Mandarin-Gold Read online

  'Do many of our countrymen speak the proper lingo - Cantonese?'

  'No. It's death for any Chinese caught teaching a foreigner his language. But one or two of our crowd still pick it up somehow.'

  'There's no cutlery,' said Gunn, sitting down on the nearest bench.

  'They eat with chopsticks,' Griggs explained. 'Chop means food—or, any business of any description. And China is full of bamboo sticks, which are a lot cheaper than knives and forks.'

  Beggars and touts for peep-shows, tailors, cobblers, and men carrying trays of nuts and beakers of hot tea pushed hopeful faces in at the door, eager for trade.

  'Wantee talking bird?'

  'All hot tea, mighty fine drinkee?'

  'What you want, new number one suit made first-class cloth, two hours work time?'

  Griggs waved at them irritably.

  'Trouble here is that you buy something from one man, and you're immediately surrounded by dozens of others. And in the middle of all the crush, someone else lifts your wallet. They've got the world's lightest fingers in Canton.'

  The chop-house man reappeared with a tray piled with bowls of grilled prawns, plovers' eggs and roasted snails and rice, and porcelain cups of pale wine made from green peas, with a china spoon for Gunn and chopsticks for Griggs. As he set this down, with special silver stands to hold the cups, a great beating of brass gongs boomed outside.

  2

  In Which a Parsee Makes an Unusual Proposal

  Through the bamboo screen at the door, Gunn could see men on the quay lighting fireworks and strips of red paper, and throwing them up into the air like leaves. A ship was leaving harbour.

  'They always do that,' Griggs explained condescendingly. 'It's to appease their heathen gods and give the _ ship safe passage. They call it chin-chinning joss. A bit of joss pidgin—which means God business. A kind of insurance, I suppose. They're great fellows for omens, here.'

  The meal tasted surprisingly good, but as Gunn chewed the prawns, he suddenly remembered the coollies hauling up the bloated body of the pig; and thereafter none of the food held any further attraction for him.

  He pushed away his bowl, and swallowed a cup of wine. It tasted sharp on his tongue. He had never drunk much wine; as a student, beer had been all he could afford. He decided he liked wine more, so poured himself a second cup; and then a third.

  The room was filling up with Chinese coolies, bodies varnished with sweat, searching in folds of their clothes for clay pipes and pouches of tobacco.

  Then some British sailors from another vessel came in, - and several better class Chinese, wearing wide, cone-shaped hats and robes, edged with gold thread. One glanced at Gunn, and instantly he had the same uneasy feeling as when the Hoppo had met his gaze; the man was watching him because he wished to recognize him again.

  Gunn drank a fourth cup of wine. His nerves must have been affected by the news about Marion; he was imagining things. Maybe he should prescribe himself a dose of laudanum—or as they would call it here, opium, or mud. Jugs of Chinese wine and toddy were now appearing on other tables. Some of the sailors, who had already been drinking elsewhere, began to sing. Outside, the sun slid down the sky, and the brief Chinese dusk painted the quay with indigo. Within minutes, it would be dark.

  Already, paper lanterns were glittering above shop fronts and over stalls; candle flames trembled in glass jars. It was suddenly and unexpectedly cool. The clatter and bustle had died with the heat of day; and with them, something else: the sense of adventure he had enjoyed on the quay.

  Sitting in the tiny room, with sweating sailors shouting for more grog, and beating the table tops with their fists to accelerate the service; with Chinese carefully ignoring them and pecking away expertly with their ivory and bamboo chopsticks, Gunn felt alien and vulnerable. There was an immense distance, not measured in miles, between the safe homely atmosphere of England (the little house overlooking the sea at Herne Bay, the tweeny making tea, the familiar hiss of the soot-encrusted kettle on the kitchen stove) and this isolated civilization, which only tolerated his presence, and that but barely.

  After all, for centuries, China had produced the world's best food, rice; tea, the universal beverage; and superb clothing of cotton, silk and fur. They had literally no need to bother with other goods they did not want, or the red-faced perspiring people who sought to force their wares upon them. Yet the East was the golden land. From the time of Marco Polo, it had been the magnet for those who sought wealth and what money could buy and bring. And Gunn knew that within hours of his arrival, it had laid bare this hitherto unknown power. He was already under its ageless spell; what secrets it held, he meant to uncover; what treasures it concealed, he determined to make his own.

  'Didn't like to mention it before, but you were looking gloomy when I saw you on deck,' said Griggs, watching his set face and pouring out more wine. 'Saw you had a letter. Not bad news, I hope?'

  'In a sense,' said Gunn shortly. The pain involving Marion was still too tender to be touched roughly or prodded by discussion.

  'Well, what I say is, if it has happened then it won't happen again. Lightning never strikes the same place twice. Got to look on the bright side.'

  'I am looking. After all, it's my birthday, too!'

  At this, they emptied two more cups of wine. The drink seemed to be stronger than Gunn had imagined at first, but it was certainly welcome. His gloom gradually melted in its friendly strength. The proprietor cleared away their dishes, and brought bowls of warm water with linen napkins to wipe their hands and mouths. As he set them down, a great cry came from beyond the doorway.

  A drunken British sailor staggered in, shouting at someone behind him in the street. His jacket was soaked with grog and fouled with yellow gobbets of vomit. He slipped and fell clumsily across a table where three .coolies were eating.

  They leapt to their feet, screaming abuse at him. Rice spattered like hot confetti. One seized a steaming bowl of bean-shoots and threw it into the man's face. Roaring from the unexpected pain, the sailor lurched to his feet, grabbed the dish and smashed it over the coolie's head. Instantly, the other two were at him, jumping up and down on their small feet, kicking him rhythmically and ferociously in the groin with their bare toes. The sailor groaned in an extremity of unendurable agony, and folded forwards over the table, scattering the remnants of their meal.

  Three other British sailors, eating at another table, now jumped up angrily.

  'That's Bert Martin!' one shouted. .'Give 'em what they gave'im!'

  He picked up the bench and hurled it at the coolies.

  'You slit-arsed bastards!' another sailor yelled furiously, and suddenly everyone was standing up, armed with bowls of rice, plates, jugs of wine and benches as weapons. One sailor, leaping to avoid a blow, slipped and grabbed the bead curtain that separated the kitchen from the dining-room. Thousands of tiny beads scattered like glass grain across the tiled floor under their feet.

  The proprietor rushed out of the kitchen, waving a bamboo club, his previously impassive face contorted with rage at the disturbance.

  The room, which only seconds earlier had been quiet and peaceful, now erupted in chaos and anger. Faces creased with hate and anger floated phantas-magorically in and out of Gunn's vision. He ducked down by the wall, Griggs by his side, shouting: 'Steady there, I say! Back to your seats!'

  But no-one heeded him. The sailors were delighted at the prospect of a fight. Months of being cooped up in creaking, rolling ships, in cramped wooden quarters, exploded volcanically into a hatred of these yellow-faced Chinese, with their contemptible heathen customs, their ridiculous clothes and, worst of all, their ludicrous and totally unwarranted superiority.

  Anger also poured its xenophobic message through the blood of the Chinese coolies. Here were the fanquis, the foreign devils, the red-bristled hogs from the west, drunkenly defiling them and their country—just as their rulers had warned them they would do. They fought back silently and ferociously.

  Gunn watched, fascinated and astonished, yet feeling curiously uninvolved, as though this was happening somewhere else altogether; rather like watching play-actors on a stage. Soon it would all be over and he would go home. But where was his home now? In Herne Bay or aboard the Trelawney, off Whampoa Island? Or had he really no home? Was he already a wanderer, with his home wherever he might hang his hat?

  Some instinct made Gunn turn. The Chinese man he had seen only minutes earlier was also uninvolved in the fight. He was standing with his back against the opposite wall, arms folded, while the figures fought furiously between them. And he was still watching him ... watching him ...

  Gunn was lying somewhere, but he did- not know where, or why, nor did he greatly care. He felt cushioned by swansdown dreams; nothing seemed particularly important.

  He moved his hands at his sides and felt the straight edges of cold tiles. He opened his eyes and looked up at a tessellated ceiling. Gold plaster dragons stared back at him with round red eyes the size of apples. On one wall, a picture in a cork frame showed a pale blue mountain above a deep blue sea, and a ship with a fan-shaped sail. The other walls were white and blank as empty pages. Oddly, the room had no windows. Above the door was a pagoda-shaped archway, all curves and gold paint, and more dragons with long tongues and fierce curving claws.

  Gunn moved his head very slowly and carefully because suddenly it seemed to be beating with a heart and pulse of its own. He put up one hand to his chin and was surprised at the roughness of his beard. He had shaved as usual that morning, so what had happened to him? Had he been injured—and, if so, when and how long had he been here? And where the deuce was he?

  He sat up. He had been lying on a rush mat. A pewter dish of water and a china cup engraved with blue flowers was by his right
hand. He smelt the water suspiciously; a doctor could not be too careful. But it seemed fresh enough, and he drank greedily, and splashed another cupful over his face. Then he felt in his pockets in case he had been robbed. But his handkerchief was still in his right trouser pocket, the keys of his medicine chest in his left. The German silver watch his father had given him as a present when he qualified had stopped at half past three, but on which morning or afternoon?

  He stood up and called out: 'Who's there? Where am I?'

  There was no answer. He beat on the door with open palms. The wood was several inches thick, and only boomed with the effort of his futile blows. He stopped, wearied by the sudden effort, bile sour in his throat. Maybe he had drunk too much? That pale, green-pea wine ...

  Something made him turn.

  Another man was also in the room, standing behind him, watching him. He had entered from a door concealed so cunningly in the far wall that no edge was visible. This man was Chinese, of medium height, wearing a dark green robe. He kept his face down, hands folded across his body and concealed under wide sleeves. He had the familiar cone-shaped hat, the pigtail, the drooping oiled moustaches.

  'Who are you?' asked Gunn suddenly uneasy. 'What's happened to me?'

  The other man raised his head. Gunn recognized him; he was the man in the chop-house who had stared at him.

  'You have been asleep,' he explained in English.

  'But why am I sleeping here? What is this place? I am a ship's doctor. I should be on board Trelawney.'

  The man bowed.

  'We were both in a chop-house, off Hog Lane,' he explained. 'There was, regrettably, an unexpected uncouthness, and then fighting. You were injured. You were brought here.'

  Little fragments of memory began to piece themselves together in Gunn's mind. Griggs pouring wine. A sailor falling drunkenly across a table. The sudden explosion of violence. And then this man watching him.

  'Where is here?'

  'You will be told in good time.'

  'I want to be told now,' said Gunn firmly. 'I am a British subject, and if you rescued me, I thank you. But it seems to me I am being held as some kind of prisoner.'

  'We are all prisoners of circumstance and experience. You have been here for one night and one day, doctor.'

  'What time is it now?' asked Gunn.

  'After the Hour of the Cock. Five o'clock in the afternoon.'

  'I had better leave for my ship.'

  'Later.'

  Gunn walked over the tiles towards him. He-was about a foot taller. This fellow might keep a key to the door in a pocket, or maybe he could be persuaded to explain how the secret door opened; persuaded or forced.

  'Do not be so foolish as to offer me violence,' the man said quietly. 'Or I will be compelled to defend myself by the ancient arts of China. Then you might be injured, and this I would lastingly regret.'

  'One minute, you say you rescued me. Now you threaten me.'

  As Gunn spoke, he jumped, meaning to tread hard on the other man's feet, then seize him by the throat and bring up his knee into his groin. But the man stepped to one side with a speed that astonished Gunn. He felt a sharp hard punch in his own stomach, and then he was somehow being propelled through the air, arms and legs flaying like the spokes of a wheel. He collapsed untidily on the hard floor, and lay breathless and bruised. Painfully, wearily, he pulled himself up.

  'Please do not attempt any further foolishness,' warned the man. 'I am not wishful to harm you.'

  Gunn bit back a retort; there was no point in antagonizing the fellow.

  'I must know where I am.'

  ‘You are in a house in Macao.'

  'Macao!'

  This was the island Griggs had mentioned. The Portuguese enclave across the Canton Bay. Was he being held to ransom?

  'Do not ask any more questions, Englishman. I will arrange for you to have a bath and new clothes. Then you can speak to my master.'

  He took a step backwards and slightly to one side. In so doing, he trod on some catch concealed beneath a tile; the hidden door opened in the wall.

  Gunn followed him through, and along a corridor. A smell of curry hung faintly on the air. There must be Indians here; but the only Indians Gunn had seen on his voyage East were dockside coolies or low-caste shopkeepers, and this house bore the imprint of wealth.

  The man opened another door and ushered Gunn inside. In a room lined with blue Portuguese tiles, stood a zinc bath full of warm water, with a white towel, sponge, a bar of English yellow soap. From a peg near the mirror hung a white towel bathrobe.

  On a marble-topped table lay a razor, a metal comb, two brushes with tortoiseshell backs, a shaving brush with a bone handle, a jug of hot water, a stick of shaving soap. The water in the bath smelt of pine essence. Gunn breathed deeply. The steamy room felt infinitely relaxing.

  'I will leave you, Englishman. When I return, you will be washed and shaved.'

  'What if I'm not? I tell you, I'm not a slave. I'm a British subject. Do you realize what you are doing?'

  'I am fully aware. And so is my master. The way of heaven is fairness to all. Let us leave all words to him.'

  He bowed and backed out of the door, Gunn heard the lock shoot on the other side. He wound his watch, set it at five o'clock, and looked at himself in the mirror.

  His eyes had sunk deeply in his head, his face was sallow, his hair matted. He pulled down the skin beneath his eyes. The pupils were dull, the whites putty-coloured. Maybe he was ill with a fever. Or he had been drugged?

  This was the most reasonable explanation — but why should anybody drug him? Of course, a British subject could command, a considerable ransom. And yet surely the man who owned a house like this would not need a ransom, for he must be rich already?

  Gunn took off his clothes, sour and damp with sweat, transferred his watch, a few coins, notes and his father's letter into the pocket of the robe, and climbed into the bath. By the time he had washed, shaved and brushed his hair, he felt relaxed, The warm scented bath soothed his spirit as well as his body.

  The door opened.

  'Are you ready?' the Chinaman asked him.

  'What about my clothes?' said Gunn. ‘That is my best uniforrn.'

  'They will be, washed, and pressed and brought to you.'

  'What is going to happen?'

  'Nothing of violence. You, have no need to feel alarm!'

  He walked ahead in the curiously silent, snake-like progression of the Chinese. Gunn followed him down the corridor into a flagged hall with black and white marble pillars supporting a gilded ceiling painted with huge pictures of stone temples and foaming rivers. They climbed a marble staircase with a golden balustrade, and his guide opened two double doors eight feet tall with crystal handles, and motioned Gunn to enter.

  The room beyond was large and airy. High windows opened on to a verandah shielded by a white canopy from the glare of the late afternoon sun.

  A man of indefinite age — he could be fifty or seventy — stood looking out through the windows at a bay alive with junks and small boats. Gunn could see two churches and a terrace of houses with baroque fronts; a carriage sped along a road by the edge of the sea. Then the doors closed behind him and they were alone.

  The man turned to face him. .

  'You are Surgeon Gunn?' he asked in English, in a powerful voice. Gunn saw that his face was neither yellow nor brown nor white, but rather a mixture of all three, the colour of creamy coffee.

  'I am. And who are you, sir?'

  Something about this man compelled reluctant respect. He wore a loose white jacket, white cotton trousers, gold rings on both hands, and gold sandals with thongs around the big toes. His flesh was soft and scented.

  'My name is unimportant, doctor,' he replied. 'It would mean nothing to you. It is an Eastern name, a Parsee name, and as such very common. Your name, on the other hand, means a great deal to me, because I have consulted the various records which you English so assiduously cause to be printed.