by Dawn Farnham
Zhen too felt a fury which he was attempting to keep under control. He moved away, putting space between them. “Not in your white man church, but before Chinese gods, before Heaven and Earth, she is my wife. That is all I will say. I want to help her.”
Tigran tried to calm himself. The fellow imagined himself wed to Charlotte in some appalling pagan rite, justified in every vile thing he did. God in heaven! He shook his head and waited until his voice was steady.
“Yes, I want to help her too. That is the only reason I do not kill you this very minute.”
Zhen smiled inside. The man had guts, for though he was sure the fellow could use the kris he doubtless had on his body somewhere, he, too, carried a weapon and was, in addition, quick on his feet. He had been the hong gun, the enforcer, of the secret society for years. This old man held no terrors. The threat came from his insecurities. Xia Lou was more important.
“Thank you.” He bowed very slightly. “Take her away, far from here where she cannot find opium, where she has no one to turn to for opium. Is there such a place?”
Tigran felt rather than heard the insolence in his voice, but he calmed down. After all, he himself had asked the man to come. “Yes, in the hills,” he replied.
“Take her there. Leave message how to go there here at the Gong Guan, and I will join you in two days. Let her have opium until then. Do not tell her about me. Let her be calm.”
He bowed again and left the room. Tigran stood, stunned at the man’s swiftness, and shook his head. What on earth was he getting them into?
When Tigran returned to Brieswijk, Charlotte was on the verandah with Takouhi. She smiled at him as he came to the table and let him kiss her cheek. She looked well. What was this stuff which she could not give up but which made her so sweet-natured? It was not her true nature, of course. It was a different kind of sweetness. On opium, she took little interest in her children, did not care about her life here, did not care about anything. She only cared about the opium, her new lover.
That evening he spoke to Takouhi. The children would stay at Brieswijk. They themselves would go to Buitenzorg tomorrow and wait for Zhen. Takouhi put her hand in Tigran’s.
“You are remarkable man, Tiga, to bring this man you dislike to your home.”
He smiled at her, ruefully. “I do not like it, but the alternative is worse. To take a little opium is very well, good for her health. But she takes it to cloak her misery, and I fear it will turn her into a wraith. She married me because she trusted me, not because she loved me, and I have killed that trust. I must restore her mind.”
He gazed out into the darkness, and Takouhi was not sure what visions he saw there.
“When she is well, I will think what to do.”
38
Charlotte turned from the terrace wall. The mountains and the tea plants looked wonderful in this light. She could sit for hours watching the shifting play of sunlight and cloud making formations against the sky. She had begun to write poetry.
Takouhi came to her side and they walked arm in arm back up the hill to the house. As they crested the last small hillock, the house came into view. She looked at the two men standing there like shadowy figures. Then, suddenly, there was a startling clarity. It was Tigran and Zhen. She frowned and moved forward. Zhen took her hand.
“Hello, Xia Lou,” he said. Charlotte, with a smile of pure joy, went up to him. He touched her cheek, looking into her eyes. He could see the contracted pupils. She moved into his arms, laying her head against his chest.
“Thank you for coming,” she said quite formally. Zhen dropped into a chair, bringing her onto his lap, and held her face on his shoulder. Soon, he knew, she would wish he had not come at all. She would want him gone. But now she curled up into him.
Tigran stood watching as this man tenderly wrapped his arms around her. He could sense the waves of love emanating from them and turned on his heel. He went to the stables, mounted his horse and galloped out into the hills.
Zhen moved Charlotte onto a chair. He bowed to Takouhi. “I know it is very difficult for you and your brother. I am sorry for this. I am grateful that your brother has such courage. I will make her well.”
Takouhi nodded her head. She, too, had seen how much this couple loved each other and was inescapably reminded of George.
They talked a little while Charlotte held his hand. Charlotte, she knew, had taken opium after lunch. Between waking and lunchtime, Charlotte seemed to have no need of it. It was as if she simply scheduled it into her day, like bathing, or writing letters. “Very well,” he said. “Tonight I will make her some herbs, which will make her sleep deeply.”
When Tigran returned, he found Takouhi and Charlotte together. Zhen was not present. Walking, Takouhi said. In the hills. She had sent one of the men with him to guide him. He had made a brew for Charlotte after dinner, before she had time to go to her room. What the startled natives would make of a large Chinese man striding through their villages she was not sure.
Zhen did not return until the evening had begun to draw in. Charlotte went up to him without a backward glance and took his hand. Tigran and Takouhi left them to eat alone. Zhen hardly touched his food, which, in any case, he did not much care for, but Charlotte ate heartily. Tigran could hardly bear watching her with him. They saw him pour her the drink and give it to her. She took it and drank without a thought. Tigran knew she did this only because she trusted him absolutely.
In fifteen minutes, Zhen took her into his arms, half-asleep, and carried her to the bedroom, kissing her until she fell asleep. Tigran did not want to think what had occurred in the bedroom, overcome with doubt at letting this man into his house, yet somehow succumbing to the inevitability of this decision.
“What will happen?” Takouhi asked.
Zhen had come to say good night, but now he sat. The brother was, understandably, aloof, but the sister seemed very kind. He suddenly remembered that he had made love to Charlotte in this woman’s magnificent house in Singapore and felt somewhat uncharacteristically abashed.
“Tomorrow morning she will wake, and she will not feel good. I will be there. I will sleep in her room.” He threw a glance at Tigran. “On the floor. Just a mattress and some bedclothes in front of the fire. It is cold here. The mountains are beautiful, remind me of Fujian, my home. But I am not used to it.”
Takouhi smiled, liking him, and called a servant.
“Her stomach will ache and her bowels will go loose,” Zhen said. Opium always … mmm … stop the bowel. She will feel sick and feverish, eyes, nose, lots of liquid, trembling. It will be at least fifteen hours since her last pill. I will give her medicine to help these feelings. The fire must be kept all night and in the day in the house. She will feel very cold.”
Zhen had made a calculation of how many grams Charlotte had been taking. He was not sure how she had started or how much she had taken, but he knew she had recently progressed to two pills a day. He had seen them. This was not good over such a short period, only six months. Some people, he knew, accustomed themselves quickly. But she was eating opium, not smoking it, for which he was grateful. It was infinitely harder to cure a smoker, for some reason he did not understand. He guessed it was the effect of smoke on the qi breath, but thought no further.
“She will ask me for opium, she will ask you. She will be angry at all of us. It is we, not her, who have made this decision,” Zhen warned them.
Overnight, Zhen dozed a little. It was strange to be here in front of a fire with her sleeping nearby. He rose, drawing a blanket round his shoulders, and looked at her. The herbs were powerful; he knew she would not wake for hours. Every night he would give them to her so she could rest. In the day, he would give others, for the cramping, the spasms, the terrible aching limbs. He hoped it would be quick, perhaps ten days before all the symptoms went away. It was tempting to undress and lie with her all night, holding her, for perhaps tomorrow she would begin to dislike him.
“Not forever, Xia Lou. You will not
dislike me forever,” he murmured. He bent over and kissed her soft lips and went back to the fire.
When she woke, it was because of a churning ache in her bowels. She sat up, alarmed, and Zhen rose from the chair where he had sat watching her for the past hour. The servant was building the fire. He went to the door and called her maid. Together they went to the commode. Zhen took up the drink he had made for her, and when she came out, he helped her back to the bed and put the glass to her lips.
“Zhen.” Charlotte looked perplexed; she trembled and pushed away the glass. Her nose was running and her eyes liquid; she felt feverish. She leaned over to the drawer and opened it for the pillbox, but it was gone.
He looked at her. “Drink this, Xia Lou, you will feel better.”
She frowned. “Feel better, Zhen? If you give me my pillbox, I will feel better immediately.”
Another wave of nausea struck her; her legs ached, and a deep wrenching pain in her stomach doubled her up. She looked at him.
“Zhen, please. What are you doing?
He put the glass to her lips. “Drink, xiao baobei, quickly, for me.”
She shook her head but took the drink, which was bitter and sweet, and swallowed it, shuddering. Within a minute, the nausea passed and the ache in her stomach lessened. She started to panic with the sudden realisation of what was happening. Only now did she wonder why on earth Zhen was here.
“You! You do this. You and Tigran. I want to see Takouhi.”
He took her hand. She tried to pull away, but he held her. He needed to make a diagnosis. He felt her pulse, which was rapid and thready on right and left. She was shivering but sweating, her muscles were in spasm. The kidney and liver were yin deficient in heat; the weakness and looseness of the bowel were a spleen qi deficiency; her agitation and anxiety showed liver qi stagnation. He knew what to do. The mixtures of medicines and acupuncture would relieve the symptoms, allowing her time to find balance.
He sat on the bed and took her in his arms. She struggled, but he would not let her go. “Xia Lou, all will be well, xiao boabei.” He sang his mother’s lullaby to her and rocked her and she relaxed.
“Xia Lou, you trust me, yes?
The drink he had given her had eased her ache. Being in his arms had eased her panic.
“Yes, Zhen,” she said, head against his chest.
“Good, my heart. You have to stop the opium.” He felt her tense and began rocking her again. “You have to stop the opium. I will make it easy for you.”
He took up a thin needle from the bedside table and showed it to her. “This is China way to ease pain and feel better. Does not hurt.”
He put the needle in his hand and let her touch it; then he took another and inserted it gently into her hand. She felt the slightest feeling, not pain, and as he moved the needle gently, her hand grew warm. He stopped and took it out.
“I am going to put these needles in your ear.” He lifted her head and kissed her, softly, deeply, willing her surrender. “Sounds strange but works very well. Yes?”
Charlotte nodded, obeying him. His kiss was like honey, almost better than opium.
“First kiss me more,” she said, and he smiled at her.
“Later, after the needles, I will kiss you until you say stop.” He took up the hair-thin needles he had placed on the bedside table. Holding her head gently, he put them into her ear, manipulating them. Her ear began to tingle, and a feeling of warmth and relaxation spread down her body. He lay her back on the bed, covered her and moved beside her, holding her hand. He began to tell her of his father’s addiction, what it had done to him and their family, how he hated it. An hour later, he took out the needles and gave Charlotte another drink. He explained what she could expect over the next few days.
She turned into his body, snuggling into his arm, still trembling. It would take time but he knew, now, it would be well. The addiction was of short duration. She would obey him, and the cravings would go. In four or five days the worst would be over. Then he would talk to Tigran. This situation had a remedy for this moment, but not for the years ahead.
When he came down with her in the afternoon, Tigran could see that whatever Zhen had said or done, she had surrendered to him. He had been right to bring this man. His love and his knowledge would get her over this. Even as he thought it, a feeling of leaden resentment filled his veins.
At dinner, Charlotte ate little, shivering, her nose and eyes streaming. When she became agitated, Zhen gave her the drink, which she gulped down. He carried out the acupuncture five times a day.
On the fifth day, he found Tigran when Charlotte had gone to sleep. Soon she would be well. It was time to deal with the cause.
“I must speak to you” Zhen said.
Tigran nodded. He had found a certain annoying respect for this fellow.
“Xia Lou will soon be well enough. I have explained the medicine to your woman. She knows herbs, she understands the treatment must continue many months. In three days, I will leave. This is problem I think. When I leave.”
Tigran nodded again.
“Yes, that will be a problem. What do you propose?”
Zhen went up to Tigran, stood near, wanting to speak man to man.
“You are good man I think. I am not bad man. You love Xia Lou. I love Xia Lou. She is woman, Yin, tender, like flower, not strong like man. Sometimes when woman lose love, she can be very sad, more sad than man.”
Zhen shook his head slightly. He could not quite explain his thoughts in English. Tigran knew very well his meaning. His thoughts had flown to Surya. But he was not going to help the man out.
“I think she love me, want to be with me. I want to take her back to Singapore with me. I am not rich like you, but I can give her a house, always love her,” Zhen said.
“As your concubine, you mean? And what of our children?”
Zhen frowned. “Yes, children, this is big problem.” It was a hideous, insurmountable problem. Zhen was Confucian enough to respect the bonds of family.
“Yes,” said Tigran, the thought that Alexander was this man’s child filling his mind. He turned away.
One thing was certain. When she was well, Charlotte must choose.
39
One morning Charlotte awoke and realised that she had no pain, no ache. She felt refreshed—not necessarily better than when she took opium, but somehow more aware of herself. The memories of what had driven her to this had surfaced, bright, without the dulling edge of the drug, but seeing Tigran and Zhen together had reassured her. The feeling of utter hopelessness had evaporated. She knew she must take the medicine for a long time, but it did not matter. She wanted, now, to see her children. Poor baby, little Adam, that she knew not at all. She could not even recall his face.
Zhen, too, had risen when he heard her. He went to her bedside, and she put up her arms and drew him to her. Ah! Lovely, lovely, to be in his arms. She still didn’t know whether to tell him about Alexander. This admission seemed too shattering to utter. She knew the way the Chinese men felt about their sons. Knew, too, the way Tigran felt about Alexander.
Zhen sat beside her. She moved her hand under his soft jacket and ran it over the silkiness of his skin. She felt her desire for him return. She sat and put her lips to his.
He rose, for the first time pulling away from her. She felt his tension.
“Tomorrow I will leave. Xia Lou, you must talk to him.”
She nodded, and he left the room.
She went to la seraille and took a long warm bath, inhaling the scent of the petals and fragrant oils. Ah! Java, she thought, so sensuous and rich. Why couldn’t they just all stay here? Tigran and Zhen. She could love them both. As the thought strayed across her mind, she knew today she must make a choice.
She dressed, enjoying every simple gesture. Brushing her hair, looking at herself in the mirror, things she had forgotten she liked. She looked good; she had gained weight, and her skin was plumper and prettier. She had been too thin.
She went
to breakfast. Zhen was not there, and a momentary flare of anxiety hit her.
Tigran saw her eyes. “He is walking, in the hills. They remind him of his home. He is a good man. You owe him a great deal, Charlotte,” Tigran said honestly.
She sat, poured coffee. Did she owe him a great deal? Perhaps Tigran owed him a great deal. They had both conspired to rid her of her “habit”, which she had rather enjoyed. But she had heard Zhen’s story of his father, the overwhelming outpouring of the anxiety and resentment towards the sufferings opium had brought on him and his family, the hatred and contempt he had for it. Fiercely, imperiously, he had made her swear she would not go back, and she had understood and made him this promise.
“Since you like him so much, perhaps I should depart the scene and leave you two together,” Charlotte teased.
Tigran smiled. She had found her nature again. No matter what, he was glad.
“Charlotte,” he began, “I see you have found your wits. In that case, it is time for us to talk. I cannot bear ever to go through this again, and doubtless neither can you. We are not children, and we must find a solution.”
He looked her in the eyes. His throat became dry, for he had absolutely no wish for what he was about to propose. He took a drink of coffee and steeled himself. “If you want a divorce, I will give you one.”
He looked down and took a breath to calm his feelings.
“Dutch law requires a five-year separation before any official divorce. In the meantime, you need have no fear about money. The house in Singapore, a settlement, all can be arranged. You will be independent; you may choose your own way. I love you and our children. I would never see you in financial difficulty, of this you can be sure.”
He felt drained. He had poured out these sentences as quickly as he could, before he could think any more about what he was saying. Charlotte made a moue and looked out over the hazy purple hills.
“The children, where would they live?”