As Chandra Din and the nurse rested on nearby cots, Captain Hammond remained seated holding Malakoff’s withering hand. The two kerosene lamps had been wicked down to a golden glow, and the details of the room seemed to shimmer in a netherworld half-light. Then, while Captain Hammond’s thoughts were far away, something strange and unforeseen happened. First he heard the sharp hooting of two owls from close by, and then after a slight pause, the deep chime on his pocket watch marked the hour like a clarion. At the last ring of three bells in the morning, Malakoff suddenly came awake with a renewed vigor quite unexpected in a man bartering for his last breath. He asked for water, so Captain Hammond held the cup and glass straw to ease his drinking. And then out of all expectation, Malakoff, who by now recognized Captain Hammond, decided he wanted to talk, and though his voice was weak and strained at times, the old seaman talked with purpose for over an hour. Even Dr. Neruda and Chandra Din stirred themselves to come witness this bright, last flickering of Malakoff’s guttered candle. Captain Hammond asked for pencil and paper to take notes, and Chandra Din thought this a wise idea and did the same. In the meantime, Malakoff appeared most content when he could speak directly to Captain Hammond, and grasp his hand. This made note-taking difficult, but not impossible.
The dying man needed no encouragement to speak. He pleaded that knowing the end was near, he had come back to confess to his complicity in the grounding of his ship, and his part in the partially accidental death of his distant cousin, Clausa Vuychek. He wept when he said that he had always tried to be a faithful son of the mother church, and he could not allow others to suffer for his own failings and misdeeds. Now that he was coming to his end, he wanted to meet God’s all-seeing judgment with a conscience cleansed of all lies, and he begged Captain Hammond, as a fellow officer, to see that when the time came, Malakoff’s broken frame would be interred in consecrated ground. The captain agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
Tears welled in Malakoff’s eyes once more, and he said that life had dealt his family the worst of crossed allegiances. The majority of his clan practiced the Greek Orthodox faith, but a wealthy minority were Muslim mountain folk, who were held in low regard for historical religious reasons, but tolerated because of ancient common ancestry. He had inherited such a cousin in Clausa Vuychek. He said that sadly this fellow, who was only made known to Malakoff through written introductions from relatives anxious to see the man off on the high seas, was of very limited intelligence. Unfortunately, his lack of wit came bundled in a very nasty and aggressive package of dangerous habits. He made enemies everywhere, and depended on Malakoff’s connections to keep him safe. He said Vuychek had virtually no idea how he affected people, and didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He often appeared marginally crazy, and talked to himself in hushed tones a good deal, but that was all there was to it. Malakoff chuckled dryly and said there were old salts everywhere, before and aft the mast, who were just as crusty, addle-pated, and strange, but they stood their watches in good order, and justly earned their salt, bread, and vodka.
Malakoff asked for more water, but before he spoke again he closed his eyes, as if the darkness helped him to recall the sadness without tears. Finally he said that Vuychek had slowly become a necessary link in a chain of evils. Malakoff confessed that after being struck in the spine with a loose-flying crane block, he found the pain in his back could sometimes verge on the unbearable, and could even incapacitate him for days. He said he most feared being paid off and beached if his employers came to know of his incapacity. To ingratiate himself with his distant cousin, and possibly gain by it, Vuychek ventured into the more nefarious precincts of any given port to purchase high-grade opium for the captain’s use. Malakoff said that at first he was very grateful to Vuychek. After all, it wasn’t the kind of thing he could go off and purchase for himself. He couldn’t possibly allow anyone to witness him buying opium from some back-alley Chinese drug peddler. The opportunity for blackmail was too great. Within limits, the opium worked its dark magic, and because he believed he was fast becoming indispensable, Vuychek started to dabble in a little darkness of his own. In fact, he slowly and very subtly became the blackmailer Malakoff had feared all along. It all started in small ways, but as the years and months passed Malakoff came to understand that he had been harboring a viper more dangerous than the opium. Though he now took full responsibility for placing Vuychek in temptation’s path, and then nurturing his criminal acts because of his own frightful needs, Malakoff was also of the opinion that Vuychek, born to an evil sect, took to sin like a bear takes to salmon. The dying man swore that his cousin would have found the road to hell and perdition on his own merits, but because he was mentally ponderous, and morally myopic, it would have taken him longer to accomplish his ends without Malakoff’s prompting and threats. The old captain digressed for a moment, and his mind seemed to wander back to a vault of regrets. Then he said that among opium’s more insidious side effects, besides a radical adjustment of diet and bowels, was the fact that it imparted to the user a false sense of intellectual superiority, while at the same time harnessing the victim to a horrendously dark temper leading to unaccountable fits of pique concerning meaningless trivialities. Malakoff at last opened his eyes, picked out Captain Hammond specifically, and said that all these evils had come together in one blow the day his ship ran aground off Point Lobos. He said the engineers, black gang, and oilers had deserted the engine room when it appeared the ship would break up on the rocks. They refused to return to their duties until they were satisfied the bottom of the ship hadn’t been torn out. Malakoff said he swore a blue streak up and down, and told them off for the cowards they were. Then he grabbed Vuychek, who was every bit as frightened as the others, and taking up a lantern, forced him to accompany his captain down the narrow companionway ladder into the still-smoking stink and darkness of the engine room. Once below, Malakoff ordered Vuychek to start pulling up the heavy metal floor plates that gave access to the bilges. Now, as every seaman knows, all ships’ bilges carry some water, but most deckhands never see a bilge, except in port, and then only rarely. So under the given and very dire circumstances, the presence of even normal amounts of seawater sloshing around in the bilges hoisted Vuychek into a complete blue panic. So much so that he completely forgot to whom he was talking. He screamed a demand to be allowed to leave at once, but even before the captain could agree, Vuychek pulled his knife and threatened Malakoff with death if he stood in the way. According to the captain, matters might still have been salvaged amicably if Vuychek hadn’t gone one step too far. From a well of abject fear he drew his biggest blade and violently declared that in any event he was going to tell the owners that Malakoff had been drunk and drugged at the time of the accident. This last threat shortened Malakoff’s burning fuse considerably, and he went from angry to infuriated in one snap. When a sudden wave pitched the ship’s hull up off the rocks momentarily, Vuychek stumbled forward slightly, but before he could regain his footing, Malakoff saw his chance and kicked Vuychek’s legs out from beneath him. Vuychek went down on his face, gave a stunted cry of pain, moaned piteously for a moment, and then was still.
Malakoff shook his head sadly at the retelling. He said he leaned down to turn the faker over, and was almost pleased to discover that Vuychek had fallen on his own blade and driven the dirk halfway into his sternum. He said the look of surprise on Vuychek’s face would have been laughable were it not for the blood that began to gush from the wound when he tried to pull the blade out. And even then, with death at his shoulder, he again threatened Malakoff with exposure, prison, and disgrace. This last assault sent the captain over the edge and down into the dark pit he now occupied. He said his opiate-braced temper could tolerate no more betrayal. So rather than help poor Vuychek, who might have been saved, he stood up and with soul-damning fury and invective placed the soul of his boot on the handle end of the dirk. To the shocked and almost voiceless pleadings of his cousin, Malakoff stepped down with all his might and drov
e the blade down to the hilt like a marlinspike. His anger enjoyed watching the blood froth in bubbles from Vuychek’s mouth as he exhaled his last breath with a mucous-muted moan.
Malakoff told Captain Hammond that he was so angry that the question of the body didn’t even occur to him at first, but when it did, he expressed his driving indignation by kicking Vuychek’s still-twitching frame down through the open bilge hatch. The body crashed with a splash in the oil-slicked water four feet below, and Malakoff confessed his drugged fury was so great that he even rejoiced at the thought of the feast he had just tabled for the ship’s rats. This last declaration seemed to have exhausted the captain. He laid back, closed his eyes, and began breathing deeply with the resurrected torment from the pain in his spine.
Dr. Neruda came out of the shadows to stand by the other side of the bed. He felt for the patient’s pulse, and then gave Captain Hammond a sad look that spoke of impending finality. But just when all seemed over, Malakoff breached consciousness like a sounding whale and continued his narrative as though nothing had happened.
Reaching out for Captain Hammond’s grasp, Malakoff confessed that he had secretly returned to the ship after he had escaped jail, but he had only done so to retrieve his secret strongbox, which contained his opium, his papers, his money, and his gun. It was only then that he realized that he would soon need to buy more opium, and the ship’s purse looked like a viable bank, so he rifled the ship’s safe and departed. He cried and confessed that, even at this juncture, the fate of Vuychek’s body didn’t concern him in the least. Fate had moved matters way beyond such mundane concerns, and besides, there were rats in the bilges that outweighed small dogs, and they would devour anything living or dead, and this included tick soap, insulated wire, candle wax, gunpowder, and ship’s tar. The dead man’s bones might ultimately be discovered at the bottom of the ship’s bilges, but Malakoff was confident that nothing else would remain to tell the story of Vuychek’s betrayal or his complicity. But now he knew he could not escape his crimes, and wished to make some small restitution. Malakoff reached for a greasy leather cord around his neck and pulled forth an equally worn leather string pouch.
Chandra Din whispered to Captain Hammond that they had left the talisman in place believing it had some religious significance to the patient. He said that he had known people to go into shock when such things were discovered missing. Malakoff tried to break the leather thong free but hadn’t the strength. Dr. Neruda reached in and unobtrusively cut the greasy thong with scissors. When the purse came away, Malakoff’s weakened hand passed the item to Captain Hammond. The oily pouch was the size of a quail’s egg, and Malakoff begged Captain Hammond to use the contents to make whatever restitution was possible. Then the dying man closed his eyes and sounded into the depths of his own plummeting dreams. Reaching for Malakoff’s pulse, Dr. Neruda voiced his professional contention that full consciousness would never return. Chandra Din compassionately suggested that Malakoff, having now relieved himself of a soul-sinking burden, felt free to surrender his own life in penance. Within moments of this last sad prognosis, Malakoff exhaled with a sigh of relief and then expired, still holding Captain Hammond’s hand.
For unspoken reasons, perhaps linked to ancient maritime tradition, Captain Hammond remained to help prepare Malakoff’s body for burial. When that was done, he climbed back into his shay, and as dawn rose over the eastern hills pushing back the rolling banks of morning fog from the bay, the captain rode off to leave word with Marshal Sanchez and Sheriff Winslow about what had recently transpired at the infirmary.
Captain Hammond had seen people die before, of course, but never quite in these circumstances. He found himself deeply affected by the old man’s struggle, not only with a painful death, but also with his own conscience, the latter contest possibly being as close to an act of contrition as he ever came. Still the captain was haunted with the simpler questions. Given the fact that Malakoff certainly had the funds to escape as far away as he liked, why did he chance hiding so close to his pursuers, and in a native environment where he would be obviously out of place? If you’re a fox, you hide among foxes, and if you’re a seaman . . . Well, perhaps not. The captain remembered that every harbor official in California had been wired Malakoff’s description. He tried to imagine what kind of life the man had been reduced to living, but it almost didn’t bear rational contemplation. Captain Hammond had already seen his share of opium addicts in the filthy, waste-bound alleys of numerous harbors. The victims’ general physical and mental decay was never something that drew interest beyond possible pangs of pity or waves of gratitude that the situation wasn’t reversed. Yet, for a man like Captain Hammond, it remained a worthwhile question to wonder the why and wherefor of a man like Malakoff. The variety of possibilities was emotionally and religiously endless. Luckily, Captain Hammond had long since determined to set the imponderables of life aside for later reflection. But one way or another, the captain knew he would always include the image of the expiring Malakoff within his personal catalog of indelible images. Captain Hammond recalled an old whale hunter who once told him that beating the odds was never a matter of knowing the complex answers to big questions, but rather being innocently curious about the simplest answers, and knowing a falsehood at a reasonable distance. The captain smiled at the recollection and rode on, working this simple logic toward some sense of balance worthy of the night’s events.
17
WHEN LADY YEE next saw her husband it was almost noon, and they shared but a few words by way of explanation of what had happened because he was in the company of Marshal Sanchez, Sheriff Winslow, and Mr. Campion. They came in separate transport and gathered under the broad garden veranda to take coffee and a light lunch, and discuss what had transpired. Lady Yee thought it best to remain unseen. She knew she would be told everything eventually, but she wasn’t particularly anxious to hear the sad details just yet. She also thought it best to let her husband take the lead, as she wished to avoid being called as a witness during the inquest. She believed the less the public heard about the infirmary, or its part in the Malakoff business, the better for all concerned.
After his guests had departed, Captain Hammond went looking for his wife and found her in the orchard pruning the Japanese pear trees she loved so much. She culled every bloom and potential fruit with the skill of a surgeon, leaving behind only those examples that promised eventual genius.
Macy and Li-Lee were having a little tea party of their own in the shade of a nearby apple tree, and the baby slept soundly in his special basket, which was securely suspended from a low tree branch within reach. Since they couldn’t be overheard, the captain sat down on a fruit box and told Lady Yee every particular of the sad story. He related Malakoff’s detailed confession and his sincere deathbed desire to make some restitution. However, he said, the poor man died with an estate of two dollars and ten cents.
Captain Hammond reached into his vest pocket and handed her the little leather purse on its thong. He said he had shown the item to the other men, but they couldn’t make any sense of it. The stained leather purse held a worthless white stone the size and shape of a quail’s egg, with no more weight than any beach pebble of the same dimensions.
Lady Yee examined the white stone carefully in the sunlight. Then she smelled it, and even tasted the surface. With a perplexed shake of the head, she scratched the surface with a little pruning knife, and then smelled and tasted the stone again. Suddenly she looked up and smiled. She called to Li-Lee to mind the baby, and then walked toward the stone potting shed that was built into the orchard wall. Captain Hammond followed and watched, but said nothing. On the workbench in the shed, Lady Yee arranged a small glass jar and a six-inch square piece of thin rag. She took a can of mineral spirits from the shelf and poured an ounce into the jar. Then she placed the stone in the center of the rag, and pulled up the edges to create a pocket that was then twisted to reveal the shape of the egg. This she tied off with a bit of string and immersed in
the mineral spirits to soak. When the captain asked what she expected to happen, Lady Yee was frank and said she hadn’t a clue. For all she knew there might be a chemical reaction and an explosion, but she doubted it. To be on the safe side she suggested they go back out into the gardens and wait for a while. The captain just followed his wife into the sunlight. He was soon so distracted by Macy’s insistence that he become the guest of honor at her tea party that he forgot about all other matters for a while.
Later, just as he had finished his third cup of imaginary tea, as well as a command performance of “The Owl and the Pussycat,” Captain Hammond heard his wife call to him from the potting shed.
Lady Yee stood at the door of the shed holding the jar of spirits with the stone still suspended within. Upon closer examination, Captain Hammond noticed that the clear spirits had become milky. With the air of two inquisitive children, husband and wife sat down on the shed’s stone steps, and Lady Yee pulled forth the stone still tied in its rag. When the stone was unwrapped, it was noticed that the surface of the egg had become densely wrinkled, and part of that surface material clung to the rag in spidery strands. Captain Hammond and Lady Yee looked up at each other with identically quizzical expressions. Then Captain Hammond withdrew his little penknife and handed it to his wife. She in turn pressed the blade into the surface of the stone, and to their surprise the white skin split like the leather shell of a turtle’s egg, and in doing so revealed a bright, blood-crimson stone that they both knew immediately was a ruby, and as the afternoon sunlight revealed, not just any ruby, but a flawlessly cut and polished ruby without scratches or imperfections of any kind.
Captain Hammond seemed confused by the shape. Who, he asked, would cut such a fine stone without facets? Lady Yee recalled that there was only one nation that, owing to ancient Christian symbols of rebirth and regeneration, venerated the egg as a religious icon, a nation whose wealthy masters could afford such stones. She smiled and said the ruby was obviously cut in Russia for a czar or church prelate. She mused that it had not been cut in facets because it had once been part of a larger arrangement that emphasized the egg shape to make a symbolic point. Perhaps it was a center jewel from some royal ceremonial regalia. She naturally assumed the stone was stolen, of course, but she cared little. She also assumed that if Malakoff had painted it with white lead, he didn’t want it discovered either, which also led her to believe it was a valuable jewel.
The Silver Lotus Page 23