Gai-Jin

  At length he put the book away, marking the place with a page she had given him, one from her journal. Wonder what she writes in it, knowing her to be as diligent as anyone. About me and her? Her and me?

  Very tired now. His hand reached for the lamp to turn the wick down, then stopped. The little wineglass with sleep in it beckoned. His fingers trembled.

  Babcott’s right, I don’t need it anymore.

  Firmly he doused the light and lay back and closed his eyes, praying for her and his family and that his mother would bless them, and then for himself. Oh, God, help me get better—I’m afraid, very afraid.

  But sleep would not take him. Turning or trying to gain comfort hurt him, reminding him of the Tokaidō and Canterbury. Half asleep half awake, his mind buzzing with the book, the macabre setting and how would it finish? Adding all kinds of pictures. And more pictures, some bad, some beautiful, some vivid, every little movement to get more comfortable bringing blossoms of pain.

  Time passed, another hour or minutes, and then he drank the elixir and relaxed contentedly, knowing that soon he would be floating on gossamer, her hand on him, his hand on her, there on her breasts and everywhere, hers equally knowingly, equally welcomed, not only hands.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  FRIDAY, 3RD OCTOBER:

  Just after dawn Angelique got out of bed and sat at her dressing table in the bay windows overlooking the High Street and harbor. She was very tired. In the locked drawer was her journal. It was dull red leather and also locked. She slid the little key from its hiding place, unlocked it, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote in it, more as a friend to a friend—her journal these days seemed her only friend, the only one she felt safe with:

  “Friday, 3rd: another bad night and I feel ghastly. It’s four days since André gave me the terrible news about Father. Since then I have been unable to write anything, to do anything, have locked my doors and “taken to my bed” feigning a fever, apart from once or twice a day going to visit my Malcolm to allay his anxiety, closing the door to everyone except my maid who I hate, though I agreed to see Jamie once, and André.

  “Poor Malcolm, he was beside himself with worry the first day when I did not appear nor would open my door, and insisted that he be carried on a stretcher into my boudoir to see me—even if they had to break down the door. I managed to forestall him, forcing myself to go to him, saying that I was all right, it was just a bad headache, that, no, I did not need Babcott, that he was not to worry about my tears, telling him privately that it was just “that time of the month” and sometimes the flow was great and sometimes my days irregular. He was embarrassed beyond belief that I had mentioned my period! Beyond belief! Almost as though he knew nothing about this female function, at times I don’t understand him at all although he’s so kind and considerate, the most I’ve ever known. Another worry: in truth, the poor man is not much better and daily in so much pain I want to cry.”

  Blessed Mother, give me strength! she thought. Then there’s the other. I try not to worry but I’m frantic. The day approaches. Then I’ll be free from that terror, but not from penury.

  She began to write again.

  “It’s so difficult to be private in the Struan building, however comfortable and pleasant, but the Settlement is awful. Not a hairdresser, not a ladies’ dressmaker (though I have a Chinese tailor who is very adept at copying what already exists), no hat maker—I haven’t yet tried the shoemaker, there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do—oh, how I long for Paris, but how can I ever live there now? Would Malcolm move there if we married? Never. And if we don’t marry … how can I pay for even a ticket home? How? I’ve asked myself a thousand times without an answer.”

  Her gaze left the paper and went to the window and to the ships in the bay. I wish I were on one of them, going home, wish I’d never come here. I hate this place … What if … If Malcolm doesn’t marry me I’ll have to marry someone else but I’ve no dowry, nothing. Oh God, this isn’t what I’d hoped. If I managed to get home, I’ve still got no money, poor Aunt and Uncle ruined. Colette hasn’t got any to lend, I don’t know anyone rich or famous enough to marry, or far enough up in society so I could safely become a mistress. I could go on the stage but there it’s essential to have a patron to bribe managers and playwrights, and pay for all the clothes and jewels and carriages and a palatial house for soirees—of course you have to bed the patron, at his whim not yours, until you are rich and famous enough and that takes time, and I don’t have the connections, or have any friends who do. Oh dear, I’m so confused. I think I am going to cry again….

  She buried her face in her arms, the tears spilling, careful not to make too much noise lest her maid hear her and start wailing, creating a scene as on the first day. Her nightdress was cream silk, a pale green dressing gown around her shoulders, hair tousled, the room masculine, the curtained four-poster huge, this suite much bigger than Malcolm’s. To one side was the anteroom that adjoined his bedroom, a dining room off it that could seat twenty with its own kitchen. Both those doors were bolted. The dressing table was the only frivolity, she had had it curtained with pink satin.

  When the tears stopped, she dried her eyes and silently studied her reflection in the silver mirror. No lines, some shadows, face a little thinner than before. No outward change. She sighed heavily, then began to write again:

  “Crying simply doesn’t help. Today I must talk to Malcolm. I simply must. André told me the mail ship is already one day overdue and the news of my catastrophe is bound to arrive with it—why is it English call a ship she or her? Her. I’m terrified Malcolm’s mother will be aboard—news of his injury should have reached Hong Kong on the 24th, which gives her just enough time to catch this mail ship. Jamie doubts she would be able to leave at such short notice, not with her other children there, her husband dead just three weeks and still being in deepest mourning, poor woman.

  “When Jamie was here, the first time I’ve ever really talked to him alone, he told me all sorts of stories about the other Struans—Emma is sixteen, Rose thirteen and Duncan ten—most of them sad stories: last year two other brothers, the twins, Robb and Dunross, seven, were drowned in a boating accident just off a place in Hong Kong called Shek-O where the Struans have lands and a summer house. And years ago when Malcolm was seven, another sister, Mary, then four, died of Happy Valley fever. Poor little thing, I cried all night thinking of her and the twins. So young!

  “I like Jamie but he’s so dull, so uncivilized—I mean gauche, that’s all—he has never been to Paris and only knows Scotland and Struan’s and Hong Kong. I wonder if I could insist that if …” She crossed that out and changed it to “when we’re married …” Her pen hesitated. “Malcolm and I will spend a few weeks in Paris every year—and the children will be brought up there, of course as Catholic.

  “André and I were talking about that yesterday, about being Catholic—he’s very kind and takes my mind off problems as his music always does—and how Mrs. Struan was Calvinist Protestant, and what to say if that ever came up. We were talking softly—oh, I am so lucky he is my friend and forewarned me about Father—suddenly he put his fingers to his lips, went to the door and jerked it open. That old hag Ah Tok, Malcolm’s amah, had her ear to it and almost fell into the room. André speaks some Cantonese and told her off.

  “When I saw Malcolm later in the day he was abject in his apologies. It’s unimportant, I said, the door was unlocked, my maid was correctly in the room, chaperoning me, but if Ah Tok wants to spy on me, please tell her to knock and come in. I confess I’ve been distant and cool to Malcolm and he goes out of his way to be extra pleasant and calm me, but this is how I feel, though also I must confess André advised me to behave so until our betrothal is public.

  “I had to ask André, had to, I’m afraid, ask him for a loan—I felt awful. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to do it but I’m desperate for some cash. He was kind and agreed to bring me twenty louis tomorrow on my signature, enough for incidentals for a week
or two-Malcolm just doesn’t seem to notice that I need money and I didn’t want to ask him….

  “I really do have an almost permanent headache, trying to plan a way out of the nightmare. There is no one I can really trust, even André, though so far he has proved his worth. With Malcolm, every time I start the speech I have rehearsed, I know the words will sound forced, flat and dreadful before I begin so I say nothing.

  “‘What is it, darling?’ he keeps saying.

  “‘Nothing,’ I say, then after I’ve left him and relocked my door, I cry and cry into my pillow. I think I shall go mad with grief—how could my father lie and cheat and steal my money? And why can’t Malcolm give me a purse without my having to ask, or offer some so that I can pretend to refuse and then accept gladly? Isn’t that a husband’s or fiancé’s duty? Isn’t it a father’s duty to protect his beloved daughter? And why is Malcolm waiting and waiting to make our betrothal public? Has he changed his mind? Oh God, don’t let that happen …”

  Angelique stopped writing, tears beginning again. One dropped on to the page. Again she wiped her eyes, sipped some water from a tumbler, then continued:

  “Today I will talk to him. I must do it today. One good piece of news is that the British flagship came back into the harbor safely a few days ago to general rejoicing (we are really quite defenseless without warships). The ship was battered and had lost a mast, to be closely followed by all other vessels, except a 20-gun steam frigate called Zephyr, with over two hundred aboard. Perhaps it’s safe, I hope so. The newspaper here says that fifty-three other seamen and two officers died in the storm, the typhoon.

  “It was terrible, the worst I have ever known. I was terrified, by day and by night. I thought the whole building would be blown away, but it is as solid as Jamie McFay. Much of the native quarter vanished, and there were many fires. The frigate Pearl was damaged, also losing a mast. Yesterday a note came from Captain Marlowe: I have just heard that you are sick and I send my deepest and most sincere condolences, etc.

  “I don’t think I like him, too haughty though his uniform makes him very glamorous and accentuates his manhood—which tight breeches are of course supposed to do, just as we dress to show our breasts and waists and ankles. Another letter arrived last evening from Settry Pallidar, the second, more condolences, etc.

  “I think I hate both of them. Every time I think of them I’m reminded of that hell called Kanagawa and that they did not do their duty and protect me. Phillip Tyrer is still in the Yedo Legation but Jamie said he had heard Phillip was supposed to be coming back tomorrow or the day after. That’s very good because when he does I have a plan th—”

  The dull echoing roar of a cannon made her jump and pulled her attention to the harbor. It was the signal gun. Far out to sea another cannon answered. She looked beyond the fleet to the horizon and saw the telltale smoke from the funnel of the arriving mail ship.

  Jamie McFay, a briefcase heavy with mail under his arm, guided a stranger up the main staircase of the Struan Building, sunlight flooding through tall and elegant windows of glass. Both wore woolen frock coats and top hats though the day was warm. The stranger carried a small case. He was squat, bearded, ugly and in his fifties, a head shorter than Jamie though wider in the shoulders, an unruly thatch of long grey hair sprouting from under his hat. They went down the corridor. McFay knocked gently. “Tai-pan?”

  “Come in, Jamie, door’s open.” Struan gaped at the man, then said at once: “Is Mother aboard, Dr. Hoag?”

  “No, Malcolm.” Dr. Ronald Hoag saw the immediate relief and it saddened him though he could understand it. Tess Struan had been vehement in her condemnation of the “foreign baggage” she was sure had her hooks into her son. Hiding his concern at Malcolm’s loss of weight and pallor, he put his top hat beside his bag on the bureau. “She asked me to see you,” he said, his voice deep and kindly, “to find out if I could do anything for you and to escort you home—if you need escorting.” For almost fifteen years he had been the Struan family doctor in Hong Kong and had delivered the last four of Malcolm’s brothers and sisters. “How are you?”

  “I’m … Dr. Babcott has been looking after me. I’m … I’m all right. Thanks for coming, I’m pleased to see you.”

  “I’m pleased to be here too, George Babcott is a fine doctor, none better.” Hoag smiled, his small topaz eyes set in a creased and leathery face, and continued breezily, “Filthy voyage, the tail of the typhoon caught us and we almost foundered once, spent my time patching up sailors and the few passengers—broken limbs mostly. Lost two overboard, one a Chinese, a steerage passenger, the other some sort of foreigner, we never did find out who he was. The Captain said the man just paid his fare in Hong Kong, mumbled a name. Spent most of the time in his cabin, then came on deck once and, poof, a wave caught him. Malcolm, you look better than I expected after all the rumors that flooded the Colony.”

  Jamie said, “I’d best leave you two together.” He put a pile of letters on the bedside table. “Here’s your personal mail, I’ll bring your books and newspapers later.”

  “Thanks.” Malcolm watched him. “Anything important?”

  “Two from your mother. They’re on top.”

  Dr. Hoag reached into his voluminous pockets and brought out a crumpled envelope. “Here’s another from her, Malcolm, later than the others. Best read it, then I’ll have a look at you, if I may. Jamie, don’t forget about Babcott.”

  Jamie had already told him that Babcott was in Kanagawa for a clinic this morning and that he would send the cutter for him the moment they had seen Malcolm. “See you later, Tai-pan.”

  “No, best wait a moment, Jamie.” Struan opened the letter Hoag had given him and began to read.

  When Jamie had reached the main deck of the mail ship, Dr. Hoag had met him, told him that he had all Struan mail ready so they could leave at once, and in answer to his immediate question, and relief: “No, Jamie, Mrs. Struan’s not aboard, but here … here’s a letter from her.”

  It read simply: Jamie, do whatever Dr. Hoag asks and send me detailed, confidential reports by every mail.

  “You know what it says, Doc?”

  “Yes, hardly necessary but then you know the lady.”

  “How is she?”

  Hoag thought a moment. “As usual: imperturbable outwardly, inwardly a volcano. One day it has to explode—no one can keep such sadness contained, so many tragedies, no one. Even her.” He had followed Jamie down the gangway, eyes everywhere. “Must say I’m pleased to have the chance to visit Japan—you’re looking very fit, Jamie. This posting certainly agrees with you. Let’s see, it’s almost a year, isn’t it, since your last leave? Now tell me everything, first about the murderous attack … then about Miss Richaud.”

  By the time they reached shore, Dr. Hoag knew all that Jamie knew: “But, please,” he added uneasily, “please don’t mention to Malcolm what I’ve told you about Angelique. She’s a wonderful person, she’s had a terrible time too, I really don’t think they’ve bedded, the secret betrothal is hearsay but he’s smitten—not that I blame him, or anyone in Asia for that matter. I hate the idea of sending Mrs. Struan secret reports, for obvious reasons. Anyway, I’ve written one, a watered-down version, and it’s ready to go when this ship turns around. My loyalties must be to Malcolm first and foremost, he’s tai-pan.”

  Now watching Malcolm Struan lying there, reading the letter Hoag had given him, seeing the wan face and listless body, he began to wonder. And to pray.

  Struan looked up. His eyes narrowed. “Yes, Jamie?”

  “You wanted me to do something?”

  After a pause Malcolm said, “Yes. Leave a message at the French Legation—Angelique’s there, she said she was going to wait for her mail-say an old friend has arrived from Hong Kong that I’d like her to meet.”

  McFay nodded and smiled. “Done. Send for me when you want anything.” He left them.

  Uneasily Struan watched the door. Jamie’s face had been too open. Trying to regain h
is calm, he went back to the letter:

  Malcolm, my poor dear son, Just a short note in haste as Ronald Hoag leaves at once for the mail ship I held up so he could catch it, and you can have the best care. I was aghast to hear about those swine and that they had attacked you. Jamie reports that this Dr. Babcott has had to operate—please write by any express mail you can and come home quickly so we can care for you properly. I send my love and prayers, as do Emma, Rose and Duncan. P.S. I love you.

  He looked up. “So?”

  “So? Tell me the truth, Malcolm. How are you?”

  “I feel dreadful and I’m afraid I’m going to die.”

  Hoag sat in the armchair and steepled his fingers. “The first is understandable, the second not necessarily accurate though very easy—very, very easy and very, very dangerous to believe. Chinese can ‘makee die,’ can think themselves into death even though healthy—I’ve seen it happen.”

  “Christ, I don’t want to die, I have everything to live for. I want to live and get well so much I can’t tell you. But every night and every day at some time the thought hits me … it hits like a physical blow.”

  “What medicine are you taking?”

  “Just some stuff—laudanum’s in it—to help me sleep. The pain’s rotten and I’m so uncomfortable.”

  “Every night?”

  “Yes.” Struan added, half apologetically, “He wants me to stop taking it, says I’ve … I should stop.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Yes.”

  “But haven’t stopped?”

  “No, not yet. My—my will seems to forsake me.”

  “That’s one of its problems—however valuable and beautiful it is.” He smiled. “Laudanum was the name first given by Paracelsus to this panacea. Do you know Paracelsus?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I,” Hoag said with a laugh. “Anyway, we passed the name on to this tincture of opium. Pity that all derivatives are habit forming. But then you know that.”