired. Eh?” Malcolm’s eyes strayed to his bureau. For the last few weeks he had made the immense effort to restrict his intake to once a day. Some days he had failed. “Laudanum in moderation, Malcolm,” Dr. Babcott had said, “is a panacea for pain.” He had insisted that Malcolm show him the medicine, not to take it away, just to check its contents. “This is fairly strong. Remember, it’s not a cure and with some people it is addictive.”

  “Not with me. I need it for the pain. You stop the pain and I’ll stop the medicine.”

  “Sorry, my friend, wish I could. Your internal organs were badly damaged, not too badly, thank God, but even so will take time to heal.”

  Too much time, Malcolm was thinking. Is it worse than Babcott will admit? He looked at his two letters, reluctant to open them. Filthy of her to use Jamie as another cudgel. “Rotten.”

  “She has certain rights,” Jamie said.

  “She’s not tai-pan, I am. Father’s will was clear.” Malcolm’s voice was dull, his thoughts untidy. “Guess old Uncle Sheeley was right, you have to earn that title, don’t you?”

  “You’re tai-pan.” It was said kindly though Jamie knew it was not true. “Strange he should bring up Orlov, haven’t thought about him in years. Wonder what happened to him.”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said absently. “Poor fellow was a marked man after he blew Wu Sung Choi’s Number One Son out of the water. Orlov was stupid to go ashore alone in Macao. He must have been snatched by the White Lotus pirates. Macao’s a deadly place, easy to go into China, and everywhere the White Lotus has spies. I’d hate to be on their marked list …” His voice trailed away. He looked down at the letters, lost in thought.

  Jamie waited. Then he said, “Give me a shout if I can help. I’ll be going through the rest of the mail.” He left.

  Malcolm did not hear the door close. There was the “I love you” postscript to his mother’s letter, so no secret message:

  My dearest but prodigal son, I had planned to arrive with Dancing Cloud but decided against it at the last minute as Duncan was poorly and has the croup again. Perhaps what I have to say is better in writing then there can be no mistake.

  I’ve received yr ill-advised letters about what you will and will not do, about yr “engagement,” Jamie McFay, Miss Richaud, etc.—and about the five thousand rifles. I immediately wrote and cancelled the extravagant order.

  The time has come for open decisions. Since you are not here and will not do as I ask, I will make them. For yr private knowledge it is my right to do so.

  When yr father was dying, poor man, there was no time to wait for yr return so, almost with his last breath, he made me de facto tai-pan according to all the provisions in Dirk’s Will and Legacy—some of them terrible—all of which have to be accepted, before God, sight unseen and must be kept secret from tai-pan to tai-pan. At the time it was our expectation that I would pass the mantle to you on yr immediate return. One of Dirk’s Laws lays down: It is the duty of the tai-pan to swear absolute belief in the integrity of his successor. I cannot do this for you at the moment. All this, and the following, is again for yr private knowledge—it would hurt Struan’s for it to be made public, so destroy the letter after reading it.

  By today’s mail to Scotland, I have offered the post of tai-pan to yr cousin Lochlin Struan, Uncle Robb’s son, with four provisos: first that he comes at once to Hong Kong and spends three months in training here—as you know he is well versed in our company operations, better than you as far as Great Britain is concerned, though you are far and away better fitted and better trained; second, he agrees to keep this all secret; third, at the end of the trial period, before God, I will make the final choice between the two of you, my decision of course to be binding; fourth, that if you come to yr senses, he agrees that I must choose you but he will be next, should you fail to have sons, Duncan to be after him.

  Coming to yr senses, my son, means returning to Hong Kong at once, the very latest by Christmas Day, alone but for Jamie McFay (and Dr. Hoag, should you wish to have his company) to discuss yr future plans, to take up pressing duties and prepare for the position you have trained all yr life for. Should you prove to be satisfactory, I will make you tai-pan on yr twenty-first birthday, May 21st.

  I ha
ve shown this to Gordon Chen and asked him to comment where necessary—our compradore must, MUST, by Dirk’s Law, be a party to the handing over of power. Yr devoted mother. P.S. I love you and an added P.P.S.: Thank you for your news from Parliament about more of their usual stupidity (via the curious channel of our archenemy Greyforth. Beware of him, he’s up to no good, but then you know that better than I). Yes, we had heard the rumors, the Governor still denies any knowledge. I had already written to our Parliamentarians on the first rumor telling them to stop the nonsense if it was true, and to Bengal forewarning them. In response to your letter I have written again. It really is time you came home to apply yrself to your duty and our mounting problems.

  “Duty!” Malcolm shouted at the wall, balled the letter and hurled it at it, hurting himself with his violence. He stumbled to his feet, lurched to his bureau. The little bottle contained his evening dose. He drained it, smashed it on the oak top cursing, and almost fell as he groped to his chair.

  “She can’t! Can’t! That … that bitch can’t do that … can’t! ‘Go back alone’ only means without Angel ‘to discuss’ … I won’t and she won’t interfere …” and he continued to half think and half speak imprecations until the opiate entered his bloodstream and began its deadly solace.

  In time he noticed the other letter from Compradore Gordon Chen—his father’s stepbrother, one of many illegitimate children sired by Dirk Struan. “Three that we know about,” he said aloud.

  My dear, dear nephew: I’ve already written how sorry I was about your bad joss, the wounds and accident. I’m even more sorry to hear there is an estrangement between you and your mother that promises to become dangerous and could disrupt our Noble House—therefore it is my duty to comment and advise. She showed me her letter to you. I have not shown mine to her, nor will I. In mine I will confine myself only to the position of tai-pan, other than to give you my very private advice about the girl: be Chinese.

  Facts: though you are formally my stepbrother’s heir, your mother correctly says you have not undergone the obligatory ceremony, attestations, oaths and signatures laid down in my Honorable Father’s Will and Legacy that are necessary before you can be tai-pan, which, to be valid, must be witnessed personally and attested to in writing as properly executed by the current compradore, who must be of my branch of the House of Chen. Only then is the chosen one the tai-pan.

  Before your father died he did in fact appoint your mother tai-pan. It was correctly done in all details. I witnessed it. She is tai-pan legally and has power over the Noble House. It is true that your father and mother expected the position to be passed over to you quickly, but she is also correct that one of the tai-pan’s obligations is to attest before God to the integrity of his successor, and also true the Noble House is governed only by what the tai-pan, he or she, decides, particularly the choice and timing of any succession.

  My only advice is: be wise, swallow your pride, return at once, kowtow, kowtow and kowtow, accept a “trial” period, become again a dutiful son, honoring your ancestors, for the good of the House. Obey the tai-pan. Be Chinese.

  Malcolm Struan stared at the letter, his future in ruins, past in ruins, everything changed. So she is tai-pan! Mother is! If Uncle Gordon says it then it’s true! She’s cheated me out of my birthright, she has, my Mother has.

  But isn’t that really what she’s wanted all these years? Didn’t she always cajole, beg, whine, plot, do whatever was necessary to dominate father, me and all of us? Her maddening family prayers every day and church twice on Sunday, us trailing along when once on Sundays is more than enough. And drinking! “Drunkenness is an abomination” and quoting the Bible all day long to the point of insanity, no fun in our lives, Lent observed to the letter, fasting, forever carping on the brilliance of Dirk Struan, God curse him, always saying how terrible to have died so young—never bringing up that he died in the typhoon with his Chinese mistress in his arms, a fact that was and still is the scandal of Asia—always sermonizing on the evils of the flesh, Father’s weakness, the death of my sister and the twins …

  Suddenly he sat up solidly in his high-back chair. Insanity? That’s it! he thought. Could I put her in an insane asylum? Maybe she is. Would Uncle Gordon help me to … Ayeeyah! It’s me who’s mad. It’s me who’s …

  “Malcolm! It’s lunchtime.”

  He looked up and saw himself talking to Angelique, saying how pretty she was but would she mind very much going without him as a few serious things had to be decided, letters to be written—no, nothing that affected her, no really, just a few business problems—all the time remembering “return alone” and “kowtow, she’s tai-pan.” “Please, Angelique.”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want, but you’re sure you’re all right, my love? You don’t have a fever, do you?”

  He allowed her to feel his forehead and caught her hand and pulled her into his lap and kissed her and she kissed him back and laughed gaily and straightened her bodice saying she would be back after her piano lesson and not to worry and for the picture he must wear his evening clothes and, oh, you’ll be so impressed with my new ball gown.

  And then he was alone with his thoughts again, the same words grinding his brain: “return alone … she’s tai-pan.” How dare she cancel the order for rifles—what does she know about this market?

  Tai-pan legally. So she really does rule the roost, and me. Certainly until I’m twenty-one and ever afterwards. Until she’s not. Until …

  Ah, is that the key? Is that what Uncle Gordon meant when he wrote: be Chinese. Be Chinese how? Just be patient? How would a Chinese handle my whole predicament?

  Just before he went into his special sleep, he smiled.

  As it was Saturday and a pleasant afternoon a football match had been arranged on the bluff. Most of the Settlement was watching and with the usual fights and hysteria, on and off the pitch, when one side or the other scored a goal, Army versus Navy, fifty men per side. The score was Navy 1, Army 2, and the first half not yet over. Hacking permitted, brawling permitted, almost everything permitted and the only purpose to force the ball through the opposing posts.

  Angelique, seated on the halfway line with Sir William and the General, was surrounded by the rest of his lunch guests—Seratard and other Ministers, André and Phillip Tyrer—who had decided to come en masse to watch. Crowding them and vying for her attention were British and French officers, Settry Pallidar and Marlowe, the only British naval officer, amongst them—Jamie nearby. When she had hurried back to Malcolm to tell him she was cancelling her piano lesson, which was another excuse not to have to sit with him, and to ask him if he would like to go to the game, he was still asleep. So she had asked Jamie to escort her.

  “Yes, best to let him sleep—I’ll leave him a note,” Jamie had said, welcoming any excuse to distract him from looming disaster. “Pity he won’t see the match—Malcolm was a sports enthusiast, as you know, a grand swimmer, a fine cricketer as well, tennis of course. Sad that he’s, well, not his old self.”

  She could see that he was as gloomy as Malcolm but that did not matter, she thought, men were generally serious and she was pleased to have company as a foil against the others. Since the great day when that which was growing had ceased to be, and her health and vigor had returned, better than ever, she had found it unwise to be alone with any of them. Except André. To her delight he had changed, no longer threatening or referring to the help he had given her, all of it she would like to forget, no longer looking at her with rough and heavy-lidded eyes, too easy to read the cruelty behind them, though sure the cruelty still lurked within him.

  Important to keep him friendly, she thought, aware how vulnerable she was. Listen but beware. Some of what he says is good: “Forget what happened before, it never happened.”

  André’s right. Nothing happened. Nothing, except he’s dead. I really do love Malcolm, I’ll bear him sons and be the perfect wife and hostess and our salon in Paris will be …

  A roar distracted
her. A mob of Navy players had forced the ball between the Army posts but the Army fought the ball away and now a general riot began, the Navy claiming a goal, the Army disputing it. Dozens of seamen swarmed onto the pitch to join the melee, then soldiers and soon there was a free-for-all, traders and others cheering and laughing and enjoying the spectacle, the referee, Lunkchurch, desperately trying to stay out of the fight and, meanwhile, get some order back on the field.

  “Oh, look … that poor fellow’s being kicked to death!”

  “Nothing to worry about, Angelique, just horseplay, clearly it wasn’t a goal,” the General said confidently. The man was Navy, so of little concern. Sir William, on the other side of her, was as excited as any, nothing like a good brawl to lighten the spirits. Nonetheless, conscious of Angelique, he leaned over to the General. “Think we should get on with the game, Thomas, eh?”

  “Quite right.” The General motioned to Pallidar. “Break it up, if you please—reason with them.”

  Pallidar of the Dragoons went onto the pitch, took out his revolver and fired a salvo into the air. Everyone froze. “Listen, you lot,” he called out, all eyes on him now. “Everyone off the pitch except the players. The General’s order: another riot and the match is cancelled and those involved will be disciplined. Move!” The field began to clear, many hobbling, the injured dragged off by supporters. “Now, Mr. Referee, was it a goal or not?”

  “Well, Captain, yes and no, you see …”

  “Was it or not?”

  The silence was strong. Lunkchurch knew whatever he said was going to be wrong. He decided the truth was best: “A goal for the Navy!”

  Amid cheers and countercheers, threats and counterthreats, Pallidar walked back, tall and very pleased with himself. “Oh, Settry, what bravery!” Angelique spoke with such appreciation that Marlowe and others were riven with jealousy. “Good work, old boy,” Marlowe said reluctantly as the game—the fight—began in earnest to cheers drowned by the boos and curses.