The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  She remained awake until dawn reliving every sweet moment in the cave, and when she did sleep she dreamed that a panther was licking her body, and then she was riding him over the plains, leaving Countess Esterhazy, sitting on a donkey, far behind.

  They trotted ahead of the convoy the next day, their horses close together, their knees touching, holding hands when they could. When they saw the hill leading to the mission they cantered forward, leaving the others temporarily out of sight. Henry leaned over and kissed her. She pressed her head against his chest. ‘I can’t bear for you to go,’ she said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he answered. ‘I’ll see if I can get away. I’ll get word to you. We’ll ride to the ruined tombs.’

  But the following morning it began to snow. Helen Frances looked out at the grey skies and the whitening lawn, and began to despair. She only relaxed when she saw Lao Zhao’s smiling face outside her window holding up a letter—but even after the details of the assignation were fixed she experienced fears that he would not come, and the minutes ticked by endlessly, endlessly, and lunch was a nightmare.

  ‘How can you possibly go out on an afternoon like this?’ exploded Nellie. Helen Frances was already dressed in her riding clothes, awaiting Henry’s arrival.

  ‘Henry’s mafu brought a message this morning,’ said Helen Frances. ‘There’s a temple by the river…’

  ‘Temples!’ snorted Nellie. ‘Is it really temples you’re so interested in, girl? Or something else?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Helen Frances, flushing.

  ‘I’m not sure if I mean anything,’ muttered Nellie. ‘I only know I’ll be glad when your father and fiancé return.’

  Helen Frances glared at her angrily. ‘If you would like me to pack up and return to the hotel now, Mrs Airton…’ she began.

  ‘Oh, get away with you,’ said Nellie. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. These airs don’t become you, young lady. And, anyway, here comes that charmer of yours. Why do I bother? There’s no common sense in the pair of you. Go on out to him, then. Freeze to death, for all I care. What I’ll tell your father I don’t know.’

  Two hours later she was lying in Henry’s arms in the stele hall of an ancient tomb. Five hundred years ago it had been built for a Chinese general who had died in battle against the barbarian tribes. It had been modelled on the Imperial tombs in Peking, although on a smaller scale befitting a lower rank. In its unruined state it must have been magnificent. Even today it possessed a wild, romantic beauty. Two snow-filled courtyards led up to a tall tower. Its roof was crumbling, the tiles and rafters collapsing in a tangle of moss. Behind it was the overgrown mound covering the grave. It was ringed by a crenellated wall, which was also showing signs of dilapidation. Trees and roots were growing out of the stones. In the tower was a large oblong slab resting on a carved tortoise on which the death name and the deeds of the brave warrior were inscribed. By the side of this stele Henry had laid out his wolf furs as a makeshift bed. In their soft speckled warmth Helen Frances and he had made love, and now she was lying in the crook of his arm, gazing at the snowflakes that swirled in through the open arch. One landed on her nose, and she laughed. She snuggled against Henry, who kissed her eyes and her chin.

  ‘I could lie here forever,’ she whispered. ‘With you.’

  ‘Not sure what the general would say about that,’ said Henry.

  ‘I think he’d be very happy,’ said Helen Frances, nuzzling Henry’s breast. ‘If he’s very good I might let him share me with you.’

  ‘Oh, might you?’ laughed Henry. ‘Well, there’s a minx. Thinking of other men already.’

  ‘Only when I’ve tired of you,’ she whispered. ‘And that won’t be for hundreds and hundreds of years.’

  ‘Poor general,’ said Henry. ‘He’ll be very frustrated.’

  Helen Frances giggled. She rolled on to Henry’s chest and kissed his lips. As she did so the furs slipped off her so her naked back was open to the elements. The wind flurried in and blew snow on to her behind. She squealed, and turned to pull back the wolfskins. With a shock she saw Lao Zhao’s grizzled head, smoking a long-stemmed pipe, peering in through the arch. He smiled at her and nodded. With a shriek, she buried her head under the furs.

  ‘Ta made, Lao Zhao, you wangbadan. What are you doing here?’ shouted Henry.

  ‘Sorry, Master,’ said Lao Zhao. ‘The horses are getting cold. Well, bugger it, so am I. And the snow’s drifting up. I was wondering if you could—well—hurry up a bit with the clouds and rain, so we could get on home.’

  With an oath, Henry reached for one of his boots and hurled it at Lao Zhao’s head. Lao Zhao scurried away.

  Helen Frances was shaking with laughter under the furs.

  ‘The nerve of the man,’ he said. ‘He’s got a point, though.’

  ‘So’ve you,’ she said, nuzzling below.

  ‘You shameless hussy,’ laughed Henry. He pulled the fur over his own head. After a while the silver skins began to rise and fall in a rhythmic motion as if the animals had come to life again.

  ‘It won’t do, you know,’ said Henry, as they rode back through the white landscape, leaning into the biting wind. Lao Zhao, ahead of them, was leading Helen Frances’s horse and she was sitting behind Henry’s saddle, her arms around his belly and her head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘What won’t do?’ she murmured, nibbling his ear.

  ‘Look around you. It’s winter now,’ he said. ‘This is an unusually early fall of snow and it’ll probably thaw, but Nellie’s right. We can’t go out riding any more.’

  ‘I’ll come to the railway camp. That’ll shock Herr Fischer.’ She smiled. ‘And Charlie.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘When your father and Tom are back, you’ll return to the hotel, won’t you? And they’ll be out every day at the alkali yards.’

  ‘We can’t do it there.’ She giggled. ‘What about the servants? And Ma Ayi?’

  ‘No, but you can go out shopping in the afternoon, can’t you? It so happens I’ve been offered a place in town. A Chinese pavilion. Not far from where you live. I think it might be the ideal spot. Indeed, it’s designed for it,’ he said.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered. Her mouth was on his neck, and her fingers were exploring inside his shirt.

  ‘You’d better stop that or I’ll fall off my horse,’ he said.

  ‘So where are you going to take me, then?’ she breathed.

  ‘To the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure,’ he said.

  * * *

  Frank and Tom arrived back in Shishan, glowing after their journey, convinced that the dyeing project with Mr Ding would be a success. They collected Helen Frances from the Airtons and all of them had a big celebratory dinner with the Chinese merchants in a restaurant. Helen Frances joined in with enthusiasm, matching the men glass for glass. Tom beamed with delight as he watched her. He had rarely seen her happier, or more beautiful.

  They were eager to hear all the news. When they were back in the hotel Helen Frances told them all about the expedition to the Black Hills, making them laugh at her account of the shambolic ceremony and the ridiculous accident that had happened to Charlie. Tom wanted to know more about the progress of the railway, and Helen Frances tried to recall what Herr Fischer had told her about the tunnel and when the line would be completed, but her father was already swaying on his chair.

  ‘Well, I think that’s all very fine,’ he boomed. His voice was slurred with the alcohol he had consumed. ‘Fischer’s a damned fine fellow, and his railway line’s one of the seven wonders of the known world, and we’ll all make bloody fortunes when the rolling stock comes through—but what I want to know, and this is important,’ he slapped his thigh, ‘are you and this Manners fellow practising Living Buddhas yet?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Father?’ said Helen Frances, startled at his question.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ asked Tom.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Frank. ‘All this
gallivanting about temples that you’ve been doing together. Are you practising Living Buddhas?’

  Helen Frances took him by the hands, smiling. ‘No, Father,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve stopped all that. No more riding out with Henry. No more temples.’

  ‘Really, HF?’ asked Tom. ‘No more sightseeing with Henry?’

  Helen Frances turned her smile on him. ‘Do you want to know the truth, Tom? If I saw another temple I think I’d die of boredom. And Henry? Well, don’t you think it’s time he went back to his railway or whatever he’s meant to be doing here?’

  ‘I say, you haven’t had a falling-out with him, old girl, have you?’ asked Tom, his brows furrowed.

  ‘No, of course not. But…’ she took him by the hand, ‘… he’s not you, Tom, is he? I’ve missed you and I’m glad you’re back.’

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Golly, HF,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s selfish of me but I can’t say that I’m sorry. You know, out there in Tsitsihar, I kept thinking of you and Henry together every day, and, well, there was something I didn’t like about it. There. I’ve said it.’

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ said Helen Frances. ‘You are sweet.’

  ‘But hold on, old thing, what are you going to do all on your own in the afternoons? You know I have to be in the godown all day…’

  ‘Damned right,’ grunted Frank sleepily, rocking with his eyes closed.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ said Helen Frances gaily. ‘I’ll find things to do. I have my books, and my journal to keep up. And there’s plenty to do and see in the town. You know how we girls like shopping.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, HF? You’re sure?’

  ‘I can’t think when I’ve ever been happier in my life,’ said Helen Frances.

  * * *

  She lay naked on the red sheets looking up at her reflection in the mirror. Henry, also naked, was leaning against the bedpost smoking a cheroot and smiling down at her.

  Suddenly she lifted both her legs straight up into the air. Stretching out her arms she grasped her ankles and rocked on her behind, her long spine curved like a bow. She slapped her hands down on the bed sheets and rolled on to her side. Leaning on one elbow she looked up at Henry mischievously.

  ‘You’re frisky this afternoon,’ he murmured.

  ‘Mmmm.’ She sighed. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Haven’t I done enough? You’re insatiable.’ He laughed.

  She made a little moue with her lips, then smiled. Reaching behind her she pulled out from under the pillow a book with a red silk cover. Her brows furrowed in mock concentration as she folded over the pages, her finger running down the illustrations until she saw what she wanted. Archly she slid the book down the bed so Henry could see it, at the same time stretching out her toes to tease his groin. Her green eyes twinkled with merriment as, pushing her leg aside, he leaned over to see what she had selected. ‘Humming Ape Embracing the Tree?’ He guffawed. ‘You must be joking. You may be that athletic but I don’t think I am.’

  ‘Please.’ She pouted.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Enough’s enough. That bloody Donkeys of Spring you had me do earlier almost ruptured me. I’m beginning to regret that I showed you the damn book in the first place.’

  ‘You didn’t show it to me.’ She giggled. ‘I found it in that drawer next to the opium pipe. Henry, what is this place? Is it what I think it is?’

  ‘It’s the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure, my dear. As I told you.’

  ‘Then all those girls we saw in the courtyard…? That woman in the pavilion opposite…? Are they…?’

  ‘Does it shock you?’ he asked.

  She sat back on the bed, crossing her legs. ‘No,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I think I’m rather excited by it. It’s … In a funny way it’s what I expected to find when I came to China. It’s what I hoped to find.’

  ‘Those nuns in your convent must teach a funny sort of geography, my dear,’ murmured Henry, sitting beside her, brushing his moustache against her arm.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. ‘The mysterious Orient in all its sensuality, exotic, decadent, thrilling. The corruption of centuries. This place is very you, you know,’ she added.

  ‘Me? Which am I? Sensuous, decadent, or corrupt?’

  ‘You’re all of them put together,’ she said, kissing him. ‘And disreputable with it … But that’s why you’re so exciting. Make love to me again,’ she murmured, pulling him down on her.

  ‘Humming apes, was it?’ he smiled.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, her nails scratching his back. ‘I want you to possess me. As you did in the cave. I want you inside me. To take me out of myself. To bring me oblivion. Oh, yes, yes,’ and her words faded into sighs as his hands began to explore, and their tongues entwined.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she whispered, when they had finished, ‘do you think I’m wicked?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Henry. ‘You’re you. And I’m me, and Mother Nature has brought us together. It’d be unnatural if we did anything else.’

  ‘Would it? Would it? Yes, it does feel natural and right when I’m with you. I feel free. As if I could be anything, and do everything. Henry, is it wrong to want to try and do everything?’

  ‘Shush,’ he said sleepily. ‘Rest.’

  ‘Do you know? I think I’m actually going to enjoy deceiving Tom and my father. Is that shameless?’

  He grunted something indecipherable. He had fallen asleep. She leaned over him, gazing softly at his face. A stray lock of hair had fallen over his brow and was covering one eye. Lightly she brushed it aside. She ran her finger gently down his cheekbone and over the thin hairs of his moustache. She laid her head on his chest and smiled. She lay quietly for a while embracing his resting body, but her blood was pounding inside her. She still felt nervous, fidgety, intoxicated. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she lifted her legs off the bed. She stood on the blue Tientsin carpet and stretched her arms above her head. Her eyes surveyed the room: the hangings, the Ming chairs, the scrolls on the walls. Her gaze rested on the red lacquer cabinet in which she had found the erotic manual. She remembered the opium pipe that had been lying beside it. Idly, she went over and picked it up. She sat on one of the wooden chairs. The smooth mahogany felt cold on her naked bottom. She examined the pipe. The long, hollow tube was like a flute, she thought. She rested it between her breasts and pretended to play it like an instrument. There was a strange, musty taste in her mouth. She sniffed. It had a sharp, bittersweet smell.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Henry was leaning on one elbow watching her.

  ‘Henry, have you ever smoked opium?’ she asked.

  ‘Once or twice,’ he said.

  ‘Can I try?’ she asked. ‘There seems to be a pouch with some black paste in it in the cupboard.’

  He was watching her calmly. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he asked. ‘It can be addictive, you know.’

  ‘You’re not addicted, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘It affects different people in different ways.’

  Her green eyes were at their most kittenish. ‘It can’t hurt if I try it just once,’ she said. ‘I told you I wanted to try everything. Please.’

  He laughed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just once. I may even smoke a pipe with you. It’ll be more restful than that bloody sex manual of yours.’

  * * *

  Outside the cold wind howled. It was a bleak, hard winter. There was little more snow, for there was not much moisture in the air that year of drought in north China. Biting gales from Siberia drifted dust over bare, dry fields, and peasants made do with meagre husks in their freezing cottages.

  For the foreigners in Shishan winter was a comfortable time of heavy furs and chestnuts over hot fires. For George and Jenny it was skating and sled rides over the iced-up river and ponds. Business did not stop. Work on the railway bridge continued despite the cold, and Herr Fischer and C
harlie boasted that the track would be through by spring. The doctor’s surgery was packed with bona-fide patients suffering from all the ailments brought on by winter, and others who sought by his stove some respite from the intemperate weather outside. Airton himself had less leisure for his philosophical debates with the Mandarin, although he would find time to visit the yamen if he could. Frank and Tom were absorbed with the preparations of their pots of alkali for the expedition in the spring. Each evening they would return to their warm inn, chilled after their ride, to find a smiling Helen Frances waiting for them with a tray of whisky; sometimes she would show them a piece of silk or a porcelain vase, which she told them she had acquired during her regular afternoon shopping expeditions to the antiques markets. Of course they had no idea that the pieces had usually been selected by Henry Manners’ mafu, Lao Zhao, while Helen Frances herself was otherwise engaged in the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure.

  It might have been considered remarkable, in a close-knit society where little could be concealed from prying eyes or wagging tongues, that the visits of a black-cloaked foreign woman almost every day to the most notorious house in the city could be kept secret. In the marketplace, in Ren Ren’s dumpling shop, gossips chattered—but there was a tacit agreement, at least among the Chinese themselves, that some things need not be shared with the foreigners. Nor were the peccadilloes of their local ocean devils actually of much interest to a people who had been steeped in sensuality for millennia. Helen Frances’s little secret was as secure as if it had been bound with chains and concealed down a well like an unwanted concubine.

  There were, of course, other secrets, real secrets, which did not pass about even among the Chinese. There were few people in Shishan who knew, or even would have believed had they heard, that in the upper storeys of that same Palace of Heavenly Pleasure where the fox lady disported with her Englishman during the long afternoons, there lay another foreigner, a thin, beaten waif with a painted face blotted by tears, tied to a bed, pyjamas round his ankles, waiting in terror and despair for the turning of the door handle and the inevitable torment to follow. That was a deep, dark secret, and even those who did hear about it, whether they were over-curious singsong girls working within the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure, or merchants who frequented it, knew that there were some things overheard that it would be expedient to forget.