by Shira Nayman
“I regret that you have forced my hand,” he said, moving back around the desk, the rage gone from his face, replaced by dispassionate calculation. “I had taken you for someone who would play by the rules,” he continued, drawing a fountain pen from his pocket and tapping it slowly against the palm of his hand. “But I suppose I can’t be right about all of the people all of the time.”
He paused, seemed lost for a moment in thought.
“I gave you a chance to redeem yourself. Why do you think I offered you employment?”
I listened to the soft tap tap of the pen against the padded surface of his hand. The conversation did not seem entirely real to me and, though I heard every word Han Shu said, I had trouble piecing it together. I did, however, understand the seriousness of his tone.
“Han Shu,” I said quietly, “I’ve always considered you a friend.”
“The people I call my friends do not try to cheat me.” He squatted on his heavy haunches and brought his face close to mine. Grasping my chin firmly in his thick fingers, he spoke right into my face: “You are not my friend, Christine. You are a business investment gone bad. Is that clear?”
I squirmed my head to escape Han Shu’s unpleasant breath, but he tightened his grip, pressing painfully into the soft underside of my gullet.
“Now, what are you going to do? You’re a clever woman.”
The room tightened; Han Shu peered into my eyes, his fingers pushing under my chin, his breath rancid in my face.
“I only want one pipe,” I whispered. “Just one pipe.”
“Do I really need to tell you?” he cooed. “This is no longer about what I can give you. There’s no mystery here. Both of us know what it is I have to give you. The question, now, is what can you give me?”
He paced before his desk.
“Well?”
My eyes filled with tears. I fidgeted with the chain on my purse. “I don’t know what to say, Han Shu. I simply—”
“Then get out. I don’t wish to see your—your—” His eyes skipped around the room, in search of something. “Your simpering face, yes, that’s it. I don’t want to look at your simpering face.”
He reached for the thick gold cord hanging by the window and pulled it. A stocky man with pockmarked skin entered from what I’d thought was a bookcase but now showed itself to be a hidden doorway.
“Madam would like to leave,” Han Shu said. “Kindly show her out.”
The man picked me up by the arm and shunted me across the room. He handled me roughly all the way down the hallway and through the foyer. When we reached the front door, he opened it and pushed me. I stumbled out onto the street.
Now, hurrying through the damp roads, I found myself replaying this scene from some weeks ago in my mind. I was no longer baffled, nor even particularly angry. In place of the fury I’d felt since that evening whenever Han Shu came to mind, was now a fluttery hope.
Dawn, finally, was beginning to break; I could see its pallid ripple spreading on the horizon. My feet were aching in my high heels; I slipped off my shoes and continued barefoot, walking awkwardly in the middle of the uneven road.
An elderly woman, tiny and alert as a sparrow, poked her head through a paneless window.
“The harbor?” I queried hopefully.
The woman nodded vigorously and jabbed the air with a small crooked finger. I headed in the direction she indicated. It was not long before I was back on evenly paved road. When, finally, I rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the murky bay—the dull gleam of the water, the ramshackle silhouettes of the junks—I cried out in relief.
With renewed energy I hastened along the roadway. For the first time in a very long while, I found myself thinking beyond the moment, beyond what was to happen that day or that evening, beyond who might call on me or who I was hoping to run into. The pain in my belly receded to a dull throb as I thought about what I would say when I got to Han Shu’s—about how I was going to change things, to turn the clock back to an earlier, happier self. I kept my eyes on the horizon. The sky, the whole sky, was gently aglow with the new day.
The front of the building was still in darkness when I arrived. Knowing Han Shu was an early riser I lifted the handle of the iron knocker and struck three firm raps. The door was opened almost immediately by a servant boy.
“He’ll see me,” I said breathlessly, “I know he will. Tell Han Shu it’s Christine.”
The boy dipped his head apologetically and closed the door, leaving me standing out in the street. I slipped my shoes back on, then waited. After some minutes, the boy reappeared and gestured for me to enter. He led me down the hallway and ushered me into Han Shu’s office. I felt unusually alert and in command of myself as I entered the room. Han Shu was seated behind his desk, fully dressed, down to the silk handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket of his jacket, a benign expression on his face.
“Why, Christine,” he said pleasantly, remaining seated. “I thought I might see you back here again.”
I did not fail to notice how brazenly he eyed me—up and down, lingering first on my breasts, then at my hips, and taking in, to be sure, the stains on my dress, the jagged edge of my hem. This only made me square my shoulders; when I spoke, my voice was steady.
“Hello,” I said, sitting in the leather chair on the other side of the desk. “I’d like to know the precise nature of your proposal. Regarding the job.”
“Let me get you a drink,” Han Shu replied, taking a shot glass from a shelf above his desk and filling it from a crystal decanter. He handed it to me.
“This establishment, as you know, is a respectable business. And, while my aim is to cater fully to my clients’ needs and desires, where business is concerned, I pride myself on running a tight ship.” He paused, giving me time, I supposed, to recall my own brush with his strict business practices.
“It may, therefore, come as a surprise that I keep an establishment of a different order on the other side of the city, one that does not provide much of a return. Given the nature of the enterprise, I cannot provide the accoutrements I am happily able to proffer here.” He swept his arm in an arc to indicate the plush office. The smugness on his face seemed less to do with the opulence of the room than with his appreciation of his own use of the English language.
“The place I am speaking of is serviceable and clean, as I hope you will see. But we operate on a bare-bones budget. You will appreciate, therefore, that I will not be able to pay you a princely wage. And, if you will permit me to remind you, there is the matter of your debt.
“The position comes with a room. Your other needs will be taken care of. Including, of course, your predilection for the pipe. At Manor House, I will ask you to, ah, nurse those needs in private.
“One of your duties will be to serve as a chaperone, what I believe in England you might call a House Mother. Your other duties will capitalize on your professional expertise. May I freshen your drink?”
I nodded. Han Shu rose, pulled down a tumbler this time, and filled it almost to the brim.
“Let me come straight to the point. I run a home for girls without parents, or without parents who can adequately provide for them. Alley children, street children, call them what you will. I look for girls who show the potential to rise above their origins, and cultivate them to become young ladies. No point taking in a girl who will show a poor return on the effort I put into her.”
My head was swimming pleasantly. An old exhilarating anticipation tickled my limbs. Behind Han Shu, the dull yellow glow in the window filled the room with a filmy light. Another glow, sickly and wan, straining to break through cloud, stirred in my memory: a lifetime away, in a room by the Port of Southampton. How many hours had I sat there, in my freshly ironed traveling dress, my suitcase by the door, waiting for my pocket watch to indicate it was time to head down to the quay where I would board the steamer that would take me away?
For days, the grief had been like a beast, threatening to tear me apart. I had raged
against it—against Robert, for shattering the only real dream I’d ever had. I had cried until I could not shed one more tear, I had pounded so hard on the bed of the hotel to which I’d fled that I damaged the springs. Finally, in the middle of one of those black nights, I had walked like a sleepwalker to the dressing table and looked hard into the tarnished mirror at my swollen, almost unrecognizable face, and called an end to it. In that moment, my dreams seemed worthy only of scorn. What had I been thinking?
And then I’d clung onto the date of departure as onto a buoy, clung to the thought of that boat pulling away from the shore, obliterating everything—Robert, our life together, England, the self I had been and the self I now was—so that I might begin anew. I remembered looking out at the dull sky and thinking, No room there for heaven. But where I was going, it was different: the hot bright fulcrum—
“You would instruct the girls as befits the refinement of young ladies.” Han Shu’s voice was tinged with excitement. “First and foremost, the English language. Through literature. I think that’s the best way, don’t you? It was how I received my instruction, as I presume is obvious.”
For a long moment, I was silent. Han Shu, the proprietor of an orphanage? Looking at him—his polished attire, vanity inscribed in every gesture—it did not add up. Could it really be? That, tucked away in that great barrel of a chest, was a tender heart with room enough for a houseful of misbegotten waifs?
“I never thought I’d find myself teaching again,” I said, almost to myself.
“Perhaps a little refreshment would help you think the matter over.” Han Shu reached for the gold braided cord and gave it a quick tug. The panel of books swung open to reveal the same burly fellow who at last meeting had thrown me out. This time, he was carrying a tray laid with paraphernalia. He lit the lamp and then carefully prepared the little nugget of opium, dexterously passing it back and forth over the flame using two long, silver needles. When it was sticky and soft, he placed it over the hole in the cloisonné pipe and handed it to me.
I glanced slowly around the room, taking in the silk wall hangings and warm colors of the rugs. Inhaling my first deep breath of smoke, I relaxed. I smiled at the stony countenance of the man who hovered above me. Suddenly the earlier incident with him seemed no more than a harmless vaudeville sketch.
“Well then,” Han Shu ventured, “do we have a deal?”
I peered through the smoke at my new employer, puzzling over why I had, in the first place, troubled to say no. What harm could there be, after all, in teaching Han Shu’s young ladies? I inhaled again, a long slow draw of what seemed to be life itself. I could feel the muscles of my face soften; I knew from the look in Han Shu’s eyes that a glimpse of what people called my radiance must be evident. I relaxed into it, the way I’d learned, long ago, to do.
“I’ve always thought you an interesting woman,” Han Shu said quietly, his voice transformed.
“You will make it worth my while,” I murmured, losing myself now in the trouble-free sinking, in the openness that unclenched my fingers, massaged the balls of my burning feet, blossomed peculiarly within as a simultaneous seizing and abdication of will.
“Yes,” Han Shu breathed, “I believe it will be a pleasing partnership for us both.”
“Then it’s settled. When do I start?”
CHAPTER TWO
I called out directions to the rickshaw man, glancing at the map Han Shu had drawn: spindly meandering lines, mostly unnamed streets that twisted inland. Wearing my most sedate dress—a floral cotton with a crocheted collar—and cream, low-heeled pumps, my satchel of papers balanced on my lap, I could almost imagine I was a young school teacher again, newly trained, eager about my profession.
It was a bright morning. Instead of the oozing heat were unusual splashes of sunlight, which gave the streets, even the dirty alleyways, a freshly painted feel. I enjoyed the long ride. Han Shu had treated me to several days of pampering: hot tea and sweet buns for breakfast, mounds of white rice and thinly sliced chicken for dinner; the peace and quiet of his guest room, with its feathered mattress and quilt; and the discreet though ready replenishment of the pipe. My strength returned in full force and now, being spirited through the quirky and unfamiliar streets, I relaxed into the bamboo seat, took note of the unusual flora: papery blue flowers that sprang out here and there on the vines, waxy conical pods that hung orange and creaturelike from stunted crooked branches.
The map had been drawn carefully, and I had no trouble directing the rickshaw man. Finally, I came to the place marked by an X, and told the man to stop. When I saw the narrow wooden structure, sandwiched between two smaller, more ramshackle tenements, I had to restrain myself from laughing. Manor House indeed!
I stepped down from the rickshaw, taking care to avoid a muddy patch in the unpaved road. Standing by the front door, I was struck by a distinctive, unreasonable feeling that I had seen this house before—that I had known the sloping red tiles of the roof and the slanted wooden beams, visible beneath the rusted tin guttering, all my life. The clay-brick walls were damaged in places, showing uneven layers of muted color: sandy yellow, reddish charcoal, muddy brown. Studying the patterns of erosion and distress, I wondered what lives had passed within these walls.
A girl, who looked to be about fourteen, opened the door and appraised me warily. She showed me into the foyer. When I asked to see Han Shu, she disappeared through a green swinging door. Inside, the house exuded the same humble dignity as the exterior. The entrance hall was neatly swept, and though the ceiling and walls needed paint, they were brushed clean of loose peelings and adorned with several simple wall hangings. A vase of fresh flowers, the same blue papery blooms I had seen on the vines, sat on a wooden sideboard, which also held a silk-bound visitors’ book.
After several minutes, Han Shu appeared. He enfolded my hand up to the wrist in his soft padded palms.
“Welcome,” he said warmly, caressing my hand. “Welcome to your new home.”
He showed me into a long narrow room, sparsely appointed but clean, where the girl who had greeted me at the door stood meekly by a long trestle table.
“Toung-Yang, please assemble the girls,” Han Shu said. “I would like to introduce you all to your new school mistress.” He enunciated the words as if he were saying Her Majesty the Queen.
The girl soon returned, followed by eight or nine others of varying ages and heights. They were all dressed in a similar and decidedly odd fashion: garments that fit perfectly and yet seemed incongruous, on the wrong scale. Then I realized what it was. The girls were wearing women’s evening gowns of a dated European style that had been altered to suit the contours of a young girl’s shape.
* * *
That first meeting with my new wards was tense. The girls remained silent and would not look me directly in the eye.
Their reticence, however, soon lifted. Within days, the girls were talking happily in the school room, using the street slang I quickly learned to decipher, and showing me their few, but prized childish treasures.
My days fell into a pleasant routine. I would rise early, help prepare breakfast, and eat with my charges; then, while the girls cleared the dishes, I set up the schoolroom for the day’s lessons. Mercifully, my lesson plans came back to me, though I had to strip things back to basics. The small cache of books I’d brought with me from England sufficed for teaching basic courses in English; as their language improved, I would be able to use the novels in my collection to teach literature along with a little history.
Classes ended at two o’clock, when my pupils retired for a siesta. I spent the afternoons and evenings alone in my room—reading, correcting homework, preparing the next day’s lessons. When my work was done, I would lose myself slowly in the smoke of the pipe. It felt like an oddly pure existence.
Sometimes I would find myself casting a thought back to the street where my lodgings had been. Then, I would see the lone scrawny tree in the middle of the block and imagine creaking up the wooden
stairs to my room. Invariably, I would think of Barnaby and wonder how he was getting along. I missed Barnaby—I could not deny this—yet I had no real desire to see him.
Behind everything was Robert. Behind and within the life I was living here. An uncanny, parallel world. I kept the postcard Robert had sent me in the cardboard box by my bed; on occasion, I would take it out and look at it. It was from this postcard that I’d realized he now called himself Oscar Harcourt, joining the first name of his friend from the Internment Center with the surname of his wealthy British mentor, Earnest Frederick Harcourt, creating an unlikely hybrid. But then, what was there in a name? The postmark read, Long Island, New York; the address he gave was that of his solicitor. Long Island—oddly evocative. Islands were places of respite, of escape; how much better, then, an island that was long, a place one could long to be, a place one could belong.
I saw Robert’s face, felt his touch; I would close my eyes and feel his warmth, find myself back in my London boarding house—those long hours, hazy with pleasure—find myself gazing once more into eyes that were searching and keen. No man had ever looked at me that way; I’d found it settling.
Robert hadn’t wanted anything from me, not the way other men had: only that I allow myself to be seen. Instead of the little ploys that go on between people, between lovers, there was, between us, only nakedness and light. With Robert, the ancient agitation that had accompanied me from my earliest memory simply dissolved. In its place, at least for a time, had been a gentle shared pleasure: unhurried, undemanding, undeclared.
“I’d like to know how it was,” Robert had said, his usually guarded eyes now piercing. “Your English childhood, before everything happened to the world. I can’t help thinking of Wordsworth—his daffodils, the sparkling lake he talks about in “The Prelude.” I’ve read him only in German translation, so I’m sure the version in my mind is heavily accented, and therefore inaccurate.”
“I grew up in Manchester. Not the most romantic of English cities, I’m afraid. I doubt Wordsworth would ever have been moved to write poetry about it.”