Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  “Anyway, it worked out in the end for you both. There has never been a happier marriage in our family, at least that is what everyone says.” Jonah waited for me to contradict him.

  Unwilling to confess anything about our current estrangement, I did not argue. Thankfully, a gong clanged. We were being called to dinner.

  At the doorway, the compradore introduced me to his wife, a bony woman with snow-white hair, and then with the inverse modesty of the Chinese, to his sons. “My eldest son, a lazy boy who needs to study harder; my second son, who eats too much to play a proper game of tennis; my third son, who prefers girls to hard work; and my fourth, who is probably the most backward of the lot.”

  Jonah knew the ritual. “Oh, but isn't your eldest son the top boy in his class and your second the captain of his team . . . ?” Pleased that he had learned so much on his earlier trip, I nodded and smiled and let my brother smooth our way.

  Instead of one long table, the dining room contained many round ones with eight to twelve places at each. In a side room a small army of cooks tended woks over charcoal fires. Jonah and I were given seats at the table with the eldest son and some of the other compradores we had met earlier, including a plump man who was with Russell and Company, the leading American opium firm. Immediately I noticed that no other women were seated in the room. Even Mrs. Ming had disappeared.

  During the week Jonah had coached me in the use of chopsticks, so I did not feel overly awkward as I attempted the first platter: stewed pigeon eggs and vegetables. Lord Hargreaves' warning made me wary at first, but it was tasty. I went on to enjoy fried quail with bamboo shoots, a soup which did include the controversial sharks' fins, a dish with slippery noodles and prawns (I avoided the shellfish not entirely successfully), and chicken flavored with a curious spice. Only a mushroom-and-fish concoction did not please my palate, and Jonah warned me when pork was served. Since the Chinese did not seem to include milk products in their cuisine, I finished most of the courses feeling relatively secure that I had not violated the dietary laws too blatantly, although I had far exceeded the usual limits of my stomach's capacity.

  Just when I was certain the meal was ending, platters of carp were passed. Mr. Ming, who was circulating through the room, stopped at our table and asked, “May I offer you some fish?”

  I thanked him politely.

  The head of the fish was placed before me. Its huge glassy eye stared at me accusingly.

  “The guest of honor is given the head,” Jonah explained.

  “I am flattered,” I said, trying to hide my queasiness.

  “To eat the eye is to bring good luck,” Mr. Ming said in a manner that did not indicate this was a joke.

  Carefully I lifted the eye from its socket and deftly offered it to Jonah. “Fortune has smiled upon me. I have a wonderful husband and three fine sons. My brother should be the one to have this honor.” I gave Jonah a sly grin. As far back as childhood, he had had a reputation for eating anything. He did not disappoint me.

  With one gulp he swallowed the eye. “What could be better to see in the new year?” he quipped, pleasing Mr. Ming and astonishing me.

  The compradore gave him a bow of respect, then asked me, “Would you like to see my garden?”

  Grateful for the excuse to avoid more food, I nodded and went outside. Gulliver followed at a safe but respectful distance without rankling the compradore, who accepted that a woman required protection, even from him.

  The house, which looked impressive from the road, climbed several levels on the hill behind to reveal a substantial mansion. The compradore walked me out into his terraced garden, linked by flights of steps and winding pathways. There was a concrete tennis court, currently used as a nursery for plants, and a large vegetable patch at the highest level, where Mr. Ming said he preferred to do much of the work himself, “to clear my head after a day in the office.” From there we had a fine view of the harbor below. He pointed out the mat-sheds, temporary structures of bamboo and palm leaves which were being set up for the next day's celebrations, then led me into a rose arboretum.

  Gardening had never been a particular interest of mine, so I could not uphold my end of the conversation. After dutifully admiring the blossoms, I impulsively abandoned my decision to avoid business that night and asked the main question running around in my head. “Compradore, are you acquainted with a Mr. Song Kung Ni?”

  Even in the dimness of the garden lanterns, the man could not hide his consternation. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have been told he could be of some use to us.”

  “Impossible!”

  “But why? Isn't he an important man in the trade?”

  “Not to us.” He made a raw, hawking noise deep in his throat and spat into the night. “No. Never.”

  This finality, without explanation, was most exasperating. Since the subject was obviously sensitive, I decided to tread lightly. “I have heard it said that he might be of assistance with our particular difficulty.”

  “What difficulty is that, may I ask?”

  “I must apologize for not being more forthcoming earlier, compradore, but I am new to this business as well as to Hong Kong.” I took a deep breath. “Due to some singular circumstances, the auction prices in Calcutta ran more than twenty percent higher than usual.”

  The man's cheeks sucked in with surprise. “The merchants will never buy from us at that price!”

  “What if we raised it by . . .”I was going to suggest fifteen percent, but an inner voice told me to minimize it further. “. . . say, ten to twelve percent? Then, if we held it there for three seasons to come, we would make up the difference eventually.”

  “There has never been an increase of more than a few points. Don't forget, we have competition from other traders and the Chinese themselves.”

  “You yourself estimated the demand was there.”

  “Not at ridiculous prices. You will have to accept a loss if you are to stay in business.”

  “If we are to stay in business, compradore, I suggest we look beyond the narrow horizons of the past. Why not open your mind and think about Song Kung Ni? What could it hurt to talk with him?”

  The man's eyes bulged. “You do not know what you are asking.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “Companies of the caliber of the Sassoons or Jardine, 'Matheson do not do business with men of his sort.” He wrinkled his nose, as if the very idea gave off a bad odor. “If you force my hand, I will resign.”

  I backed off. “My apologies, compradore.” There was a mystery here. Perhaps Godfrey could help me unravel it. This might be a personal feud between our compradore and Mr. Song. If Godfrey thought it worthwhile to meet Song Kung Ni, I would do so. My father had warned me about the complexities of dealing with the Chinese, for they had to save “face.” By acting on my own, we might secure the help we needed, while not compromising the compradore's pride.

  When we returned to the others, tea was being served in the drawing room. I looked around for Jonah, but he was nowhere in sight. Putting my concerns about the opium business aside, I decided to concentrate my worries on his potentially disastrous flirtation.

  The morning of Chinese New Year's Eve dawned clear, with mauve and purple and pink slashes across the harbor sky. Sampans and junks dotted the horizon, their sails like the wings of distant insects. I sipped a cup of green tea and tried to organize my thoughts. The novel sights, sounds, questions, languages, and personalities had exhausted me. My new acquaintances—Godfrey Troyte, the compradore, Wu Bing—were utterly perplexing, each in his or her own way. Why did Godfrey want to bother himself with me? How could I win Mr. Ming's trust? And where would Jonah's concern for his niece lead? Thoughts of my children crowded in. What were they doing at the moment? Did they miss me? Had it been a mistake to leave them for so long? And what of Edwin?

  Jonah sauntered into the room wearing his flannel dressing gown. “Kong Hey Fat Choi,” he greeted. “Happy New Year.”

  Ch
en Ah Bun served him tea. “Kong Hey Fat Choi,” they said to each other.

  “We will have to give the servants time off after midday. This is the most momentous holiday of their year.”

  “We can manage with Gulliver.”

  “Right. Now, how shall we celebrate?”

  “Must we?”

  “When in Rome . . .”

  I sighed deeply. “I would give anything for a quiet evening at home.”

  “We have several invitations,” he reminded me. “The compradore would like us to join his family, and the Davidsons are giving a party for foreigners.”

  The Davidsons reminded me of Olivia and the tense auction. “I would rather not attend that one.”

  “There is a gathering at Government House to see the fireworks. Your friend Godfrey Troyte will be there.”

  “Couldn't I have a headache and spend the evening home?”

  My brother looked crestfallen. “I suppose . . .”

  “That doesn't mean you shouldn't go where you like. I'll be fine here with Gulliver.”

  Brightening, he asked slowly, “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely. Which gala will you attend?”

  “I thought I might return to the compradore's.”

  “Do you think that would be wise?”

  “I need to talk to Wu Bing. Tonight, with the confusion, we might have some time alone.”

  “I suppose you need to settle this infatuation. When the girl learns how hopeless her quest is, she will be more realistic about her future.”

  “This is not an infatuation!”

  “Jonah, don't be absurd. If you want to have a fling with a servant girl, that is one thing. Anything more is absurd.”

  “Wu Bing is doomed to a life of servitude because of circumstances. She comes from a good family—the same family as the compradore— and is far from ignorant. She reads and writes in Chinese and has taught herself English.”

  “What are you doing, Jonah, trying to rescue her?”

  “On the contrary, she will rescue me.”

  “It would never work. What would Father . . . ?” I caught myself. Tears billowed behind my eyes. We were alone in the world, alone to make our own decisions for better or worse. Zilpah would be shocked, but with her own unusual background she could hardly complain. Why, even Silas' Nepalese mother had been a convert to Judaism, and Zilpah had approved of him.

  “Would Wu Bing consider converting?”

  “Yes, I mentioned it. Truthfully, she has no idea what being a Jew means and she would be doing it only to please me. Nevertheless, I would want our children to be Jewish; therefore it would be necessary.”

  “You are serious about this.”

  Jonah blinked anxiously. “Actually, I am unsure. As I said, I need to be with her in private. Do you remember when Edwin came to Calcutta? Didn't the time you had together help settle your minds on whether to marry?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “Time for us will never be given freely. I must steal what I can and see what happens.”

  “Maybe you will discover you are not suited. These matters are more obvious than one would believe. For instance, I knew from the first that Silas was the wrong match for me, but I was so young, so inexperienced, I did not know how to interpret the signals. Then, when Edwin came along, the message of Tightness was indisputable. Even so”—I searched for the words to convince him—”people who are deeply compatible continue to have difficulties as they traverse the mountains and valleys of a life together. Edwin and I shared the same faith, had agreeable parents, were of the same age and similar background. In my experience, the differences become magnified over the years, but the similarities are what pull you through.”

  Jonah was quiet for a long while. The sky turned bluer and bluer. White clouds, like sails without hulls, hovered over the islands in the harbor. “You may be right,” he said, startling me, for I had expected an argument. “I must discover this truth for myself.”

  51

  The house was quiet. Two clocks, a porcelain one on the mantelpiece and a grandfather in the hall, ticked in opposition to each other. I drank a glass of claret as I watched the sunset dapple the harbor with an oddly greenish hue. Gulliver cooked me a supper of eggs and toast. For a moment I was so lonely, I almost asked the stocky Gurkha to take his meal with me. Fortunately, I quickly discarded the notion. Gulliver would have felt awkward, but would not have known how to agree or refuse. How inexperienced I was with being on my own. Not since Edwin had left me in Travancore had I been without a busy family life. If I was this lonely, how must my babies be feeling? Where did they think I was? Did they worry I might never return? Could the twins possibly forget me? When this business was concluded, I would rush back to Calcutta and smother my children with love.

  Outside, firecrackers splintered the air. The long evening stretched before me. It had been foolhardy to presume the night would be peaceful. Perhaps something to read might be diverting. Perusing bookshelves, I pulled out Kipling's Plain Tales from the Hills, then closed it after the first few sentences reminded me of Darjeeling. Ignoring the row of Stevenson and Henry James in favor of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's A Study in Scarlet, I settled into the lumpy armchair by the window and tucked a woolen coverlet over my legs. I opened the book.

  In the year of 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon . . .

  Gulliver brewed a perfect cup of Luddy's finest Darjeeling tea and placed lemon biscuits on a tray. He laid an extra log on the fire. In the distance, flares of vermilion and jade green were inverse comets in the void. Intermittent showers of gold and silver rained down. The constant bangs, pops, and crackles that punctuated the night were becoming a familiar but not annoying distraction, like someone else's boisterous children. I became absorbed in the tale.

  “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

  “How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself . . .

  Engrossed in the story and no longer sensitive to the din, I missed the knock on the door of the White Chalet. Gulliver's announcement of a visitor came as a heart-thumping jolt.

  “No, please don't get up,” Godfrey Troyte insisted. “You look wonderfully settled.”

  I pushed aside the comforter and straightened my gown. “Kong Hey Fat Choi,” I said.

  “Well done. Kong Hey Fat Choi to you as well. I was concerned when you did not arrive at Government House.”

  “We sent our regrets.”

  “I heard. I hope you are not ill. Some visitors experience distress because of the new food or the water.”

  “Not in the least. Only tired.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He had another engagement, and frankly, I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.”

  A nearby rocket boom caused the windows to tremble. “You have chosen the wrong night in Hong Kong.”

  “Obviously.”

  “There will be plenty of time to rest over the next few days. Why not come out and enjoy the merriment in the streets?”

  “I am quite content.” I realized that Godfrey was still standing and had not even taken off his coat. “That doesn't mean I am not delighted to see you. Why not stay for a few minutes? I opened a bottle of claret for my dinner, or there is sherry or port . . .”

  “The claret, please.”

  As Gulliver took Godfrey's coat, did I notice a flicker of displeasure in his eyes? No matter, I couldn't be impolite to the man who had come all this way on my behalf. I placed the book aside and smoothed my hair.

  Sitting down, Godfrey tasted the wine and licked his pink lips. “I told Song Kung Ni about you,” he began without preface.

  I decided not to react, and waited for him to continue.
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br />   “He is most anxious to meet you.”

  “How kind of you to make the arrangements so swiftly. I am looking forward to hearing what assistance he might offer.”

  “Excellent. I have a feeling he will clarify matters for you.”

  “If so, I shall be grateful,” I said, and noticing his slight smirk, wondered if I would owe Godfrey money or favors or both. “When can the meeting be organized?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  “I am available anytime.”

  “How about right now?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not?”

  “In the midst of the celebrations?”

  “It won't make any difference to Song Kung Ni.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “On the other side of the city in an area called Happy Valley.”

  That sounded pleasant enough, but I could not imagine going there so impulsively.

  Godfrey realized I was hesitating. “The drive will take us past the most impressive illuminations. If we time it right, we can arrive at a propitious moment for you to negotiate: the Hour of the Monkey.”

  “Even the hours have animal names.”

  “Right. The Chinese divide the day into twelve two-hour portions, beginning at four A.M. with the Hour of the Rooster, then moving to the Hour of the Dog at six A.M. and ending at two A.M. with the Hour of the Sheep.”

  “What time is the Hour of the Monkey?”

  “Ten in the evening.”

  A burst of white light glowed in the southern sky. “I suppose it would be foolish to ignore the festivities,” I said, slowly giving in. The sooner I finished up in Hong Kong, the sooner I would be on my way home to the children . . . and Edwin. “I'll need half an hour to prepare myself.” I stood and clapped for Gulliver. “Have another glass of wine, won't you?”

  Gulliver was jittery, and every fusillade of firecrackers unnerved him further. Seeing the tension etched in his normally placid face, I realized that I had been selfish to drag him out so late. Both of us had required a respite. I should have insisted he remain behind to guard the house. Not that he would have obeyed. All I could do was hope Godfrey would not keep us out the whole night.