A Most Immoral Woman

by Linda Jaivin

  He turned down the lamp, threw himself down on one side and then rolled onto the other. The urge for sleep had gone. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The bamboo rattle of the nightwatchman sounded in the street.

  It came to Morrison like a bolt. He had been an ass, a fool, an idiot. Molyneux was right. She would behave as she did until he took a decisive course of action. No woman was terra nullius and Mae had been extensively mapped, it was true. What was required—and the obviousness of it stung him—was a man resolute enough not just to explore but to conquer. She may have been the gay centre of attention at the races but she had not left with anyone but himself.

  He vaulted out of bed and composed a letter. There were things he needed to say and things she needed to hear. Things to do with future happiness, stability and security that they both needed to consider. Ought to consider. Ought or needed or should? He scrunched the sheet into a ball and started again. It took several drafts but he felt that he had it right in the end. He went back to bed and dreamed, uneasily, of Lord Bredon and borrowed crockery.

  In Which Morrison Mines for Gold and Makes a

  ‘Bid for Peace, Prosperity, Longevity, Happiness

  and Health

  Thanks to some clever investments, Morrison had a bit of capital behind him. When he had been with his Parisian grisette, Noelle, with Pepita and with his Calcutta angel, Mary, his finances, though poor, had matched and even exceeded the expectations of his paramours. Mae’s wealth and her profligacy in the ways of the purse placed him in a different position altogether. ‘That’s the good thing about heiresses,’ Dumas had said. ‘They keep themselves.’ Perhaps that was true in the long run. In the short term they required a certain standard of maintenance.

  He sent the letter with Kuan and went to the bank.

  ‘One thousand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Morrison took a deep breath and addressed the stout young broker sitting across the desk from him. ‘One thousand pounds.’ He was seated on a leather settee in the man’s dark-panelled office on Shanghai’s financial street. Even vocalising such a sum of money made him breathless. He felt as though the words had been scraped from his throat. A stack of documents lay before him.

  The broker, Flatyre, leaned in towards Morrison, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘Korean goldmines, Dr Morrison—very sound investment.’ His eyes glinted as Morrison drew a thousand pounds sterling in notes from his case and placed them on the table between them.

  ‘You won’t regret it.’ Flatyre had a smile like a baleen whale. The word ‘cetacean’ came into Morrison’s head.

  ‘I hope not,’ Morrison replied, picturing Flatyre inhaling his money like plankton and then swimming off, never to be seen again. I cannot afford to come down to first principles. He thought of his tall, thin schoolmaster father, loping along the campus of Geelong College, his frock coat streaked with white from his chalk box, the elbows patched where they’d become threadworn. To his father, a thousand pounds would seem a prodigious sum. Think big, he urged himself. He rocked his seal on the pad of red ink and pressed it to the paper by his signature. Think like a man with an heiress for a wife.

  ‘Rest assured, Dr Morrison.’ The broker gathered in the notes like a croupier. ‘Once the Japanese have consolidated their hold over the peninsula, the value of those shares could easily increase to two and a half thousand. The war will result in some tidy dividends for those banking on the right side. You’ve made a wise decision.’

  Shaking hands and pocketing his contract, Morrison strode out to the Bund, full of fresh resolution. ‘Come, Kuan,’ he said. ‘We’re going shopping. I am not Willie Vanderbilt Jnr. But I am not such a bad prospect.’

  Kuan gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘Never mind.’

  At a Chinese jewellers, he found a gold bracelet with charms in the shape of the characters for Peace, Prosperity, Longevity, Happiness and Health, all of which he dared to think he might share with Mae. A vision of himself shaking the hand of her wealthy and powerful father flashed before him; he had been relieved to learn that, at sixty-five, Senator Perkins was twenty-three years his senior. It could have been deucedly awkward otherwise. The starting price for the bracelet was seventy-five Mexican dollars but with Kuan’s help he beat it down to fifty-eight, still such a princely sum that he nearly choked on it before reminding himself it was worth every last Mexican cent.

  It felt good to be so resolved. He walked briskly to the Shanghai Club, where the former military attaché ‘Monkey’ O’Keefe, who had fallen on hard times and was living, it appeared, half upon the bar itself, fell upon him in a soused and lugubrious embrace. Morrison irrigated O’Keefe further and reaped an excellent harvest of gossip: O’Keefe was able to name all the arms traders, Chinese and foreign, who turned a profit supplying both sides of the conflict. Leaving the Irishman in the care of the Chinese bartender, he paid a call on his Japanese contacts, who offered him green tea and no news. Only when it came time to return to the Blunts’ house did he feel the claw of anxiety upon his vitals. Has she answered?

  Waiting for him were a letter and a telegram. The letter, from Mae, summoned him to the French Hotel des Colonies on the Bund in an hour’s time. The telegram, from James, was even more peremptory. Morrison swore under his breath and addressed his Boy in a resigned voice. ‘Kuan I need a clean suit of clothes, a ricksha and tickets for the first boat to Wei Hai Wei that leaves tomorrow afternoon. Straight after my dental appointment.’

  Whilst Kuan hastened to his tasks, Morrison scratched out a quick reply to James. By the time he was seated in the ricksha, he was already running late. Her telegram had revealed nothing of her intentions. Though her urgency was clear enough, he was tormented by the thought of what it might portend. Further down Bubbling Well Road, a horse had shied and a carriage overturned. Even the agile ricksha runner had trouble extricating them from the snarl of traffic and onlookers. Morrison’s handkerchief grew damp from the sweat streaming off his brow and neck. Fearful that she might not wait for him, Morrison realised he was not as confident as his actions that morning suggested. He fingered the parcel containing the bracelet as though it were an amulet. By the time he arrived at his destination, he was a full hour past the time she had set to meet. Tossing more cash at the runner than the man had asked for, he flew into the hotel, only to find her in the parlour absorbed in a book.

  In Which the Road to Hymen’s Altar Is Seen

  to Be Paved with Obstacles, a Terrible Truth Is

  Revealed and Our Hero Is Left with His

  Mouth Open

  ‘Maysie. Darling. I’m so sorry I’m late.’

  She held up her book so that he could read the title on the dustcover: The Ambassadors. ‘It’s fortunate that Henry James is such a good writer. A girl could get restless if made to wait too long without entertainment. Oh, honey, I’m only joking. Come here.’ She stretched a gloved arm in his direction. He pressed his lips to her hand, tasting satin. Her perfume, French and redolent of fig, tickled his nose. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted the new bracelet and fastened it onto her wrist, over the glove. She turned it this way and that. ‘Ernest, it’s stunning.’

  ‘Like its owner,’ he replied awkwardly. Compliments did not so much trip as stumble off Morrison’s tongue. He envied men who knew how to flatter a woman, but not so much that he’d ever tried to emulate them. Yet on this particular day he yearned for such skills, for Mae, never careless with her toilette, was attired in an especially fine lilac-and-cream gown, one, he did not fail to note, that showed off her voluptuousness to perfection. ‘Beautiful,’ he added, his vocabulary, vast on the subjects of war and politics and human frailty, exiguous on the topic of ladies’ fashion. ‘Exceptionally…beautiful.’

  Two days earlier, she’d casually mentioned that the only man she knew who appreciated the effort made by a woman in her costume was her hairdresser, Strozynsky. An Eastern European who wore corsets and rouged his lips and cheeks, Strozynsky danced as lithe as a maid
as he plucked and teased, curled and trimmed. Her mother feared Strozynsky was homosexual, pronouncing the newly minted word in an uneasy whisper. Mae didn’t care. She adored Strozynsky. Not only was he the most fashionable hairdresser in the entire Bay area but he noticed one’s fashions—and understood.

  Morrison read the expectation in her eyes but he could not compete with a dandy and invert and would not try. He called over the waiter and ordered oysters and champagne for them both. Mae made small talk, about the weather, the food, and some of the hotel’s other guests, until Morrison couldn’t stand it a minute longer. ‘Maysie. You got my letter.’

  ‘Yes, I did, thank you.’ She played with the charms on the bracelet.

  ‘And? Have you considered my proposal?’ The words flew from his mouth like a shot from a cannon. Realising to his chagrin that he probably ought to have dropped to one knee, for that was how things were done, he sat as though nailed to his seat.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ she said with an unfathomable expression, ‘we have all the time in the world to speak of such things.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Morrison replied, unnerved.

  ‘Why not?’

  The conversation had taken a decidedly unromantic twist. ‘My colleague Lionel James. He’s landed himself in a spot of trouble.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Not that sort of trouble.’ He did not wish to discuss Lionel James’s predicament. His own was pressing enough.

  ‘How disappointing,’ she pouted. ‘There are so many types of trouble in the world and so few of them truly amusing. I suppose I shall be losing you to Wei Hai Wei again. If that’s the case, I may return straight away to Tientsin. I’m getting bored with Shanghai.’

  ‘Maysie.’ He took her hand and gathered his courage. ‘Will you consider my suit?’ The waiter arrived just then with their oysters and, oblivious to the drama, fussed about, setting the table with plates and special forks.

  The moment passed.

  Retrieving her hand, she undid the buttons at the wrists of her gloves. With precise, practised moves, she tucked the fingers back under the sleeves, leaving her hands bare. Plucking an oyster from the platter, she tipped it into her mouth. Morrison wondered if he’d actually proposed or only imagined he had done so.

  ‘Delicious.’ She patted her mouth with her napkin. ‘You’re going to have to breathe, honey.’ She sighed. ‘I love you too. But for us to join at Hymen’s altar is not a good idea. So, no, I cannot marry you.’

  Morrison blinked. ‘May I ask why not?’

  ‘Because I love you.’

  ‘Maysie, you’re being perverse. That’s normally the reason one gives for saying yes.’

  ‘I’ve given it thought. You would not be happy with me. I attract gossip like the hem of a skirt attracts mud. When the first blush of romance wears off, you would want to change me, tame me, make me the sort of wife you could take out to the races or home to Mother without fear of incident.’

  Her words rang true even as they stung him. ‘But I love you.’ He steeled himself. ‘I sense there’s something else behind your refusal. Please tell me.’

  She shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, Morrison read desolation there. ‘You know how I told you about John Wesley Gaines? The congressman?’

  ‘I remember.’ He tensed.

  Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. ‘You won’t like this. I was “that way” with John Wesley.’

  Morrison’s stomach churned. He put down his fork. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What could I do? French cures.’

  Morrison knew ‘French cures’—potions whose labels promised to restore a woman’s ‘regularity’ and whose contents boded searing pain and wretchedness. It took a while before he was able to speak. ‘And how did he feel about that?’

  ‘He was grateful—the first three times, anyway.’

  Pain sliced through the site of the old spear wound. He gripped his handkerchief, praying he would not suffer a nosebleed. The first three times?

  ‘He told me he would never forget my loyalty. He called it “loyalty to the marrow”. I will always remember those words. He said I touched him very deeply with my discretion. I can be discreet, you see, when I want to be. I did not fear scandal for myself so much as for him—and my father, of course. John Wesley did joke that if the scandal had broken, at least it would have been bipartisan.’ She smiled faintly.

  Morrison’s head reeled. ‘You said “first three”. And after that?’

  ‘The fourth time I told him I was going to keep it. We argued.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘He accused me of trying to force his hand. He said that every young woman is a free thinker until she is tested, or until she finds the man she wants to marry. That hurt me profoundly. The truth was that the doctors had warned me that another French cure could kill me. I didn’t tell him though, lest he think I really was trying to entrap him. So I went into seclusion. But Baby Wesley was stillborn, two months premature. In the end, that’s what decided me on this trip. There were rumours, as always, but for once I could not bear them, or the sorrow, or John Wesley’s anger, or anyone’s sympathy.’

  Morrison’s wit failed him. ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Mama knew. I’m sure Papa did too, though we never spoke of it. He is the kindest man in the world. He’s famous for the number of criminals he pardoned when he was governor, for his philanthropy and for the good works he does keeping impoverished young people from crime and degradation. I told you he pretends that my sister’s girl, Alice, is his niece. I’m sure he would have done the same with my son. It was he who had the idea of sending me to stay with the Ragsdales.’

  ‘So it wasn’t just a fascination with the Orient or wanderlust after all.’

  ‘No. Although it’s true that I adored the Mikado and travel. What I told you that first night was not a lie. But I admit that as our ship passed out from the Golden Gate and I caught my last glimpse of the Seal Rocks, I was inconsolable.’ She reached out and touched Morrison’s wrist. He started as though electrically shocked. ‘I could not have predicted how much my spirits would pick up on arriving in the Orient, and particularly on meeting you.’

  ‘I am special to you then.’ He heard the thinness in his own voice.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Does Mrs Ragsdale know? About the child, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. She is sworn to secrecy of course. Mrs R. has convinced herself that I was seduced, taken advantage of, and probably believes it was only that unlucky one time. I believe the cornflakes are by way of prophylactic against any relapse. I’m rather fond of her, for she is a good soul and well meaning. She’s been through much with her husband. I don’t wish to cause her more grief. She believes what she wants to believe and that’s fine with me. In fact, it’s been most convenient.’ She allowed herself a rueful smile. ‘As I’m sure you’ve realised.’

  ‘I confess I’m at a loss as to what to say. But…that’s all in the past. It is not impossible that you and I could make a fresh start.’

  She shook her head. ‘The doctors have assured me that I have been left barren. That is why, on the few occasions we have neglected to use a riding coat, I have not panicked. But I’ve always been mindful of how much you love children. It would break your heart to marry a woman who could not give you any of your own.’

  He was shocked by this revelation. He wanted to say he didn’t care, that he loved her and that was all that mattered. In his heart, though, he wasn’t sure—about any of it. All he knew was that she attracted him like danger. And as he’d told her, it was his habit to run at danger. It had never been his experience to have danger flee in the opposite direction. It occurred to him that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Through his confusion he heard himself telling her that it would be best for both of them if they stopped seeing each other. He sounded more resolved than he felt.

  She went quiet for a moment. ‘All right then,’ she murmured and stood to leave, ga
thering up her book, her beaded purse and her fan with an air of finality. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  I’m not, he wanted to say, but it was too late. He was left with a barely touched platter of oysters and bottle of champagne, feeling absurdly like the scorned heroine in a Victorian melodrama. Like Gerald in Anna Lombard. Except there wasn’t even a Pathan lover involved—Mae Ruth Perkins was leaving him for herself.

  The toothache bombarded Morrison’s nerves all night long. In the morning, his testicles ached, his sinuses were afflicted with an abundance of phlegm and his joints felt as though they’d been rusted. It was as if the sudden departure of pleasure had presented a vacuum that all the maladies of his ageing body rushed to fill. By the time he dragged himself across the threshold of the dentist’s surgery, he was a bundle of self-pitying misery. He sat glumly in the chair as the chatty Dr Tooth treated him to an exposition on the origins of his surname—either a modern version of the medieval ‘Tot’, the actor who played Death in travelling morality plays, or the name assigned hundreds of years earlier to someone who’d managed to keep most of his teeth past the age of twenty. Dr Tooth preferred to think it was the latter and assumed his patients did likewise. He was young, baby-faced and intermittently flatulent—nothing like the mental picture Morrison had formed of Maysie’s Dr Jack Fee. And yet Morrison felt, with a sense of despair greater than any dentist could induce by dentistry alone, that he would be cursed for the rest of his life to think of Dr Fee whenever he had a toothache. And that was the least of his woes.

  Dr Tooth advised Morrison to relax, gave him a swig of rum and got out the medical pliers.

  An hour and a half with the dentist left Morrison’s jaw swollen and bruised as though he’d been punched. He felt it most apt.