Noble House

by James Clavell

“Yes,” Susanne said, and Dunross noticed that she seemed to have sagged. “We have the amahs … it’s best just me, tai-pan. Merci, but no, this way is best.” A spill of tears went down her cheeks. “It’s not fair is it? Borge was so nice a boy!”

  “Yes. Susanne, I’ll get Penn to go over daily so don’t worry, we’ll make sure the babe’s fine and Jacques too.” Dunross weighted them both. He was confident that Jacques was well in control. Good, he thought. Then he said as an order, “Jacques, when Susanne’s safely on the flight go back to the office. Telex our man in Marseilles. Get him to arrange a suite at the Capitol, to meet her with a car and ten thousand dollars’ worth of francs. Tell him from me he’s to be at her beck and call as long as she’s there. He’s to call me tomorrow with a complete report on Avril, the accident, who was driving and who the other driver was.”

  “Yes, tai-pan.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  Jacques forced a smile. “Oui. Merci, mon ami.”

  “Rien. I’m so sorry, Susanne—call collect if we can do anything.” He walked away. Our man in Marseilles is good, he thought. He’ll take care of everything. And Jacques’s a man of iron. Have I covered everything? Yes, I think so. It’s dealt with for the moment.

  God protect Adryon and Glenna and Duncan and Penn, he thought. And Kathy, and all the others. And me—until the Noble House is inviolate. He glanced at his watch. It was exactly 6:30. He picked up a house phone. “Mr. Bartlett, please.” A moment, then he heard Casey’s voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, hello, Ciranoush,” Dunross said. “Would you tell him I’m in the lobby.”

  “Oh hello, sure! Would you like to come up? We’re—”

  “Why don’t you come down? I thought, if you’re not too busy I’d take you on my next appointment—it might be interesting for you. We could eat afterwards, if you’re free.”

  “I’d love that. Let me check.”

  He heard her repeat what he had said and he wondered, very much, about his bet with Claudia. Impossible that those two aren’t lovers, he thought, or haven’t been lovers, living so close together. Wouldn’t be natural!

  “We’ll be right down, tai-pan!” He heard the smile in her voice as he hung up.

  The Most High Headwaiter was hovering beside him now, waiting for the rare honor of seating the tai-pan. He had been summoned by the Second Headwaiter the moment the news had arrived that Dunross had been seen approaching the front door. His name was Afternoon Pok and he was gray-haired, majestic, and ruled this shift with a bamboo whip.

  “Ah Honored Lord, this is a pleasure,” the old man said in Cantonese with a deferential bow. “Have you eaten rice today?” This was the polite way of saying good-day or good evening or how are you in Chinese.

  “Yes, thank you, Elder Brother,” Dunross replied. He had known Afternoon Pok most of his life. As long as he could remember, Afternoon Pok had been the headwaiter in the foyer from noon till six, and many times when Dunross was young, sent on an errand here, sore from a whipping or cuffing, the old man would seat him in a corner table, slip him a pastry, tap him kindly on the head and never give him a bill. “You’re looking prosperous!”

  “Thank you, tai-pan. Oh, you are looking very healthy too! But you’ve still only one son! Don’t you think it’s time your revered Chief Wife found you a second wife?”

  They smiled together. “Please follow me,” the old man said importantly and led the way to the choice table that had miraculously appeared in a spacious, favored place acquired by four energetic waiters who had squeezed other guests and the tables out of the way. Now they stood, almost at attention, all beaming.

  “Your usual, sir?” the wine waiter asked. “I’ve a bottle of the ’52.”

  “Perfect,” Dunross said, knowing this would be the La Doucette that he enjoyed so much. He would have preferred tea but it was a matter of face to accept the wine. The bottle was already there, in an ice bucket. “I’m expecting Mr. Bartlett and Miss Tcholok.” Another waiter went at once to wait for them at the elevator.

  “If there’s anything you need, please call me.” Afternoon Pok bowed and walked off, every waiter in the foyer nervously conscious of him. Dunross sat down and noticed Peter and Fleur Marlowe trying to control two pretty, boisterous girls of four and eight and he sighed and thanked God his daughters were past that age. As he sipped the wine approvingly, he saw old Willie Tusk look over at him and wave. He waved back.

  When he was a boy he used to come over from Hong Kong three or four times a week with business orders for Tusk from old Sir Ross Struan, Alastair’s father—or, more likely, they were orders from his own father who, for years, had run the foreign division of the Noble House. Occasionally Tusk would service the Noble House in areas of his exper tise—anything to do with getting anything out of Thailand, Burma or Malaya and shipping it anywhere, with just a little h’eung yau and his standard trading fee of 7½ percent.

  “What’s the half percent for, Uncle Tusk?” he remembered asking one day, peering up at the man he now towered over.

  “That’s what I call my dollymoney, young Ian.”

  “What’s dollymoney?”

  “That’s a little extra for your pocket to give away to dollies, to ladies of your choice.”

  “But why do you give money to ladies?”

  “Well that’s a long story, laddie.”

  Dunross smiled to himself. Yes, a very long story. That part of his education had had various teachers, some good, some very good and some bad. Old Uncle Chen-chen had arranged for his first mistress when he was fourteen.

  “Oh do you really mean it, Uncle Chen-chen?”

  “Yes, but you’re not to tell anyone or your father will have my guts for garters! Huh,” the lovely old man had continued, “your father should have arranged it, or asked me to arrange it but never mind. Now wh—”

  “But when do I, when do I … oh are you sure? I mean how, how much do I pay and when, Uncle Chen-chen? When? I mean before or, or after or when? That’s what I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know lots! You still don’t know when to talk and when not to talk! How can I instruct you if you talk? Have I all day?”

  “No sir.”

  “Eeeee,” old Chen-chen had said with that huge smile of his, “eeeee, but how lucky you are! Your first time in a Gorgeous Gorge! It will be the first time, won’t it? Tell the truth!”

  “Er … well er er well … er, yes.”

  “Good!”

  It wasn’t till years after that Dunross had discovered that some of the most famous houses in Hong Kong and Macao had secretly bid for the privilege of servicing the first pillow time of a future tai-pan and the great-great-grandson of Green-Eyed Devil himself. Apart from the face the house would gain for generations to be the one chosen by the compradore of the Noble House, it would also be enormous joss for the lady herself. First Time Essence of even the meanest personage was an elixir of marvelous value—just as, in Chinese lore, for the elderly man, the yin juices of the virgin were equally prized and sought after to rejuvenate the yang.

  “Good sweet Christ, Uncle Chen-chen!” he had exploded. “It’s true? You actually sold me? You mean to tell me you sold me to a bloody house! Me?”

  “Of course.” The old man had peered up at him, and chuckled and chuckled, bedridden now in the great house of the Chens on the ridge of Struan’s Lookout, almost blind now and near death but sweetly unresisting and content. “Who told you, who, eh? Eh, young Ian?”

  It was Tusk, a widower, a great frequenter of Kowloon’s dance halls and bars and houses who had been told it as a legend by one of the mama-sans who had heard that it was a custom in the Noble House that the compradore had to arrange the first pillow time for the progeny of Green-Eyed Devil Struan. “Yes, old boy,” Tusk had told him. “Dirk Struan said to Sir Gordon Chen, old Chen-chen’s father, he’d put his Evil Eye on the House of Chen if they didn’t choose correctly.”

  “Balls,” Dunross had said t
o Tusk, who had continued, pained, that he was just passing on a legend which was now part of Hong Kong’s folklore and, balls or not Ian old chum, your first bang-ditty-bang-bang was worth thousands Hong Kong to that old rake!

  “I think that’s pretty bloody awful, Uncle Chen-chen!”

  “But why? It was a most profitable auction. It cost you nothing but gave you enormous pleasure. It cost me nothing but gave me 20,000 HK. The girl’s house gained vast face and so did the girl. It cost her nothing but gave her years of a huge clientele who would want to share the specialness of your Number One choice!”

  Elegant Jade had been the only name he knew her by. She had been twenty-two and very practiced, a professional since she had been sold to the house by her parents when she was twelve. Her house was called the House of a Thousand Pleasures. Elegant Jade was sweet and gentle—when it pleased her and a total dragon when it pleased her. He had been madly in love with her and their affair had lasted over two summer holidays from boarding school in England, which was the contract time that Chen-chen had arranged. The moment he had returned on the first day of the third summer he had hurried to the house, but she had vanished.

  Even today Dunross could remember how distraught he had been, how he had tried to find her. But the girl had left no trace in her wake.

  “What happened to her, Uncle Chen-chen? Really happened?”

  The old man sighed, lying back in his huge bed, tired now. “It was time for her to go. It is always too easy for a young man to give too much to a girl, too much time, too much thought. It was time for her to go … after her you could choose for yourself and you needed to put your mind on the House and not on her.… Oh don’t try to hide your desire, I understand, oh, how I understand! Don’t worry, she was well paid, my son, you had no child by her …”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She went to Taiwan. I made sure she had enough money to begin her own house, she said that’s what she wanted to do and … and part of my arrangement was that I bought her out of her contract. That cost me, was it 5 … or 10,000.… I can’t remember.… Please excuse me, I’m tired now. I must sleep a little. Please come back tomorrow, my son….”

  Dunross sipped his wine, remembering. That was the only time that old Chen-chen ever called me my son, he thought. What a grand old man! If only I could be so wise, so kind and so wise, and worthy of him.

  Chen-chen had died a week later. His funeral was the greatest Hong Kong had ever seen, with a thousand professional wailers and drums following the coffin to its burial place. The white-clad women had been paid to follow the coffin, wailing loudly to the Heavens, petitioning the gods to grease the way of this great man’s spirit to the Void or rebirth or to whatever happens to the spirit of the dead. Chen-chen was a nominal Christian so he had had two services for safety, one Christian, the other Buddhist….

  “Hello, tai-pan!”

  Casey was there with Linc Bartlett beside her. Both were smiling though both were looking a little tired.

  He greeted them and Casey ordered a Scotch and soda and Linc a beer.

  “How’s your day been?” Casey asked.

  “Up and down,” he said after a pause. “How was yours?”

  “Busy, but we’re getting there,” she said. “Your attorney, Dawson, canceled our date this morning—that’s on again for tomorrow at noon. The rest of my day was on the phone and the telex to the States, getting things organized. Service is good here, this is a great hotel. We’re all set to complete our side of the agreement.”

  “Good. I think I’ll attend the meeting with Dawson,” Dunross said. “That’ll expedite matters. I’ll get him to come over to our offices. I’ll send a car for you at 11:10.”

  “No need for that, tai-pan. I know my way on the ferry,” she said. “I went back and forth this afternoon. Best five cents American I’ve ever spent. How’d you keep the fares so low?”

  “We carried forty-seven million passengers last year.” Dunross glanced at Bartlett. “Will you be at the meeting tomorrow?”

  “Not unless you want me for something special,” he said easily. “Casey handles the legals initially. She knows what we want, and we’ve got Seymour Steigler III coming in on Pan Am’s flight Thursday—he’s our head counsel and tax attorney. He’ll keep everything smooth with your attorneys so we can close in seven days, easy.”

  “Excellent.” A smiling obsequious waiter brought their drinks and topped up Dunross’s glass. When they were alone again Casey said quietly, “Tai-pan, your ships. You want them as a separate agreement? If the attorneys draw it up it won’t be private. How do we keep it private?”

  “I’ll draw up the document and put our chop on it. That’ll make it legal and binding. Then the agreement stays secret between the three of us, eh?”

  “What’s a chop, Ian?” Bartlett asked.

  “It’s the equivalent of a seal.” Dunross took out a slim, oblong bamboo container, perhaps two inches long and half an inch square, and slid back the tight-fitting top. He took out the chop, which fitted the scarlet silk-lined box, and showed it to them. It was made of ivory. Some Chinese characters were carved in relief on the bottom. “This is my personal chop—it’s hand-carved so almost impossible to forge. You stick this end in the ink …” The ink was red and almost solid, neatly in its compartment in one end of the box. “… and imprint the paper. Quite often in Hong Kong you don’t sign papers, you just chop them. Most aren’t legal without a chop. The company seal’s the same as this, only a little bigger.”

  “What do the characters mean?” Casey asked.

  “They’re a pun on my name, and ancestor. Literally they mean ‘illustrious, razor sharp, throughout the noble green seas.’ The pun’s on Green-Eyed Devil, as Dirk was called, the Noble House, and a dirk or knife.” Dunross smiled and put it away. “It has other meanings—the surface one’s ‘tai-pan of the Noble House.’ In Chinese …” He glanced around at the sound of a bicycle bell. The young bellhop was walking through the crowds carrying a small paging board aloft on a pole that bore the scrawled name of the person wanted. The page was not for them so he continued, “With Chinese writing, there are always various levels of meanings. That’s what makes it complex, and interesting.”

  Casey was fanning herself with a menu. It was warm in the foyer though the ceiling fans were creating a gentle breeze. She took out a tissue and pressed it beside her nose. “Is it always this humid?” she asked.

  Dunross smiled. “It’s relatively dry today. Sometimes it’s ninety degrees and ninety-five humidity for weeks on end. Autumn and spring are the best times to be here. July, August, September are hot and wet. Actually, though, they’re forecasting rain. We might even get a typhoon. I heard on the wireless there’s a tropical depression gathering southeast of us. Yes. If we’re lucky it’ll rain. There’s no water rationing in the V and A yet, is there?”

  “No,” Bartlett said, “but after seeing the pails in your house last night, I don’t think I’ll ever take water for granted again.”

  “Nor me,” Casey said. “It must be terribly hard.”

  “Oh, you get used to it. By the way my suggestion about the document is satisfactory?” Dunross asked Bartlett, wanting it settled and irritated with himself that he was trapped into having to ask. He was grimly amused to notice that Bartlett hesitated a fraction of a second and glanced imperceptibly at Casey before saying, “Sure.”

  “Ian,” Bartlett continued, “I’ve got Forrester—the head of our foam division—coming in on the same flight. I thought we might as well get the show on the road. There’s no reason to wait until we have papers, is there?”

  “No.” Dunross thought a moment and decided to test his theory. “How expert is he?”

  “Expert.”

  Casey added, “Charlie Forrester knows everything there is to know about polyurethane foam—manufacturing, distribution and sales.”

  “Good.” Dunross turned to Bartlett and said innocently, “Would you like to bring him to Taipei?�
� He saw a flash behind the American’s eyes and knew that he had been correct. Squirm, you bastard, he thought, you haven’t told her yet! I haven’t forgotten the rough time you gave me last night, with all your secret information. Squirm out of this one with face! “While we’re golfing or whatever, I’ll put Forrester with my experts—he can check out possible sites and set that in motion.”

  “Good idea,” Bartlett said, not squirming at all, and Dunross’s opinion of him went up.

  “Taipei? Taipei in Taiwan?” Casey asked excitedly. “We’re going to Taipei? When?”

  “Sunday afternoon,” Bartlett said, his voice calm. “We’re going for a couple of days, Ian an—”

  “Perfect, Linc,” she said with a smile. “While you’re golfing, I can check things out with Charlie. Let me play next time around. What’s your handicap, tai-pan?”

  “Ten,” Dunross answered, “and since Linc Bartlett knows I’m sure you do too.”

  She laughed. “I’d forgotten that vital statistic. Mine’s fourteen on a very good day.”

  “Give or take a stroke or two?”

  “Sure. Women cheat in golf as much as men.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. But unlike men they cheat to lower their handicap. A handicap’s a status symbol, right? The lower the score, the more the status! Women don’t usually bet more than a few dollars so a low handicap’s not that vital except for face. But men? I’ve seen them hit one deliberately into the rough to pick up two extra strokes if they were on a dynamite round that would drop their handicap a notch. Of course that was only if they weren’t playing that particular round for money. What’s the stake between your pairs?”

  “500 HK.”

  She whistled. “A hole?”

  “Hell, no,” Bartlett said. “The game.”

  “Even so, I think I’d better kibitz this one.”

  Dunross said, “What’s that mean?”

  “To watch. If I’m not careful, Linc will put my end of Par-Con on the line.” Her smile warmed both of them, and then, because Dunross had deliberately dropped Bartlett into the trap, he decided to extract him.