China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “You go to the flower boats in Canton.” This did not even seem to be a question.

  “I was invited,” he said, thinking of the boat he’d passed when he first arrived, “but I didn’t go.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t want to catch anything.” If she could be blunt, so could he.

  “Are you a clean boy?”

  “Yes.”

  It appeared that she had now lost interest in the subject, because she rose from the table and went into the kitchen, whether to bring something out or to chastise the girl, he had no idea.

  Read waited until she’d gone before he spoke. “You like the look of that girl, Trader?”

  “Perhaps. She looks rather interesting, I think. Why?”

  “She likes you.”

  “The girl? How do you know?”

  “I know.” Read paused. “She’s a young cousin of Mrs. Willems. She’s living with her for a while.”

  “Oh.” Trader mulled over these answers. “Those questions about brothels…”

  “She was checking you out. I told her you were all right, but she feels responsible for the girl. That’s why she asked about your birthday. For your horoscope.”

  “I see. What exactly,” Trader asked slowly, “is on offer here?”

  Read’s smile broadened. “Whatever you want.”

  * * *

  —

  Her name was Portuguese: Marissa. In the weeks that followed, Trader saw her every day or two. He would not go to the front door of the house, where he might encounter Mrs. Willems, but to the side door, which gave into the kitchen, beside which Marissa had a small bedroom. Sometimes he went in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening. If he stayed the night and returned to his lodgings in the morning, Tully Odstock never asked him where he’d been, though he undoubtedly knew. Nor did the British and American families he visited make any reference to Marissa, though they probably knew about her, too.

  As for Read, they continued to meet, go out drinking, and sometimes encounter each other on social occasions; but when Trader came to visit Marissa, they kept themselves to themselves in the kitchen corner of the house.

  Their affair quickly became passionate. He had only to see her standing at her work in the kitchen or smell the delicate scent of her skin to be possessed by acute desire. She had a strong peasant’s body, though paler than he had at first expected; and also, he soon discovered, she was amazingly supple. He couldn’t get enough of her, nor she, it seemed, of him. A good part of their time together was spent in her little bedroom. But sometimes they would take a stroll. The nearby gun battery with its fine views over the harbor was a pleasant place to wander in the evening. Or he would enter the Protestant cemetery and walk under the trees with her. It didn’t bother her though she was Catholic. More than once he kissed her in that quiet, walled enclosure. Sometimes they would go farther afield, northward onto the broad open plain of the Campo, or down to the waterside at the southern end of the island, to visit the lovely old Taoist temple of A-Ma, where they would light incense sticks for the goddess Mazu, who protected the fishermen.

  He taught her English, and she made rapid progress. She liked to ask him questions about his life. He told her how he’d been orphaned and about his boyhood at school. He gave her vivid descriptions of London and Calcutta. And she told him her own parents were dead, that she had an older sister, married and living on the mainland, where she’d lived herself before coming to Macao to stay with Mrs. Willems.

  A couple of weeks into their relationship he began to realize that not everything Marissa said was true.

  It had been clear from the start of their affair that, sexually, Marissa was very experienced. She taught him things he’d never done before. Their third evening together, after he’d exclaimed, “Where did you learn to do that?” she’d paused only a moment before replying, “I was married to a mariner for a year. Then he was lost at sea.”

  Yet when, a few days later, he’d remarked to Read that it must have been sad for Marissa to have lost her husband, his friend had looked quite astonished before he recovered himself enough to mumble, a little vaguely, “I guess so.”

  A week later, Marissa referred casually to her mother’s being unwell. And when Trader remarked that he thought her parents were dead, she frowned. “I said that?” Then, after a moment: “My father died. My mother lives with my sister.” He didn’t pursue it.

  But he did begin to wonder: Did he really know who or what she was? Read and Mrs. Willems had set him up with the girl. They must know. Had they made some arrangement with Marissa of which he was ignorant? What kind of arrangement?

  “Should I be paying her?” he asked Read one day.

  “No. Just give her a present once in a while. Go to the market with her. She’ll let you see what she likes.”

  A few days later, during one of their walks, she pointed to a bale of silk and remarked that it was beautiful. He took the hint.

  * * *

  —

  And still the weather was kind. Hot and humid, to be sure, but not unbearable. It couldn’t last, of course. This was the summer monsoon season.

  “Big rains. Got to come soon,” Tully told him. “Sometimes we get a typhoon.” But the days continued to pass in perfect peace.

  Except for one small matter. Starting in June, Elliot had ordered any British merchant ships wishing to remain in the vicinity to use the safe anchorage at Hong Kong. “Right move,” Tully had remarked. “Hong Kong may be empty, but it’s only just across the gulf, and a ship can survive a typhoon tucked in there.”

  Yet it was from sheltered Hong Kong that the trouble had come. Trader heard about it when he returned to his lodgings one evening in early July.

  “Stupid business,” Tully explained. “Sailors got bored. Went over to a Chinese village on the mainland. Got drunk on rice wine. Had a bit of an argument with the locals. Villager killed, I’m afraid.” He shook his head. “Elliot’s going to compensate the family. Hush the whole thing up, you know.”

  “The Chinese authorities won’t like it if they find out.”

  “Quite,” said Tully. “Daresay it’ll all blow over.”

  * * *

  —

  It was three days later, towards the end of the afternoon, that the people of Macao became aware that a vast horde of dark clouds was massing on the southeastern horizon. Soon, like waves of skirmishers, the leading clouds were racing towards them, whipping the waters of the gulf as they came.

  Trader and Marissa, out for an evening stroll, had hurried up to where the high, empty facade of St. Paul’s gazed out across the city. The hill was still bathed in sunlight. As the skirmishing clouds drew close, they felt the first gusts of wind suddenly slap their faces.

  “You’d better get home before it starts,” said Marissa.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’d rather stay.”

  As they went down the broad stone steps from the hilltop, a grey shadow passed over them. And when they reached the end of the steps and looked back, they saw that the soaring facade of the old church was gleaming with an unearthly light, as if it were making a last pale stand in the sky before being engulfed and struck down by the mighty storm.

  Trader and Marissa lay together as Macao shook and shuddered under the crash of lightning and thunder and the ceaseless hammering roar of the rain upon the roof. The shutters outside the window rattled. The wind howled. Occasionally, during the brief lulls in the noise, they could hear the water flowing in a torrent down the narrow street.

  They clung to each other tightly all through that night as though they were one and scarcely slept until, as the wind began to slacken sometime before dawn, Trader passed into unconsciousness.

  But before he did so, an idea came into his mind. What if, after all, the British
government did not come to the opium merchants’ aid, and despite Read’s kind help, he was ruined? What if he chose the alternative he’d imagined once before—to lead another life entirely, wander the world as an adventurer or make a home in some faraway place? Might he take Marissa with him? She wasn’t respectable, of course. But would he care about that anymore? She’d be a good housekeeper. As for their nights together, could anything be better than what he was enjoying now? He didn’t think so.

  By the time they awoke, it was well into the morning. Outside, the clouds were scudding across the sky, but the sun could be discerned behind them. He decided to go down to the Avenue of the Praia Grande to see how Tully had fared in the storm.

  When he reached the broad esplanade, he found evidence of the storm’s destruction everywhere. The roadway was strewn with broken roof tiles, fronds from the palm trees, and assorted debris. Sadder still was a small cart lying on its side; the traces, still attached, had been torn apart. Had there been an animal in those traces when they broke? A pony, or more likely a donkey?

  He went to the edge of the road and looked down into the waters sending up showers of spume as they smacked into the sea wall below. Was there a floundering animal or a carcass floating in the bay below? None that he could see.

  Tully was having breakfast when he arrived. He gave Trader a brief nod.

  “Hope you weren’t worried about me,” said John cheerfully.

  “I knew where you were.”

  “Well,” Trader added, with a touch of pride, “that was my first Chinese typhoon.”

  “Storm,” Tully grunted. “Typhoon’s worse. By the way,” he continued, “there was a fella here looking for you just now. Did he find you?”

  “No. Who was he?”

  Tully shrugged. “Never seen him before.”

  After changing his clothes, Trader went out on the esplanade to survey the damage further. The grey clouds were still chasing across the sky, but here and there he caught a glimpse of blue. The sharp, salty breeze was invigorating. He felt a pleasant burst of energy and hardly realized that he was increasing his pace. He’d gone half a mile when he heard a sound behind him.

  “Mr. Trader?” An English voice, slightly nasal. John turned, irritated by this interruption of his exercise. “Mr. John Trader?”

  The man looked about his own age. Slim, not quite as tall. He was wearing a tweed overcoat, not well cut, underneath which John thought he could see a white clerical necktie. And for reasons known only to himself, the stranger had wrapped a brown woolen scarf over his narrow head and tied it under his chin. Trader took an instant dislike to him, though naturally he was polite. “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “I came to make myself known to you as soon as I discovered your identity,” the stranger said with a toothsome smile.

  “Oh. Why was that?”

  “I am your cousin, Mr. Trader,” he exclaimed. “Cecil Whiteparish. I feel sure we are going to be friends.”

  He gazed at John expectantly. Trader stared back, mystified. And continued to look at him blankly until he frowned.

  Whiteparish. Those distant relations of his father’s. Wasn’t that their name? He’d never known anything much about them. His guardian had mentioned their existence to him once, just before he went up to Oxford. Told him there had been a rift between his father and these people, long ago. Cause unknown. An imprudent marriage, or something of that sort. “I advise you not to seek them out,” his guardian had said. “Your parents never did.” That was all John knew. He’d forgotten about them after that.

  And judging by the look of Cecil Whiteparish this morning, his father and his guardian had been right. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of you,” he said cautiously.

  “Ah,” said Cecil Whiteparish. “Allow me to explain. My grandfather and your grandfather were cousins…”

  “It sounds a bit distant,” John gently interrupted.

  If he wasn’t being very welcoming, there was good reason. For Cecil Whiteparish was all wrong. The way he dressed, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. There was only one way to put it: Cecil Whiteparish was not a gentleman. John Trader might not be a gentleman in the eyes of Colonel Lomond, because he didn’t come from a gentry family. But he knew how to behave.

  If Cecil Whiteparish had been to a decent school, if he’d been to the Inns of Court or university or gotten himself into a halfway decent regiment, he’d know how to behave. Such things could be learned. But it was obvious he hadn’t. He even pronounced his own name the wrong way. The young bloods at Oxford didn’t pronounce the aristocratic name of Cecil the way it was written. They said Sissel. But Cecil Whiteparish didn’t know that. In short, he simply wouldn’t do.

  As Trader looked at this unwelcome cousin, therefore, he was struck by an awful thought: What if by some miracle he recovered and made his fortune, and courted Agnes Lomond—and the Lomonds discovered that the only family he had was Cecil Whiteparish? How would that make him look? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  “What brings you here?” Trader asked tonelessly.

  “The British and Foreign Bible Society engaged me. I’m a missionary. I’m hoping you’ll support our work.”

  “Hmm.” Trader wondered how to respond. And then a beautiful thought occurred to him. “I’m in the opium business,” he said with sudden cheerfulness.

  “Not only opium, I hope,” said Cecil Whiteparish with a frown.

  “Just opium,” said John. “That’s where the money is.”

  “Not anymore, it seems,” Cecil Whiteparish remarked coldly.

  “Oh, I’m sure the British government will come through for us.” Trader gave him a robust smile.

  Whiteparish was silent. Trader watched him. Things were going better. If he could just shock his missionary cousin enough, the fellow wouldn’t want anything more to do with him. Problem solved. He returned to the offensive.

  “You’ll find Macao’s a friendly sort of place,” he continued blandly. “Some very handsome women here, too, though I don’t suppose you’d…” He trailed off, as if he were uncertain, then brightened again. “To tell you the truth, I’ve got a charming mistress here. She and her mother occupy a little house up on the hill. Pretty little place. My friend Read enjoys the mother, and I, the daughter. Part Portuguese, part Chinese. That’s a wonderful combination, you know: beautiful.”

  “Mother and daughter? You are all in the house together?”

  “Indeed. I’ve just come from there.” It amused him that he’d made Mrs. Willems the mother of Marissa. But then, come to think of it, for all he knew she might be.

  “I am very sorry to hear this,” said Cecil Whiteparish gravely. “I shall pray that you return to the path of virtue.”

  “One day perhaps,” Trader acknowledged. “But I don’t plan to yet.”

  “True love, the love of God,” the missionary offered, with an effort at kindness in his eyes, “brings far more joy than the lusts of the flesh.”

  “I don’t deny it,” said John. “Have you tried the lusts of the flesh, as a matter of interest?”

  “There is no need to mock me, Mr. Trader.” Whiteparish gave him a reproachful look.

  “I’m afraid there’s bad blood in the family,” Trader confessed. And then, with remorseless logic: “Perhaps we share it.”

  Poor Whiteparish was silent. Socially, as in other matters, he was innocent. But he was not a fool; and it was clear to him that, for whatever reason, his cousin had no wish to be his friend. “I think I should leave you, Mr. Trader,” he said with simple dignity. “Should you ever wish to find me, it will not be difficult.”

  Trader watched him go. He was sorry to behave badly—not that he had anything in common with his unwelcome cousin—but he wasn’t sorry if Whiteparish had decided to erase him from his life.

  If he ever got the chance to pay his address
es to Agnes Lomond, Cecil Whiteparish must never appear. That was certain. A necessity. And then he realized that if, on the contrary, he gave up all ambition and ran away with Marissa, he’d be unlikely to see much of the missionary, either. Which was also a cheering thought.

  * * *

  ◦

  Shi-Rong was overjoyed. He’d done well so far. But his mission today put him on an altogether different level of trust with Commissioner Lin.

  When he was so unexpectedly chosen to be the great man’s private secretary, Shi-Rong had been granted the lowliest of the nine ranks of the mandarin order. It made his position official and allowed him to wear a silver button in his hat and, on formal occasions, a big square silk brocade badge on his tunic, depicting a paradise flycatcher, which looked very fine and handsome.

  As Lin’s private secretary, however, he was treated with a wary respect by provincial officials who were older than he and far more senior in rank. For they all knew he had the confidence of the commissioner, who reported to the emperor himself.

  Indeed, Lin had kept him so busy that he had even, with the commissioner’s permission, engaged his young Cantonese tutor Fong to be his part-time assistant. In particular, Fong could often help him make sure he had understood what the local people said to him, for the people from the countryside often spoke dialects that were hard even for a native of the city to understand.

  Three times Shi-Rong had written proudly to his father to let him know of some new task with which Lin had entrusted him. But this present matter was so personal and delicate—proof that the commissioner was sharing his most intimate secrets with him—that he wouldn’t even write to his father about it. A letter, after all, could always fall into the wrong hands.

  He made his way from Thirteen Factory Street into Hog Lane, glancing behind to make sure he was not being followed. Hog Lane was empty. The stalls had all been boarded up. Even Dr. Parker’s little missionary hospital had moved into one of the factories. He reached the waterfront, also deserted.