Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “Yes, it is,” McFay said. “You certainly convinced me. But if it’s just a …” He was going to say “sop,” but sop to who, and why? “But if it’s just a ploy, why do it? Couldn’t be a worse time. You’re bound to be challenged at the meeting.”

  “Let them.”

  “They’ll think you’ve gone mad.”

  “Let them. In a few weeks they’ll have forgotten it, and anyway we’ll be in Hong Kong.” Malcolm beamed, filled with good humor. “Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing. Do me a favor, leave a message for the Admiral. I’d like to drop by and see him before dinner, and Marlowe when he comes ashore. They’re both dining with us at eight, yes?”

  “Yes, both accepted.” McFay sighed. “So you’re going to keep me in suspense over the why?”

  “Don’t worry, everything’s perfect. Now, much more importantly, today we must settle on next season’s order for silks. Make sure Vargas has the books up-to-date. I want to talk to the shroff about specie and funds as soon as possible—don’t forget, tomorrow, Angel and I will be gone all day with Marlowe aboard Pearl.” He would have danced a jig if he could have, but his legs and stomach were aching more than usual. Never mind, he thought, tomorrow’s the great day, I’m almost home, then the hell with everyone.

  Jamie was finding him strange, not understanding him at all. Every ship from Hong Kong brought both of them another, ever more vituperative letter from Tess Struan and yet, for the last week-odd, Malcolm was completely at ease and as he had been pre-Tokaidō, good-humored, clever, attentive and dedicated to business affairs though still in deep discomfort and walking badly as ever. And then there was the overriding hazard of the duel set for Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.

  Three times McFay had approached Norbert Greyforth to make an accommodation, even enlisting Gornt’s help, but nothing would dissuade the man: “Jamie, you tell the young bugger it’s up to him, by God,” Norbert had said. “He started this shit. If he apologizes I’ll accept it—if it’s public, and mighty public at that!”

  McFay bit his lip. His last resort was to whisper the time and the place to Sir William, but he hated the idea of breaking his solemn oath. “I’m to meet with that bugger Gornt at six o’clock, to fix the final details.”

  “Good. Sorry you don’t like him, he’s a good fellow, Jamie. Really. I invited him tonight. ‘Dinna fash yoursel’.’” Malcolm aped a heavy Scottish accent as a pleasantry.

  McFay smiled, soothed by the friendliness. “Do y—” A knock interrupted him.

  “Come in.”

  Dmitri strode in like a bad squall and left the door open behind him. “You gone crazy, Malc? How can Struan’s back these assholes about opium and guns?”

  “No harm in taking a moral position, Dmitri.”

  “There is, by God, if it’s crazy. If Struan’s take that position, the rest of us are fighting uphill, for crissake—goddam Wee Willie will use that to—” He stopped as Norbert Greyforth stalked in without knocking.

  “Have you gone bloody mad?” Norbert snarled, leaning over the desk and waving the paper in Malcolm’s face. “What about our bloody agreement to act together, eh?”

  Malcolm stared up at him, hating him, instantly colorless. “If you want an appointment, make it,” he said icily, but controlled. “I’m busy. Get out. Please!”

  Norbert flushed, also on notice by Sir William to behave or else. His face twisted with anger. “Wednesday, early, by God! Just bloody be there!” He spun on his feet and stalked away. The door slammed behind him.

  “Rude bastard,” Malcolm said mildly.

  Normally Dmitri would have laughed but he was too concerned. “While we’re on that subject, I might as well tell you I’m not taking part in Wednesday’s ‘meeting.’”

  “That’s no problem, Dmitri,” Malcolm said. Color was coming back into his face. “I still have your word, gentleman’s honor, that nothing leaks.”

  “Sure.” Then Dmitri burst out, “Don’t do it, you could get seriously hurt.”

  “I’m seriously hurt now, old chap. Please don’t worry. If Norbert keeps our date he’s …” Malcolm was going to say, He’s a dead man, and tempted to disclose Gornt’s scheme to Dmitri—he had already explained it to McFay who had, reluctantly, approved it as workable—but decided not to.

  Instead he said, “I’ve already offered Norbert a private accommodation but he spurned that. I’m damned if I’ll crawl in public. Listen, while you’re here, what about Colt Armaments? I hear Cooper-Tillman have a block of shares they want to sell. I’d like to buy.”

  “Eh? How d’you know about them?” Dmitri glanced at McFay, who was equally astonished but had managed to hide it. “Where’d you hear about that?”

  “A dickybird told me.” Malcolm hid his glee. Edward Gornt had given him the tip, amongst other inside tips about Brock’s and Cooper-Tillman, to prove his sincerity about the major information he would pass over about the Brocks. “Why wait to tell me, Mr. Gornt?” he had said. “If the information is as good as you say it will need dealing with at once.”

  “It will, yes, at once, Tai-pan. But let’s leave it as we agreed: Wednesday’s the day. Meanwhile, as we’re going to have a long and happy relationship, why not let’s drop the ‘Mister,’ you call me just Gornt, I’ll stay with ‘Tai-pan’ until we meet in Shanghai or Hong Kong—after Sir Morgan’s ruined. Then, maybe, we could be on a first-name basis, eh?”

  He watched Dmitri, his excitement increasing. So much good happening now. “What do you say, old chap? Is Jeff Cooper prepared to sell, and do you have the necessary authority to deal?”

  “Yes, I have his authority but.”

  “But nothing. The authority’s in writing?”

  “In writing and he might sell half but. At the right price—16.50 a share.”

  “Balls, that’s nowhere near right—that’s your Medicine Man approach coming out. 13.20, not a cent more. We can draw up a letter of intent, dated today. Forty thousand shares.”

  Dmitri gaped at him but quickly recovered—forty thousand was exactly the right number. 13.20 was low. He had offered the shares to Morgan Brock who had tendered 12.80, a fire-sale price, with a year payout which made the offer unpalatable, though to find a buyer for such a large block of shares was almost impossible. Where the hell did Malc get the information? “13.20’s nowhere near good enough.”

  “13.20 today. Tomorrow it’ll be 13.10, Wednesday I withdraw the bid.” Gornt had told him Cooper needed to sell quickly to invest in a new U.S. venture making Ironclads—for either navy. “I’ve plenty of time, but old Jeff hasn’t.”

  “What you mean by that?”

  “Just that I have time and Jeff hasn’t. Nor has the Union or even Confederate … navy,” he added pleasantly, “with the war going badly for both sides.”

  “Crap on your spies,” Dmitri said. “No deal. 15.20.”

  “Dreamer. 13.20, payment in gold from a sight draft on our bank as soon as it arrives in Boston.”

  Dmitri opened his mouth but Jamie McFay butted in hastily, “Tai-pan, it might be a good idea to conside—”

  “Getting HK’s approval,” Malcolm finished the sentence for him. “Come on, Jamie, we’ve had that out and that nonsense is finished once and for all.” His voice was level, and brooked no argument. “Right?”

  “Yes, sorry, you’re right.”

  Calmly Malcolm said, “Well, Dmitri, yes or no?”

  Dmitri stared at him with renewed respect. The immediate payout had already clinched it for him. “It’s a deal.” He offered his hand. Malcolm shook it.

  McFay said, “I’ll draw up the paper this afternoon and have it for your signatures at 5:00 P.M. All right?”

  “Good. Thanks for coming to see me, Dmitri, you’re always welcome. Dinner’s at 8:30.”

  After Dmitri left McFay could not stay quiet. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “$528,000 to be precise. But Colt’s got a new order for a hundred thousand rifles of a radical new design. By t
he time our letter of credit clears their shares will have doubled so we’ve just made half a million dollars.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’ll sign the promissory note?”

  “Yes. If you tell me I can’t because I’ve no authority because of what my mother has or has not said, I will take no notice whatsoever and sign it anyway.” Malcolm lit a cheroot, continuing, “If it’s not honored that will backfire and ruin Struan’s like nothing in our history. I’m tai-pan, like it or not, until I resign or until I’m dead, whatever she says.”

  They both watched a smoke ring rise and vanish and then McFay nodded, slowly, his misgivings overcome by Malcolm’s strange surety and authority that he had never experienced before. “You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “I know many things I didn’t when I first came here. For example, if you insist on leaving … Come on, Jamie, I’m sure in your heart you’ve decided, and why shouldn’t you? You’ve been treated shabbily—I know I haven’t helped but that’s all over, if I were you I’d do the same. You’ve decided, haven’t you?”

  McFay swallowed, disarmed. “Yes, I’m going to leave, but not until Struan’s business here is optimum, six months or so, unless she fires me first. Christ, I don’t want to leave but I must.”

  Malcolm laughed. “You’ve taken a moral position.”

  McFay laughed too. “Hardly. It’s crazy.”

  “No, I’d do the same. And I’m sure you’ll be a huge success, so much so a hundred thousand of the dollars I’ve just made—I have, Jamie, no one else—will be an investment in McFay Trading. For a …” He was going to say forty-nine percent share but changed that, to give McFay face, and thought, You deserve it, my friend, I’ll never forget the mail you could have hanged for—Sir William would have caught us, I’m sure of that too. “A sixty percent share?”

  McFay said, “Twenty-five,” without even thinking.

  “Fifty-five?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Forty-nine percent.”

  “Done, if!”

  They both laughed and Malcolm said what McFay had been thinking, “If the shares double.” Then he added seriously, “And if they don’t I’ll find it another way.”

  McFay looked at him for what seemed a long time, his mind in a thought pattern of questions but no answers. Why has Malcolm changed? Heavenly? The business over the mails? The duel? Surely not. Why does he want to see the Admiral? Why does he like Gornt, who’s a crafty one, all right?

  And why did I blurt out, Yes, I’m going to leave, before I knew it, making the decision I’d been thinking about for months: to take a chance before I die. He saw Malcolm watching him, weak in body, but tranquil and strong. He smiled back, glad to be alive. “You know, I’m sure you will.”

  Angelique was taking her pre-dinner siesta, a coal fire merry in the grate. Curtains were drawn against the wind and she was curled under down covers and silk sheets, half asleep half awake, one hand comfortably between her legs as Colette had taught her in the convent when they would sneak into bed with one another after the nuns had left the dormitory and were snoring behind their curtained cubicles. Fondling and kissing and whispering and chuckling under the covers, the two young girls sharing secrets and dreams and wants, pretending to be grown-up lovers—as described in the romantic but forbidden street pamphlets that were smuggled in by the chambermaids and circulated from hand to hand amongst the students-all make-believe and healthy and amusing and harmless.

  Her mind was on Paris and the wonderful future ahead, Malcolm softly content beside her, or already out in the Struan countinghouse, now headquartered in Paris, rich and tall, all his bad health a memory, her bad health not even a memory, a baby son in the nursery along the corridor of this their chateau, his own nanny and maids watching him, her body again strong and as well shaped as now, his birth easy. Then there would be visits with Colette to Struan’s fabulously successful silk factory that she had persuaded Struan’s to build after learning so much about the harvesting and growing of the silkworms:

  “Oh, Colette,” she had just written,

  these little worms are extraordinary, eating mulberry leaves for food, and then you cure the cocoons and unravel the silk …. I never thought I could be so interested. Vargas is my secret informant and he sneaked the silk seller in to show me some, but I have to be so careful—I started talking about my idea for a factory with Malcolm and Jamie and they laughed. Malcolm said not to be silly, making silk was a highly complex business (as if I didn’t know) and not to worry my little head about business. I do believe they want us to be cocoons, to use or abuse at their whim, and that’s all. Colette, send all the books on silk you can find …

  How lovely to have one’s own countinghouse, and money, she thought. Living in Paris there will be visits to London, occasionally to Hong Kong, dinners and soirees and lavish balls for my Prince Charming and his special friends …

  She glanced at the letter to Colette she had just sealed on the bureau. More secrets shared, at least in part:

  This Edward Gornt is becoming a real friend, so charming and attentive, a real friend, not like André. I’m sure, dear Colette, he will be a friend for life because my darling Malcolm seems to enjoy his company too. Isn’t that strange—when Edward works for those awful Brocks I’ve told you about, and Norbert Greyforth who gets more venomous-looking every day, like the warlock he is! Tonight we are having another BIG soiree. Everyone will be there, André is playing, Edward, he is a dancer, light as a butterfly …

  She had not written that the last time they had danced, at a dinner given by Sir William, he had held her hand differently, dangerously, with enough pressure to talk to her, once his little finger curled in his palm touching hers: the language of lovers, I want you in bed, yes or no and when—don’t say no!

  She had moved her hand, coolly and firmly. He had said nothing, his eyes smiling, and she knew that he knew she was not really angry, merely beyond reach, engaged.

  Nor was she angry at André, really angry. A few days ago they had met by chance at the French Legation. “You’re looking well, Angelique, I’m delighted to see you. Can I have a word, privately?”

  She had said of course, and when they were alone he had told her it was about the money he had lent her. “I’m badly strapped, could you let me have it, please?”

  “But I thought the … the other transaction covered that.” Her heart had skipped a beat being reminded of their stratagem over the lost earrings.

  “Sorry, no, it didn’t. That paid for the mama-san’s advice and the medicine.”

  Her flush had been sudden. “We agreed never to mention the—the matter, ever again, don’t you remember?” she said quietly, wanting to shout at him for disturbing their solemn agreement. “It never happened, it didn’t, that’s what we agreed—it was just a bad dream!”

  “I agree it never happened but you mentioned the transaction, Angelique, I didn’t bring it up, just about the money. Sorry, but the money’s pressing.” His face had gone cold.

  Warily she had bottled her anger, damning him for disturbing her peace. She had convinced herself nothing had ever happened—except for the one man who could dispute it, nothing had. That was the truth. But for him. “About the money, dear friend, I’ll return it as soon as I can. Malcolm doesn’t give me money as you know, just lets me sign chits.”

  “Then perhaps we’d better arrange another ‘loss.’”

  “No,” she had said, her voice honeyed, and put a hand on his arm to soothe the flash of anger. “That’s not a good idea.” Though she purged the whole affair from her mind, for the most part, whenever it came back to haunt her, particularly at night, she was aware it had been a dreadful mistake. “Perhaps I can think of another way.”

  “I need it now, Wednesday at the latest. Sorry.”

  “I’ll try, I’ll really try.” And she had. Yesterday she had seen Henri Seratard and tearfully
begged and pleaded, saying she needed money for a surprise for Malcolm, that she would be always in his debt and signed another piece of paper, pledging her diamond engagement ring as surety.

  Wisely she had borrowed twice as much as she owed. This morning she had repaid André. He had thanked her and thanked her. No reason to be angry with him. He’s my good and trusted friend and I did borrow the money. What did I need it for? I forget. Sans faire rien, that’s one debt repaid.

  Half the rest she had taken to McFay. “Jamie, would you send this to my dearest aunt in Paris for me. She’s poorly and also, my dear uncle,” she had told him, pleased she at last could help them, and even more pleased that, as she had hoped, McFay had told Malcolm. He had asked her about it.

  “Oh, I borrowed it from Monsieur Seratard, my darling. I didn’t want to ask you for money and I can’t send them a chit. I hope you don’t mind but I pledged some jewelry.”

  He had chided her, saying he would take care of the Seratard debt, that Jamie would have a revolving fund for her, the value of a hundred guineas which she could draw against as she wished, just give him a note of what it’s for, and that he would double the amount she wanted sent.

  So easy when you use your intelligence. A warmth went through her remembering how she had thanked him for his kindness, and kissed him so fondly, and how he had responded. She would have liked to have gone further, much further.

  Her fingers distracted her. Their smoothly knowing sensuality pleased her and she closed her eyes and cast herself back with Colette but that did not last long. As always he loomed in the front of her mind, vivid and almost alive, and with him the details of their last time, the time she had been deliberately wanton and had done everything she had dreamt possible—to save her life, not realizing she would enjoy everything as much as he had.

  Dearest Blessed Mother, we both know it was only to save my life—isn’t that true? But also true—ah, how lucky I am I can talk openly, direct to You, and not have to go through that awful Father Leo—but also true, between us women, that somehow we must rid ourselves of him, and the memory of the two nights and the ecstasy before it drives me insane.