Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “I’m not ashamed that my mother was an actress,” she had said sharply, “even though most English consider them harlots. She wasn’t, ever. And they weren’t mountebanks. I’m not responsible for the sins of my father—I wasn’t penniless, he stole my money, not only other people’s.”

  “I know.” Jamie wished he had not mentioned the letter. “Heavenly, can you get proof of Dirk’s burial with May-may?”

  “Oh, yes, from Compradore Chen and Tess herself. But neither would volunteer, or admit it, would they? We would be jeered at and never get a court order to open the family crypt.” Skye coughed and coughed again. “Mrs. Angelique Struan must go with her husband’s remains, if she doesn’t she’ll immeasurably hurt her position, both legally and publicly. But to go to Hong Kong? Dangerous.” He had asked Babcott and Hoag to smooth the wording of the death certificates but was told, as expected, it could not be done. “In my considered opinion, Mrs. Angelique is right not to take that risk at the moment, Jamie. I’m concerned she’d be more defenseless in Hong Kong than here.”

  “You’d go too, you can provide any shield necessary.”

  “Yes, but there’s bound to be a scandal and I want to prevent that at all costs, for everyone’s sake. Including Tess Struan’s. She’s not a bad woman if you look at her position from a mother’s point of view. My considered opinion is that there’s bound to be a stink—how to avoid it or minimize it, that’s the question.”

  “Perhaps it can be contained,” Jamie said. “Tess isn’t an ogre, she’s always been fair in her way.”

  “She won’t be fair, not with me,” Angelique said. “I understand her. Only a woman can really understand. She’ll believe I’ve stolen her eldest son and killed him. Malcolm warned me against her.”

  “To contain her we need time,” Skye said. “We need time to negotiate, and there’s not enough before a burial.”

  When the two men left her, nothing had been resolved.

  Never mind, she thought. I will bury my husband as he wished; I will inherit his worldly goods, if any; I will beat Tess Struan. And I will be revenged.

  The letters had hurt, but not as much as she expected. Her tears were not tears as before. They had not racked her as before. Nor am I as before. I don’t understand. I’m really very strange. Will it last? I surely hope so. Oh, Blessed Mother, how stupid I was.

  Through the window she saw that day would soon be night, and in the bay, ships’ riding lights, port, starboard and at their mastheads, blinked with the rise and fall of the swell. In the fire bucket coals settled noisily, flames flared briefly drawing her attention back. What to do?

  “Missee?” Ah Soh stalked in.

  “Tai-tai, Ah Soh! You deaf, heya?” she said curtly. Malcolm had explained tai-tai to her, and on his last night Malcolm had made Ah Tok, Ah Soh and Chen address her as such in front of him—and Skye had also reminded her to make the servants use it.

  “Missee wan’ my pack chop chop?”

  “Tai-tai. You deaf, heya?”

  “You wan’ my pack, chop chop … tai-tai?”

  “No. Tomorrow. If at all,” she added quietly.

  “Missee?”

  She sighed. “Tai-tai!”

  “Missee-tai-tai?”

  “Go away!”

  “Med’sin man wan’ see-ah.”

  She was going to say “Go away” again, then changed her mind. “Medicine man what?”

  “Med’sin frog, missee tai-tai.”

  Hoag. Yes, he is froglike, she thought, and was surprised to find that she was smiling. “Yes. See now,” and when he came in she said, “’Evening, Doctor. How are you? I’m fine, thanks to you.”

  “Are you?” His eyes were red from fatigue, face pasty and puglike as ever but still a warmth about him that was comely. He peered at her. “Yes, I can see that. Be cautious, don’t press yourself. Take it easy, Angelique, be wise.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “You were marvelous this afternoon.”

  “But I lost.”

  “Yes. George Babcott and I were sorry about that, outraged after your story and Heavenly’s appeal. George’s seeing Wee Willie for dinner and will try again but I—we … we don’t hold out much hope.” He saw her shrug, just a small gesture, and continue watching him, eyes enormous in the paleness of her face. “Do you need anything? To sleep or to calm—no, I can see you don’t need any calming. I’m glad, so glad. I wanted to talk to you, chat, do you mind?”

  “Of course not, please sit down. How did the inquest go? Oh, there’s whisky or other drinks there if you want.”

  “Thanks.” On the sideboard Waterford glasses and cut-glass decanters were lined up like soldiers in silver holders, with silver labels around their necks, the silver Georgian: Whisky, Cognac, Sherry, Port. He chose whisky and poured himself half a glass. “The inquest went as expected, Edward Gornt was exonerated of any blame and commended for bravery. The coroner, Skye, found that Greyforth’s death was accidental and Gornt perfectly correct in trying to stop what could have been a brutal murder. We were surprised he used such strong words even though it was the truth.” He sat facing her, raised his glass. “Health!”

  “Salut! I’m glad for Edward. He deserves much praise.”

  “And so do you. Your story touched me deeply,” Hoag said.

  “It’s true. Don’t you believe me either?”

  “I believe it. That’s what I wanted to talk about. You see, I understand it only too well.” Then, eloquently, Hoag told her his own story, of his days in the Indian Army and falling in love and marrying against all conventions, the ostracism immediate, awful, then going home. Nothing better there. “It was worse in fact. Arjumand died, that was her name, the same as the beloved of Shah Jahan, who built the Taj Mahal,” he said, his eyes locked into the fire, telling the story to the fire as well, seeing pictures of her there, her and him in the grand days before marriage. “I’m so sad and yet glad that she didn’t linger in the hatred, that she caught cold and died quickly like a gorgeous hothouse plant in an icy draft—that’s what she was, you can’t believe how exquisite, any more than I can believe she loved me—I know how ugly I look. I loved her to madness, and killed her.”

  “When you speak of her your face changes. You didn’t kill her. It was fate. You weren’t responsible.” There’s that word again, she thought.

  “I was, marrying her and taking her home. May-may would have died too, forlorn, lonely and desperate for home. Even the great Dirk Struan himself couldn’t buck public opinion, not if they’d married. They were both lucky to have died like that.”

  She watched him, his eyes misty. “Was Malcolm lucky to have died, like he died? I mean, you said he was so peaceful. Was he dying anyway?”

  Hoag said, “I’m afraid so. He could have gone any day, any hour. He was on borrowed time and I think he knew it.”

  This rattled her. “Why wasn’t he told, why didn’t you warn him, warn us?”

  “It was an Act of God—we didn’t know, not for certain as we do now, impossible to know or we would have.”

  “I—I don’t understand. Tell me the truth, please, I need to understand.”

  Gently Hoag said, “His insides, under and near the wound were worse than we’d thought. George couldn’t probe around the wound much when he was brought in, that would have killed him anyway. The autopsy showed he was rotting away.”

  “The operation, it was well done?”

  “Oh, yes, first class. George’s repair job was admirable, as good as anyone could do,” he said, and she believed him. “You see, Angelique, we can’t replace, we can only repair, there was sepsis in pockets—the reason for all the pain, poor fellow—and bad lesions that prevented him from straightening up.” He added sadly, “He was on the last of borrowed time. Even so I’m certain you made his last days the happiest any man could have.”

  A coal fell into the hearth. Her eyes went to it. The flame flared and flickered and died—just like my Malcolm, poor man, poor love. “
Sad,” she said to the fire, “so sad.”

  Hoag was weighing her, weighing himself and the memory of Arjumand—whom Angelique had reborn for him. Easy to decide now, after sharing Arjumand, he thought. Nervously he finished the drink. “May I?”

  “Of course. Please.”

  Hoag replenished his glass, not so amply. “About the burial, that’s what I really wanted to see you about. You could, possibly, still do what you and Malcolm wanted.”

  “What?”

  He sat opposite her again. “Bury him at sea like his grandfather, like he wanted, like you want. I can help you.”

  “How?”

  He mopped his brow. “You go to Sir William, say you’ll bow to the inevitable and as much as you deplore his decision, you will allow the body to be sent to Hong Kong. Tomorrow, we—Babcott and I—we officially put his coffin aboard Prancing Cloud from Kanagawa where it is at the moment. You see the coffin off, officially, saying you could not bear to go with it on Prancing Cloud but you’ll go by mail ship the day after tomorrow when she sails for Hong Kong. Everyone’s satisfied.”

  “But the coffin is empty?” she said excitedly.

  He shook his head, his brow and jowls glistening in the firelight. “No. There’ll be a body in it but not his, a fisherman, a Korean, who died in Kanagawa this morning, at the clinic. Meanwhile Malcolm’s remains are in the other coffin, still secretly at Kanagawa. If Jamie was with us, he could bring the cutter there tomorrow evening, we go out to sea and if we could get Tweet to officiate, Malcolm can be buried as you wish. The next day you catch the mail ship and no one’s the wiser—if we can swear everyone to secrecy.”

  “So many ‘ifs,’” she muttered, her heart thumping.

  “Many more than I’ve thought of,” he said, drying his forehead, throat tight. “It was just…The idea jumped into me a little while ago. I haven’t thought it through, I may be quite off the mark, but I wanted to help. With or without George I can do the first part. Substituting the bodies. You have to do the other things. Perhaps I can help, I don’t know,” adding lamely, “I’m not good at keeping secrets. Sorry, we have to decide now if … I’ll have to get back to Kanagawa tonight while George is dining here. What do you think?”

  She was out of her chair in a flash and put her arms around him, embracing him in a perfumed envelope of softness and gratitude. “Let’s try … and thank you, thank you.”

  “You wanted to see me, Ma’am?” Gornt said.

  “Yes, please come and sit down.” Angelique sat by the bay window of the tai-pan’s office where lounging chairs, an oak table and sideboard were. Chen stood nearby.

  “May I say again how sorry I am about all this. If there’s anything I can do, you only have to ask, Ma’am.”

  “I know, thank you, Edward. Yes, you can help, we all need friends. I’m glad the inquest went properly—you should get a medal. It was very brave of you, I’d like to thank you for Jamie, I don’t know what I would do without him.” A good fire burned in the hearth and fine Thai silk curtains shut out the night. Chen went over to the ice bucket with the opened bottle. “My husband said you liked champagne?”

  “Sure, yes, Ma’am, yes, I do,” Gornt said, thinking of the inquest and the heavenly verdict that put the dangerous Norbert chapter to bed. The coroner, Heavenly Skye, was well named.

  She motioned to Chen who poured two tall glasses.

  “Doh jeh”—thanks, Gornt said, accepting his glass.

  Chen gaped at him as though he had not understood, despising this impertinent foreign devil even more for daring to speak a civilized dialect.

  Angelique said, “Chen, you wait outside. If want, I use bell, heya?” She indicated the silver bell on the side table.

  “Yes, Missee.”

  She glared at him. “Tai-tai!”

  “Yes, Missee-tai-tai.” Chen left, pleased with small victories. The servants had requested a conference that he had chaired. Ah Tok, her mind wandering, had wanted them to employ a soothsayer to put the Evil Eye on this “Possessor of a Death-filled Duct,” but he had said, “No, we can’t—and it isn’t. The Master’s death was not her doing. The Master married her and made us call her tai-tai in front of him and her. Our compromise is to call her ‘Missee’ first, then ‘Missee-tai-tai’ until the matter is decided by Illustrious Chen, to whom my urgent, detailed report is already aboard Prancing Cloud.”

  “Salut, Edward.”

  “Your health, Ma’am!”

  She took the tiniest sip, he drank with enjoyment.

  “Champagne’s a source of life for me,” he said, immediately wishing he had not said it that way. “I’ve never been able to afford it, except on festive occasions.”

  “I like champagne too, though not tonight. But soon you’ll be able to afford all you want, no? My husband told me your affairs were going to improve, tremendously, and that you had many secrets to share with him—for mutual profit.”

  “He did?” Gornt was caught off guard, for he and Malcolm Struan had agreed to tell no one else. Norbert? Norbert didn’t count, that was just more of the plan to confuse the enemy and Norbert had always been enemy. “Secrets, Ma’am?”

  “He told me he liked you, trusted you, as I do, that you were a man who could keep secrets as well as know them, and who understood the value of old friends—in the Chinese sense.”

  “That part’s true. I liked and trusted him too.”

  “Jamie said you’ve booked passage on Prancing Cloud.”

  “Yes, that’s right, Ma’am.”

  “My husband said you were going to give him special information about how to ruin the Brocks. You were going to tell him yesterday morning after … was it only yesterday? It seems a lifetime ago—for Malcolm it was, poor Malcolm.”

  He sighed, sad for her. “Yes. May I say you’ve changed, Ma’am? You’re different. Without wanting to be impertinent, or callous, may I say the change suits you very much.”

  “I would prefer ten thousand times to have my husband alive, and not to have changed.” Her openness surprised her, though like Malcolm, she had always found Gornt easy to talk to. “I’m not yet sure about the change, if I like it. Growing up so fast is, I don’t know the right word, is aching, scare-making.” She got up and refilled his glass, then put the iced champagne bucket on the table, closer to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, aware of her more than ever before.

  “I’ve decided not to go to Hong Kong by the clipper.”

  “Ah, yes, Ma’am. I’d heard the rumor, something about you not wanting to go aboard her again—or your husband’s remains—that you’ll go by mail ship.” As soon as he had heard, for safety he had seen the agent to reserve passage also but all cabins were taken. Cursing, he had tried to find Jamie but Jamie was not in the building. “I can understand you not wanting to go on the Cloud.”

  Her hands were tranquil in her lap, her voice quiet and as controlled. “These secrets you were going to tell my husband, will you tell them to me?”

  He smiled his nice smile, fascinated by her, and shook his head. “Sorry, Ma’am, no—even if I had any.”

  She nodded, not offended. “I didn’t expect you to, I’m sure I wouldn’t understand them if you did, and then, I could never put them into effect anyway, could I?” He smiled. “But Tess Struan can, no?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “My husband told me you said if anything happened to him, you would go at once to Hong Kong to deal directly with his mother, to make the same arrangement with her you had made with him. He said you were doing this because you hated the Brocks—he didn’t tell me why you hated them.” She reached up and toyed with the stem of her glass. “Tess Struan could certainly use the information, if what you claim is true, no? This was Tuesday, before we were married.”

  Again, he just watched her, a pleasant expression on his handsome face.

  “I can understand why my husband liked you, Edward, why you’d be a dangerous enemy, and even more dangerous a friend.”

  T
his made him laugh outright and the tension between them broke. “Not to you, Ma’am, never, I swear it. Never.”

  “We’ll see. We have many bridges to cross, you and I, for, by God, as my husband would say, I am embracing his hopes and dreams as my own: that you can help Struan’s destroy the Brocks, once and for all. Perhaps your hopes and dreams too.”

  “Mine?”

  She opened her bag and took out the paper she had found in the safe’s inner compartment, held it closer to the light to see better and read aloud: “‘This is my solemn agreement with Mr. Edward Gornt, gentleman, of Rothwell’s in Shanghai: if information provided by him assists Struan’s to break Brock and Sons, causing them to go under within the next six months, on behalf of Struan’s I guarantee that he will receive from their wreckage, the Brock fifty percent interest in Rothwell’s free and clear, that we will assist him in good faith, as best we can, with the Victoria Bank to raise the necessary loan to purchase the other fifty percent belonging to Jefferson Cooper, that from this date, for twenty years, Struan’s grants him, or any company he personally controls, favored nation status on any mutually agreed business dealings.’”

  She held it for him to see but did not hand it over. “It’s dated the day before yesterday, Edward, signed but not witnessed.”

  He made no move to take it. His eyesight was good. While she was reading it he had recognized the signature. Without the witness it doesn’t have its real value, he thought, his mind moving rapidly from plan to plan, from question to question, to answers. “So?”

  “I could witness my husband’s signature.”

  His mind stopped churning with a jolt. “A wife witnessing her husband’s signature isn’t usually valid.”

  “Say I witnessed it the same day—before we were married.”

  Where the devil’s she getting all this from? he was thinking frantically. Jamie? Heavenly? She’s like one of Stevenson’s new steam rollers. “Even if … even if the paper was witnessed, it wouldn’t bind the Noble House.”

  “Yes, but it would carry weight with Tess Struan—it would be an agreement with her son. Doesn’t it confirm you were working with my husband, clandestinely, to deliver her the greatest ambition of her life?”