Noble House by James Clavell
“Sure,” he said and added before he could stop himself, “you’re saying you’re off limits.”
Her smile vanished and she stared at him. His heart twisted at her sadness. “Yes,” she said, slowly getting up, near tears. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Jesus, Orlanda.” He went over to her and held her. “I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t mean it rotten.”
“Linc, I’m not trying to tease or play games or be diffic—”
“I understand. Hell, I’m not a child and I’m not pushing or … I’m not either.”
“Oh, oh I’m so glad. For a moment…” She looked up and her innocence melted him. “You’re not mad at me, Linc? I mean I … I didn’t ask you up, you really insisted on coming.”
“I know,” he said, holding her in his arms, and he was thinking, It’s the truth, and also the truth that I want you now and I don’t know what you are, who you are but I want you. But what do I want from you? What do I really want? Do I want magic? Or just a lay? Are you the magic I’ve been seeking forever or just another broad? How do you stack against Casey? Do I measure loyalty against the silk of your skin? Remember how Casey said once, “Love consists of many things, Linc, only one part of love’s sex. Only one. Think of all the other parts. Judge a woman by her love, yes, but understand what a woman is.” But her warmth was going through him, her face against his chest and once more he felt himself stirring. He kissed her neck, not wanting to withhold his passion.
“What are you, Orlanda?”
“I’m … I can only tell you what I’m not,” she said in her tiny voice. “I’m not a tease. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to tease you. I like you, like you very much but I’m not a … I’m not a one-night stand.”
“I know. Jesus, what put that into your head?” He saw her eyes were glistening. “No need for tears. None. Okay?”
“Yes.” She moved away and opened her purse and took out a tissue and used it. “Ayeeyah, I’m acting like a teenager or a vestal virgin. Sorry, but it was rather sudden and I wasn’t prepared for … I felt myself going.” She took a deep breath. “Abject apologies.”
He laughed. “Refused.”
“Thank God!” She watched him. “Actually, Linc, I can usually handle the strong, the meek, and the cunning—even the very cunning—without too much trouble. I guess I’ve known every kind of pass it’s possible for a girl to have and I’ve always figured I’ve an automatic game plan to counter them almost before they begin. But with you …” She hesitated, then added, “Sorry, but almost every man I meet, well, it’s always the same.”
“That’s wrong?”
“No, but it’s trying to walk into a room or a restaurant and feel those leering eyes. I wonder how men would handle it. You’re young and handsome. What would you do if women did it to you everywhere you went. Say when you walked through the lobby of the V and A this morning you saw every woman of every age, from false-toothed old grannies, bewigged harpies, the fat, the ugly, the coarse, all of them, all openly leering at you, undressing you mentally, openly trying to get close, trying to stroke your behind, openly ogling your chest or crotch, most of them with bad breath, most of them sweating and foul-smelling, and you know they’re imagining you in their bed, enthusiastically and happily doing the most intimate things to them.”
“I wouldn’t like it at all. Casey said the same thing in different words when she first joined me. I know what you mean, Orlanda. At least I can imagine it. But that’s the way the world’s made.”
“Yes, and sometimes it’s awful. Oh I don’t want to be a man, Linc, I’m very happy to be a woman, but it’s really quite awful sometimes. To know you’re thought of as just a receptacle that can be bought, and that after it all you’re to say thank you very much to the corpulent old lecher with the bad breath and accept your twenty-dollar bill and sneak off like a thief in the night.”
He frowned. “How did we get on this kick?”
She laughed. “You kissed me.”
He grinned, glad they were happy together. “That’s right. So maybe I deserved the lecture. I’m guilty as charged. Now, about that kiss you promised me …” But he did not move. He was feeling his way, probing. Everything’s changed now, he thought. Sure I wanted to—what did she call it? To pillow. Sure. Still do, more than before. But now we’re changed. Now we’re in a different game. I don’t know if I want in. The rules’ve changed. Before it was simple. Now maybe it’s more simple. “You’re pretty. Did I mention you were pretty?” he said, avoiding the issue that she wanted out in the open.
“I was going to talk about that kiss. You see, Linc, the truth is I just wasn’t prepared for the way, to be honest, the way I, I was swamped, I guess that’s the word.”
He let the word linger. “Is that good or bad?”
“Both.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “Yes, swamped with my own desire. You’re something else, Mr. Bartlett, and that’s also very bad, or very good. I, I enjoyed your kiss.”
“So did I.” Again he grinned at her. “You can call me Linc.”
After a pause she said, “I’ve never felt so wanting and swamped, and because of that very frightened.”
“No need to be frightened,” he said. But he was wondering what to do. His instincts said leave. His instincts said stay. Wisdom told him to say nothing and wait. He could hear his heart beating and the rain hammering the windows. Better to go, he thought. “Orlanda, guess it’s ab—”
“Do you have time to talk? Just a little?” she asked, sensing his indecision.
“Sure. Sure, of course.”
Her fingers brushed her hair from her face. “I wanted to tell you about me. Quillan was my father’s boss in Shanghai and I seem to have known him all my life. He helped pay for my education, particularly in the States and he was always very kind to me and my family—I’ve four sisters and a brother and I’m the oldest and they’re all in Portugal now. When I came back to Shanghai from San Francisco after I’d graduated, I was seventeen, almost eighteen and … Well he’s an attractive man, to me he is, though very cruel sometimes. Very.”
“How?”
“He believes in personal vengeance, that vengeance is a man’s right, if he’s a man. Quillan’s very much a man. He was always good to me, still is.” She studied him. “Quillan still gives me an allowance, still pays for this apartment.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“I know. But I’d like to—if you want to listen. Then you can decide.”
He studied her. “All right.”
“You see, part of it’s because I’m Eurasian. Most Europeans despise us, openly or secretly, particularly the British here—Linc, just hear me out. Most Europeans despise Eurasians. All Chinese do. So we’re always on the defensive, almost always suspect, almost always presumed to be illegitimate, and certainly an easy lay. God how I loathe that Americanism! How rotten and vulgar and cheap it really is. And revealing about the American male—though, strangely, it was in the States that I gained my self-respect and got over my Eurasian guilt. Quillan taught me lots and formed me in lots of ways. I’m beholden to him. But I don’t love him. That’s what I wanted to say. Would you like more coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“I’ll make some fresh.” She got up, her walk unconsciously sensuous and again he cursed his luck.
“Why’d you bust up with him?”
Gravely she told him about Macao. “I allowed myself to be persuaded into the fellow’s bed and I slept there though nothing happened, nothing—the poor man was drunk and useless. The next day I pretended that he’d been fine.” Her voice was outwardly calm and matter-of-fact but he could feel the anguish. “Nothing happened but someone told Quillan. Rightly, he was furious. I have no defense. It was … Quillan had been away. I know that’s no excuse but I’d learned to enjoy pillowing and …” A shadow went over her. She shrugged. “Joss. Karma.” In the same small voice she told him about Quillan’s revenge. “That’s his way,
“I still see him once in a while. Just to talk. We’re just friends now and he’s good to me and I do what I want, see who I want.” She turned the steam off and looked up at him. “We … we had a child four years ago. I wanted it, he didn’t. He said I could have the child but I should have it in England. She’s in Portugal now with my parents—my father’s retired and she lives with them.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Was that his idea, to keep the child there?”
“Yes. But he is right. Once a year I go there. My parents … my mother wanted the child, begged to have it. Quillan’s generous to them too.” The tears were rolling down her face now but there was no sound to her crying. “So now you know it all, Linc. I’ve never told anyone but you and now you know I’m, I wasn’t a faithful mistress and I’m, I’m not a good mother and and …”
He went to her and held her very close and he felt her melt against him, trying to hold back the sobs, holding on, taking his warmth and his strength. He gentled her, holding her, the length of her against him, warm, tender, everything fitting.
When she was whole again she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly but with great tenderness and looked at him.
He returned the kiss equally.
They looked at each other searchingly, then kissed again. Their passion grew and it seemed forever but it was not and both heard the key in the lock at the same time. They broke away, trying to catch their breath, listening to their hearts and hearing the coarse voice of the amah from the hall. “Weyyyyy?”
Weakly Orlanda brushed her hair straighter, half-shrugged to him in apology. “I’m in the kitchen,” she called out in Shanghainese. “Please go to your room until I call you.”
“Oh? Oh the foreign devil’s still here is he? What about my shopping? I did some shopping!”
“Leave it by the door!”
“Oh, oh very well, Young Mistress,” the amah called back and went off grumbling. The door banged loudly behind her.
“They always slam doors?” Linc asked, his heart still thumping.
“Yes, yes it seems so.” Her hand went back to his shoulder, the nails caressing his neck. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. How about dinner?”
She hesitated. “If you bring Casey.”
“No. Just you.”
“Linc, I think it’s best no,” she told him. “We’re not in danger now. Let’s just say good-bye now.”
“Dinner. Eight. I’ll call for you. You pick the restaurant. Shanghai food.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s too heady already. Sorry.”
“I’ll call for you at eight.” Bartlett kissed her lightly, then went to the door. She took down his raincoat and held it out for him. “Thanks,” he said gently. “No danger, Orlanda. Everything’s going to come up roses. See you at eight. Okay?”
“It’s best not.”
“Maybe.” He smiled down at her strangely. “That’d be joss—karma. We must remember the gods, huh?” She did not answer. “I’ll be here at eight.”
She closed the door behind him, went slowly to the chair and sat, deep in thought, wondering if she had scared him off, petrified that she had. Wondering if he really would be back at eight and if he did, how to keep him off, how to puppet him until he was mad with desire, mad enough to marry her.
Her stomach twisted uneasily. I have to be fast, she thought. Casey holds him in thrall, she’s wrapped her coils around him and my only way is good cooking and home and loving, loving loving loving and everything that Casey is not. But no pillow. That’s the way Casey’s trapped him. I have to do the same.
Then he’ll be mine.
Orlanda felt weak. Everything had gone perfectly, she decided. Then again she remembered what Gornt had said. “It’s the law of the ages that every man has to be trapped into marriage, trapped by his own lust or possessiveness or avarice or money or fear or laziness or whatever but trapped. And no man ever willingly marries his mistress.”
Yes. Quillan’s right again, she thought. But he’s wrong about me. I’m not going to settle for half the prize. I’m going to try for all of it. I’m going to have not only the Jag and this apartment and all it contains but a house in California and, most of all, American wealth, away from Asia, where I’ll no longer be Eurasian but a woman like any other, beautiful, carefree and loving.
Oh I’ll make him the best wife a man could ever have. I’ll minister to his every need, whatever he wants I’ll do for him. I felt his strength and I’ll be good for him, wonderful for him.
“He’s gone?” Ah Fat wandered noiselessly into the room, automatically tidying as she talked the Shanghai dialect. “Good, very good. Shall I make some tea? You must be tired. Some tea, heya?”
“No. Yes, yes make some, Ah Fat.”
“Make some tea! Work work work!” The old woman shuffled to the kitchen. She wore black baggy pants and white smock and her hair was in a single long braid that hung down her back. She had looked after Orlanda ever since she was born. “I took a good look at him downstairs, when you and he arrived. For an uncivilized person he’s quite presentable,” she said speculatively.
“Oh? I didn’t see you. Where were you?”
“Down by the stairs,” Ah Fat cackled. “Eeeee, I took good care to hide but I wanted to look at him. Huh! You send your poor old slave out into the wet with my poor old bones when what does it matter if I’m here or not? Who’s going to get you sweetmeats and tea or drinks in bed when you’ve finished your labors, heya?”
“Oh shut up! Shut up!”
“Don’t shut up your poor old Mother! She knows how to look after you! Ah yes, Little Empress, but it was quite clear on both of you the yang and the yin were ready to join battle. You two looked as happy as cats in a barrel of fish! But there was no need for me to leave!”
“Foreign devils are different, Ah Fat. I wanted him here alone. Foreign devils are shy. Now make the tea and keep quiet or I’ll send you out again!”
“Is he going to be the new Master?” Ah Fat called out hopefully. “It’s about time you had a Master, not good for a person not to have a Steaming Stalk at the Jade Gate. Your Gate’ll shrivel up and become as dry as dust from the little use it gets! Oh, I forgot to tell you two pieces of news. The Werewolves are supposed to be Macao foreigners; they’ll strike again before the new moon. That’s what the rumor is. Everyone swears it’s the truth. And the other’s that, well, Old Cougher Tok at the fish stall says this foreign devil from the Golden Mountain’s got more gold than Eunuch Tung!” Tung was a legendary eunuch at the Imperial Court in the Forbidden City of Peking whose lust for gold was so immense that all China could not satisfy it; he was hated so much that the next emperor heaped his ill-gotten gains on him until the weight of the gold crushed him to death. “You’re not getting younger, Little Mother! We should be serious. Is he going to be the one?”
“I hope so,” Orlanda said slowly.
Oh yes, she thought fervently, faint with anxiety, knowing that Linc Bartlett was the single most important opportunity of her life. Abruptly she was petrified again that she had overplayed her game and that he would not come back. She burst into tears.
Eight floors below, Bartlett crossed the small foyer and went outside to join the half a dozen people waiting impatiently for a taxi. The torrent was steady now and it gushed off the concrete overhang to join the flood that swirled in a small river down Kotewall Road, overflowing the gutters, the storm drains long since choked, carrying with it stones and mud and vegetation that came off the high banks and slopes above. Cars and trucks grinding cautiously up or down the steep road splashed through the whirlpools and eddies, windshield wipers clicking, windows fogged.
Across the road the land rose steeply and Ba
So much building, Bartlett told himself critically. Maybe we should get into construction here. Too many people chasing too little land means profit, huge profit. And amortized over three years—Jesus!
A taxi swirled up, careless of the puddles. Passengers got out and others, grumbling, got in. A Chinese couple came out of the entrance, shoved past him and the others to the head of the line—a loud chattering matron with a huge umbrella, an expensive raincoat over her chong-sam, her husband meek and mild alongside her. Screw you, baby, Bartlett thought, you’re not going to take my turn. He moved into a better position. His watch read 10:35.
What next, he asked himself. Don’t let Orlanda distract you!
Struan’s or Gornt?
Today’s skirmish day, tomorrow—Friday—tomorrow’s the ball-breaker, the weekend’s for regrouping, Monday’s the final assault and by 3:00 P.M. we should have a victor.
Whom do I want to win? Dunross or Gornt?
That Gornt’s a lucky man—was a lucky man, he thought, bemused. Jesus, Orlanda’s something else. Would I have quit her if I’d been him? Sure. Sure I would. Well maybe not—nothing happened. But I’d’ve married her the moment I could and not sent our child packing to Portugal—that Gornt’s a no-good son of a bitch. Or goddamn clever. Which?
She laid it out nice and clean—just like Casey did but different though the result’s the same. Now everything’s complicated, or simple. Which?