James Clavell - Gai-Jin

by Gai-Jin(Lit)

Richmond--they wanted to expand into armaments and ammunition for export to Asia which I'd learned a lot about, that and shooting Indians and horse trading. Old Jeff Cooper figured that guns and other goods outward bound from Norfolk

  Virginia would go well with opium up the China coast, silver and tea inbound to Norfolk--but, you know Jeff. Cooper-Tillman and Struan's are old friends, eh?"'

  "Yes, and I hope it remains so. Go on."

  "Nothing much more, or everything. Over the years, others in the family moved down south and spread out. My ma was from Alabama, I have two brothers and a sister, all younger than me. Now

  Billy's with the North, New Jersey 1st

  Cavalry, and my little brother's Janny--named after my granddaddy, Janov Syborodin,

  Janny's cavalry too but with the 3rd

  Virginian, Advance Scouts. It's all crap--those two know crap about war and fighting and they'll get themselves killed, sure as hell."

  "You... are you going to go back?"'

  "Don't know, Malc. Every day I think yes, every night yes and every morning no, don't want to start killing family whatever side I'm on."

  "Why did you leave and come to this godforsaken part of the world?"'

  "Emilie died. She got scarlet fever-- there was an epidemic and she was one of the unlucky ones. That was nine years ago--we were just about to have a kid."

  "What rotten luck!"

  "Yes. You and me, we've both had our share...."

  Struan was so concentrated in his mystery book that he did not hear the outside door to her suite softly open and close, nor the lightness of her tiptoeing, nor notice her peer in for an instant, then disappear. In a moment there was an almost imperceptible click as her inner, bedroom door closed.

  He looked up. Now listening intently. She had said that she would look in but if he was asleep she would not disturb him. Or if she was tired she would go straight to bed, quiet as a mouse, and see him in the morning. "Don't worry, darling," he had said happily. "Just have a good time,

  I'll see you at breakfast. Sleep well and know I love you."

  "I love you too, ch@eri. Sleep well."

  The book was resting in his lap. With an effort he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. That part was just bearable. But not getting up.

  Getting up was still beyond him. His heart was pounding and he felt nauseated and lay back. Still, a little better than yesterday. Got to push, whatever Babcott says, he told himself grimly, rubbing his stomach. Tomorrow I'll try again, three times. Perhaps it's just as well. I'd want to stay with her. God help me I would have to.

  When he felt better he began to read once more, glad for the book, but now the story did not absorb him as before, his attention wandered, and his mind started to intermix the story with pictures of her about to be murdered, and corpses, him rushing to protect her, other glimpses becoming ever more erotic.

  At length he put the book away, marking the place with a page she had given him, one from her journal. Wonder what she writes in it, knowing her to be as diligent as anyone. About me and her?

  Her and me?

  Very tired now. His hand reached for the lamp to turn the wick down, then stopped. The little wineglass with sleep in it beckoned. His fingers trembled.

  Babcott's right, I don't need it anymore.

  Firmly he doused the light and lay back and closed his eyes, praying for her and his family and that his mother would bless them, and then for himself. Oh

  God, help me get better--I'm afraid, very afraid.

  But sleep would not take him. Turning or trying to gain comfort hurt him, reminding him of the

  Tokaid@o and Canterbury. Half asleep half awake, his mind buzzing with the book, the macabre setting and how would it finish? Adding all kinds of pictures. And more pictures, some bad, some beautiful, some vivid, every little movement to get more comfortable bringing blossoms of pain.

  Time passed, another hour or minutes, and then he drank the elixir and relaxed contentedly, knowing that soon he would be floating on gossamer, her hand on him, his hand on her, there on her breasts and everywhere, hers equally knowingly, equally welcomed, not only hands.

  Friday, 3rd October:

  Just after dawn Angelique got out of bed and sat at her dressing table in the bay windows overlooking the High Street and harbor. She was very tired. In the locked drawer was her journal.

  It was dull red leather and also locked.

  She slid the little key from its hiding place, unlocked it, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote in it, more as a friend to a friend--her journal these days seemed her only friend, the only one she felt safe with:

  "Friday, 3rd: another bad night and I feel ghastly. It's four days since Andr`e gave me the terrible news about Father. Since then

  I have been unable to write anything, to do anything, have locked my doors and "taken to my bed" feigning a fever, apart from once or twice a day going to visit my Malcolm to allay his anxiety, closing the door to everyone except my maid who I hate, though I agreed to see

  Jamie once, and Andr`e.

  "Poor Malcolm, he was beside himself with worry the first day when I did not appear nor would open my door, and insisted that he be carried on a stretcher into my boudoir to see me--even if they had to break down the door. I managed to forestall him, forcing myself to go to him, saying that I was all right, it was just a bad headache, that, no, I did not need Babcott, that he was not to worry about my tears, telling him privately that it was just "that time of the month" and sometimes the flow was great and sometimes my days irregular. He was embarrassed beyond belief that I had mentioned my period! Beyond belief! Almost as though he knew nothing about this female function, at times I don't understand him at all although he's so kind and considerate, the most I've ever known. Another worry: in truth, the poor man is not much better and daily in so much pain I want to cry."

  Blessed Mother give me strength! she thought. Then there's the other. I try not to worry but I'm frantic. The day approaches. Then I'll be free from that terror, but not from penury.

  She began to write again.

  "It's so difficult to be private in the

  Struan building, however comfortable and pleasant but the Settlement is awful. Not a hairdresser, not a ladies' dressmaker (though I have a

  Chinese tailor who is very adept at copying what already exists), no hat maker--I haven't yet tried the shoemaker, there's nowhere to go, nothing to do--oh how I long for Paris, but how can I ever live there now? Would Malcolm move there if we married? Never. And if we don't marry... how can I pay even a ticket home? How? I've asked myself a thousand times without an answer."

  Her gaze left the paper and went to the window and to the ships in the bay. I wish I was on one of them, going home, wish I'd never come here. I hate this place... What if.... If

  Malcolm doesn't marry me I'll have to marry someone else but I've no dowry, nothing. Oh

  God, this isn't what I'd hoped. If I managed to get home, I've still got no money, poor aunt and uncle ruined. Colette hasn't got any to lend, I don't know anyone rich or famous enough to marry, or far enough up in society so I could safely become a mistress. I could go on the stage but there it's essential to have a patron to bribe managers and playwrights, and pay for all the clothes and jewels and carriages and a palatial house for soirees

  --of course you have to bed the patron, at his whim not yours, until you are rich and famous enough and that takes time, and I don't have the connections, or have any friends who do. Oh dear, I'm so confused.

  I think I am going to cry again....

  She buried her face in her arms, the tears spilling, careful not to make too much noise lest her maid hear her and started wailing, creating a scene as on the first day. Her nightdress was cream silk, a pale green dressing gown around her shoulders, hair tousled, the room masculine, the curtained four-poster huge, this suite much bigger than Malcolm's. To one side was the anteroom that adjoined his bedroom, a dining room off it that could seat twenty wit
h its own kitchen. Both those doors were bolted. The dressing table was the only frivolity, she had had it curtained with pink satin.

  When the tears stopped, she dried her eyes and silently studied her reflection in the silver mirror. No lines, some shadows, face a little thinner than before. No outward change. She sighed heavily, then began to write again:

  "Crying simply doesn't help. Today I

  MUST talk to Malcolm. I simply must.

  Andr`e told me the mail ship is already one day overdue and the news of my catastrophe is bound to arrive with it--why is it English call a ship she or her? Her. I'm terrified

  Malcolm's mother will be aboard--news of his injury should have reached Hong Kong on the 24th, which gives her just enough time to catch this mail ship.

  Jamie doubts she would be able to leave at such short notice, not with her other children there, her husband dead just three weeks and still being in deepest mourning, poor woman.

  "When Jamie was here, the first time I've ever really talked to him alone, he told me all sorts of stories about the other Struans--Emma is sixteen, Rose thirteen and Duncan ten-- most of them sad stories: last year two other brothers the twins, Robb and Dunross, seven, were drowned in a boating accident just off a place in Hong Kong called Shek-O where the

  Struans have lands and a summer house. And years ago when Malcolm was seven, another sister,

  Mary, then four, died of Happy Valley fever. Poor little thing, I cried all night thinking of her and the twins. So young!

  "I like Jamie but he's so dull, so uncivilized--I mean gauche, that's all--he has never been to Paris and only knows Scotland and Struans and Hong Kong. I wonder if I could insist that if..." She crossed that out and changed it to "when we're married..." Her pen hesitated. "Malcolm and I will spend a few weeks in Paris every year--and the children will be brought up there, of course as Catholic.

  "Andr`e and I were talking about that yesterday, about being Catholic--he's very kind and takes my mind off problems as his music always does--and how

  Mrs. Struan was Calvinist Protestant, and what to say if that ever came up. We were talking softly--oh I am so lucky he is my friend and forewarned me about father--suddenly he put his fingers to his lips, went to the door and jerked it open.

  That old hag Ah Tok, Malcolm's amah, had her ear to it and almost fell into the room. Andr`e speaks some Cantonese and told her off.

  "When I saw Malcolm later in the day he was abject in his apologies. It's unimportant I said, the door was unlocked, my maid was correctly in the room, chaperoning me, but if Ah Tok wants to spy on me, please tell her to knock and come in. I confess

  I've been distant and cool to Malcolm and he goes out of his way to be extra pleasant and calm me, but this is how I feel, though also I must confess Andr`e advised me to behave so until our betrothal is public.

  "I had to ask Andr`e, had to I'm afraid, ask him for a loan--I felt awful. It's the first time I've ever had to do it but I'm desperate for some cash. He was kind and agreed to bring me twenty louis tomorrow on my signature, enough for incidentals for a week or two--Malcolm just doesn't seem to notice that I need money and

  I didn't want to ask him....

  "I really do have an almost permanent headache, trying to plan a way out of the nightmare. There is no one I can really trust, even Andr`e, though so far he has proved his worth. With Malcolm, every time I start the speech I have rehearsed, I know the words will sound forced, flat and dreadful before I begin so I say nothing.

  ""What is it, darling?" he keeps saying.

  ""Nothing," I say, then after I've left him and relocked my door, I cry and cry into my pillow. I think I shall go mad with grief

  --how could my father lie and cheat and steal my money?

  And why can't Malcolm give me a purse without my having to ask, or offer some so that I can pretend to refuse and then accept gladly.

  Isn't that a husband or fianc`e's duty?

  Isn't it a father's duty to protect his beloved daughter? And why is Malcolm waiting and waiting to make our betrothal public? Has he changed his mind? Oh God don't let that happen...."

  Angelique stopped writing, tears beginning again. One dropped on to the page. Again she wiped her eyes, sipped some water from a tumbler, then continued:

  "Today I will talk to him. I must do it today.

  One good piece of news is that the British flagship came back into harbor safely a few days ago to general rejoicing (we are really quite defenseless without warships). The ship was battered and had lost a mast, to be closely followed by all other vessels, except a 20-gun steam frigate called Zephyour, with over two hundred aboard. Perhaps it's safe, I hope so. The newspaper here says that fifty-three other seamen and two officers died in the storm, the typhoon.

  "It was terrible, the worst I have ever known. I was terrified, by day and by night. I thought the whole building would be blown away but it is as solid as Jamie McFay. Much of the native quarter vanished, and there were many fires. The frigate Pearl was damaged, also losing a mast. Yesterday a note came from Captain

  Marlowe: I have just heard that you are sick and I send my deepest and most sincere condolences etc.

  "I don't think I like him, too haughty though his uniform makes him very glamorous and accentuates his manhood--which tight breeches are of course supposed to do, just as we dress to show our breasts and waists and ankles. Another letter arrived last evening from Settry Pallidar, the second, more condolences etc.

  "I think I hate both of them. Every time I think of them I'm reminded of that hell called

  Kanagawa and that they did not do their duty and protect me. Phillip Tyrer is still in the

  Yedo Legation but Jamie said he had heard

  Phillip was supposed to be coming back tomorrow or the day after. That's very good because when he does I have a plan th--"'

  The dull echoing roar of a cannon made her jump and pulled her attention to the harbor. It was the signal gun. Far out to sea another cannon answered. She looked beyond the fleet to the horizon and saw the telltale smoke from the funnel of the arriving mail ship.

  Jamie McFay, a briefcase heavy with mail under his arm, guided a stranger up main staircase of the Struan Building, sunlight flooding through tall and elegant windows of glass. Both wore woolen frock coats and top hats though the day was warm. The stranger carried a small case. He was squat, bearded, ugly and in his fifties, a head shorter than Jamie though wider in the shoulders, an unruly thatch of long grey hair sprouting from under his hat. They went down the corridor.

  McFay knocked gently. "Tai-pan?"

  "Come in, Jamie, door's open." Struan gaped at the man, then said at once: "Is Mother aboard, Dr. Hoag?"

  "No, Malcolm." Dr. Ronald Hoag saw the immediate relief and it saddened him though he could understand it. Tess Struan had been vehement in her condemnation of the "foreign baggage" she was sure had her hooks into her son. Hiding his concern at Malcolm's loss of weight and pallor, he put his top hat beside his bag on the bureau. "She asked me to see you," he said, his voice deep and kindly, "to find out if I could do anything for you and to escort you home

  --if you need escorting." For almost fifteen years he had been the Struan family doctor in Hong Kong and had delivered the last four of

  Malcolm's brothers and sisters. "How are you?"

  "I'm... Dr. Babcott has been looking after me. I'm, I'm all right. Thanks for coming, I'm pleased to see you."

  "I'm pleased to be here too, George

  Babcott is a fine doctor, none better."

  Hoag smiled, his small topaz eyes set in a creased and leathery face, and continued breezily, "Filthy voyage, the tail of the typhoon caught us and we almost foundered once, spent my time patching up sailors and the few passengers--broken limbs mostly. Lost two overboard, one a Chinese, a steerage passenger, the other some sort of foreigner, we never did find out who he was. The Captain said the man just paid his fare in Hong Kong, mumbled a name. Spent most of the time in his cabin, then came on deck
once and, poof, a wave caught him.

  Malcolm, you look better than I expected after all the rumors that flooded the Colony."

  Jamie said, "I'd best leave you two together." He put a pile of letters on the bedside table. "Here's your personal mail, I'll bring your books and newspapers later."

  "Thanks." Malcolm watched him. "Anything important?"

  "Two from your mother. They're on top."

  Dr. Hoag reached into his voluminous pockets and brought out a crumpled envelope.

  "Here's another from her, Malcolm, later than the others. Best read it then I'll have a look at you, if I may. Jamie, don't forget about

  Babcott."

  Jamie had already told him that Babcott was in