“It’s very nice,” Aiden said, wondering if Gouzhi had actually hit him hard enough for hallucinations. “Thank you.”
The room had one window, with a flour sack nailed to the frame for a curtain, and a narrow shelf with a jug of water, a tin cup and a small stack of newspapers. The barmaid set the lamp down on the shelf.
“There’s a chamber pot beneath the bed if you need—but you empty it yourself, not me.”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you. What is your name?”
“Avia.”
“Thank you, Avia. May I ask, please, we would like it if no one knew we were here—especially the Chinese girl.”
“No one asks anyone’s business here,” Avia said. “Though you’d do best to stay in the room, miss, and not be seen.”
She left them then, and Aiden latched the door. Ming sat on the edge of the bed, still silent and numb.
“You’re safe,” Aiden said. He knelt and slipped off her wet shoes. He unrolled the damp socks and pulled off her trousers, the hems heavy with mud. There was nothing sexual about any of this now—only something like peacefulness. He pulled back the rough blankets and nudged her between the coarse sheets. He climbed in beside her and pulled the heavy blankets up over them, spooning up against her back with an arm around her. Ming took his hand in hers and pressed it against her chest. She was still shaking, not constantly, but in little spasms like an injured bird.
Aiden woke disoriented, but strangely calm. He opened his eyes and saw Ming, wide awake, her brown eyes gazing at him. A thin gray light washed through the narrow window, painting the room in watercolor softness and lighting up the flour sack’s proclamations. Finest Grade. Highest Purity. Guaranteed Best Quality. Her face was luminous above the rough gray blanket.
“Hello,” he said. What a strange glory this was—like waking up in mythology. He touched her hand and it still did not seem real. “You are so beautiful.”
“I did not choose it.”
“But you still are.”
“You fight in your sleep,” she said.
Aiden sat up in alarm. He saw there was a bruise on her cheekbone and slight swelling at the corner of her eye. “Did I hit you?”
“No, this was from Gouzhi. You fought against the little angels.” She reached up and stroked one of the carved cherubs on the headboard. The dark portraits stared indifferently across the room at each other.
“Is this…” She hesitated. “A usual sort of house?”
“No,” Aiden laughed. “Not at all.”
“These are ancestors?” Ming said.
“I suppose,” Aiden said. He stroked her hair. “Do you feel all right?”
“I don’t know how I should feel. I am in mourning for my brother. I am joyful to think I will not marry Silamu Xie. I am afraid of what will come.” She smiled shyly. “And I am happy to be with you.”
Her body moved toward his, as naturally as the morning. What began as comfort soon flamed into passion again. It was different this time—slower, intuitive, their bodies tuned to each other so that every touch and movement rippled back and forth between them. They could stay forever, Aiden thought as they lay curled together after, right here on this wall-to-wall bed. He would buy soft quilts and smooth sheets and fluffy down pillows, paints and brushes and paper for Ming to paint with, bags of cookies and bread and ham, piles of books, dresses with lace and jars of cream for her skin (though she didn’t need it—her skin was perfect—but girls always wanted creams), and day after day could pass in perfect love.
“I must tell you something,” Ming said. “I am feeling shame to my brother. The story he told you, of how he learned to swim? That is not the truth.”
“What do you mean?” Aiden leaned up on one elbow.
“My father did tie a rope to Jian and hold him from the bridge. It was a very little bridge—only two feet above the water. Jian was a soft and lazy boy and did not want to swim. He screamed and cried that he was drowning, but no boy will drown with his father holding the rope. I did throw flowers into the river, but I was not giving him help, I was laughing at him. I was mean. I said, ‘Here, my silly brother! Here are some beautiful blossoms to decorate your tomb. Come and get them before you sink to the bottom.’ I was teasing him. Now I feel shame.”
“I’m sure he didn’t even remember that,” Aiden said.
“Oh, I am sure that he did,” Ming said. “After, he threw clods of dirt at me and put me in the cupboard with the spiders.”
“Well, then, I think that was payback enough. He loved you just the same,” Aiden assured her, though he had no idea if Jian really had or not. “I had a sister,” he said, stroking her hair. “She died in a river. I would have walked across the world to get her back.”
Ming took his face in her hands and they kissed again. Why didn’t people just kiss all the time? Aiden wondered. But finally he had to force himself away.
“I have to go,” he said. “There are some things I have to take care of. You’ll have to stay here. Don’t leave the room. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where do you go?”
“I have to send word to Christopher,” Aiden said. “To let him know I’m all right. Then I’ll go talk to my friend Fish. He was the captain on our ship, and he can help me think where we might go.”
“Go?”
“You can’t stay in San Francisco. At least for a while. Fish will help us know our choices.”
Ming lay back and scanned the faces of the ancestors. “I have never had choices,” she said softly. “How does one know what choice to take?”
“You pick the one that seems most likely to work out,” Aiden said.
“How can you know that?”
“Sometimes you just have to trust what feels right.” A watery sunlight illuminated the flour-sack curtain and cast blurred word shadows on her bare shoulder. Highest Purity. Guaranteed Best Quality. “Does this feel right?”
Ming nodded. “Yes.”
“I won’t be long.” He bent and kissed her, then kissed her again. He should not feel so ebullient when her whole world had turned upside down, but he couldn’t help it. “There’s water in the pitcher there, and I’ll ask Avia to bring you something to eat. What do you like?”
“I don’t know,” Ming said. “I’ve never had American food before. I liked what we ate last night. I liked cheese.”
“Cheese?” Aiden laughed. “I can get you cheese. I promise you a lifetime of cheese!”
Aiden ducked his head and climbed sideways down the narrow staircase. The door to Paradise was locked, so he had to exit into the alley past the outhouse, thread his way through the narrow passages to the main street. The morning was foggy, gray, damp and cold, but Aiden felt exhilarated. He felt bad for Ming, of course. He had lost everyone in his own family and knew the pain too well. But while there was room in his head for pain, his soul felt only love—with its unexpected weight and hum. And he felt relief. He had done his duty to Jian. There was a needle of dread still lodged inside him, a stab of guilt, but really, what could he have done differently? And if he helped Ming—Lijia—as he had promised, didn’t that balance it all out? On Market Street, he went into the Penny Post messenger office and wrote out a note to Christopher.
I am well, but it is urgent that we talk. I’m in a bit of a mess. Sorry I must be mysterious, but meet me at noon at the Elysium.
Aiden stopped, anxious sweat blooming on his forehead. Would Gouzhi still be watching the house? With so many private guards in the neighborhood, a Chinaman lurking about would be challenged immediately. But what if he was disguised as a laundryman or garbageman? A wealthy man like Silamu Xie probably had lots of men he could muster.
Please beware that a Chinaman may be watching the house and try to follow you, which would not be good. I am in need of $100 cash and some clean clothes—ordinary things. I hope this will not be impossible for you, but in case it is so, please send a message to me at the Elysium indicating such.
After Aiden sent the
letter, he walked to the wharf. Captain Neils’s lumber boat was moored in its usual place, and Aiden could see men working on the aft deck but couldn’t make out if Fish was among them. He asked some men rowing out to another ship to take a message. The only thing left to do now was visit the shipping office and see what ships were scheduled to leave in the next couple of days. San Diego, Hawaii, Mexico—Mexico might be good, Aiden thought as he pulled his coat tight against the February cold. It wouldn’t have to be forever, just long enough for Silamu Xie to get over being angry and import another replacement bride for himself.
Aiden pictured a little house on a white sand beach, Ming painting in the courtyard, their walls covered with her pictures, fresh pineapples and oranges to eat every day. They could come back to San Francisco after a while. Or they could go to New York. He didn’t know if Americans and Chinese were allowed to marry there, but there were all kinds of races in New York anyway, and no one, it seemed, could hate the Chinese as much as Californians did.
“You are a mess,” Christopher said as he plopped down in a chair beside Aiden at the Elysium. He dropped a small canvas satchel on the floor. “Here are your clothes—and the cash.” Christopher pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Aiden. “In case the Chinese come storming in while we’re here and you need to flee out the back door or something. But I don’t think they followed me. And no one would let a Chinaman in here anyway. But really,” he went on, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper, “I had no idea this would cause such an uproar! I thought they should be happy!”
Christopher was clearly in one of his bright moods—agitated, excited, talking fast, his blue eyes shining.
“Who should be happy?” Aiden said.
“The Chinese!”
A waiter arrived at the table.
“Coffee and brandy,” Christopher said, motioning to the both of them.
“No, just coffee for me, please,” Aiden said.
“Brandy.” Christopher waved the waiter off. “I had a terrible night—sleepless with worry for you,” he went on in a rush. “Then when I got your note this morning about lurking Chinamen—well, I didn’t know what to think. I feared for your life. But I must admit, I was a little bit flattered that I had stirred them up so! But why would they be mad? I should think they would be grateful.”
“Grateful for what?” Aiden said.
“My story.”
“What story? Christopher, what are you even talking about?”
“My story in the Chronicle. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You mean you haven’t read it?”
“No.”
“Seriously? It came out yesterday. The entire city has read it by now! All about the island. About the guano and the smell and the coolie slaves and the rock—all of it. Father is livid, but I think maybe, secretly, he is a little bit proud. I didn’t use my own name, of course, but everyone in our set will know. I thought you would be thrilled. Honestly, you didn’t read it?” Christopher looked shattered.
“No, I’m sorry,” Aiden said. “I was—no.”
Christopher pulled a copy of the paper out of his coat pocket and thrust it at Aiden. The Daily Dramatic Chronicle was distributed free every day in saloons and coffeehouses throughout the city. It was full of theater news and gossip, sensationalistic stories about the most shocking crimes and occasional slaps at city officials. But lately it had been publishing more straight news, and a feature story once a week. The headline on this feature was huge: Modern Slavery! took up the whole first line in enormous type. Wretched coolies dying for your bread. Slightly smaller type. Conditions unfit even for the yellow man! Below that: Two young adventurers discover the hellish reality of life on the guano islands of Peru.
Aiden was stunned. “You wrote this?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
“How? I sat at my desk, that’s how! For a really long time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was meant to be a surprise.”
The waiter returned with a coffee service and two glasses of brandy. Christopher fidgeted as the man began to arrange cups and saucers and pitchers of cream. Aiden read quickly through the story.
A cloud of yellow dust swathes the island like the sulfurous breath of the devil himself.…
“Thank you. Just leave the tray, please,” Christopher said. The waiter bowed and vanished. “I know it won’t change things entirely,” he said, pouring himself some coffee. “But it might get people thinking. Do you like it?”
If one of the wretches should try to escape, he is punished in the cruelest manner, chained to a rock where the relentless waves pummel him.…
Aiden didn’t know what to say. He was certainly surprised, but more than that, he felt something like ashamed. He had done little else but anguish over the coolies, while Christopher, whom he had judged unmoved by their plight, had done something quite real.
“I know Charles and Michael de Young, the publishers,” Christopher went on. “I’m sure you’ve met them.” He tossed back half his brandy. “They’re our own age—Charles is a little older, twenty-one, I think—though they don’t really run with our crowd. They have the paper to put out every night, for one thing. And they’re Jews.” He shrugged, as if this explained everything.
“Still, I see them around often enough. They’re at theater openings and some of the after-parties. They’re smart—came from nothing and started the Chronicle with only twenty dollars. Anyway, they’ve been wanting to bring the paper up beyond theater news and gossip, so I offered them the story. What do you think?”
Aiden was trying to listen to Christopher’s flood of words while reading.
The guano is more precious than gold. It has restored fallow fields to the bounties of Eden. But at what price do we enjoy these bounties? Shall your children’s bread be wrung from the blood of the yellow slave?
“Remember on the Raven when I said how I wanted to be something different?” Christopher said. “Well, this is perfect! Writing for a paper—it’s artistic, but still a real job. I could even start my own newspaper. With the telegraph everywhere now, news is practically falling from the sky—it has to have some place to go. And the best thing of all, my father has nothing to do with newspapers! This would be entirely my own!”
Aiden was only half listening as he read through the whole story.
A Tragedy Ensues
As we prepared to depart that final day with our precious cargo, we were unwilling participants in the most desperate act of villainy. One of the unfortunate coolies, so despairing of his wretched existence, attempted to stow away. He hid himself among the sacks of our foul cargo. When we discovered him, there was some debate about his future. Any ship assisting a coolie to escape is sent home empty, its cargo confiscated. The decision was taken from us, however, when those on the island, upon discovering the man missing, demanded us to stop. Knowing that unyielding law would have him chained to the rock for a horrible death, the coolie leaped upon one of our sailors. He snatched away the man’s knife, slashed him with it, then, nimble as a cat, grabbed me and took me prisoner. With the cold blade pressed against my own throat, shaking in his trembling hand, I could feel the desperate pounding of his heart in his wasted chest.
“Charles said to punch it up a bit,” Christopher interjected as Aiden continued reading.
“Shoot me!” the poor man cried out. “Do not doom me to the slow death on the rock. Shoot me or I will kill this man!” There was nothing else to do. My partner had no choice but to shoot the coolie dead.
Aiden picked up his own brandy and took a sip. He felt like his skin had disconnected and he was slipping around inside it.
“I never imagined it would get the Chinese so angry, though,” Christopher said. “Why are they angry exactly? It’s their own people I’m trying to help, after all.”
“They’re not angry about your story.”
“Then why the lurking and following?”
Aiden folded the paper. “It doesn’t have anything to do with your story.”
“So what, then?”
Aiden pressed his hands against his eyes as if he could squeeze his thoughts back into his brain. “You remember Ming, the Chinese girl who came to the house to paint with the ducklings?”
“Yes, of course—everything with Peter.”
“Well, I was—I was with her last night.”
“With her?” Christopher frowned with puzzlement. “For what? Oh! Oh my God!” He looked both shocked and proud as he realized what Aiden was saying. “You mean you were with her?” he whispered.
Aiden nodded.
“She’s the one you’ve been all dizzy about!”
“She’s the one I love,” Aiden replied quietly.
“Well, that is a problem,” Christopher said. “I mean, she is very pretty, but you can’t be serious. It’s impossible!”
“I love her.”
“So what is the immediate problem?” Christopher went on, ignoring that. “Her father? A husband?”
“She is betrothed,” Aiden said. “Though against her will. And—” He took a deep breath. “And also”—he handed the paper back to Christopher—“she is the sister of our stowaway.”
Christopher paled, and his hand went reflexively to the scar on his throat.
“Our stowaway? You mean the coolie who tried to kill me?”
“I only found out last night,” Aiden went on hurriedly.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
“This is absurd! How would you ever meet his sister here in San Francisco?”
“I looked for her,” Aiden explained. “I mean, I didn’t know Ming was her. I was looking for Jian’s sister named Lijia. I thought Ming was her maid. I owed him some debt. The night of the tidal wave, Jian helped me.”
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