“Goodby, Gabriel,” she said. “Goodby, my dear.”
She brushed past him and ran toward the rickety staircase. Gabriel watched the thin figure in the cream linen kaftan vanish down the dark stairwell. He turned to gaze through the grimy window at the Hwangpoo. Alive with junks and sampans, cradling clippers and men-of-war, the river gleamed brilliant in the late-afternoon sun.
CHAPTER 53
July 6, 1862
The Foreign Settlement
SHANGHAI
Friday evening had for millennia been a moment out of time to the people of Israel, a joyous interval between the mundane cares of the week and the austere devotions of the Sabbath. It was good to toil and bring forth the bounty of the earth as the Creator ordained. His people were exalted by their duty to praise Him, abstaining from both labor and diversion on the seventh day as He Himself had done. The eve of the Sabbath had, however, been set aside immemorially for His people to savor the fruits of their toil after simple rites of thankfulness.
The heavy fragrance of roasting lamb and cinnamoned choln, a compote of sweet potatoes and prunes, floated through the dining room of Saul Haleevie’s house on Szechwan Road the evening of Friday, July 6, 1862. None among the small company felt it incongruous to celebrate with such rich food in alien Shanghai when the thermometer hovered around ninety and the air was sodden. Their ancestors had partaken of similar feasts in sun-blasted deserts, where the heat was as great and the aridity as wearing as the present humidity.
The Ruler of the Universe had dispersed His people throughout the world of His creation. Cast out of Israel, they were as much at home in the delta of the Yangtze as in the mountains of Andalusia, the valley of the Euphrates, or the plains of the Ukraine. A Jew was always in exile, never truly at home anywhere and therefore at home everywhere. That apparent paradox hardly challenged the subtle Talmudic mind.
The empty chairs at the oblong mahogany table reminded the depleted Haleevie family of Lionel Henriques and Aaron Lee. At least they now knew that both had been alive and uninjured some three weeks earlier. They also knew that Lionel had sworn to return, a promise Saul viewed with little enthusiasm. He should, he supposed, be pleased that the Englishman was determined to rejoin Fronah. Yet he felt little confidence that Lionel would keep the promise—and less confidence that Fronah would be content if her husband did return.
The pretense that they were a united and happy family was wearing thin. Saul and David had watched with their accustomed grave attention while Sarah and Fronah blessed the candles. They had taken their normal pleasure in the women’s graceful movements in flowing kaftans and colorful head shawls. They had, as usual, remarked appreciatively on the food, and Sarah had accepted their compliments with her usual grace. They had chatted about both domestic affairs and the great events unfolding around them. But the daughter of the house was a brooding specter at the feast of thanksgiving, despite her gallant efforts to overcome her deep-seated depression.
Though she responded brightly when addressed, she no longer pretended to eat. The brief revival of her zest for life a few months earlier was past. She was even thinner than she had been before her energy was engaged, and partly restored, by her efforts in William MacGregor’s infirmary—and decidedly more wasted since Gabriel Hyde had bade a formal farewell to the Haleevies a week earlier.
“You must take something, Fronah.” Sarah’s universal panacea was, this once, appropriate. “Just a little cake, perhaps. You can’t go on this way.”
“I know, Mama, and I want to.” Fronah’s voice was flat despite herself. “I do try, but I just can’t.”
“You’ll starve,” Sarah warned. “You must eat.”
“I’ll try harder, I promise. But I’m afraid it won’t do any good.” Fronah drained her wine glass. “Even if I could, I’d just throw it up. I want to desperately, but somehow my body won’t listen to my mind.”
“It’s wicked, Fronah, sinful,” Saul erupted. “You’re spitting in God’s face. The Almighty commands us to savor His bounty and be joyful. You’re not only hurting yourself and causing us grief—you’re defying God’s will.”
The merchant paused in consternation. William MacGregor had cautioned against losing his temper with his daughter. She was, the physician said, suffering from “pathological depression integral to morbid anorexy.” Railing at her would, he warned, make her worse.
“You should really wear your pretty European clothes sometimes, Fronah,” her mother interposed hastily. “I’d like to see you in those big skirts again.”
“I thought you hated them, Mama.” Fronah laughed. “Besides, they’d just hang on me. I’m only skin and bones now.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?” Saul exploded. “It’s entirely up to you. Also, why don’t you go out to parties any more?”
“Everyone asks why they don’t see you around any more,” David told her. “They do miss you, Fronah, believe me.”
“Parties just don’t seem terribly important any more. Somehow, even working in the hospital palls. I know there’s something important I’m meant to do. But I just can’t imagine what.”
She had tried! God knew she had tried. She had gone to work in the hospital because she felt it her duty and had then been surprised by the satisfaction she felt in bringing comfort to the wounded. She had, as she told Gabriel Hyde, begun to come alive again.
She was astonished by her rush of love for Gabriel, and his spontaneous response filled her with joy. For a moment the sun had shone bright on them. When he told her he was leaving China, clouds had covered the sun—and she feared they would never again lift.
She was perhaps foolish, but she was not stupid. She knew that Lionel’s desertion had precipitated her depression, while Gabriel’s departure had shattered her spirit just as it began to revive.
“Fronah,” her father said softly, “you can only find it inside yourself.”
“Find what, Papa?”
“Whatever you’re looking for. It’s not just Lionel, is it? And you never felt anything for Gabriel, did you?”
“No, Papa, not for Gabriel,” she asserted. “And Lionel? I don’t really know. But the humiliation!”
Saul nodded knowingly—and enraged her.
“Anyway, you made me … you and Mama … you made me marry him,” Fronah flared. “I hope you’re happy now.”
“Child, how could we be happy when you’re so unhappy?” Sarah remonstrated. “We thought we were doing the best thing—and you agreed. Nobody forced you. But maybe we were wrong.”
“We were wrong, Sarah,” Saul conceded. “Very wrong to press her so hard.”
“That’s obvious, Papa,” Fronah said bitterly. “And what do you think I should do now?”
“Your father and I will support whatever you decide,” Sarah declared firmly. “Separate from Lionel and make a new life for yourself. Even divorce him.”
“Mama, we’re already separated, aren’t we? But divorce? You know it’s practically impossible for a wife. How can I make a new life? It’s not just Lionel or Gabriel. Not just the men.”
For the first time in years, Fronah expressed her deepest emotions, surprising even herself. Since Sarah was finally breaking through the wall of her secretiveness, her father and her brother remained silent while the women talked.
“What is it then?” Sarah asked. “Can’t you tell me?”
“I’ll try. Mama, I feel so useless. I am useless! No good to myself … to you … or anyone else! I used to believe I would do something great. Maybe it sounds silly, but something noble—something really important for China. But in Shanghai, everything’s business or frivolity. What can I do?”
“Judah’s important, my dear. Your son is very important.”
“I know he is, but he doesn’t need me. You and Maylu and the baby amahs, you all look after him very well. Anyway, that’s not what I mean. I must accomplish something really important, not just dandle my baby.”
“Children are important,
aren’t they, Fronah?” David broke his silence. “You agree, don’t you?”
“Of course, David,” she agreed automatically. “Without children, there’d be no future.”
“Then why don’t you work for the future?” David persisted. “Their future—and your own?”
“What do you mean, David?” she asked, half eager and half defensive.
“My idea’s quite simple. In Huating Prefecture alone there must be a thousand abandoned children, and they need …”
“They need everything, David, I know that. But I can’t give it to them. Not even Papa can give them everything—no matter how much money he contributes.”
“No one can give them everything they need. But there is something you can give—even if only to some of the older ones.”
“I don’t understand, David,” she countered. “What can I possibly give them?”
“A chance in life,” David persisted. “You can start with basic lessons in reading and writing. If you start, perhaps others will help. But someone must start.”
“I can find accommodation for a few dozen,” Saul interjected. “Also feed and clothe them.”
“It’s possible,” Fronah mused. “Perhaps … but no, it would never work. Why don’t the Chinese educate their own children? It’s too much for me alone, even though it could be the important work I …”
“The Chinese won’t do it,” David emphasized. “They’re no one’s children, because they’ve got no families. You know the Chinese won’t look after anyone but their own. And, Little Sister, it is important.”
“It’s very important, no question about that,” Fronah agreed. “Very important. But can I do it?”
“No one else can … or will,” David persisted. “If you don’t try, the poor kids …”
“It would need careful planning.” Interest colored Fronah’s voice. “It wouldn’t do to start too big.”
“Of course not, Fronah, as long as you make a start,” David insisted, and Saul blessed the day he had adopted the youth. “Father’ll help, and my boss is interested. Just give it a try.”
“It may be too much for me alone,” Fronah said slowly. “But I should certainly try. If only this terrible tiredness would pass. But I will try … try hard.”
CHAPTER 54
October 6, 1862
PEKING
The autumn breeze teased wavelets from the Pei Hai, the North Lake beside the Forbidden City. When the flotilla of ten flat-bottomed barges yawed gently, the eunuch oarsmen fluttered their sweeps to steady the awkward craft. Bunting fluttered on the garish deckhouses, and Imperial pennants streamed against a sky filmed with ochre dust.
A smile curled the carmined lips of the female deity seated on the marble-inlaid throne in the prow of the leading barge. Delight in the illusory danger created by the wind momentarily dispelled the histrionic majesty that stamped Yehenala’s delicate features. Looking straight ahead, she spoke to the senior eunuch standing behind her throne.
“Fire the cannon!”
“Majesty, the wind rises,” the eunuch cautioned.
“Do not argue with Us. Aim close to the courier boat.”
A miniature brass gun, not quite two feet long, coughed asthmatically on the stern of the Imperial Barge, and a miniature ball, no larger than a hen’s egg, shot from the gleaming muzzle. Yehenala laughed as the ball plowed the water a yard from the gaudy courier sampan. She laughed louder when spray drenched its passengers and the triangular banner bearing the single ideogram Ling, Obey, which declared that it carried Imperial dispatches.
The junior Empress Dowager, still not twenty-eight years old, was amusing herself. She happily bore the weight of her archaic scarlet-and-blue robes of stiff tribute-silk encrusted with gold and silver. She gladly endured the burden of her antique headdress, a dome of gold wires entwined with peacock feathers and set with gems. She was attired as Tien Mu Hou, the Mother Empress of Heaven, the goddess of seafarers, while her entourage were dressed as attendant deities. Though she could not rebuild the gutted Summer Palaces while the Taiping Rebellion still ravaged the Empire, she would not be denied all entertainment. She loved plays and operas enacted by professional actors who were gelded so that they could perform in the Forbidden City. Even more she loved to don gorgeous costumes and stage her own dramas with herself the chief performer.
Her Chief Eunuch, An Hai-teh, was normally at her side to direct these spectacles, but she had today reluctantly relinquished his presence to make the maritime pageant more authentic. Little An stood in the prow of the second barge, resplendent in a vermilion robe cut voluminously in the style of the Ming Dynasty. He clutched a telescope with disdain for the anachronism, and the square of rank on his chest displayed the silver unicorn of a duke. He was playing the great eunuch Admiral Cheng Ho, who had been created Duke of the Three Treasures in recognition of the seven great voyages his fleets made to India and Africa in the fifteenth century. Other captains and their crews wore the costumes of different ages—from the simple armor of the Han Dynasty to the gauzy panels of Buddhist saints.
Yehenala chuckled, recalling her gratifying conversation with Little An before they embarked on the North Lake. Aside from the cares of state, which she cannily refused to admit she found exhilarating, her chief concern was her personal finances. Though she practiced stringent frugality, more gold, somehow, flowed out of her purse than into it. For the moment at least, her constant need was allayed. The eunuch had just reported the complete success of their latest scheme to supplement her income.
Always resourceful, Little An had two weeks earlier written friendly notes to twenty contractors who supplied the Forbidden City with articles ranging from rice and gold leaf to paints and meat. Saluting the recipients as his elder brothers, those intimate messages assured the contractors of the Chief Eunuch’s fraternal affection—and the warm regard the Empress Dowager felt for their worthy selves.
May I venture to inform you that your unworthy younger brother is deeply embarrassed by the temporary emptiness of his purse? Little An had closed. Could you find it in your heart to relieve my embarrassment by a short-term loan of ten thousand taels?
Yehenala had been pleased, though not surprised, at the immediate response from eighteen of the addressees. Her smile faded when she recalled the two dilatory donors. She would remember their tardiness when they had long forgotten—as they must prudently forget—the short-term loans. She would remember, and they would suffer.
She spoke again without turning her head, and the eunuch standing behind her repeated her command. The oarsmen leaned on their sweeps, and water foamed along the sides of the barge. The dispatch boat was drawing rapidly toward the Imperial Barge. It would be amusing to let the boat chase the barge for a while, though she would resist the temptation to fire the miniature cannon again.
Yehenala teased the dispatch boat for almost ten minutes, her barge turning and wheeling at her command. The flotilla followed the writhing wake in close formation. She laughed when anguish supplanted respect on the faces of the oarsmen in the boat, but relented and allowed her own oarsmen to rest on their sweeps.
Her Master of Cuisine stepped gingerly from the dispatch boat onto the gilded gangway of the Imperial Barge. Flustered by the chase, the portly eunuch breathed heavily as he bowed before her. He was dressed as Tsao Shen, the kitchen god. His corpulence was appropriate to that role, and the makeup artists of the Palace Bureau of Theatrical Affairs had pasted a drooping mustache and a goatee on his beardless face under his many-petaled headdress. Water dripped from his green-and-orange robe and from the broad sash hanging over his paunch.
“Don’t come too close!” Yehenala accepted the scroll he presented. “Don’t drip on me!”
She ran her eye down the menu for the evening meal. Since the Court was celebrating no special occasion, it was not elaborate. Although the proposed courses were well balanced for flavor and texture, she struck out thirty dishes and added ten. As a matter of principle, it would not do to be l
ax. The eunuchs might believe they, rather than she, made the decisions if she routinely granted her approval.
“We wish a simple meal tonight,” she observed. “No more than eighty courses.”
When the Master of Cuisine had withdrawn, an even more splendid figure boarded the Imperial Barge. His supple height and muscular grace ideally suited to his role, he swaggered in an ancient domed helmet and a cuirass of large armor plates interlaced like dragon’s scales. Yehenala had expected the Baronet Jung Lu to appear as the god of war, who was his personal patron as well as the patron of the Dynasty. She had not expected the new Brigadier of the Peking Field Force to appear so early in the day. Touched by his pride in his men and his devotion to training them with modern weapons, she normally allowed him, alone among her Court, to attend her when his duties permitted, rather than when she required.
“Jung Lu, We are pleased to see you,” she greeted him. “You’re early. Have you something vital to report?”
“Not vital, Majesty, but of some importance. Since my troops are on field maneuvers, I presumed to come early. I beg Your Majesty’s indulgence.”
Even from him, who held a unique place in her affections, this public deference was required. When they were alone, he showed her no such respect—and she surrendered her body and her spirit to his domination.
They did not meet in private as frequently as his ardor demanded—or she would have liked. Not only decorum but prudence required extreme discretion. She was still in the first year of her regency, and her power was by no means unshakably established. Her many enemies would delight in discrediting her, and they had many informers in the corps of eunuchs. She could, unfortunately, no more execute every suspected spy than she could execute all her enemies. As she explained to her hotheaded lover, she could, at this early stage, execute only her most virulent enemies—knowing their fate would deter those who were less resolute.
“What is this matter, Jung Lu?” Yehenala asked, for he might in public speak only in reply to her questions. “Is it bad news?”
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