The Concubine's Daughter (56 page)

His success had not been entirely without its price. He did not consider himself addicted to opium, telling himself that his regular indulgence
was only one of the many benefits of his good fortune. His Hong Kong mansion took up half a hillside overlooking Big Wave Bay, housing two of his wives, numerous children, and countless servants … yet his visits to the tavern in Macao were becoming more and more frequent. The excellent attentions arranged by the Golden One left nothing to be desired, even for a man of his extravagant expectations.

That she would procure for him a suitable concubine or a satisfactory mistress was only a matter of time. From the moment Topaz had first attended him, he had known, with the instinct of a collector, that here was a rare find. Since then, he had spent many of his most pleasant hours in this room and in her hands, enjoying the pleasures of the bath and the divan. His visits to the Japanese-style lodge Tamiko-san usually reserved for her own use had increased from once a month to once a fortnight, to once a week, and now he sometimes stayed for days on end.

Honor prevented him from taking Topaz before Tamiko-san considered her ready and the
sung-tip
properly exchanged. Until then, he was content to know that she would attend no other man.

As he watched her making the pipe, he thought how well they had named her. The topaz had been the favorite gem of monarchs since ancient times, of immeasurable value but only to the most discerning eye. He prided himself that he chose his women with the same care and disregard of cost.

Following Tamiko-san’s strict adherence to custom was the closest he had ever come to doing as he was told, but he respected the concept of tradition. He believed that a little discipline, like everything under the tavern roof, was good for a man used to taking any woman he wanted. With Topaz he would follow the rules. The girl would remain untouched until all the formalities had been observed and she was properly bought and paid for.

To Siu-Sing, J. T. Ching was an ugly man, of an age impossible to guess, perhaps almost sixty, perhaps seventy or even older. She saw greed, power, and cruelty in his flat, round features, his pockmarked skin paler
than most through constant pampering. Behind heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, the upper lids of his narrowed eyes were as puffed from good living as the dark pouches beneath them. The lower lip of his wide, slack mouth showed uneven bottom teeth flecked with gold.

His thinning black hair was flattened with pomade. He was not tall, but his body was large and heavy, his muscles running to flab. He had not been unkind to her, even showing consideration as a generous uncle might show to a favorite niece, and it had not been difficult to deal with him. She had been sure to give him no reason for complaint.

Manipulating his body through massage could influence his energy levels, and she used this to her advantage, increasing or blocking the flow of his chi to influence the vigor or languor of his senses to suit her best. Seeing that the intimate pleasures of the bath were followed by the perfect pipe, she treated the body and mind of J. T. Ching as an opportunity to experiment; observing his reactions and responses with clinical interest while pretending the shy fascination of innocence.

As he drew the first thick plume of smoke deep into his lungs, the mind of Jack Teagarden Ching would open upon vistas of which he never tired. Siu-Sing would wait until his breathing was settled, then put the pipe aside and take out brushes and ink blocks, or a book to read. Some two hours later, when he opened his eyes, she was ready with small towels dampened by rosewater, cool ones for his first awakening, then warm. There would be an hour more of drowsiness and many cups, no bigger than seashells, of bracing tea.

When he was thoroughly refreshed, she called for his favorite dish of baby abalone—the tiny, mother-of-pearl ear shells, their delicate morsels steamed with lotus roots and ginger. When he had finished eating and she had bathed him in the mineral spring bath, he would enjoy a large brandy and she would administer a relaxing massage that would soon see him asleep for whatever length of time she chose.

This had been the unhurried routine for several weeks, when he placed a small box of purple velvet before her. “A gift for your services,” he said, turning to the mirror and reaching for a comb to begin the precise arrangement of his hair. The topaz lay in the palm of Siu-Sing’s
hand so softly she hardly felt its weight, about the size of one of the pebbles she had once collected from the Place of Clear Water.

“Such a stone is very rare,” he said. “It means that I have chosen you. Tomorrow I will pay a very large sum for your
sung-tip
. You are to become a special companion to me. Your Gracious Mother will inform you of my decision and what is to be expected of you.”

Siu-Sing bowed to show her great humility. “I am honored, sir, and glad that I have pleased you.”

“To night I will receive visitors of great importance to me. You will entertain us with your music. The Indian
chi-chi
will accompany you and dance for them.” As she helped him dress, bowing him to the door of his huge black car, she knew the time for escape had come.

Under Tamiko-san’s supervision, the tavern’s wardrobe mistress chose the finest gowns for Siu-Sing and Ruby, and the hairdresser took great pains with every detail of their elaborate coiffures. Coral, who was expert in the care of finger-and toenails, saw that each was trimmed, shaped, painted, and polished to perfection. Pearl applied long, intensely black lashes and painted their mouths a vivid crimson against their white-powdered faces and delicately rouged cheeks. The
mama-san
personally approved their jewelry, then stood back to inspect them.

Topaz wore a robe of lilac satin, trimmed with silver, the jewel given to her by the taipan glowing from a silver chain at her throat. Her dark bronze hair was set in gleaming coils, held with silver combs. Ruby was elegantly draped in a sari of spiderweb silk in deepest magenta edged with gold, and richly adorned with anklets, bracelets, and necklaces of tiny golden bells, her waist-length hair a glossy cape loose about her shoulders. Her midriff was bare; a ruby matching the one upon her forehead flashed in her navel.

“The celebrated guests are foreigners of highest station … Col o nel Justin Pelham, commanding officer of the British Defense Force, garrisoned on the border at Fanling, and his adjutant, Captain Toby Hyde-Wilkins, who is also military attaché to the Hong Kong government.

“What you may be privileged to see or hear during this evening must never be discussed or repeated by either of you. It is a very great honor to be chosen to attend this banquet, but you will eat or drink nothing unless invited by the taipan. Do not speak unless you are asked to do so. You are in attendance to obey and to entertain when called upon; otherwise, you are invisible. Remember, you have my reputation and the reputation of this house in your hands. Do not disappoint me.”

The Golden One herself was exquisitely dressed and in a traditional obi of shimmering gold. The plain black fan had been replaced by one of scarlet, patterned with seed pearls. “You will wait in the annex until you are called for. Do not speak to each other or make any sound until it is time for you to entertain or attend the table.”

It was the first time Siu-Sing had seen the tavern’s banqueting hall, its splendid table set with silver candelabra. The small annex was separated from the main hall by a curtain of crystal beads, which enabled Siu-Sing and Ruby to observe the room without being seen by those at the table.

Tamiko-san graciously led the party to a table for five, summoning the head chef with a clap of her hands. “It is a court tradition for the chef to read and explain the menu before the dishes are served,” Ruby whispered. “This could be a long affair before we are called upon.”

Siu-Sing was hardly aware of Ruby’s words as she watched the taipan and his guests take their seats. He wore the dark blue robe of a high-ranking Chinese dignitary, with a single medal pinned to his chest. Siu-Sing had never seen anything like the two foreign men that preceded him. The first, silver-haired and more thickset than his companion, was immaculately dressed in a scarlet tunic resplendent with gold braid and decorated with rainbow-colored ribbons. His complexion was ruddy; his manner formal and his eyes alert.

The other, a much younger man identically uniformed, was fair-skinned, his neatly trimmed hair the color of ripe corn, glittering like the braid upon his wide, straight shoulders. Even through the beaded screen, Siu-Sing could see that his eyes were as blue as indigo ink.

Another Chinese man entered, standing behind the chair of Taipan Ching, his back against the wall, his hands folded before him. He was
dressed in a black suit and black polo-necked shirt. Jet-black hair stood almost upright on his head, thick and wiry as a brush.

Siu-Sing’s pulse began to race in disbelief. Ah-Keung had not changed much since the iron gates of Double Happiness had clanged shut behind her; he was unmistakable. His sloping shoulders were more heavily built, his face not much different but for a thickening of his brows and perhaps a slight squaring of the jaw. His mouth remained the same—thin, straight, cruel.

Siu-Sing hid her initial shock so quickly that even Ruby did not notice. There was nothing to be done but to let events take their course. Mama-san had insisted on such heavy theatrical makeup that there was a chance he might not recognize her, and if he did that he might not choose to make it known. Fiercely subduing her racing thoughts, Siu-Sing focused on the man with golden hair as they awaited the summons to perform.

True to Ruby’s prediction, the head chef presented dish after dish. As protocol demanded, Ching apologized for the inferior quality of such humble offerings: the heart of a tiger, wild swan, the paw of the Himalayan black bear struck from the living beast, among countless other delicacies enjoyed for a thousand years in the banquet halls of emperors.

“You will note that our chopsticks are made of solid silver. Any impurity will turn the tips instantly black … It is nothing more than a precaution.” He spread his hands, the diamond on his finger catching the light. “Is it not the price of those in power to be forever at risk of the assassin?”

Ching laughed loudly at his own joke. “Indulge me, gentlemen—or, of course, if you prefer more civilized utensils, you will find knives, forks, and spoons set before you, also of solid silver and made, I am proud to tell you, in your famous foundries of Sheffield.”

Their discomfort evident, the guests tasted small portions of each dish. Ching wasted no opportunity to highlight the gulf between their different cultures, in preparation for the business yet to be discussed. The final dish was a rich soup ladled by the chef himself from a huge tureen in the center of the table. The taipan slurped noisily, encouraging
his guests to do the same. “It is made from the testicles of the civet cat.” He grinned, delighted to educate the barbarian taste. “They have four, you know; how fortunate they are. This soup will give you the benefit of such a gift.” He leered unpleasantly, crudely indicating an instant erection by clenching his fist and jerking his forearm abruptly.

Hours seemed to pass before Tamiko-san clapped her hands, commanding Ruby to dance. She did so exquisitely, to the music of two Indian musicians, before returning to the annex to the polite applause of the guests.

The moment had come for Siu-Sing’s per for mance. She parted the curtain of beads to seat herself on the stool that had been set for her, grateful that her face was fixed in a downward position, her cheek cradled into the neck of the
er-hu
. She was thankful too when the lights were dimmed to enhance the magic of her music.

Not knowing what this evening would hold for her, Siu-Sing lost herself in the melodies of childhood happiness, playing without thought of time or place. The one with hair the color of ripe corn and eyes of indigo blue never took his eyes off her and held each note like a gift, as if she played her music just for him.

It was Ching who broke the spell. He had been drinking heavily, first the hot wine he claimed boosted virility, then the brandy that showed in the flush of his face. He ended her playing with evident impatience. “Is she not a delight to the eye and to the ear? Or is the scraping of a Chinese fiddle an abomination to the superior Western sensibilities?”