Flowers in the Blood

by Gay Courter

  Huge bonfires glowed on the hilltops as we made our way down from the Peak. Houses on the terraces glowed with Chinese lanterns that looked like molten oranges. A large open carriage awaited us at the bottom of the tramway, but our passage to the road closest to the harbor was tedious because of a procession blocking the road. Dragons with frightful heads and burnished scales pranced through the streets on hundreds of legs. Drums, gongs, and bells jangled and boomed raucously as musicians weaved in and out of the lanes.

  Bracelets of lights outlined many of the vessels in the harbor. At the water's edge we passed bamboo structures over three hundred feet high. “What are those for?” I wondered.

  “When illuminated later, they will make pictures in fire.”

  “It must look wonderful from the bay.”

  “Actually, the worst place to be tonight is on a ship,” Godfrey explained. “Last year I joined a party on a large Canton riverboat, the Hankow. The night navigation, what with all the launches rushing about, was even riskier than getting around on land.”

  That hardly seemed possible, since the crowds formed one long sinuous river. The horses weren't able to pick up speed until we were away from the densest population around the waterfront. Even along the lonely rim road, fires blazed, rockets splintered the sky, and children's faces glowed in the glare of their hand-held sticks of dazzling light.

  As we arrived in Happy Valley, Godfrey pointed out the cemetery situated on the sides of the mountain that sloped gently into the valley. “A most picturesque place to spend eternity,” he assured me, although not much could be appreciated at night. “Over there is the race course. Song Kung Ni owns some of the fastest ponies on the track.”

  “Is that why he chooses to live out here?”

  “I suppose,” Godfrey said, launching into a description of local racing customs.

  When I could slip in a word, I tried to focus on the reason for the journey. “What does Mr. Song know about me?”

  “More than I told him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He knew you were the taipan of the Sassoons, that your father was Benjamin of Calcutta, even your age.”

  “How did he learn that?”

  In the twinkling light of the lamps that lined the road, Godfrey's cat eyes gleamed with a golden tinge. “None of it is a secret.”

  “Does he know about my need to raise the price of opium?”

  “I hinted at your predicament.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he would like to meet you, no more, no less.” Godfrey pointed at the high wall that loomed in front of us. Beyond it I could make out the roofs of a house situated on a rise. “And here we are.” A guard with a rifle slung across his back opened the creaky iron gate. “Do you know why the Chinese like to wall their houses?” He did not wait for a reply. “To keep evil spirits out. That's the same reason their roofs curl at the corners.”

  At the entrance, two eight-foot porcelain statues of fierce tigers bracketed the doorway. In the torchlight their saber teeth gleamed menacingly, and for a moment I thought I saw blood dripping from their mouths, but dismissed the image as a shadow.

  Once inside, we walked along a dim hallway. The floors, walls, and ceiling were constructed from an aromatic wood that made our footsteps reverberate with the muffled beat of a faraway drum. Two servants wearing white silk caftans and black pantaloons bowed and opened double doors to a chamber lit by candles in stone lanterns. Elongated shadows curving from the floor up a red-silk-covered wall preceded our entrance into the room.

  A heavyset man wearing a black Chinese cap was lying on a divan on the distant side of the room. His back was turned to us. After a long moment he rolled partially on his other side, but not enough to look directly at us. “Kong Hey Fat Choi, Godfrey,” he said with a rumbling voice.

  “Happy New Year to you too. May I present Mrs. Salem, the taipan of Sassoon and Company.”

  The man cocked his head to the side too quickly for me to see much of his face, then turned away as if the light bothered him. “The world of the new year appears better and better if the taipans of the future are going to look like you, madam.” Just as Godfrey had hinted, the man's lilting accent seemed slightly Indian.

  A faint rustling caught my eye, and I turned to find two guards dressed in black from head to foot leaning against columns. Only their shuffling feet and the whites of their eyes betrayed them. Gulliver glided closer to me.

  Slowly Mr. Song Kung Ni backed his bulky frame into a chair behind a table and sat down. His arm extended to point out cushioned stools. “Make yourselves comfortable in my lair.”

  “Mr. Song, are you by any chance a tiger?” I asked to break the tension.

  Without turning around, the man tilted his head deferentially. “Godfrey, you did not warn me the taipan was well-schooled in our ways.”

  “Mr. Troyte taught my classes.”

  “How splendid for you.” The man's jowls vibrated. “What did he tell you about us tigers?”

  “Tigers are rebels,” I began, editing my remarks rapidly, since I could recall only negative images: the fault-finder, the hothead, the ringleader, the reckless and irresponsible one. “And leaders. People respect them, even those working against them, which is just as well, for the tiger prefers being obeyed to obeying.”

  Song clapped, his hands, although they were too padded to make much sound. “Well done. But that is what I would expect from a monkey.”

  “How did you know?” I asked, shooting a glance at Godfrey. He threw up his hands as if to say he was innocent. He must have mentioned it and then forgotten, or else he did not want me to realize how thoroughly he had briefed our host.

  “My friends, I see you are well-matched,” Godfrey began in a syrupy voice. “Only the snake, who is too wise for him, and the monkey, who is too clever, can outwit the tiger.” He leaned back and waited to see who would pick up that lead.

  Song did not snap at the lure. I thought he was waiting to see how I would react. Feeling that I had to reestablish myself as someone besides a monkey, I backed off the subject entirely and asked, “Did you build this magnificent house?”

  “I did,” Song said, sounding bored.

  “And you picked Happy Valley to be near the race course.”

  “That is true.”

  “Do you own many horses?”

  “Many.”

  A long silence ensued. No servants moved forward to offer refreshment. The room reeked with a fruity smell of incense and something I could not identify. My stomach churned. Faraway fireworks sounded like rifle shots. There was a loud blast from the settlement outside the walled enclosure, then stillness. Across the room a brass clock chimed. I counted along. Ten! The Hour of the Monkey. Now what? I tried to catch Godfrey's eye. Purposely he looked the other way.

  Our host stood on wobbling legs. Without turning toward us, he walked to a table, lifted a long silver implement, and stroked it. “Don't allow Godfrey to fill your head with too much peasant nonsense,” he said with his back still to us, causing me to wonder if he was disfigured or had some other reason he didn't want us to see his face. “Primitive people are easier to manipulate if you understand their crude logic. The more external rules and regulations, the simpler it is to get them to do what you want.” The man spoke in a whining, grating voice that sounded like a nail upon glass. “A wise man uses superstitions when they are useful to him, and discards the rest.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” he challenged, but before I could respond, he asked, “Has our mutual friend told you about fung shui?”

  The term was unfamiliar. “No.”

  “Fung shui,” he repeated disgustedly. “Literally it means 'wind and water.' It is a divination system the Chinese use to determine where the site for anything—from a grave to a house to an office building— should be placed to have the most propitious influence on the people concerned. All it does is create a high-paying job for the local charlatan who cl
aims to have special powers to arrange these matters.”

  “Fung shui created Happy Valley,” Godfrey rebutted in a conciliatory manner. “A grave in the southern cleft between two hills helps the dead appreciate the warm winds of winter, the cool winds of summer—as you do.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my friend. The experts rejected this site for a house,” he went on in an irritating whine. “They said the 'expression of its dragon was wrong.' Apparently even on this hill it is too low for a tiger, thus placing me at risk.” He gave a hollow laugh.

  “You seem well enough guarded to me,” Godfrey said.

  “That doesn't have anything to do with fung shui,” Song said with annoyance. “Enough of this nonsense.” Seeing him turn at last, I tried to take in his features, but they were hard to discern in the gloom. At least there was nothing abhorrent about them, although the long nose, which had a sharp twist, and the ripples of fat on his jowls and chin were hardly handsome. Godfrey had been right: the man definitely was not Chinese. He looked more like an Arab with golden skin.

  There was something else, though. I swallowed hard, fighting nausea. Must be the incense, I told myself. No, it was Song. My baffled expression alerted Gulliver, and he sidled even closer behind me.

  Our host looked out from the squinting eyes that had seemed Oriental at first. “A Gurkha—how clever. More devoted than dogs, or so I have been told.” The candlelight seemed to disturb him, so he shielded his face.

  I felt insulted for Gulliver, who never would have registered his feelings.

  “My first husband left him to me. I am afraid he takes his responsibilities seriously.”

  “Have him wait outside.”

  “He would not do that. He has sworn to protect me. Besides, you yourself have guards.”

  “Fung shui,” Godfrey reminded.

  “Phooey on fung shui!” Song said, laughing uproariously at his joke. “Guards! Those cowards? Ha! They are here to light my pipe and fetch my slippers.”

  Pipe! That was what he twisted in his hand. What I smelled was opium mixed with a sandalwood incense. The man was under its effect right now. I would have to be more circumspect. I could settle nothing with someone who was impaired, for he might come back with a different version of a deal or claim I had taken advantage of him unfairly.

  “Then why not send them away?” Godfrey wondered testily.

  “Shall I tell them to leave us?” Song asked me.

  “As you wish,” I said in a deliberately offhand manner.

  Song shot a terse Chinese command and the men in black fled the room. I waited for him to return to the subject of Gulliver, but a huge explosion, followed by myriad poppings and sparks, diverted him. He blinked his eyes and waved the air in front of him, as though shooing invisible flies. Was this the opium or some other distortion in his mind? “Now, where were we?” he said, scratching his genitals through his silk trousers.

  “Why don't we discuss the reason we are here?” Godfrey interjected mercifully.

  “You know how I hate to be rushed, God.” He chortled. “Our mutual friend quite likes my pet name for him.” His next laugh was more like a cackle.

  There was something I had to know. “When did you leave India?” I forced myself to ask in a steady voice.

  Song picked at his coat. “How did you know?”

  “Your accent.”

  “It must be twenty years . . . a long time ago.”

  “Have you been back?”

  “Once.”

  There were shouts of children running inside the walls; then a long string of firecrackers trembled the floor beneath our feet. Godfrey stood and went to look out. He waved the youngsters away, but remained at the window to make sure they did not return. I was forced to fend for myself with the revolting man. The sooner I brought up the matter of the opium prices, the sooner we could get away.

  “I suppose you know both sides of the trade.”

  Song's face relaxed slightly and a tinge of a smile raised his many chins. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you understand the needs of a Calcutta as well as a Co-Hong merchant.”

  “You might say that.”

  “Mr. Troyte seems to think you could assist us this season.”

  “Perhaps.” His voice oozed like rancid oil. “What do you require?”

  “Customers willing to purchase Benares and Patna at prices significantly higher than last year's.”

  Song waved his hands as though he was dismissing me. “I know about that. Who cares about the price? You tell me the figure you want and I will find someone who will pay it.”

  “Up to twenty percent higher?”

  “Why not? The demand is always larger than the supply, the demand does not diminish, and the customer cannot ignore his desire.”

  “Will they take seven thousand chests?”

  “Eventually. It might take a year to sell them into depleted markets. My name, 'Song,' is from the same Chinese character as 'deliver.' Ask around. See if I do not deliver what I say I will.” An odd obsequiousness had crept into his voice, one that put me on guard. “I would welcome this opportunity to represent the Sassoon interests in Hong Kong.”

  I was about to ask how we would work together, since I was certain the matter could not be as simple as he made it seem, when he placed the mouthpiece of his pipe to his lips and closed his eyes. Long eyelashes fluttered as the smoke satisfied his urgency. The pipe drooped in his hand. He gave a mild shudder and his lower lip protruded, moist and florid. A flash—either of fireworks or my memory—brought a picture to mind: a man on a veranda, with his lip puckered in the same unflattering position, mimicking the sweet song of a bulbul for a little girl.

  A wave of dizziness washed over me. Sensing I would need my wits about me, I summoned strength from every cell. “You know Calcutta, don't you?”

  “How perceptive you are, Madam Sassoon,” he said as his eyes flickered open.

  “Salem,” Godfrey interrupted. “She is Mrs. Salem now.”

  Ignoring my escort, I plunged on, while trying desperately to recall who had imitated the songbird. “Obviously, Song Kung Ni is not your birth name,” I said, and as I did, comprehension washed over me. Ni . . . was for 'Nissim.' Song Kung was for . . .

  “Sadka?” The word bubbled from my mouth like rising vomit. “My God!” I jumped up and stumbled backward, but one of the posts that supported the high peaks of the ceiling blocked my escape.

  Taking my violent reaction for the thrill of coincidence, Godfrey asked, “You know him?” with bemused amazement.

  Our host nervously licked his lips. Then his face became more composed and he spoke genially. “ 'Uncle Nissim' is what she once called me.”

  “He killed my mother!”

  “Now, Dinah, I did not,” he crooned, advancing on me. Reacting to his fetid breath, I recoiled. Gulliver was just to one side of me. “I may call you Dinah, may I not? After all, that is what I knew you as many years ago in Theatre Road.” He saw the distress in my eyes at the familiarity, but pressed on. “Yes, Theatre Road. Is it still the same? Such a splendid house.” He spoke very slowly. Each word seemed an enormous effort. “That is why I wanted so much to meet you again. Perhaps my own inquisitiveness got the better of me. Perhaps I should have restrained myself, since an old cat like Godfrey would lecture on the adverse effects of curiosity. Nevertheless, I hoped you would not recognize me after so much time had passed. You were a young child. I thought you would have forgotten. Besides, I am thrice the size of my old self.” A guttural laugh shook his belly.

  Sparks burst in front of me. Whether they were from without or within, I could not tell. “I was at the trial! I know what happened. There were witnesses. Everybody agreed you did it.”

  “The judge did not concur,” Sadka replied with infuriating confidence as he waddled back behind the wide lacquered table where his pipe had been.

  “Who killed her then?” My voice was high and thin, like a child's.

  “Why
dredge up that sad case? Wouldn't it be better to move forward? Let us resume the business at hand. Perhaps I can make it up to you now by extricating you from the terrible mess the Sassoons are in.”

  “We are not in a mess,” I spat. “We had a business deal to propose, but now that I know your identity, we could never work with you.” I stood boldly in front of the table, supporting myself by gripping the edge slightly.

  “Come now, let us not become sentimental, taipan.”

  His condescension cut through me like a knife, but after the first painful slice, something changed inside me. It was as if my blood had frozen. The wild churning diminished. My heartbeat slowed from erratic pips to long, steady beats. Even my hands did not tremble. I released the table and took one step backward. My eyes focused on his double chin and drooping cheeks. Behind that flesh was a glimmer of the man in that Calcutta courtroom long ago. “If you did not murder Luna Sassoon, who did?” I asked without a quaver.

  “I cared for your mother. If you must blame someone,” he groaned, “I suppose you must look to Moosa Chachuk.”

  “And you had nothing to do with it?”

  Sadka shrugged. “These affairs cannot be reduced to simple explanations. Your mother was a confused woman. She was dangerous to herself, to others.” His mouth turned down ominously at the corners.

  “And dangerous to you?” I thought of placid, dreamy Luna lying on her chaise longue reading Lorna Doom. Nobody was less deserving of the savage, hideous end. . . . “What could she have done to you?” I watched Sadka for any sign that he would rise up and strike me, but he seemed deflated. Something I had said had touched him. What? What had she done to him to cause him to want her dead? I had never thought this through before. Always I had seen my mother as the innocent victim of a senseless crime. Now she was something else. She had become a target because she had frightened him.

  “But why? If you really cared for her, you would have protected her, unless what they said was true.”