Mandarin

by Elegant, Robert;

  Though Matthews had suffered neither a fracture nor concussion and his superficial cuts had healed, Fronah had visited him every afternoon. Her impulsive kindness reflected greater credit on her heart than her head, but Saul could not condemn her. He was, however, distressed by the rumors raised by her behavior. Shanghai would always gossip—with or without cause.

  The boys’ unease was harder to understand. Aaron, who should have been past such adolescent play-acting, had been portentously silent since the attack on young Matthews, stalking through the house like the guardian of some occult mystery. David appeared depressed by Fronah’s suffering when he was not whispering conspiratorially with his brother. When he thought himself unobserved, he grinned with elation.

  Saul did not like mysteries within the family. Aaron’s secretiveness was disturbing, while David’s gloating was annoying. Above all, Fronah’s behavior appalled him.

  She carried herself like a tragedy queen who was too proud to weep. When she could not avoid David, she shot vicious glances at him. Profound sighs emphasized her protracted silences. Her eyes clouded, she drifted through the house as if in mourning.

  Saul looked out his office window. There she sat on the garden bench, gazing into the distance as if awaiting the end of the world. His heart went out to her, and he wondered how he could console her. Perhaps she might lighten her own heart by confiding in him. But he feared she would only stare down at him from the cold heights of her grief.

  Fronah brooded, unmoved by either the first breath of autumnal coolness or the fragrance of the concentric circles of orange, white, and red roses. Unaware that Gabriel Hyde, who had just come in the gate, was watching her with a half-smile, the girl immersed herself in the exquisite pain of her memories. Equally oblivious to the cries of the street hawkers and to Maylu’s chattering from the second-story window, Fronah endured her anguish like a mother unpacking the meager belongings of a son slain on a distant battlefield.

  It seemed an eternity ago, the afternoon two weeks earlier when she had hurried to the Jardines’ compound. She had found Iain lying on his stomach in an airy room where furled mosquito nets hung over the unoccupied beds of his messmates like tethered clouds. Instinct alone had impelled her to leave the door open to the stares of the houseboys suddenly drawn by urgent tasks. Only the same instinct for self-preservation had kept her from flinging herself down weeping beside Iain.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he’d said wearily. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’ve been frantic since I heard,” she replied. “Oh, Iain, are you all right?”

  “What do you think? How right could I be?”

  He was, somehow, smaller and pathetically vulnerable. His face was pallid, and the bloom had vanished from his blond hair. His features seemed to have shrunk around his long, prehensile nose. She could now see why his fair-weather friends called him Foxy, his fellow cadets who had deserted him because they feared contamination by his disgrace.

  She blinked to dispel a mist of unshed tears, but his face was still slack and blurred. When he grasped her hand, she realized that he was afraid. She soothed him with meaningless words as if he were a frightened child. His spirit momentarily revived, and he laughed ruefully. But the bright male assertiveness had deserted him.

  “What happened, Iain?” she asked. “What have they done to you, my dear?”

  “If you don’t know, who does?” he answered faintly. “It’s all your doing!”

  “What do you mean?” She grasped his hand harder. “What can you possibly mean?”

  “Come off it, Fronah!” Despite his harsh words, his tone was plaintive. “You know damned well what I mean.”

  “I don’t, not at all. How could I?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Fronah, don’t try to bamboozle me. You concocted it—you or your Chink brothers. Maybe your Jew father with the long beard. You’ve ruined me.”

  “Iain, you’re not hurt badly?” She ignored his ranting. “Not that … that way?”

  “I’ll heal, all right. But I’m ruined anyway. And it’s all your fault!”

  “What do you mean? How could you know … even if it was true?”

  “How could I know?” he sneered. “They told me they wanted me to know why I was being punished. For the little foreign girl, they said. I hope you’re happy.”

  “Iain, don’t be silly.” She forced a laugh. “You know you don’t understand Chinese!”

  “Did you ever hear of pidgin?”

  “Besides, weren’t there … others?” She withdrew her hand. “There must have been … been … Chinese girls. You used to boast.”

  “Others? Of course there were. Lots—even when I was swearing you were the only one for me. But Chinese, not foreign girls.”

  She had endured his accusations every afternoon for the next six days, occasionally wondering if she did not, perhaps, merit that upbraiding. Her father, of course, had had nothing to do with the assault. But her brothers? Despite their Western gloss, Aaron and David, like any Chinese gentleman, might have felt compelled to defend the family honor—even by means no European gentleman would consider. Besides, she acknowledged, she had subtly indicated to David that “a little punishment” would do Iain good—and would not displease her. But she had not dreamed of such a profound humiliation.

  Fronah therefore returned every day until Iain rose shakily from his bed. She did not, however, return alone. Maylu rode behind her in a Haleevie sedan chair and sat on the veranda near the open door. Her father had initially agreed with her mother that she must not visit the griffin, even if they had to lock her up. But he had quickly relented, stipulating only that the concubine must chaperone Fronah and that they use the sedan chairs with the firm’s name scrolled on their black sides in silver ideograms.

  Since he would—or could—not forbid his daughter to visit the stricken youth, Saul had decided to draw the teeth of the gossips by demonstrating his approval. The community considered him righteous, indeed strait-laced, and no respectable father would permit his daughter such visits if he had the slightest reason to suspect an improper relationship with the young rake.

  Sarah herself accompanied Fronah to the clipper Orion when Iain Matthews embarked for Hong Kong on the thirteenth day after his humiliation. Sickened by the need to appear civil to the young Gentile, she had almost rebelled. Finally accepting Saul’s wise decision, she had even smiled distantly at Iain Matthews as Fronah said her farewells. Saul had charged his daughter not to weep in public. To her own surprise, she had not wept even when Iain lamented his fate with tears in his eyes.

  “What’ll I say to my pater?” he demanded. “After all his sacrifices, I’m coming home in disgrace. He’ll half kill me. I’ll never amount to anything.”

  “Now, Iain, you know it’ll be all right.” Having forgiven his vile reproaches, Fronah truly believed her own consolation. “With your ability and your charm you’re sure to be a success whatever you do. Just forget this episode.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child,” he snapped. “And I will forget you—just as fast as I can. It’s all your fault. If it weren’t for you, I’d never … You led me on. You’re no more than … you’re practically a tart.”

  Fronah smiled for the other passengers and their well-wishers. It would not be much longer. Only a little longer must she endure this bitter parting from the man she had once loved. The wind was whipping the sails loosely furled on the Orion’s yards. On the main mast fluttered the Blue Peter, the blue pennant with the white box that signaled the vessel’s imminent sailing. When the whistle hooted three times to warn passengers’ friends to disembark, relief overwhelmed her.

  “Goodby, Iain.” She could no longer smile even for appearance’s sake. “I wish you all the good fortune in the world.”

  “It’s all your fault … yours.” He repeated his accusation vehemently. “I was wrong. You’re not a tart. You’re a rotten whore—a dirty Jew whore.”

  Fronah descended the gangplank to their sampan,
one hand grasping the rope handrail, the other holding down her whipping skirts. She halted to wave to Iain, despite her anger and her revulsion. She waved and smiled again. She smiled still when she sat in the sampan, smiled till her face felt as if it were frozen.

  Every foreigner on the Orion was watching her with unconcealed curiosity, probably every Chinese too. All Shanghai knew why Iain Matthews was leaving in disgrace, for the Jardines’ taipan had dismissed him brusquely, though not brutally. Every griffin knew the house could forgive most transgressions—but never scandal. No, there was no hope of transfer to Hong Kong. There was, candidly, no future for Iain Matthews with Jardines or anywhere on the China coast. No wonder every foreigner stared, hoping she would break down and confirm their prurient speculation.

  Nonetheless, Fronah reflected, she had to see him off—and not just to give the lie to the gossips. Since not one of his fair-weather friends would risk bidding the black sheep farewell, she could not have let him stand alone on the ship’s deck. Once having climbed the gangplank, she had to put the best possible face on their parting.

  She had succeeded. Her father had praised her behavior and observed that the pretty scandal would now blow over. She was glad Iain had gone quickly, since he had to go. Besides, their parting totally crushed whatever vestigial affection had survived his earlier accusations. Angry and disgusted, she realized that she had never truly loved the youth whose last words to her were: “… a rotten whore—a dirty Jew whore.”

  She had truly begun to mature because of the ghastly experience. She would in the future not dismiss her parents’ counsel, though she would, of course, make her own final decisions. Her mother and father had warned her against the young bloods of the Settlement from the moment they allowed her to mingle in Christian society. Those lechers regarded a Jewish girl as fair prey. She would never forgive David for interfering, but, she had to admit, his revenge on Iain had its comic side.

  Perhaps, as her father suggested, an older man might be better for her, provided, of course, that he was Jewish. She would be eighteen in just six months’ time. Only one older man in Shanghai could interest her, and only one could possibly be interested in her. Lionel Howard Seymour Henriques was a true English gentleman, unlike “that counter-jumping lout,” as Margaret MacGregor called Iain Matthews. He was highly cultivated, and his home was in sophisticated Europe far from money-grubbing Shanghai.

  But could she be truly happy in a distant country she had never seen? Most English people didn’t know chopsticks from knitting needles, much less Confucius from Buddha. They might well find her fascinating—because she was a freak. She longed to be respected in her own right, respected for her accomplishments, not just her husband’s position. Her thoughts veered. How would Lionel Henriques be, as Maylu would undoubtedly ask, that way, between the sheets? Fronah blushed.

  Another name bobbed to the surface of her mind. Gabriel Hyde would probably be a more exciting lover than Lionel Henriques. He was masterful and virile, even if, as he would say, somewhat homespun. She blushed again and admonished herself to curb her wayward thoughts. Never before that instant had she considered the American anything but an amusing companion and a foil to pink Iain’s jealousy. Anyway, Gabriel had never shown the slightest interest in her. Above all, he was not Jewish, and she would be a fool if she had not learned to stay away from Christian men.

  “What’s up, honey? You’re as quiet as patience on a monument. Daydreaming or brooding?”

  The crisp American voice recalled Fronah to the world around her, and she saw the naval officer idly twirling a full-blown yellow rose from her father’s most treasured bush. Fronah smelled the fragrance of roses on the autumnal breeze. She heard the noodle hawker’s high-pitched whistle and the strolling knife sharpener’s clanking scissors in the street outside the compound. She waved to Maylu, who was hanging out the second-story window laughing at her surprise.

  “I heard you put on a wonderful act the other day.” Gabriel was casually jocular. “Worthy of a great actress like Julia Dean, I’m told.”

  “Act? What do you mean, Gabriel?”

  “Don’t pretend, Fronah,” he replied. “It’s only old Uncle Gabe.”

  He was parodying himself, playing the hayseed to take her out of herself. She could not say how much Gabriel knew, or surmised, of her relationship with Iain Matthews. She wondered whether he suspected that her vengeful Chinese brothers had contrived Iain’s downfall. She was confident that Gabriel did not know of her shame, but only thought her flighty.

  “I just meant it was very brave of you to see that scamp Matthews off,” he continued. “I’d have been there myself only I was upriver. He got a raw deal, no matter what he did. I reckon he did plenty. But those mealy-mouthed hypocrites at Jardines. Turfing him out for getting caught when every griffin carries on the same way with Chinese … ah … ladies. You did wonderfully.”

  “You’re very kind, Commander.” She dimpled, then abruptly dropped her arch manner. “I just felt someone had to see the poor boy off.”

  “But, pardon me, the subject’s not fit for a young lady’s ears. I just dropped by to chat with your father.” He was less breezy. “Still, you might be interested in some of the remarkable things I’ve been learning about Shanghai.”

  “Shanghai’s always remarkable, Gabriel.”

  “I’ve been looking at the old charts. You know this city was only a swamp a thousand years ago. The whole thing’s man-made. And we have the nerve to look down on the Chinese—think they’re children when it comes to dams and dredging. Why, they make the Dutch look like children.”

  “You’re so right.” Fronah was totally serious. “The boys’ tutor showed us a history of the prefecture about three hundred years ago under the Ming. Water control was the government’s major responsibility since, otherwise, there’d be no commerce. Not only that, but there’d be no irrigation for the rice fields.”

  “You’re quite the scholar, Miss Fronah, aren’t you?” He regretted the gibe immediately. “But, forgive me, of course you are.”

  Gabriel Hyde was startled by Fronah’s enthusiasm for a subject that would reduce most girls to glazed boredom. He had become fond of David, who was not only friendly but candid and quick-witted, and David had praised her knowledge of China. Still, he had thought a devoted brother was exaggerating his sister’s accomplishments.

  Fronah was, Gabriel reflected, hardly as flighty as he had thought her. There was solid worth and intellect beneath her frivolous manner, which was itself not unattractive. Besides, she was extraordinarily pretty, almost beautiful. Damnit, she was beautiful when she left off her airs, and honest feeling lit her face.

  But she was much too young for him to think of her as a woman, and she was emphatically not one for a quick roll in the hay. Anyway, that wasn’t really his own style—though there had been incidents. She was essentially serious beneath her frivolity.

  He too was essentially serious beneath his jocose manner. How could he be anything else? His father, a small-town lawyer, was a New England puritan who had taught him that the life of the mind was the highest pursuit of a civilized man. Another reason for making haste very slowly. The Hydes of Salem did not marry young, unlike the neighboring farmers and craftsmen. If the day ever came, there could also be difficulties with her parents. Meanwhile, he was enjoying their discussion as he had relished few talks since he was stranded on the China coast.

  Saul Haleevie was unaccountably restless as he examined the samples of duck feathers. The business was becoming too easy, and he needed new challenges. Duck feathers were all very well in their place—either on ducks or on European beds. But duck feathers could hardly capture the imagination of a scholar who could recite most of the Talmud and half the Dialogues of Plato.

  He had competently and automatically dealt with the samples sent by his agent in Wuhsi. The first lot he had rejected summarily as brittle and dry. The second would be worth considering under other circumstances, but not when the third lot w
as ideal. Fluffy and bulky, it would perfectly plump pillows and featherbeds. There was no need to bother with the second-rate when the first-rate was abundant and cheap. For some unfathomable reason, the Chinese did not use that ideal material in their own quilts or coats, preferring more expensive raw-silk fibers.

  His decision did require some knowledge of Chinese and European ways, as well as a certain acuity. If the Taiping offensive neither overran Wuhsi nor halted bulk shipments, that decision would at the year’s end result in a gratifying profit on his books. That increase in wealth would make his family more secure and, at God’s pleasure, happier, too. But choosing duck feathers hardly challenged a man who had once been the most promising student of the law between Madrid and Bombay.

  Saul lit a cheroot and leaned back in his chair to contemplate the ceiling through the smoke tendrils. Not only his faith but his innate curiosity would prevent his ever being overcome by inert boredom, acedia, which Christian theologians quite properly counted among the mortal sins. Saul, nonetheless, feared that his intellect would grow flabby with too little stimulus.

  Less than two hundred miles away, the Taiping stronghold at Nanking, now called the Heavenly Capital, offered exciting new intellectual challenges—as well as tempting commercial opportunities. The rebels were shaping a new society under the Heavenly King, who claimed to be the younger brother of Jesus Christ. Beyond the patent idiocy of that moonstruck theology, the Taiping experiment was, however, fascinating—if one could still call a regime that ruled almost half China an experiment.

  The Holy Soldiers, it was reported, did not rob the common people. Such restraint was remarkable for any army—and, if true, virtually miraculous for a Chinese army. All property was reportedly held in common in the Heavenly Capital—an assertion Saul viewed almost as skeptically as the claim that Taiping armies did not loot. Female soldiers like the legendary Amazons fought for the Heavenly King, while men and women lived apart. How, he wondered, did they produce little Taipings? Or was that function performed only by the hundreds of concubines who reportedly filled the harems of the Taiping Emperor and his subordinate kings? Above all, he wondered, could the modern world actually allow the burgeoning of a rigid theocracy, a state that regulated every aspect of its life according to the expressed will of its god?