Gai-Jin (85 page)

“It … n-no … but I—I just hate it when someone says something and it’s not true.”

“You were probably mistaken, ridiculous to be upset about such an unimportant matter.” Struan took a large swallow of his refilled glass. “For goodness’ sake, Angel!”

“Perhaps they’ll be back tomorrow, Mademoiselle,” Vervene said, ever the diplomat. Stupid cow, however delectable her breasts and kissable her lips, as if it matters. “Never mind,” he said with his most oily smile, “dinner will be served within the hour. Monsieur McFay, you will join us,
bien sûr?”

“Thank you no, I’d best be going.” McFay hesitated at the door. “Tai-pan, shall I, er, shall I come back for you?”

“I’m capable of walking two hundred yards by myself,” Struan snapped. “Perfectly capable!” And of pulling a bloody trigger tonight or any night, he wanted to shout after him.

Just before coming over here Norbert Greyforth had taken a respite, the Brock fire almost under control, and, unnoticed by him, had walked out into the street. Jamie, beside him, was directing Vargas and the fire fighters, Dr. Hoag and Dr. Babcott nearby, tending burns and a few broken bones.

Ah Tok’s elixir had worked its usual magic and Malcolm was feeling fine and confident, though strange and wanting to sleep as always—he had been fantasizing, to sleep perchance to dream, to dream about loving, about connecting with the Japanese girl or Angelique with ever greater passion, their need as great as mine and ever more erotic. Then, abruptly, he had been jerked into the vicious present.

“Evening, Jamie. Proper bugger, eh?”

“Ah, Norbert,” Struan said, politeness helped by the euphoria. “Sorry about your bad joss. I think th—”

Norbert pointedly ignored him. “Fortunately, Jamie, no damage to our offices or warehouse, or trade goods or strong rooms, you’ll be happy to hear—just in my sleeping quarters.” Then he feigned to see Struan for the first time and his voice became louder and taunting for others to hear. “Well, well, if it isn’t the young tai-pan of the Oh So Noble House himself. Top of the evening to you, laddie, you don’t look so good—is your milk off?”

Struan’s bonhomie had vanished. Through his opiate screen he realized he was confronting evil and his enemy was there in front of him. “No, but your manners are.”

“Manners are not your strong suit, laddie.” Norbert laughed. “Yes, we’re not harmed, laddie. In fact our new mining ventures make us Noble House in Japan and we’ll have Hong Kong by Christmas. Best toddle home, Malcolm.”

“The name’s Struan,” he said, seeing himself tall, strong and omnipotent, not quite aware of others around him or that Jamie and Babcott were trying to intervene. “Struan!”

“I like ‘young Malcolm,’ young Malcolm.”

“Next time you call me that I’ll call you a motherless bastard and blow your head off without waiting for your seconds, by God.”

Now there was a pit of silence around them. The crackle of flames and the soft, baiting hiss of the wind only enhanced it. The news of the lunchtime challenge had spread within minutes and all waited for the next move in the game that had been brewing since Malcolm’s grand father, Dirk Struan, died before he could kill Tyler Brock as he had sworn to do.

Norbert Greyforth’s mind was working hard. Once again he measured his future and his position in Brock’s, considering carefully what he should do—the stakes immense. He was well compensated—so long as he obeyed orders. Tyler Brock’s last letter had opened a door to paradise, telling him bluntly to “ride Malcolm Struan to the limit while he be sick, wounded, and unprotected by my hellcat daughter, God curse her to Hell! There be five thousand guinea a year for ten year if that stripling be crushed while he be in the Japans—thee be taking any measure thee be wanting.”

Norbert would be thirty-one in six more days. By forty, the normal retirement age, the average China trader was old. Five thousand for ten years was truly a princely sum, enough for him and all his generations, enough to buy a seat in Parliament, to become gentry, a squire with a manor house, married to a young bride with a fine dowry of good Surrey land.

It was easy to decide. He put his face close to Struan’s and was happy to see the pain under the taut skin—of a height with him now that Struan hunched over his sticks. “Listen, young Malcolm, you tossed brandy in my face for lunch, you can kiss my arse for supper.”

“You-sir-are-a-motherless-bastard!”

The older man laughed, a cruel jeering laugh. “You’re an even bigger motherless bastard, in fact y—”

Babcott moved between them, his great height and size dwarfing them. “Stop it, both of you,” he said angrily, “both of you! This is a public place and these quarrels should be settled in private as between gentlemen.”

“He’s not a bloody gen—”

“In private as gentlemen, Malcolm,” Babcott said louder. “Norbert, what’s your pleasure?”

“A duel’s not my choice but it’s what this bastard wants, so be it! Tonight, tomorrow, sooner the better.”

“Not tonight, tomorrow, or any day, duelling’s against the law, but I will be at your office at eleven.” Babcott looked at Struan, knowing that no one here could prevent a duel if that was their mutual wish. He saw the dilated pupils and was sad for him and furious with him. Both he and Hoag had long since diagnosed the addiction but nothing they did or said had made any impression, nor could they prevent access to the drug. “I’ll see you at noon, Malcolm. In the meantime, as the senior British Official still in Yokohama, you are both ordered neither to address each other nor attack each other, in private or in public…. ”

Never mind about bloody Babcott, Struan was thinking now, even more confident, the champagne mixing nicely with the opiate. Tomorrow or the next day you’ll send Jamie, no, send Dmitri to see Norbert—not Jamie, he’s no longer to be trusted. We’ll do it near the racecourse and the Noble House will give Norbert a noble funeral—and bloody Brock too if he ever comes here, by God! They’ve both forgotten you were the best revolver shot at Eton, and duelled that sod Percy Quill for calling you a Chinaman. Killed him too and was sent down for it, though the affair was hushed up and settled by Papa for a few thousand guineas. Norbert will get his comeuppance …

A stir in the room distracted him. Seratard had just come in and was surrounded and being greeted by the others, André Poncin behind him. Through his mist he heard Seratard saying the Yedo meeting had been concluded quickly after “we broke the deadlock and French compromises were accepted so no need to stay …”

His ears stopped listening as his eyes focused on André. The taut, sharp-featured, straight-backed handsome Frenchman was smiling at Angelique who was smiling back more happily than she had for days. Jealousy began to swamp him but he put it away. Not her fault, he thought wearily, or André’s, she’s worth smiling at and I’m not good company and not myself, just sick to death of the pain and being helpless. God, but I love that woman and need her to death.

He struggled up, made his excuses and thanked them for their hospitality. Seratard was his usual charming self. “But surely you’ll stay? So sorry about the fire—we felt none of the earthquake at sea, not even a swell of any sort. Don’t worry about your fiancée, we’ll be delighted to have her company, Monsieur, as long as necessary while your apartments are repaired, of course you are welcome anytime.” He saw them to the door, Angelique insisting on taking Struan’s arm to walk him home.

“I’m fine, Angel,” Struan said, loving her.

“Of course, my love, but it’s my pleasure,” she said, bursting with goodwill now that André had returned. Only a few more hours and then I am free.

Dinner was a great success with Angelique radiant, Seratard full of himself at his success in Yedo, regaling them with his exploits in Algiers where he had been an official in charge of subjugation before this appointment, Vervene all the time vying for her attention to tell heroic versions of what he had previously achieved, all of them flushed by her company and abundant wine, a bottle of Burgundy per man, with champagne before to tickle the taste buds, and now again to settle the stomach. Then André Poncin began telling saucy tales of Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Kowloon where villagers from time to time really believed the Penis Plague was with them again when that appendage would disappear back into their bodies, so all the men would tie a string around it, anchoring it tightly to their necks to prevent the catastrophe.

“Oh, that’s impossible, André, and naughty of you!” she said, her fan fluttering, amidst laughter and his protests that this was the absolute truth, sure it was now time for her to leave. She finished her second tall glass of champagne that went nicely with the previous three goblets of Château d’Arcins, more than mellow herself—her relief that André had come back when he had promised, and her pleasure at speaking French for the whole evening, had overcome her usual caution. “Now I will leave you to your cigars and brandy—and naughty stories!”

“But only for a moment,” Seratard said. “André is going to play for us.”

“Tonight, no,” André said, too quickly. “If you don’t mind, there are some papers I must ready for tomorrow, sorry.”

“Everything can wait, pleasure before business,” Seratard said as a genial order. “Tonight we must have music to finish the evening, something romantic for Angelique.”

“Let him have some peace, Henri,” she said, the wine making her cheeks rosy, delighted that André was clearly anxious to fetch the promised medicine. “You’ve taken him from his business long enough, after all he’s not an official.”

“André will adore to play for us.”

“Ah, so André is always to be commanded, yes? Then I must command you, Monsieur le Ministre, to excuse him this once … and me too, it’s time for my bed.” She got up, her knees a little weak. They surrounded her, protesting loudly. “But I’m here tomorrow and for at least three days.” She offered her hand to André with a special smile. “Now you are free to go, I command you to guard our interests.”

“You may count on it, Angelique.”

“A last glass …”

She allowed herself to be persuaded to take it with her and they escorted her to ensure the bolts on the windows and new shutters of the boudoir and bedroom were secure.

“We decided to replace all our shutters since you were last here.” Vervene said again what he had already told her earlier, his sparse hair awry, beaming tipsily, “Even in last week’s storm there were no rattles.” All eyes noticed the filmy green peignoir and nightdress laid out on the bed that had been turned down invitingly by the heavyset maid who watched and waited balefully. Dimmed oil lamps and their alcoholic haze made the room all the more enticing and her more provocative.

More reluctant good nights and sweet dreams and then she was alone with Ah Soh, the door to the corridor bolted. The maid undressed her and brushed her hair and put her crinoline away in the deep hanging cupboard with her other clothes, lingerie in the chest of drawers, all the while Angelique humming happily, content to be here, safe for tomorrow, elated to be alone and that the fire and earthquake had not harmed any of them or interfered with her plan but had made it simpler.

I will make peace between Malcolm and Jamie, bad for them to be estranged, she thought exhilarated, still thirsty, but soothed and wine content. Thank God for André. I wonder what the Yoshiwara’s like, and his girl. I’ll encourage him to tell me about her and we can laugh together …

“’Night, Missee” interrupted her. Ah Soh was walking ponderously for the boudoir couch. The last time her maid had slept there, even with the bedroom door closed, her snores had been deafening, further disturbing her.

“No, Ah Soh, no sleep here! You go, come back chop chop with coffee-ah, morning, heya?”

The woman shrugged. “’Night, Missee.”

Angelique bolted the door after her and in the warm light, completely and peacefully alone at last, lazily twirled to a hummed waltz. In a moment her ears caught the muted notes of the piano. Ah, it’s Henri, she thought, recognizing his touch. He’s a good player, better than Vervene but not to be compared with André. Chopin. Soft, delicate, romantic.

She swayed in time with the lovely melody, then caught sight of herself in the tall mirror. For a moment she studied herself, this way and that, then cupped her breasts higher as she and Colette used to do, pouting this way and that to see if that made them seem more desirable or less.

A sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling, the music and the alcohol nudging her. A sudden excited impulse and she let the peignoir fall, then slowly slid her nightdress higher and higher, coquetting the mirror image, admiring the legs and loins and hips and breasts and now full nakedness of
the other person, posing this way and that, using the bunched nightdress to obscure or to reveal.

Another sip of champagne. Then she dipped a finger into it and put the liquid on her hardened nipples as she had read the great Parisian courtesans would do, sometimes using sweet Château d’Yquem there and in other places. Curious that our two most famous courtesans in the center of the world are English.

She chuckled to herself, possessed by the night and the music and the wine. When I have birthed one or two sons and am, say, twenty-one and Malcolm has a mistress and I am ready for my special lover, that’s what I’ll do—for his pleasure and mine, and before that for Malcolm’s.

Another sip and another and then finished, languidly licking the last drop, then, watching her mirror, curling her tongue around the glass, toying with it. Chuckling again, putting the glass back on the dressing table, letting it fall unnoticed to the carpet, ears only tuned to Chopin and his underlying passions—eyes fixed on the mirror, now the reflected image close, brazenly intimate.

Lazily she leaned forward and turned down the wick, shadows kinder now, then moved back a little, the mirror person still there, lovely, voluptuous. Fingers moving with a life of their own, straying, caressing, heart picking up tempo, fluttering with growing pleasure. Eyes closed now, imagining Malcolm tall, strong, very strong, sweet-smelling, leading her into the bedroom, laying her on the coverlets, lying with her, as naked as she, his fingers wandering, fondling.