Trader heard the story from Tully the very day he arrived on the island.
“All the time we were in Canton,” Trader remarked to Read the next morning, “you never told me you had a woman here.”
“A good man doesn’t talk about his women, Trader.” Read gave him a stern look. “A lady has to trust a man to be discreet.” Then he smiled. “You find yourself a good woman of your own. That’s what you need.”
The Portuguese island in the China Sea had a Mediterranean air. Tiny antique forts, more picturesque than threatening, dotted its modest hills.
The place had known glory. Two and a half centuries ago, in the shining days of the Ming dynasty, before even the great basilica of St. Peter in Rome was completed, the Jesuits had built the magnificent stone church of St. Paul on the top of Macao’s central hill, to proclaim the Catholic faith’s renewed might, even in Asia. It could be seen across the sea from twenty miles away—as could the Jesuit fort with its cannon, which stood just below.
But the glory of Macao was somewhat past. Just recently, the huge church had burned down—all except for its southern facade, which now stood alone on the hilltop like a stupendous stage set, gleaming at the rising and the setting of the sun, but empty nonetheless.
John Trader liked Macao. The lodgings he shared with Tully were in a side street, just behind the Avenue of the Praia Grande that curved along the waterfront of a wide bay. On his first day, he walked with Tully along the esplanade. The long terrace of handsome houses—mostly stuccoed in Portuguese style, some white, others gaily painted red or green or blue—looked cheerfully out across the flagstoned street, the sea wall, and a stony little beach towards the square-sailed junks plowing through the shallows and the masts of sleek European ships anchored out beyond. There was a smell of salt air and seaweed.
“Glad to have my quarters down here,” Tully explained. “I can take a brisk constitutional along the seafront every day, without puffing up and down hills.”
Above the seafront, covering the slopes, the Portuguese streets gave way to stuccoed villas and British colonial residences.
People still called it an island, though nowadays a narrow sandbar joined it to the mainland. It was an international port, but since its harbors needed dredging, only the shallow local junks could sail there; European vessels usually anchored out in the deeper waters known as the Roads.
What really mattered, however, was that although its Portuguese governors had run Macao for centuries, it still belonged to the emperor of China.
“You’ve got to understand,” Tully told him, “that this place is a typical Chinese compromise. If there’s opium trading on Macao—and there is a bit—the Portuguese governor keeps it discreet. The Portuguese are Roman Catholic, of course. But you can be damn sure the governor tells the Jesuit missionaries to be careful about preaching to the natives. The Chinese authorities don’t like conversions—even on Macao. Still,” he concluded, “as long as the governor uses a bit of common sense, the Chinese leave Macao alone. So far, it’s been a pretty safe haven for us.”
The monsoon season had officially begun, but the weather was still temperate and fine, like the best of an English summer. Trader was glad to enjoy the salty sea air and to be free again.
One small matter did remain, from Canton: the letter from Lin to Queen Victoria.
He’d wondered what he should do with it. Should he give it to Elliot? That would be the simplest thing. He doubted very much that Elliot would forward it, but his own responsibility would end. Of course, if he really meant to honor the spirit of his promise to the commissioner, he’d send it to someone he could trust in England. One of his professors at Oxford had access to the royal court. Or he could burn the letter and forget the business. After a week, he decided just to put it in the strongbox he kept under his bed.
The English-speaking community centered on the merchants’ families, with a sprinkling of missionaries, teachers, and tradesmen. As a bachelor, he was invited everywhere, and nobody expected him to return the favor. British and American families were good at entertaining themselves with cards, music, amateur theatricals, and healthy walks—up the hills where the views were fine, or down in the Campo Plain just north of the city. He was quite enjoying himself and hardly had to spend any money. Once a week he and Read would meet for a drink at a bar Read favored down at the waterfront.
Despite Read’s advice, he’d been cautious about finding himself a woman. Some of the English-speaking families had unattached young ladies. With these, however, Trader was circumspect. After all, he wasn’t in a position to court any of them. By letting it be supposed that he was courting a lady in Calcutta, however, he made himself respectable, safe, and rather interesting, both to the young ladies and to their mothers, which suited him quite well.
Like any port, Macao had a few bordellos. But he’d always been somewhat fastidious; besides, he had a healthy fear of catching something. Two of the merchants’ wives had dropped hints that they’d be interested in getting to know him better. But in a small community such liaisons could mean trouble. The last thing he needed was angry husbands to add to his problems. For the time being, he just had to manage without.
That left only his debts to trouble him. In the midst of all his social activities, he usually managed not to think about them. But he didn’t entirely succeed. If he awoke during the night, they came into his mind. As he lay awake, it was as if he could hear the slow drip, drip of the payments leaving his bank account in faraway Calcutta on the first business day of each month, whittling away his substance. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep again.
And then one night he had a dream. He was crossing a rope bridge, high over some vast abyss, when he glanced back and saw, to his horror, that the wooden planks upon which he’d just been walking were coming loose and falling away, one by one, behind him. Hurrying forward, he looked back again and realized that the falling planks had almost caught up with him. And then suddenly the planks beneath his feet had gone, and he was falling, falling into the endless void below.
Two nights later, the nightmare came back again, and waking with a cry, he lay there wretchedly till dawn. After that, the sense of fear came to him more and more frequently, and there was nothing he could do about it. Like an addiction, his secret walked beside him, close as a friend, deadly as an enemy. Some days he felt so depressed he had to force himself to get up. But he always managed to put on a cheerful face for the world to see. And in a bleak way, he was even rather proud of himself for concealing his fears.
So the days passed, and with so much on his mind, John Trader scarcely realized he was lonely.
* * *
—
It was the third week of June when he went to the old cemetery. The humid heat of the monsoon season had been slow to arrive that year, but it was making itself felt that day.
He and Tully had taken a stroll down on the Praia Grande, but Trader had felt the need of more exercise. “Why don’t you walk up the hill?” Tully suggested. “Might be a bit of a breeze up there. And if you want a rest, look in at the Old Protestant Cemetery. It’s rather a pleasant spot.”
As he went up the hill, Trader began to sweat. He felt oppressed. If Macao looked pretty from a distance, it was not so lovely up close. And today he noticed its faults.
The painted stucco walls of the houses were mostly cracked. Cornices over doorways were missing pieces. There was dirt everywhere. The dust of the street stuck to his boots. There seemed to be a beggar in every alleyway. He saw a dead cat in a ditch, being stripped by carrion crows.
Halfway up the hill he came to the stuccoed baroque church of St. Dominic. Creamy yellow walls, white trim, high green doors. An old woman was sweeping the stone terrace before its entrance, but apart from her, the little square was deserted. There was an inviting bench nearby, but he wasn’t ready to rest yet, and he continued on his way, passing the huge open
facade of St. Paul’s and finally walking around the Jesuit cannon emplacement near the hilltop, enjoying the fine views and the breeze. Time now, he thought, to take a little rest.
The Protestants had received permission to build their modest chapel only twenty years ago. It was a small, simple whitewashed building. Its congregation was British and American mostly, though Protestants of any nation were made welcome. And on a level shelf of land just below the chapel, its lawn gently shaded by trees and enclosed by thick stone walls, lay the Old Protestant Cemetery.
It was cooler here than in the street. The faint breeze from the sea touched the higher leaves on the trees, though they made scarcely any sound. The headstones rising from the grass and the tablets set in the walls were larger than he’d expected, some of them six feet high. The engraving, evidently done by a local mason, was a little crude. But all the memorials had this in common: They were the last record of those who had come out to this faraway island and departed life before they could return. East India Company men, Dutch sea captains, American merchants, their wives, sometimes their children. All gone, all far from home.
John Trader sat on a stone for a while, then walked on the shady grass, reading the gravestones he passed. Set in one wall he noticed a memorial. Lieutenant Frederick Westbury of the British Navy, died after action, mourned by all the ship’s crew. Younger than he was himself. The memorial was quite big, so his shipmates must have liked him.
Was there another memorial, he wondered, in some village church in England, set up by the young fellow’s grieving family? He decided there was. And then the thought came to him: If I were to die today, would there be a stone for me here? Would Tully arrange it? God knows. One thing was certain. There’d be no stone in any village church in England. There was no one to grieve for him. Only a handful of people even to remember him. Charlie Farley would think of him and want to write a letter of condolence. But there was really no one for Charlie to write to.
And suddenly the shadows of the trees, instead of providing welcome relief from the sun, seemed melancholy. He felt inexpressibly sad and went slowly back to the stone upon which he’d been sitting before. There he sank down and lowered his head. And he was glad he was quite alone, since to his surprise, he found there were tears in his eyes.
He’d been there for twenty minutes and, thank God, his tears were quite dried when he heard a voice say, “Hello, young Trader,” and looked up to see Read standing before him.
“You look depressed,” said Read.
“No. Not really.”
“This is a good place, isn’t it? I often stroll about in here. Funnily enough, I was just thinking about you. Something you said to me when we first met on that boat.”
“What was that?”
“I seem to remember you said you had a bit of debt.”
“Oh. Did I?”
“I should think things might be rather tight, what with the trade being stopped and all the opium destroyed.”
“They say we’ll get compensation, as you know.”
“It’ll be a helluva long wait. Meantime, you must’ve got interest payments.”
“True.”
Read gazed at him kindly. “Why not let me pay the interest for you?”
Trader looked at him in astonishment. “But my God…why? You don’t even know what my debts are.”
“I know the scale of your operations. I’ve got a pretty good idea.” The prospect didn’t seem to faze the American in the least. “You’re not such a bad fellow. And it’s years since I did anyone a good turn. Pay me back later. When you can. There’s no hurry.”
“But, Read, I’m in the opium trade. You’ve said yourself it’s a dirty business.”
“You know what they say, Trader: Invest in the man. Perhaps you’ll get into some other trade in the future.” He chuckled. “You may have to.”
“I can’t believe your kindness, Read, but I can’t let you…”
“I have money, my friend,” Read told him quietly. He grinned. “Enough to have made my wife want to marry me.”
“What if I couldn’t repay you?”
“Then…”—Read gave him a beautiful smile—“my wife will get less when I die.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“One other thing, Trader. How about dining at my lodgings tomorrow? My landlady’s a wonderful cook.”
* * *
—
Mrs. Willems the widow lived in a small blue-stuccoed house, on a quiet lane some fifty yards from the old Jesuit cannon emplacement. The garden behind contained a lily pond. The house belonged to Mrs. Willems; the garden belonged to her white cat, whose permission had to be asked if one wanted to visit the lily pond.
Like many Macanese, Mrs. Willems looked part Asian, part European. With wide-set almond eyes and fine features, she was attractive, but how old was she? Trader couldn’t decide. She might be thirty-five, she might be fifty. When she welcomed him, her English was not quite perfect, but she clearly understood all that was said.
The house was simply furnished in a pleasing mixture of styles: a Chinese table, a handsome old Portuguese cabinet, some Dutch leather armchairs. On the walls, Trader noticed watercolors from many countries. One of them, he saw, depicted the Port of London.
“What fine pictures,” he said politely to his hostess, who seemed pleased.
“My husband give me them,” she said with satisfaction.
“She used to ask her husband to bring her back a picture, whenever he went away on a voyage,” Read explained. “Proved he was thinking of her, I daresay.” He smiled at Mrs. Willems. “As you see, he had a pretty good eye.”
The two men sat in armchairs, and Mrs. Willems served them drinks before disappearing into the kitchen.
“She likes you,” said Read, looking pleased. “I can tell.”
“Is she mostly Chinese?” Trader asked.
“Depends what you call Chinese,” Read answered. “Her mother was Asian, part Japanese. Her father was the son of a Portuguese merchant and a local Tanka woman.”
“Tanka?”
“Very ancient people along this coast. Chinese of a kind, I suppose. But their language, which is thousands of years old, isn’t like Chinese at all. The Han Chinese despise them because they say the Tanka are not Han. And they didn’t treat them well. So the Tanka took to living apart, on boats. Fishermen mostly.”
“Why would a Portuguese merchant marry a Tanka, then?”
“Simple. They were in Macao. They needed wives. And no respectable Han Chinese woman would marry them—to the Han, we’re all barbarians, remember. So the Portuguese married Tanka women instead. You can see their descendants in the streets here every day.”
* * *
—
The food was wonderful. Most of the houses he’d visited so far made some attempt at British cooking, with whatever local variation was necessary. But Mrs. Willems offered proper Macanese cuisine—that mixture of Portuguese and southern Chinese cooking, fused with Malayan and Indian spices, only to be found on the little island of Macao.
They began with the delicately scented shrimp soup called lacassa, served with white wine, a tangy Portuguese Vinho Verde. Then came a selection of dishes from which to choose. There was chicken baked in the European manner with potatoes and coconut curry sauce. Trader closed his eyes to savor the rich aroma. There was Tchai de Bonzo, a dish of vegetables cooked with noodles. “They call it Buddha’s Delight,” Read informed him with a grin. Minchi, white rice with minced meat and topped with a fried egg. Cod, scallops, and black pudding with orange jam, a pig’s ear salad, truffled potatoes. Desserts followed in profusion: almond cookies, of course; Portuguese cheeses; a coconut milk custard; a mango pudding. And all this finished off with coffee, rather than Chinese tea.
She might look Chinese, but Mrs. Willems sat at the table with the men, as
a European woman would. As the meal progressed, extra dishes were brought in by a rather good-looking young Macanese woman whom Trader took to be a servant. Each time she came, she kept her eyes down and quickly disappeared back into the kitchen.
His hostess asked a few polite questions about his family and how he came to Canton. But he sensed that she was not particularly interested in his answers. What she really wanted to know was the date and time of his birth. As for his place of birth, he pointed to the picture of the Port of London on the wall.
Throughout the meal, Read steered the conversation well, like a ship’s captain ensuring an easy crossing. Trader made polite conversation with Mrs. Willems, asked about her travels, and learned that she had lived in several Asian ports with her husband. But it seemed to him that, although she spoke of the Dutch sea captain’s occasional voyages to London, the Netherlands, and even Portugal, she was a little vague about the precise location of these places. It was only at the end of the meal that the conversation ran into rough water.
The young servingwoman had brought in the coffee. She lingered a little this time, listening to the conversation, perhaps. Did she understand English? Was she observing him?
She looked more Portuguese than Mrs. Willems. She had high Asian cheekbones and almond eyes. But her features were bolder: Her hair was dark brown, not black, and it was thick. Her mouth was broad, her lips full. A sensual face, he thought. And yes, she was watching him.
Mrs. Willems saw it, too, for she suddenly screamed in Macao Portuguese, and the young woman fled.
Then, quite calmly, Mrs. Willems turned to him. “You go to brothels here?”
The question was so unexpected that for a moment he wondered if he’d misheard her. He glanced at Read, but Read only looked amused and said nothing.
“No, Mrs. Willems,” he managed to reply. “I don’t.”
She was watching him. He didn’t know what she was thinking. He’d told the truth, but did she believe him?
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