Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“None of their rotten business, Jamie. None.”
He had agreed but his disquiet increased. The captain of an incoming merchantman, an old friend, had slipped him a letter from Malcolm’s mother asking for a confidential report: I wish to know everything that has happened since this Richaud woman arrived in Yokohama, Jamie. Everything—rumor, facts, gossip—and I need not stress that this is to be a serious secret between us.
Bloody hell, Jamie thought, I’m committed by holy oath to serve the tai-pan whoever he is and now his mother wants … but then a mother has rights, doesn’t she? Not necessarily, but Mrs. Struan has because she’s Mrs. Struan and, well, you’re used to doing what she wants. Haven’t you done her bidding, her requests and suggestions, for years?
For the love of God, stop fooling yourself, Jamie, hasn’t she truly been running Culum and Struan’s for years, and neither you nor anyone has ever wanted to face the fact openly?
“That’s right,” he muttered, shocked by the thought he had been afraid to bring to the front of his mind. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hastily covered his lapse, but everyone was still concentrating on Angelique.
Except Norbert. “What’s right, Jamie?” he asked under the buzz of conversation, his smile flat.
“Everything, Norbert. Great evening, eh?” To his great relief, Angelique diverted them both.
“Good night, good night, Henri, gentlemen,” she said over general protests. “I’m sorry but I must see my patient before I sleep.” She held out her hand. With practiced elegance, Seratard kissed it, Norbert, Jamie and the others awkwardly and before anyone else could volunteer, André Poncin said, “Perhaps I may escort you to your home?”
“Of course, why not? Your music transported me.”
The night was cool and overcast but pleasant enough, her woolen shawl decoratively around her shoulders, the bottom ruffle of her wide, hooped skirt dragging carelessly in the dirt of the wooden sidewalk—so necessary during the summer rains that transformed all roads into bogs. Only one small part of her mind dragging with it.
“André, your music is wonderful—oh, how I wish I could play like you,” she said, meaning it.
“It’s only practice, just practice.”
They strolled along towards the brightly lit Struan Building, speaking companionably in French, André very aware of the envious glances of the men streaming across the street to the Club—boisterous, packed, and inviting—warmed by her, not with lust or passion or desire, just with her company and happy chattering that hardly ever required an answer.
Last night at Seratard’s “French” dinner in a private room in the Yokohama Hotel, he had sat beside her and found her youth and seeming frivolity refreshing; her love and knowledge of Paris, the restaurants, theatres, the talk of her young friends, laughing about them and strolling or riding in the Bois, all the excitement of the Second Empire filling him with nostalgia, reminding him of his university days and how much he, too, missed home.
Too many years in Asia—China and here.
Curious this girl is so much like my own daughter. Marie’s same age, birthdays the same month, July, same eyes, same coloring …
He corrected himself: Perhaps like Marie. How many years since I broke with Françoise and left the two of them in her family pension, near the Sorbonne, I boarded in? Seventeen. How many years since I last saw them? Ten. Merde, I should never have married, Françoise enceinte or not. I was the fool, not her, at least she remarried and runs the pension. But Marie?
The sound of the waves took his vision to the sea. A stray gull cawed overhead. Not far offshore were the riding lights of their anchored flagship and that broke the spell, reminding him and concentrating his mind.
Ironic, this slip of a girl now becomes an important pawn in the Great Game, France versus Britain. Ironic but life. Do I leave it until tomorrow, or the next day, or deal the cards as we agreed, Henri and I?
“Ah,” she was saying, her fan fluttering, “I feel so happy tonight, André, your music has given me so much, has taken me to the Opéra, has lifted me until I can smell the perfume of Paris…. ”
In spite of himself he was beguiled. Is it her, or because she reminds me of what Marie might have been? I don’t know, but never mind, Angelique, tonight I’ll leave you in your happy balloon. Tomorrow is soon enough.
Then his nostrils caught a suggestion of her perfume, Vie de Camille, reminding him of the phial he had acquired from Paris with such difficulty for his musume, Hana—the Flower—and sudden rage swept away his impulse to kindness.
There was no one within hearing distance, most of the High Street empty. Even so, he kept his voice down. “Sorry to tell you, but I’ve some private news you should have. There’s no way to break it easily but your father visited Macao some weeks ago and gambled heavily, and lost.” He saw the swift pallor. His heart went out to her but he continued as he and Seratard had planned. “Sorry.”
“Heavily, André? What does that mean?” The words were barely audible and he saw her staring at him wide-eyed, rigid in the lee of a building.
“He has lost everything, his business, your funds.”
She gasped. “Everything? My funds too? But he can’t!”
“Sorry, he can, and has. He’s within the law. You’re his daughter, an unmarried woman—apart from being a minor—he’s your father with jurisdiction over you and everything you possess, but of course you know that. Sorry. Do you have other money?” he asked, knowing she did not.
“Sorry?” She shivered and fought to make her mind work clearly, the suddenness of knowing that the second of her great terrors was now a reality and common knowledge tore asunder her carefully self-generated cocoon. “How—how do you know all this?” she stammered, groping for air. “My—my funds are mine … he promised.”
“He changed his mind. And Hong Kong’s a village—there are no secrets in Hong Kong, Angelique, no secrets there, or here. Today a message arrived from Hong Kong, couriered from a business partner. He sent the details—he was in Macao at the time and witnessed the debacle.” He kept his voice friendly and concerned as a good friend should be, but telling only half the truth. “He and I, we own some of your father’s paper, loans from last year and still unpaid.”
Another fear slashed into her. “Doesn’t … my father doesn’t pay his bills?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
In anguish she was thinking of her aunt’s letter and knew for certain now that her uncle’s loan had not been repaid either and he was in jail because … perhaps because of me, she wanted to shout, trying to keep her balance, wishing this was all a dream, oh God, oh God what am I going to do?
“I want you to know if I can help, please tell me.”
Abruptly her voice became shrill. “Help me? You’ve destroyed my peace—if what you say is true. Help me? Why did you tell me this now, why why why when I was so happy?”
“Better you should know at once. Better I tell you, than an enemy.”
Her face twisted. “Enemy, what enemy? Why should I have enemies? I’ve done nothing to anyone, nothing nothing noth—” The tears began flooding. In spite of himself, he held her for a moment, compassionately, then put both hands on her shoulders and shook her.
“Stop it,” he said, letting his voice sharpen. “My God, stop it, don’t you understand, I’m trying to help you!” Several men were approaching on the other side of the street but he saw that they were weaving and concerned only with themselves. No one else nearby, only men making for the Club well down the street behind them, he and she protected by the building’s shadow. Again he shook her and she moaned, “You’re hurting me!” but the tears ceased and she came back to herself.
Partly to herself, he thought coldly, this same process repeated a hundred times before with varying degrees of twisted truths and violence, with other innocents he needed to use for the betterment of France, men so much easier to deal with than women. Men you just kicked in the balls or threatened to cut them off, or stuck need
“You’re surrounded by enemies, Angelique. There’re many who don’t want you to marry Struan, his mother will fight you every way she—”
“I’ve never said we were going to be married, it … it’s a rumor, a rumor, that’s all!”
“Merde! Of course it’s true! He’s asked you, hasn’t he?” He shook her again, his fingers rough. “Hasn’t he?”
“You’re hurting me, André. Yes, yes he’s asked me.”
He gave her a handkerchief, deliberately more gentle. “Here, dry your eyes, there’s not much time.”
Meekly she obeyed, began to cry, stopped herself. “Why’re you so-awfulllll?”
“I’m the only real friend you have here—I’m truly on your side, ready to help, the only real friend you can trust—I’m the only friend you have, I swear it, the only one who can help you.” Normally he would add fervently, I swear by God, but he judged her hooked, reserving that for later. “Better you hear the truth secretly. Now you’ve time to prepare. The news won’t arrive for at least a week, that gives you time to make your betrothal solemn and official.”
“What?”
“Struan’s a gentleman, isn’t he?” With an effort he covered the sneer. “An English, sorry, a Scottish, a British gentleman. Aren’t they proudly men of their word? Eh? Once the promise is public he can’t withdraw whether you’re a pauper or not, whatever your father has done, whatever his mother says.”
I know, I know, she wanted to scream. But I’m a woman and I have to wait, I’ve been waiting and now it’s too late. Is it? Oh, Blessed Mother, help me! “I don’t … don’t think Malcolm will blame me for my father or—or listen to his mother.”
“I’m afraid he has to, Angelique. Have you forgotten Malcolm Struan is a minor too, however much he’s tai-pan? His twenty-first birthday’s not till May next year. Until then she can put all sorts of legal restraints on him, even annul a betrothal under English law.” He was not completely sure of this but it sounded reasonable and was true under French law.
“She could put restraints on you too, perhaps take you to court,” he added so sadly. “Struans are powerful in Asia, it’s almost their domain. She could have you hauled into court—you know what they say about judges, any judges, eh? She could have you dragged before a magistrate, accuse you of being a coquette, a deceiver, just after his money or worse. She could paint a nasty picture to the judge, you in the dock and defenseless, your father a gambling, bankrupt ne’er-do-well, your uncle in Debtors’ Prison, you penniless, an adventuress.”
Her face became haggard. “How do you know about Uncle Michel? Who are you?”
“There are no tricks, Angelique,” he said easily. “How many French citizens are in Asia? Not many, none like you, and people like to gossip. Me, I’m André Poncin, China trader, Japan trader. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I want nothing but your friendship and trust and to help.”
“How? I’m beyond help.”
“No, you’re not,” he said softly, watching her carefully. “You love him, don’t you? You would be the best wife a man can have, given the chance, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, yes of course …”
“Then press him, beguile him, persuade him any way you can to make your betrothal public. I can guide you perhaps.” Now, at last, he saw that she was really hearing him, really understanding him. Gently he delivered the coup de grâce. “A wise woman, and you are as wise as you are beautiful, would get married quickly. Very quickly.”
Struan was reading, the oil lamp on the table beside his bed giving enough light, the door to her room ajar. His bed was comfortable and he was engrossed in the story, his silken nightshirt enhancing the color of his eyes, his face still pale and thin with none of its former strength. On the bedside table was a sleeping draft, his pipe and tobacco and matches and water laced with a little whisky: “Good for you, Malcolm,” Babcott had said. “It’s the best nighttime medicine you could have, taken weak. Better than the tincture.”
“Without that I’m awake all night and feel dreadful.”
“It’s seventeen days now since the accident, Malcolm. It’s time to stop. Really to stop, not good to rely on medicine to sleep. Best we stop it for good.”
“I tried that before and it didn’t work. I’ll stop in a day or two…. ”
Curtains were drawn against the night, the room cozy, the ticktock of the ornate Swiss timepiece peaceful. It was almost one o’clock, and the book, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was one that Dmitri had loaned him this morning saying: “Think you’ll like it, Malc, it’s what they call a detective story. Edgar Allan Poe’s one of our best writers—sorry, was, he died in ’49, the year of the Gold Rush. I’ve a collection of his books and poems if you like this one.”
“Thanks, you’re very kind. Good of you to drop by so often. But why so glum today, Dmitri?”
“News from home is bad. My folks … it’s all bad, Malc, all mixed up, cousins, brothers, uncles on both sides. Hell, you don’t want to hear about that. Listen, I’ve lots of other books, a whole library in fact.”
“Go on about your family, please,” he had said, the pain of the day beginning. “Really, I’d like to hear.”
“All right, sure. Well, when my granddaddy and his family came over from Russia, from the Crimea—did I tell you our family were Cossacks—they settled in a little place called Far Hills in New Jersey, farmed there till the War of 1812—my granddad was killed in it—great place for raising horses too, and we prospered. The family stayed in New Jersey mostly, though two of his sons moved south, to Richmond, Virginia. When I was in the army, oh, fifteen-odd years ago—it was just the Union Army then, not North or South. I joined the cavalry and stayed for five years, spent most of my time in the South, South and West, the Indian Wars if you could call them that. Spent part of the time in Texas, a year while it was still a republic, helping them blow off their Indians, then a couple after she joined the Union in ’45, we were stationed out of Austin. That’s where I met my wife, Emilie—she also comes from Richmond—her pa was a colonel in Supplies. My, that’s pretty country around Austin, but more so all around Richmond. Emilie … Can I get you anything?”
“No, no thanks, Dmitri, the pain will pass. Go on, will you … talking, your talking helps me a lot.”
“Sure, all right. My Emilie, Emilie Clemm was her name—she was a distant cousin of Poe’s wife, Virginia Clemm, which I didn’t find out till later but which’s why I’ve a collection of his works.” Dmitri had laughed. “Poe was a great writer but a bigger drunk and cocksman. Seems like all writers are bums, drunks and/or fornicators—take Melville—maybe that’s what makes them writers, me I can’t write a letter without sweating. How about you?”
“Oh, I can write letters—have to, and keep a journal like most people. You were saying about this Poe?”
“I was going to tell you he married Virginia Clemm when she was thirteen—she was also his cousin, imagine that!—and they lived happily ever after but not very if what was reported in the newspapers and gossip was true—he was a randy son of a bitch though she didn’t seem to mind. My Emilie wasn’t thirteen but eighteen and a Southern belle if ever there was one. We were married when I got out of the army and joined Cooper-Tillman in Richmond—they wanted to expand into armaments and ammunition for export to Asia, which I’d learned a lot about, that and shooting Indians and horse trading. Old Jeff Cooper figured that guns and other goods outward bound from Norfolk, Virginia, would go well with opium up the China coast, silver and tea inbound to Norfolk—but, you know Jeff. Cooper-Tillman and Struan’s are old friends, eh?”
“Yes, and I hope it remains so. Go on.”
“Nothing much more, or everything. Over the years, others in the family moved down South and spread out. My ma was from Alabama, I have two brothers and a sister, all younger than me. Now Billy’s with the North, New Jersey 1st Cavalry, and my little brother Janny—named after my grand-daddy, Janov Syborodin, J
“You … are you going to go back?”
“Don’t know, Malc. Every day I think yes, every night yes and every morning no, don’t want to start killing family, whatever side I’m on.”
“Why did you leave and come to this godforsaken part of the world?”
“Emilie died. She got scarlet fever—there was an epidemic and she was one of the unlucky ones. That was nine years ago—we were just about to have a kid.”
“What rotten luck!”
“Yes. You and me, we’ve both had our share…. ”
Struan was so concentrated in his mystery book that he did not hear the outside door to her suite softly open and close, nor the lightness of her tiptoeing, nor notice her peer in for an instant, then disappear. In a moment there was an almost imperceptible click as her inner, bedroom door closed.
He looked up. Now listening intently. She had said that she would look in but if he was asleep she would not disturb him. Or if she was tired she would go straight to bed, quiet as a mouse, and see him in the morning. “Don’t worry, darling,” he had said happily. “Just have a good time, I’ll see you at breakfast. Sleep well and know I love you.”
“I love you too, chéri. Sleep well.”
The book was resting in his lap. With an effort he sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. That part was just bearable. But not getting up. Getting up was still beyond him. His heart was pounding and he felt nauseated and lay back. Still, a little better than yesterday. Got to push, whatever Babcott says, he told himself grimly, rubbing his stomach. Tomorrow I’ll try again, three times. Perhaps it’s just as well. I’d want to stay with her. God help me, I would have to.
When he felt better he began to read once more, glad for the book, but now the story did not absorb him as before, his attention wandered, and his mind started to intermix the story with pictures of her about to be murdered, and corpses, him rushing to protect her, other glimpses becoming ever more erotic.