The Orchid Tree

by Siobhan Daiko

  ***

  Sofia packed away her books in Father’s study. She’d just had her last lesson with Senhor Pereira. Officially, her education was over. Father had done what Natalia had wished for her; he’d employed the best tutors. Sofia’s chest squeezed. She still missed her governess so much. News had come via Uncle when the war had ended that Natalia had gone back to Russia, where she’d become a teacher. I hope she’s happy.

  As for herself, Sofia still had a lot to learn, and she couldn’t wait to go out into the world and learn it. Tomorrow she would start her job with Uncle, helping him set up a cotton-spinning factory in Hong Kong. She would continue taking her turn nursing Father, of course, but she couldn’t wait to learn about business. That was the future for her. She’d begged Father to let her work for him in the Consortium; he’d said it was Leo’s domain now and, given their animosity towards each other, he couldn’t allow it.

  How to be nice to Leo? Leo no longer taught her martial arts. Leo no longer smiled at her. Leo no longer even talked to her if he could help it. Nearly five years had gone by since Michiko and her family had died. A deed for which he blamed Natalia, and, by association, Sofia. At first, each time she saw him, she’d pleaded with him that she’d known nothing about Natalia’s subterfuge. Father had been right about Leo’s character – he only saw things in black and white. And his jealousy had returned. It wasn’t the jealousy of a boy; it was the jealousy of a grown man, insidious and so much worse.

  The study door swung open, and there he was. Wasn’t there a saying that you shouldn’t think of the devil or you’ll conjure him up? Ha! Leo wasn’t a devil; he was just flawed.

  ‘I’ve come from your uncle’s. He’s let me down. I won’t be using him for any of my shipments in future.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re welcome to him. I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw him.’ He spun on his heel and left the room.

  A ridiculous urge to stick out her tongue, but she wouldn’t do it. She was too old for such nonsense. Sofia picked up her last English grammar book and shoved it into the box by her feet. The servants would deal with it later. She needed to check on Father before her martial arts teacher arrived for her weekly lesson.

  18

  At the stern of his launch in Macau’s Inner Harbour, James eyed the sampans and junks clustered along the foreshore. It was his first day back at work after two days in hospital and a week on leave. His lungs were back to normal, thank God, but he still hadn’t tackled Tony about his failure to seize the junk. Scratching his head, James looked down at the muddy water. A sampan, deftly sculled by an old Chinese woman, had come alongside.

  A lanky blond man, sat at the prow, shaded his eyes with a hand. ‘Are you Lieutenant James Stevens?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then Mr K C Leung would like you to have dinner in the Bela Vista Hotel at eight o’clock.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Who the hell is K C Leung? ‘I don’t accept invitations from people I don’t know.’

  ‘Mr Leung is the uncle of the girl you freed a couple of weeks ago. I’m Derek Higgins, by the way.’

  James laughed. ‘You already know who I am.’

  ‘My employer makes it his business to know everything that goes on in Macau. And he knows you’ve been surveying the coastline.’

  ‘It’s a heck of a task. Hasn’t been updated since before the war.’

  ‘Haven’t you bitten off a bit more than you can chew?’

  James straightened his back. ‘Not at all.’

  Higgins smirked. ‘I’ll see you at eight?’

  ‘I apologise again. But I can’t have dinner with a smuggler.’

  ‘Mr Leung doesn’t wish to compromise you. He merely wishes to discuss a proposal. Who knows? He might even be able to help you in your anti-smuggling operation.’

  Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe Leung will shed some light on Tony’s recent activities?

  ‘The Bela Vista, you say? Why not? I’ve heard the food is excellent.’

  Up on the bridge, James took out the charts he’d prepared from his last visit here. The shifting tides, sandbanks and mud from the Pearl River were making completion of his survey more difficult than he cared to admit. He rolled up his papers and gave his six-man crew the order to leave.

  James spent the rest of the day crisscrossing the narrow straits separating Macau from China, taking soundings of the depths and recording information to be drawn up into charts. From the corner of his eye, he could see a distant junk keeping pace with his launch. He rubbed his chin. One junk looked much like another, but it was definitely the same junk, unmistakable for the rectangular patch in one of its sails.

  ***

  He climbed down to his dinghy, the setting sun pinking the sky. He’d put on the white full dress uniform with gold epaulettes, kept on board for meeting local dignitaries. Not that Leung could be considered a dignitary. James had a feeling he’d need to put on a show tonight, even if he had no jurisdiction in Portuguese Macau. Why had Leung invited him to dinner?

  His boatswain rowed him towards the pier. At the top of the barnacle-covered steps James signalled for a rickshaw. A middle-aged man, with teeth that were just blackened stumps, stopped chewing a stick of sugarcane and grinned at James. Calf muscles bulging, the man loped between the shafts of the vehicle, pulling him at a steady pace down a narrow street.

  The aroma of sizzling pork from the pavement kitchens mingled with the swampy stench of old drains. Zigzagging between bicycles, rickshaws and cars, a coolie in a straw hat carried a bamboo pole bent over his shoulder, bow-shaped from the weight of his load. A woman with a baby in a sling on her back stepped right into the path of the rickshaw.

  A swerve, and the woman pushed her way between the stalls and into the open doorway of a jewellery shop. From the upstairs windows the clack of mah-jong tiles clashed with the hubbub of music and voices shouting in Macanese. One day soon he would spend longer in Macau, maybe even his next leave, James promised himself. He’d love to explore the cobbled streets of the old town and immerse himself in the exotic atmosphere.

  After loping along an avenue lined with banyan trees and up a small hill, they arrived at the Bela Vista. Higgins was leaning against the door frame of the elegant nineteenth century mansion. ‘At last,’ he said, holding a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and flicking ash.

  James settled his fare. It was only five minutes past eight; he wasn’t late. He lengthened his stride and followed Higgins through the foyer, up a staircase to a mezzanine floor, then past a reception desk and bar.

  In the restaurant, the smuggler got up from his seat and pulled out the chair next to him. ‘Let me introduce myself properly,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘I am K C Leung.’

  ‘How do you do?’ James shook hands. He sat down and glanced at the woman sitting opposite Leung. Not the dishevelled girl he’d “rescued”, but one so striking he had to look away in order not to be thought rude for staring.

  ‘This is Miss Sofia Rodrigues,’ Higgins said from the other side of the table. ‘I believe you swam together, but haven’t met formally.’

  James leaned forward and extended his hand, briefly glancing at her tight-fitting cheongsam dress, her small breasts outlined against the silk.

  Sofia’s warm fingers pressed his. He sat back and contemplated his surroundings. Potted palms stood like sentinels in the corners of the room. A Latin crooner, accompanied by a pianist, was singing I’ve got you under my skin. Wooden ceiling fans stirred the air, although the heat and humidity of summer had passed.

  The Bela Vista was everything he’d imagined: starched linen, silverware and candlesticks on the tables, waiters jumping to light his cigarette.

  Shame you’re almost certainly not here for the pleasure of your company.

  Leung confirmed his order of the most expensive choices on the menu: shark’s fin soup, abalone and fried shrimp.

  ‘I hope you’re fully recovered,’ Sofia said, smilin
g at James.

  ‘No after-effects. What about you?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Do you like Macau?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘My niece would prefer live in Hong Kong.’ Leung gestured towards the girl. ‘She think Macau dull. Anyway, she grew up here. Macau neutral and safer place during last war. But people starving. I got a friend who drank soup. Found human finger floating in it.’

  ‘How disgusting.’ James had heard the story before and doubted it was true.

  ‘I was in Hong Kong during the war,’ Higgins butted in. ‘The Japs locked me up in the internment camp at Stanley.’

  ‘My Chief Officer was there too,’ James said. ‘Commander Tony Chambers. Perhaps you remember him?’

  Higgins tugged at his collar. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘Are you based in Macau?’ James asked.

  ‘Here and in Hong Kong. I look after Mr Leung’s business interests there. But I have a fireworks factory here.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ James smiled at Leung. ‘Might I ask what those interests are?’

  ‘This and that. This and that.’

  Sofia leaned across the table. ‘Our food is arriving,’ she said to her uncle. ‘Remember it is impolite to chat too much while eating. Let’s save our energy for digestion!’

  They ate in relative silence, making small talk about the dishes and toasting them with Mao-tai wine.

  After dinner, James shot a glance at Sofia. She was regarding him in a thoughtful way. ‘Derek and I will leave you now.’ She stood up. ‘Uncle wishes to talk to you alone.’

  ‘You have interesting job, Lieutenant Stevens,’ Leung said, fishing an ivory toothpick from his pocket and slipping it into his mouth.

  James took a sip of water, watching Leung move the toothpick with his tongue.

  ‘You found out if ships can navigate the straits?’

  James rubbed his chin. ‘That will depend on the tides.’

  Leung removed the toothpick and put it back in his pocket. ‘I think even at high tide it will be impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because mud from river always clogging up the estuary.’

  ‘Not true. There are channels deep enough.’

  ‘I have fleet of junks that trade between Macau and China.’ Leung gave him a cold, hard stare. ‘We know these waters.’

  ‘The charts will be published.’ James put his glass down. ‘And, at high tide, it’ll be perfectly possible for ships to navigate.’

  ‘Maybe you make error in one of your measurements? The sea will be too shallow for ocean-going vessels.’

  ‘I haven’t made any mistakes.’

  Leung laughed and slapped his thighs, great guffaws escaping from his throat. ‘I give you ten thousand dollars, help you make a mistake.’

  James blinked. Ten thousand dollars was more cash than he could save in years. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it.’

  Leung’s eyes narrowed; his mouth became a straight line. His cheeks flushed red and anger blazed in his dark irises. Then his expression changed, as if a blackboard rubber had wiped the frown off his face, and he laughed again. ‘I admire your integrity, Lieutenant Stevens. You think I smuggle for my own profit? You are wrong. I am helping my country be great again. China is sleeping dragon that will wake as soon as we get rid of Kuomintang.’

  ‘The Customs is a Chinese government organisation. I work for your country.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you work for wrong side. What will happen to your job when communists win?’

  ‘I’ll find something else if push comes to shove.’

  ‘Not if, but when,’ Leung said.

  ‘Well, thank you for an interesting evening and a delicious dinner.’ James got to his feet. ‘It’s late and I need to return to my launch. Please give my compliments to your niece.’

  Leung lit a cigar and waved him off. He strode past the bar. Sofia and Higgins were deep in conversation. Envy stabbed James at the thought of Higgins with the girl. She was off-limits to him, however; he’d be drummed out of the Customs if he were seen with the niece of a smuggler. God she was beautiful. And exotic, with those dark-grey eyes. She spoke English with an intriguing accent, too. How did she come by that?

  Back on his launch, the cool night air was a gentle caress. He lit a cigarette and stared at gas lights on the sea-wall reflecting in the harbour. A full moon had launched a glimmer of silver across the swell of the waves.

  He gazed at the silent sea shining in the moonlight. The fishing fleet had already sailed out, the sampans like dozens of fireflies hovering on the horizon. He hoped Leung was wrong about the outcome of the civil war in China, but only a few months ago the Nationalist Government had instructed the Customs to transfer their gold reserves to Taiwan.

  Not a good sign.

  A rumble, similar to the sound of a London bus straining uphill, and James spun around. A motorised cargo junk was heading straight for his launch!

  ‘Weigh anchor,’ he yelled to his crew.

  Heart pounding, he hauled himself up the steps to the bridge. The bows of the heavily-built junk curved towards him. His launch would become driftwood! Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck.

  He braced himself, ready for the collision. Then, at the last moment, the junk veered and shaved the launch’s starboard quarter. Wash splashed the foredecks and the boat rocked from side to side.

  Knuckles white, James gripped the railing as the junk disappeared into the darkness. An accident? Or deliberate? Could this have something to do with Leung? James wiped his forehead. He had to find out more about the smuggler and his connections . . .

  ***

  James stepped onto a sampan at North Point. A diminutive woman sculled him across the harbour towards small, rocky Kellett Island, the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club headquarters.

  They passed through a cluster of fishing boats. The chatter of conversations floated across the water. James breathed in the aroma of salty spices and his mouth watered. A family was squatting at their low table on the deck of their junk, dipping chopsticks into the communal dishes. A chow dog barked as James’ sampan passed the stern of a large trawler, and a bare-bottomed boy peed into the sea, sending an arc of urine into the air.

  At the island’s landing stage, James paid the boatwoman and clambered ashore. Steps led to a dining room overlooking the harbour. There were Tony and Jessica Chambers, sitting at a table by the window!

  ‘James, darling,’ Jessica said, pecking him on the cheek. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Rita Hayworth. ‘How lovely to see you. We must introduce you to Hong Kong society.’ She tilted her head. ‘Can’t have you eating on your own like this.’ Jessica took a black Russian cigarette with a gold foil filter from her silver cigarette case, and offered him one.

  James declined and held out his lighter.

  Jessica inhaled deeply, her red hair catching the candlelight as she blew smoke towards him. ‘There aren’t many suitable ladies around.’ She laughed. ‘But a good-looking chap like you shouldn’t have any trouble . . .’

  ‘Just don’t get involved with a Chinese or Eurasian woman,’ Tony chipped in. ‘It’s not considered appropriate.’

  James tensed; he’d see whomever he liked. To hell with the snobbery and prejudice that flourished in the colony. But he had to make his way in this place, where colonial attitudes governed society. From what he’d seen, and he hadn’t needed to see much to form an opinion, the expatriate population was determined to keep up appearances and live as if they were in one of those glitzy nineteen thirties films. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he’d almost had to reinvent himself here, so far from his roots.

  ***

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ James said to Tony in the office the following morning. ‘With all the time off I’ve had recently, I haven’t had the chance until now. Why didn’t we seize that junk?’

  ‘What junk?’

  ‘You know. When I nearly drowned.’

 
‘Ah, yes. I’ll tell you in a few weeks’ time.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Tony put a finger to the side of his nose. ‘Trust me and be patient.’

  James picked up a stone seal with his Chinese name, Shen Je-man, on it. He dipped it into a flat bowl of red ink and stamped his chart of the Pearl River estuary.

  Bloody Tony. What was he up to? Could he be taking kickbacks from Leung? Surely not. There has to be another explanation . . .

  19

  I sat next to Lieutenant James Stevens in the Customs motor boat, spots of blood seeping through my cotton gloves, the breeze blowing my hair away from my face. Even at this time of day, the port was busy: barges clustered around ships at anchor; beetle-shaped ferries plied their way towards the mainland; neon advertising signs lit up the tenements on the waterfront. It was just as I remembered and my nerves tingled in anticipation.

  In spite of everything that had happened, I was glad to be back. When I’d arrived in Sydney I’d lived with Papa, who’d taken extended leave to recover from internment. Our rented house in Pymble was near the Ladies’ College where I’d repeated my final year of school. The appalling conditions in Stanley towards the end had meant that I hadn’t been able to concentrate on my studies.

  After that first Christmas in Australia, I became a weekly boarder. Papa was soon his old self; he’d joined a golf club where he spent the days putting about on the greens or socialising in the bar, knocking back the whisky sodas, and smoking his pipe as much as before the war.

  To begin with I found the unaccustomed freedom and abundance of food strange. At school the girls were pleasant enough, but they’d already formed their cliques. I made friends, but not close ones. Having lost touch with my pre-war chum, Mary, and pining for Charles, I’d found it difficult to form any attachments.

  A year later, Papa returned to Hong Kong as Taipan of Wellspring Trading, the company he’d been in charge of before the war, and I started at Teacher Training College. It was a fast-track course, only two years, to meet a shortage. And now, here I was – back in Hong Kong.