He picked up the jade brush-rest and gently placed it in Edward’s cupped hands. The boy spent a moment just staring at it, then carefully lifted it to the light of the open window, smiling.
He lowered his hand and with one small finger gently stroked each segment, each individual seed head, then traced the edge of the leaf.
‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to have lots of these …’
PART Two
10
Edward stopped his car outside the tiny cottage Chen Mu had bought with a small bequest from Matthew Dawson, and turned off the engine. It coughed once, twice, and not for the first time Edward wished he could buy the car of his dreams. He was driving a brand new, just released 1929 Model A Ford, but the car of his dreams was a Stutz Black Hawk Speedster, from the US. It reportedly had the ability to reach speeds of over 100 miles per hour, as opposed to the Ford, which had a top speed of just over sixty. How he would love to experience that speed! But with the Stutz priced at over six thousand US dollars, the Ford, priced at just over a hundred pounds – about the equivalent of two hundred US dollars – was deemed more acceptable. He’d never hear the end of it, from both Julia and his mother, were he to spend so much on the Black Hawk.
Edward got out of the car and, leaning against the bonnet, lit a cigarette. Though nearly the end of spring, it had snowed again during the night, and the whole township of Macoomba was hushed. A timid sun glowed white in a grey sky, and deep in a valley beside the road plumes of fog rose and twirled and shrouded snow gums and massive tree ferns. The air was crisp, smelling of eucalypt, rich wet soil and burning wood from smoke escaping chimneys. In the sudden quiet, from deep in a misty glade of the forest surrounding the township came the distinctive pilick pilick call of a lyrebird.
This was the part of the country Edward loved most – this little township cradled by the Snowy Mountains, surrounded by deep orange cliffs and lush green foliage. It had a peaceful, almost mythical feel, and seemed to whisper that here a man could relax, and not be afraid to be alone with his thoughts …
But just then Edward heard the cottage door open. He threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
‘Master Edward! Come in, come in! It’s good to see you again.’
‘And you too, my old friend.’
‘Here, let me take these. Come sit by the fire.’
‘How are you, Chen Mu? You look well.’
‘I can’t complain. These poor joints are starting to stiffen, but I suppose I have to expect it. But you, Master Edward – you look like a man of the world!’
Edward laughed. It was true that he felt different, but did it show? Life in Shanghai had proven very different from the life he’d known in the Australian bush, or from the cloistered existence he’d lived as an Oxford scholar. Different even from his life in Sydney, where he’d established himself as a married man and an expert in Chinese antiquities.
There had been a time when he thought his life as a student to have been the most exciting, the most decadent – wrapped in the languid lifestyle of the privileged, money no object, he’d quickly come to understand that simply attending Oxford was just as important as actually attaining a degree, and so he’d immersed himself fully in the student lifestyle – with long philosophical discussions on the problems of the world, discussions that would last long into the night, fuelled by huge brandies, after which he’d sneak back to his room, drunk, and long after curfew. A brief foray into a relationship with one of the boys, only to fall back into the arms of the cute little brunette who worked at the local tavern – he would quote Milton and Shelley to her, and did not correct her belief that he’d made up these poems just for her, right there on the spot. It had been an intoxicating time, filled with parties and dance clubs, alcohol and eager women. Winning accolades in rugby and cricket, applause for his roles in the Dramatic Society’s latest productions, and praise for the articles he’d had published in Cherwell, the radical student newspaper. But compared to Shanghai, Oxford had been pretty tame …
This first visit to China had only lasted a month, but he felt he’d lived more in that one short month than in all of the previous twenty-four years of his life. Is that what Chen Mu could see? But Edward didn’t want to tell Chen Mu the details of this past month. He didn’t think the old man would approve …
‘I’ll make us a pot of tea, then I want to hear everything,’ Chen Mu said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Did you get to my village? And Shanghai – what did you think of Shanghai? Did you go to the Old Town?’
‘No, not your village. I didn’t get out of Shanghai – maybe next trip.’ He followed Chen Mu into the small kitchen. ‘I did get to Old Town, as you call it. It’s changed a lot, I’m told. The moat and wall are gone—’
‘Gone?’
Edward nodded. ‘Back in 1911 – soon after Sun Yat-sen’s Revolution. Shanghai’s a very different place now, compared to when you were there, I’d imagine. Crowded with Westerners, all making their fortunes. The Yanks are there too – Victor Sassoon’s pouring millions into the place. Putting up buildings everywhere. Just finished Sassoon House – twenty storeys high! It’s a hotel, shops, offices, all in one.’
‘But the Old City?’
‘It’s still there. Very overcrowded though. They say there’s over a million Chinese living there now, in just that little square mile. And it looks it – slush and squalor and decay everywhere. And the stench – suffocating! They say it’s unsafe …’
Chen Mu shrugged as he set up a tea tray. ‘Westerners always considered it unsafe.’
‘Perhaps – but forget the Chinese City for a minute. Here, give me that tray – I have a gift for you.’
Chen Mu stroked the small ivory and bamboo tiles that lay in the drawers of the rosewood box. He picked one up and scrutinised the ideograph carved into it: Among the mountains shines a bright moon. He put the tile back in place and closed the box. ‘Thank you, it’s a beautiful gift. Do you play, Master Edward?’
‘Everyone in Shanghai does; Mahjong’s the latest trend.’
‘A trend as old as Confucius, some say. But I’ve never played. Always too busy with work, unfortunately … So – you must teach me. The pupil will become the teacher, and the teacher will become the pupil!’
‘If you’d like.’
‘I’d like. But not today. Today I want to hear about your trip. Did you find anything for your museum? And your mother? Your wife? Are they well?’
‘They’re fine. I’m spending a week with Mother at Walpinya before going back to Sydney. She’s getting old, of course, and you can’t get her to admit it. But the manager’s excellent. The station’s doing well.’
‘They’re not affected by the Wall Street crash?’
Edward shook his head. ‘No, not really. Sometimes I think Shanghai and Walpinya must be the only two places in the world that’ll remain immune to it.’
‘I wouldn’t be too confident just yet – it’s very early days. I’ve a feeling things are going to get much worse, and for a long time to come. But Walpinya should be safe. Your grandfather was clever, and built his fortune on concrete, solid things – land, cattle, mines …’
‘I suppose. Boeuf bouilli – boiled beef, the secret of Walpinya’s wealth. Our boys ended up calling it bully beef – did you know that?’ Chen Mu shook his head. ‘Only my grandfather would use a war to double his wealth …’
‘No, there’ve been others. Your grandfather was just a wise business man.’
‘Maybe. But the way I see it, he just saw an opportunity and grabbed it – got in first, as usual. Probably called in every favour, undercut everyone else – anything to make a profit. It’s how he did things, you know …’
Chen Mu was not surprised by Edward’s attitude – he knew there had been friction between Matthew Dawson and his grandson, not the least of which was Edward’s refusal to join him on the land. He’d often wondered if Edward going to Oxford was more an escape than a real wish of obtaining
a degree.
‘And your mother? Julia? Are they well?’ he asked, wanting to turn the conversation.
‘Yes, they’re both well. Julia and I are expecting a child.’
Once more Chen Mu ignored the hint of bitterness in Edward’s voice – he’d guessed Edward’s marriage was not a happy one. Julia Hampshire – now Billings – was the only child of Robert Hampshire, who owned the property adjoining Walpinya Station. She and Edward had dated every time Edward had returned home for holidays from boarding school, then from Oxford. They’d married within a month of Edward graduating. Chen Mu had wondered, at the time, how well Edward really knew Julia, and if the rumours Chen Mu had heard were true, it was Julia who’d insisted he take up the position of curator of Chinese antiquities at the Technological Museum of Sydney, rather than any other position he’d been offered. Used to her father’s money and getting her own way, Julia had quickly established herself as one of Sydney’s brightest socialites, with mention of her attending all the important functions appearing regularly in the papers. Chen Mu had noted, however, that Edward was rarely mentioned.
‘A child is wonderful news. Congratulations! When is it due?’
‘Early next year. Julia’s having a bad time of it – she doesn’t like her social activities curtailed. Says she’s too young. And of course, now that she’s showing …’
‘She’ll soon be back doing what she likes, once the child’s born.’
‘Maybe …’
The two men stared into the fire, each lost in his own thoughts. Chen Mu was saddened by Edward’s obvious cynicism. He thought of the lonely little boy he’d befriended and taught to speak Mandarin; he’d never imagined it would spark an interest that would shape the boy’s life. Their friendship, and the Chinese lessons, had continued all through Edward’s schooling and even when he’d left for further studies in England, via letters. But though they’d become very close, Chen Mu had never been able to drop the title of ‘Master’, as Edward would have liked him to do. And neither could he prod too deeply into Edward’s unhappiness.
But he wasn’t surprised at Edward’s bitterness. Under this apathetic attitude, he knew Edward to be a passionate man, but he’d never detected much passion in his friend’s voice whenever he talked of Julia. He’d heard the talk around town at the time of how fitting this marriage was, how wise the joining of two prominent families. He suspected Matthew Dawson and his daughter had exerted pressure on Edward, and that his friend had been too weak to oppose it. How unlike his own marriage! He had adored Sahira, and she him. He still loved her deeply – always would – and there were times when he still spoke to her, as if she were there, right next to him in the room …
Chen Mu’s thoughts returned to Edward’s expected child. Would it make their marriage any happier? Maybe – or destroy it completely. He remembered how much he’d wanted a child, and how ashamed of that wish he’d been in the end.
He sat in the doctor’s waiting room. Behind closed doors Sahira was being examined. For weeks now she’d been pale and easily tired, and occasionally he’d seen her, thoughtful, feeling her belly when she thought no one was watching. Chen Mu was sure she was pregnant, though she’d denied it and become angry when he’d mentioned it.
‘Mr Chen? You can come in now.’
He found Sahira curled up in a chair, crying softly.
‘Sahira?’
She closed her eyes tight and shook her head.
‘Sahira, what’s wrong?’ Chen Mu fought a growing sense of panic.
‘Sit down, Mr Chen, please.’
‘No.’ He crouched beside her and took her hands in his. ‘Sahira, look at me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me!’ But Sahira would not open her eyes.
‘Your wife is ill, Mr Chen. Very ill. Please, sit down.’
Chen Mu sat, but he did not let go of Sahira’s hands.
‘When I examined your wife, I found a mass in her abdomen. Quite a large one …’
For a split second Chen Mu wanted to tell the doctor he was wrong, that the mass he’d felt was not in Sahira’s abdomen but in her womb. His long-awaited child. But Sahira’s grief told him there was no error.
‘… together with the recent vomiting. It leaves me no doubt. I believe your wife has cancer.’
‘No.’
‘Mr Chen, I have no doubt. Your wife—’
‘But you can do something. You can cure it.’
‘No, Mr Chen. It’s too late. We don’t have a cure. At best we can …’
Chen Mu blocked out the doctor’s words. He didn’t want to listen. Wished he hadn’t heard any of those words. But it was too late – he couldn’t get them out of his head. Cancer. A death sentence. His beautiful Sahira was going to die. No! He wouldn’t allow it! He’d find other doctors, men more learned than this one. Men who would know how to cure her. No matter what it took, no matter how much it cost. He would get into debt that would take him the rest of his life to repay if it meant his Sahira would live. He wanted to scream. Scream at the doctor. Look at him – how could he sit there so calmly and tell him his wife was going to die? What sort of a man was he? What did he know, really?
Chen Mu had wanted to take Sahira to other doctors, but she’d refused. He should have insisted, and the fact that he hadn’t tormented him to this day. But Sahira only wanted to rest. She stopped work and spent most of her time sitting in a chair near wherever Chen Mu was working, just watching, as if she wanted to take in every detail of him before it was too late. But soon she could no longer do even that, and Chen Mu spent days by her side, mopping up the black vomit and encouraging her to sip water, not caring whether he lost his job or not.
Sahira died late one autumn afternoon, even before the trees had lost their leaves. It had been the darkest period of his life, and he remembered how, after her funeral, everyone’s condolences had so angered him that he’d wanted to smash their sympathetic faces; he’d hated them for living, even hated young Edward for crying at the funeral. What right did they have to live when his Sahira did not?
He’d taken off into the bush with no more than a water canteen, not caring where he was going, or whether he lived or died. All he could think about was how his wish for a child had blinded him to her illness. For three days he’d just walked, hating himself, surviving only on water until so exhausted he’d fall asleep against a tree, and when he woke he’d walk some more. Weak from lack of food, he’d come to a part of the river that reminded him of the swimming hole at Walpinya Station where Sahira had first become his, and he’d stayed there just staring at the water, remembering, until at last he’d been able to grieve. By the time he got back to Walpinya he knew she would have wanted him to go on – he had to accept that his Sahira was gone. The universal order of things …
11
Edward observed Chen Mu, who appeared to be dozing. There were times he wished he could be more like his friend – such a peaceful, humble little man … What must it be like to live a life free from any problem or worry? To know what each day will bring? Never having to compromise nor bend to anyone else’s will? Strange that this simple little man should mean more to him than his own family. But then, Chen Mu and Sahira had been more like parents to him than his own family. And Chen Mu never expected anything from him – never questioned his motives nor disapproved of his behaviour, unlike his mother and grandfather …
He still remembered their anger when he’d finally drummed up the courage to write home from Oxford, to announce that he was not studying Agricultural Economics as they assumed him to be, because he had no intention of following in his grandfather’s footsteps. Matthew Dawson had threatened to disinherit him, and it was only Julia’s intervention that calmed the old man. She too had no intention of staying on the land, and she knew how to manipulate the men in her life.
They were similar in many ways, he and Julia, so why did he feel so little for her? But then, he knew Julia felt the same about him – he was just an accessory to her, someone to provide a level of respec
tability to hide behind, so as to allow her freedoms in Sydney that would not be accepted of a single woman. No wonder he had jumped at the chance of going to Shanghai!
Edward thought of the pleasures of Shanghai – pleasures he didn’t feel comfortable telling Chen Mu about. Released from the social constraints of home, Edward – like many Westerners – had not hesitated to sample the pleasures of the East – pleasures that would be frowned upon, here in Australia.
In Shanghai, he’d dined and tangoed, listened to jazz and drunk cocktails till morning, then slept a few hours only to waken in time for more cocktails and dinner dances, followed by more clubs and more cabarets.
He’d met a gorgeous cigar-smoking woman who proudly told him she much preferred sex with women than with men, but who might be willing to make an exception in his case … if he didn’t mind a bit of pain. And he’d met a highly perfumed young man who shyly told him he much preferred sex with both men and women at the same time, and who offered to introduce Edward to these delights.
He’d been taken to the brothels of Frenchtown where the prostitutes were second-class but the brothels first class, and where you had a choice of ‘risky’ girls for $5 or ‘guaranteed disease-free’ for $10.
And he’d drunk cocktails of every colour of the rainbow then lain in a dark cubicle sucking on an opium pipe like a child on its mother’s breast, feeling very mellow while watching a long-haired beauty twist the dark, sticky opium around a pin before placing it in an opium pipe and heating it over a lamp, until it bubbled and crackled and finally vaporized.
During the day he’d trawled the streets and curio shops looking for artefacts and antiques, and he’d enjoyed, at first, the feeling that came with being the one who had the power to accept or refuse what was being offered, to argue a price and walk out if his offer was not met. But then an English art collector staying at the same hotel had looked at his earlier buys and burst out laughing.
The Yellow Papers Page 8