Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Malcolm cleared his throat. “Yes. Now, the marriage should be next week, Tuesday’s the best day.”
Father Leo blinked. “But there’s your conversion, my son. That takes time and y—”
“I …well, I don’t want to convert, not yet, though I agree that—that the children will be Catholic.” They’ll all be brought up properly, and be intelligent, he reasoned, feeling sicker by the moment. They’ll be able to choose for themselves when they’re adult…What am I thinking about? Long before that we’ll be properly married in a proper church. “Please, next week, Tuesday, that’s the day.”
The eyes no longer smiled. “You’re not going to embrace the True Faith? What of your immortal soul?”
“No, no, thank you, not at the moment. I—I will … I will certainly consider it. The—the souls of the children … that’s important …” Malcolm tried to sound more coherent. “Now, the marriage, I’d like it private, a simple ceremony, Tuesday wo—”
“But your immortal soul, my son. God has shown you the light, your soul is even more important than this marriage.”
“Well, I’ll certainly consider it, yes, I will. Now the marriage. Tuesday would be perfect.”
The priest set his glass down, his mind tangled with joys and hopes and questions and fears and danger signals. “But, my son, that will not be possible, no, not for many reasons. The girl is underage, no? Her father’s approval must be obtained, documents approved. You, the same, no?”
“A minor?” Malcolm forced a tentative laugh. “It doesn’t apply in my case, not when your father is dead. It’s—it’s English law. I checked it with … with Mr. Skye.” He just managed to stop using “Heavenly” but cursed himself anyway for mentioning him at all, as he suddenly remembered Angelique telling him how Father Leo hated the man, hated the nickname, believing him, an open agnostic, to be an abomination.
“That person?” Father Leo’s voice hardened. “His opinion will certainly have to be approved by your Sir William, he’s certainly not to be trusted, and as to the senhorita’s father, he can come from Bangkok, no?”
“He’s … I believe he’s returned to France. He won’t be necessary, I’m sure Mr. Seratard can act for her. Tuesday would be perfect.”
“But, my son, why the hurry, you’re both young, so much life ahead, your soul to consider.” Father Leo tried a smile. “It’s God’s will you sent for me, in a month or two y—”
“Not, not in a month or two,” Malcolm said, ready to explode, his voice strangled. “Wednesday or Tuesday, please.”
“Reconsider, my son, your immortal soul should be y—”
“Forget my soul …” Malcolm paused to get a grip on himself. “I thought I would endow the Church, though it’s not—not currently my Church, endow it handsomely.”
Father Leo heard the “currently” and the way “handsomely” had been said, ever conscious that God’s work on earth required practical servants and pragmatic solutions. And funds. And influence. And those two essentials came only from the highborn and the rich, no need to remind himself that the tai-pan of the Noble House was both, or that already today a giant step forward in the service of God had been made: he had been asked for a favor, and the children would be saved even if this poor sinner burned in the Molten Torment. A shiver went through him, appalled for this youth and all those who would needlessly suffer such horror for all eternity when salvation was so easy to obtain.
He pushed that problem aside. The will of God is the will of God. “The marriage will take place, my son, never fear, I promise … but not next week or the week after, there are too many barriers.”
Malcolm felt his heart about to burst. “God Almighty, if it can’t be next week or the latest the week after, then it’s no good, it has to be then—or nothing.”
“But why? And why private, my son?”
“It has to be then, or nothing,” Malcolm repeated, his face twisted.
“You—you will find me a good friend…. I need your help…. For God’s sake, it’s a simple thing to marry us!”
“Yes, yes, it is, for God, but not for us, my son.” The priest sighed and got up. “I will ask God’s guidance. I doubt if … but perhaps. Perhaps. I would have to be very sure.”
The words hung in the air.
“I hate to pour feces on your bouquet of roses, Tai-pan,” Heavenly Skye said, steepling his fingers. He was slumped behind his desk in his drab little office. “But since you ask my professional advice I’d say your Father Leo’s not to be trusted, not a jot or tittle, unless you convert. There’s no way that can be done in time and I wouldn’t advise that, oh dear, no. He’ll puppet you like a will-o’-the-wisp and your vital dates will pass and you’ll be truly buggered.”
“Then for Christ’s sake, Heavenly, what do I do?”
Skye hesitated, blew his bulbous nose and cleaned his pince-nez, small spectacles, a favorite ploy to allow time to compose himself, or to cover a lapse, or, in this case, to prevent an all-pervading beam.
This was the first time anyone important had consulted him since he had hung up his own shingle, H. Skye, Esq., late of Moodle, Putfield and Leech, Solicitors and Barristers, Inns of Court, London, initially in Calcutta ten years ago, then Hong Kong, and recently here. At long last he had, potentially, a perfect client: rich, beset with anxiety, with a simple problem that could become ever more complicated, with long-term possibilities from the cradle to the grave. And grand fees, for a solution, of which there were many, some good, some violent.
“Can’t think of a worse pickle to be in,” he said solemnly, playing his part, liking and admiring the youth, not merely as a client, then offered a key. “The Gordian knot, eh?”
Malcolm was miserable. Obviously Heavenly was right, Father Leo can’t be trusted. Even if I converted … I can’t, that would be too much…. He looked up abruptly. “Knot? Gordian knot? That was solved! Ulysses hacked it in two. No, it was Hercules!”
“Sorry, Alexander the Great in 333 b.c.”
“Whoever did it doesn’t matter. My problem is … Heavenly, help me cut through my knot and you’ve my undying gratitude and five hundred guineas …”
The Harbor Master’s signal gun echoed over the Settlement. They looked out of the mildewed window—Skye’s office was in Lunkchurch’s building and godown, stacked with books, fronting the sea. To their joy the fleet was rounding the headland in line ahead, flagship to the fore, with flags overall. Pride filled them, and relief. Cannonade salutes thundered from shore and ships, H.M.S. Pearl the most exuberant, with replying salvos from the fleet.
Both men whooped, and Skye said, “Now we can deal with the Jappos and sleep snug in our beds.” Obliquely, he returned to the matter in hand, envying him Angelique and determined to help. “Not difficult to solve Jappos, Willie needs to be simple and decisive, the old iron fist in the iron glove, or velvet, applies in most, if not all cases. As with you.”
Malcolm Struan looked at him. “How? How? If you solve my problem you can … you can name your own price.” Tiredly he reached for his canes. “Within reason.”
“A moment, Tai-pan,” Skye said, exuberantly polishing his glasses. My price won’t only be money, not from the Noble House, your influence can help me become a Hong Kong judge, ah, what joy that will be! My only dilemma is should I reveal the solution now, or wait and risk losing the initiative. Not on your Nelly! A bird in the bed is worth two in the Yoshiwara.
No longer solemn, he set his pince-nez back on the tip of his nose, now like twin doors dominating his pink, babyish face, which seemed to over flow them. “I had a sudden thought, Tai-pan. It could solve your problem, in the time you need. Why don’t you do what your mother did?”
Malcolm was thrown for a moment, then the meaning became clear. “Oh, oh, you mean elope? I’ve thought of that, for God’s sake,” he said irritably, “but elope where and who’s going to perform the ceremony? We’re a million miles from Macao.”
“What has Macao to do with it?” Skye asked.
“Everyone knows Mother and Father eloped and were married in the English Church in Macao, the ceremony performed quietly and quickly because of Grandfather’s influence.”
Skye smiled and shook his head. “That’s the published story, but it’s not true. Your Captain Orlov married them aboard your clipper China Cloud en route from Macao to Hong Kong—your grandfather had made your father Master for that short voyage, and as you know the tai-pan’s law is that at sea the Master was the law of the ship.”
Struan was gaping at him. “I don’t believe it.”
“The first attribute of a good lawyer, and I am a good lawyer, Mr. Struan, is to be a good listener, the second to have a nose for facts and secrets, the third to be discreet. It’s very important to know as much as you can about your most important, potential clients—all the better to help them in adversity.” He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed. “The Noble House is the first in Asia, the stuff of legends, so when I came to Hong Kong I wanted to sift fact from legend about the Struans, Brocks, the Americans Cooper and his partner Wilf Tillman, even the Russian Zergeyev. I think—” He stopped. The young man’s eyes were glazed, staring into the distance, not listening, his mind surely on the solution as it surfaced and filled his firmament. “Mr. Struan!”
“Oh, sorry, you were saying?”
“I’m delighted to present you with your solution: there are difficulties of course, but you have ships, they have captains, and captains of a British ship, in certain situations, can perform a marriage. You are tai-pan so you-can-order-it! Quod erat demonstrandum.”
“Heavenly, you’re fantastic,” Malcolm burst out. “Fantastic! You’re sure—sure about my mother and father?”
“Yes. One of my informants was Morley Skinner, owner of the Oriental Times, a contemporary of Dirk Struan, an old man who loved to gossip about the old times; another was Mrs. Fortheringill before she died, and—have you noticed how few people are interested in listening to old people who actually witnessed all kinds of events? Skinner died about eight years ago, did you know him?”
“No.” Some of Malcolm’s hope evaporated. “If that story’s true, everyone in Hong Kong would know it.”
“Dirk Struan decided to hush it, decided a ‘quiet church wedding’ was better face. He was powerful enough to do that, and even got the Brocks to agree. It’s true.”
“But if he …” Malcolm stopped—his face a delight to see. “But true or false, that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Yes, it does. The truth is vastly important because it gives you a complete defense against your mother. After all, you’re only doing what she did, you’re following her example.”
“My God, Heavenly, you’re right again.” Then even more excitedly, “Do you have proof?”
Of course, silly boy, Skye thought, but you don’t get everything at once. “Yes, in Hong Kong. I’ll need expenses to go there at once—against my retainer. Shall we say five thousand, which includes proof … and always providing my solution cuts your Gordian knot. By the time you get there, after the wedding, I’ll have all the proof you’ll need.”
“God in Heaven, and I thought I was lost!” Malcolm sat back in the chair. Now there was nothing to stop him. And this fact cleared his mind of many devils, devils of the night and of the day and of the future. “What other ‘facts’ do you know about me and the past?”
“Lots, Mr. Struan,” Skye said with a smile. “But they’re not for now, however precious.”
Malcolm Struan was heading homewards, happier than he could remember, his sticks or the pain not bothering him as much as usual.
And why not? he almost sang. Married next week to the most beautiful girl ever, Mother finessed flawlessly—I can’t wait to see her face—I’ve a party tonight that now will really be a celebration, and Norbert’s back in perfect time to be sent onwards to meet his Maker. “Ayeeyah!”
Jovially he greeted and waved at those who passed by. He was popular as well as pitied, respected as tai-pan of the Noble House, and envied even more as the adored husband-to-be of the Settlement’s darling.
The sun breaking through the clouds matched his mood and set the sea sparkling, while the fleet sorted itself out in the bay, Sir William’s tender rowing out to the flagship, the mail ship clustered with other tenders. Their own merchantman, Lady Tess, which plied between Yokohama, Shanghai, Hong Kong, then all the major ports home to London and back again, was prepared for sea, outward bound this evening.
Her captain would do, he thought—Lavidarc Smith, big and blustery, many years with Struan’s like most of our captains, but I’ve never liked him much, I’d rather have had old Uncle Sheely to marry and bless us. Pity I didn’t know what I know now when he was here. Never mind. Joss! Anyway, I can’t keep Lavidarc here and even tomorrow would be impossible, have to deal with Norbert first.
What about Vincent Strongbow, off Prancing Cloud? She arrives Sunday and turns around for Hong Kong Wednesday. That gives me plenty of time to kill Norbert and slip aboard her before Sir William creases me. I mustn’t be delayed here, far safer to be in Hong Kong where we’ve real power and Angel … my wife by then … she can follow in two or three weeks.
So, everything’s decided. And Heavenly’s right again: I must be very careful and not tell anyone, not even Angel, until just before. I can trust him, he’s sworn to secrecy and his fee will be spread over the year, which will ensure I have his devotion. Ayeeyah, five thousand! Never mind, he’s given me the answer, he’s really done it! Thank God!
Another decision: I’m going to cut down on the medicine, even try to cut it out altogether. I’ve a duty to Angel to get well and be strong without props. And be fit to take over the Noble House. With Angel beside me, I can …
Horses trotting past dispelled his reverie. He waved at the riders and saw that he was near the church, sun on the steeple, the smell of the sea and horses and earth and life in his nostrils. In sudden gratitude he began to go in to say a prayer of thanks when he noticed their steam launch heading for their wharf, Jamie in the stern, his head deep in a newspaper, and that reminded him of mail. He changed direction and was at the wharf head just before she came alongside.
“Jamie!” he called out above the noise of the engine, and waved as she nosed against the timbers, heavy with seaweed and barnacles. He saw Jamie squint against the wind, then wave back. One look at his face was enough. “I’ll come aboard.”
Awkwardly he stepped on deck, difficult to walk on a sloping surface with two canes, but he maneuvered his way aft and allowed Jamie to catch his arm and help him down the three steps into the cabin. The cabin was spacious and private, with benches around a sea table, lockers underneath them. On the table was the mail, in neat bundles, separated into letters, newspapers, magazines and books. At once he saw a letter from his mother atop his pile, her writing so distinctive. Another letter from her to Jamie was already open on the table.
“I’m—I’m glad to see you, Tai-pan.”
“What’s up now?”
“Here, read my letter for yourself.”
For yr information my son may not marry until he has attained his majority, under any circumstance. I have already informed Reverend Michaelmas Tweet, Sir William (by this post), and made a careful announcement in this day’s Oriental Times (enclosed). Also all our captains of all our ships plying to and from your waters have been so informed and have ordered them to spread this information, and also advised Admiral Ketterer (by this post) in case a captain’s ceremony tempts him. What my son does after his 21st birthday is of course up to him. Until that time, before God, I will protect his interests and ours as best I can.
The air had rushed out of Malcolm’s lungs and blood from his face. He ripped open his own letter. It was almost a copy of the other, except personal and addressed My dearest son, and ended,
This is really for yr own good, my son. I regret to say the girl’s stock is bad—we have heard officials in French Indo-China now pursue her father for fraud, you already kn
I trust I will have the pleasure of seeing you before Christmas when this sorry business can be behind us. I would write about the vile Brocks but that must be settled here and not in Yokohama. Yr loving mother
The “P.S. I love you” was there, so no secret message.
Slowly he tore the letter into pieces. This control pleased him, but did not take away the fury that she had checkmated him. “That woman,” he muttered, unaware he was speaking aloud, “that woman’s a hag … a devil-spawned hag, a witch, how could she possibly know …”
McFay watched and waited, gravely concerned.
When he could think straight, Malcolm said, “What’s in the paper?” The article was brief:
Mrs. Tess Struan, acting head of Struan’s, announced today that the Noble House would host a major celebration on the occasion of the 21st birthday of her eldest son, Malcolm, and his formal elevation to tai-pan on May 21st, next year.
“Well, Jamie,” he said with a bitter smile. “Not much more she can do to undermine me, is there?”
“No,” Jamie said, his heart going out to him.
Malcolm saw the ships and horizon and beyond that Hong Kong and the Peak and all his friends there, and enemies. Now she was atop the list. “It’s funny in a way. A few moments ago I was riding a crest …” Dully he told Jamie about his great idea, about Tweet’s turn-down, and all about Heavenly’s marvelous scheme. “That’s garbage now.”
Jamie was as much in shock as Malcolm. He could not seem to get his mind working. “Perhaps … perhaps Tweet could be persuaded. Perhaps a contribution to the Ch—”