A Most Immoral Woman (8 page)

‘So you say,’ Dumas replied mildly, ‘and I have no reason to doubt you.’

‘Anyway, I certainly have gathered far more material than I can possibly fit into a six-hundred-and-fifty-word telegram, and that’s all that concerns me for the moment.’

‘Very good. Oh, what do you make of the news that the Russians are rallying? They claim to have sunk four Japanese battleships.’

‘I am sure the Japanese will retaliate,’ Morrison responded tersely, attacking his peas.

Back in Peking, Morrison wrote to Mae twice on the first day, twice on the second. Not even a postal card came in reply. His pride could not countenance the notion that she did not care enough to respond. And so his mind focused on other explanations. Perhaps she’d been more ill than Mrs Ragsdale had realised. He castigated himself for not having insisted on seeing her. On the morning of the third day, his correspondence took on a tender tone, solicitous and concerned for her health. But then he worried about sounding too much like a doctor and not enough like a lover. And so that afternoon he expressed himself with greater ardour, straining awkwardly towards the poetic. Meanwhile, with each delivery of the mail sack, his hopes swooped and plunged like a kite riding the capricious breezes of the Peking spring.

But if Morrison fretted, he did not languish. Constitutionally incapable of idleness, he filled these days with rounds of contacts, catching up with correspondence and cataloguing his books. When an acquaintance mentioned the burgeoning coolie trade to South Africa, he investigated the possibility of investing. He
hatched a plan to abet the Japanese cause by sparking a run on the Russo-Chinese Bank, the institution that funded the Russian administration in Manchuria.

One afternoon, as Cook set out for the markets, he thought to ask Kuan how Yu-ti was settling in.

Kuan’s gaze flickered at the mention of Yu-ti’s name. He took a moment to answer. ‘Cook not like her to read. He take away her books.’

Morrison did not expect this answer and it interested him. ‘So she reads. That’s unusual for a girl. Ah—but of course. Her father was a follower of T’an Ssu-tung. But wouldn’t Cook find it useful to have a wife who can read and write?’

Kuan shook his head. ‘No. He has old thinking.’ He seemed lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was with the kind of passion that Morrison had never heard in his Boy’s normally careful voice. ‘Women are human beings, not slaves of men. Not property.’

‘Very progressive thinking, Kuan. You got that from the missionaries, did you?’

‘The ancient sage Mo-tsu talks about universal love, and Buddha about compassion. And Confucius spoke of
jen—
I think in English you say benevolence. We do not need Christianity to say woman equal to man.’

‘So you say. But T’an Ssu-tung, K’ang Yu-wei and others who’ve spoken about women’s rights—they themselves admit they were influenced by Christian ideas.’

‘Confucius and Mo-tsu and Buddha all came before Jesus. Maybe Christians got their ideas from them.’

‘Maybe so,’ Morrison replied without conviction. ‘Speaking of the reformers, I hear that the anti-Ch’ing movement is gathering steam. Have you heard anything about that?’

‘People are upset about the war. They say foreign powers are slicing up China like a soft melon. They—’

Morrison interrupted. ‘Surely they can see that’s the fault of the Old Buddha, can’t they?’

Kuan measured his words. ‘She is not the whole problem.’

‘If China enjoyed good, sound governance, its sovereignty would not be in jeopardy,’ pronounced Morrison with an air of finality. Something occurred to him. He returned to the previous topic. ‘So, Yu-ti was taught to read and write.’

Kuan nodded, seemingly wary of where this was going.

‘And yet she’s not allowed books or a brush by her husband.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a tragedy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why does a woman who is privileged enough to be able to read and write not do so?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Kuan said, frowning. ‘Maybe my English…’

‘No,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s not your English. It’s Miss Perkins. I don’t understand it myself. Why doesn’t she write to me?’

The men travelled in silence for a while. ‘You know, Kuan,’ Morrison ventured, ‘it’s too bad Yu-ti wasn’t married to you.’

‘Not good to speak of this. You know
yuan fen
? We say two people have
yuan fen
or no. If no
yuan fen
, they will never be together. It is will of Heaven. Yu-ti’s
yuan fen
is with Cook.’

Something in Kuan’s expression told Morrison it would not be a good idea to pursue the topic any further. Besides, having brought up the subject of Mae in what he intended to be a light manner, he found himself lost in the morass of his own confused feelings.

On the evening of the third day back in Peking, Dumas arrived for a visit. Morrison greeted him warmly and invited him to stay for dinner.

Over Ceylon tea and a plate of Kierluff’s biscuits, the men exchanged news and gossip. Morrison was more than happy to reveal to his colleague Granger’s latest crimes against correspondence. ‘He claims in one breath that the Russians are holding out well at Port Arthur, and in the next implies they are about to crumble.’

‘I admire the man,’ Dumas said. ‘’Tis no simple task to contradict oneself in such a large and generous manner.’

‘Naturally, I declined to pass on his report. He then had the gall to request a credit of five hundred pounds. I am quite sure it would be spent on the syphilitic American whore, an erstwhile resident of Maud’s Brothel, with whom I understand he’s taken up residence. Either the sex or the pox has addled his brain. I refused, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Dumas said, spooning pressed sugar into his cup. ‘Have I mentioned that my wife has taken passage on a steamship. She’ll soon arrive back in China.’

‘Nervous?’

Dumas plucked a biscuit off the plate. ‘I have no doubt that she will take advantage of my contrition in all sorts of unpleasant ways.’

‘For example?’

‘For example, she is prone to nagging about my weight. But I shall defy her, at least on that count, and ask what it matters. She’s not going to leave me because I have a potbelly, so long as it is never
again discovered resting against another woman.’ He bit into the biscuit defiantly. ‘Ah. I knew there was something I had to ask you. I hear that
The Times
has dispatched the famous war correspondent Lionel James to cover the war. How is he getting on?’

‘All right, I believe, though the Japanese have yet to accede to his plan.’

‘Which is?’

‘To set up a wireless communications ship able to report freely from the theatre of war. It’s never been done before. Imagine—James could witness a naval battle, fire off a report and see it published halfway around the world the following day.’

Dumas shook his head. ‘It would be a miracle. But he’ll need the cooperation of the Japanese. Will they guarantee him safe passage, do you think?’

‘Hard to say. I’m not overly optimistic. The Japanese government and navy will certainly be worried by the thought of him getting out reports that haven’t passed by their censors.’

‘It sounds as though he will be thwarted then,’ Dumas observed.

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

‘Yes. In London.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Serious and self-willed,’ Morrison responded.

‘I cannot tell if you are complimenting or undermining him.’

‘I do like James. But I’ll give you an example. When I met him in London, I asked him to take me to the theatre. I was hoping for a sprightly sort of spectacle, ideally with dancers. He took me to an earnest play about dying kings. Later he told me that it was out of respect for my position that he chose such an entertainment.’

‘I suppose I should consider it fortunate that I haven’t yet been taken for such a respectable man that I can’t be afforded the occasional extravaganza,’ Dumas remarked.

‘Indeed. The point about James is that he is as serious in his purpose as he is in his tastes. I assume he will knock on every door—he’ll knock down every door—if he has to, but he will get his way.’ It occurred to Morrison that there was a lesson in this for him. ‘What are your plans? Do you return to Tientsin soon?’

‘No, I shall be delayed here. Mind if I stay?’

‘Not at all,’ Morrison replied. ‘It’s just that it’s been four days. I am becoming concerned about the reliability of the post and was thinking you might deliver a note to Miss Perkins for me.’

‘I’ve heard that C.D. Jameson leaves for Tientsin tonight. You could send it with him.’

‘Jameson? That rum-soaked homunculus? Don’t you recall that he diddled me out of a luncheon with Miss Perkins when she last visited Peking?’

‘True, but he does go tonight. And I hear he has some business with Mr Ragsdale, so he shall be dropping in on them anyway.’

Morrison made a face. ‘Oh, why not? He owes me.’

Ernest, honey…

Can you forgive me for not coming downstairs that day? I was terribly indisposed. I fear you would have been much put off by my appearance, which was frightful. How I wish I had been well enough to go to dinner or to meet you at all in the days you were in town. I understand from Mrs R. that you were the very life of the party! Mr Jameson kindly passed on your latest letter, which I treasure along with the other letters you have sent by post…I know I have been a terrible correspondent in every way, and still am if you would count my penmanship. I was never very good at penmanship. Once, a letter I wrote to Papa in Washington (you know he is a senator) took months to deliver because the writing on the envelope was so very poor! Papa had much to say about that, as you might imagine.

Anyway, I am feeling much better now and would be so very glad to see you…

The dear, sweet girl. Morrison read the letter twice through, sniffed the perfume still clinging to its pages, and held it to his heart.

‘Are you all right, old chap?’ called out C.D. Jameson from just inside the library door.

Morrison started. ‘Yes, yes, just…composing my next cable.’
How did that bandy-legged old dipsomaniac sneak in here unannounced?
Morrison hastily slipped Maysie’s letter into a pile of papers on his desk and rose to greet his guest. ‘Thank you for delivering my letter to Miss Perkins, by the way.’

Jameson, flashing a greasy smile, fell heavily into Morrison’s favourite chair. ‘’Twas a pleasure,’ he slurred. ‘Handed it to the young lady myself just yesterday morning.’

Fighting his natural revulsion towards the man and in the hope of gleaning more news of Mae, Morrison invited Jameson to stay for dinner. ‘Dumas is expected as well; he’s been staying.’

‘That’d be grand.’

Kuan brought in a tray with glasses and the good sherry. Jameson pounced on the drink.

‘I’ve heard some interesting scuttlebutt,’ Jameson said as he drained his first glass and poured a second.

‘Go on,’ said Morrison, a jealous eye on the decanter.

‘I’ve heard…’ Jameson hesitated and swept the room with his rheumy eyes, as though spies from the Empress Dowager’s court might be hiding behind one of the towering bookcases or peering in through a high, latticed window. He lowered his voice. ‘I have heard that her favourite eunuch, the one they call “John Brown”—’

‘Li Lien-ying.’

‘Yes, Li Lien…that Li is no eunuch at all!’

‘Which is why he is her favourite,’ Morrison said flatly. ‘He has kept his “precious”, and not in a jar like the rest of them. He’s the only eunuch who doesn’t fall into hysteria at the sight of a teapot with a missing handle or a dog without a tail.’

Jameson’s laugh threatened an imminent expulsion of phlegm. He slapped at his chest. As he calmed down, he grew thoughtful. A smile played around his brutish lips. He leaned forward suddenly, causing the chair to creak in complaint. There was a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘I have to thank you for something.’ He smirked. ‘You did me a great service the other day when you asked me to deliver that letter to Miss Perkins. I have seen something quite unforgettable as a result.’

An intuition told Morrison he was not about to receive glad tidings. Had Jameson discovered her with another suitor? It was settled. He would return to Tientsin as soon as possible. ‘And what was that, pray tell?’

Jameson didn’t answer immediately. Chortling to himself, he rose from his chair. Lifting the dustcover on one of the bookshelves, he rifled through a stack of rare pamphlets from the Diocese of West China. Dust motes flew into the milky light and hung there.

‘Easy on,’ Morrison snapped, for as little as he cared for missionaries as a species, he did treasure their publications. ‘Those pages are brittle and liable to—’

‘Keep your garters tied, old boy.’ Jameson let the cloth drop into place. He grinned, exposing a mouthful of nicotine-stained false teeth. ‘Miss Perkins is quite the nymphomaniac, isn’t she?’

Morrison flushed with surprise and outrage. ‘You dishonour Miss Perkins!’

Jameson laughed. ‘Miss Perkins has as much hold on honour as the Empress Dowager.’

‘Sir!’

‘Tsk. The only thing keeping that girl from an asylum and a clitoral excision is the uncommon wealth and influence of her dear father.’

‘How dare you!’ Morrison leapt to his feet. Had there been a glove handy, he would have thrown it down before the man.
Crass-natured, whacking great liar! Cantankerous freak!

‘Hear me out, old chap.’ Jameson waved him back down. ‘You’re hardly one to moralise. Besides, we have shared a woman before. Does the name Anna Bullard, of 52 Water Tower, Shanghai, mean anything to you?’

‘Yes,’ Morrison snapped. ‘An ear-splitting laugh, the pox, and champagne at five dollars a bottle. It is hardly germane!’

‘My dear Morrison, no need to dissemble. Miss Perkins told me herself what you two got up to.’

‘She talked about me? I don’t believe it for an instant.’

Jameson sniggered. ‘Do the words “Mountain-Sea Pass” mean anything to you?’

‘Yes.’ Morrison fumed. ‘’Tis the place where the Great Wall meets the sea.’

‘You are a true gentleman, G.E.,’ said Jameson, bowing grandly and nearly tipping over in the process. ‘I fear I am your inferior in this regard. I can barely keep from singing her name aloud as I walk the streets. It was only because the dear girl was still suffering the effects of the grippe that I could be persuaded to return to Peking at all.’

‘Is that so?’ Jameson was an extravagant liar and a lush. He’d heard gossip from someone who’d been at the hotel in Mountain-Sea Pass and seen Morrison stroll out with her that night. Morrison told himself it was nothing but a poor joke. There was no other possible explanation, no credible one anyway. Morrison regretted asking the lecherous old croak to dinner.

Kuan entered to say that Colonel Dumas had left word that he would be joining them soon and that, as he was off to Kierluff’s
for some supplies, Yu-ti would serve in the meantime. Did his master require anything?

The removal of this oaf from my presence.
‘No, thank you, Kuan.’

When Jameson again extended a paw in the direction of his books, Morrison overcame his repugnance to place a hand on his guest’s shoulder, the better to march him out of his library, across the courtyard and into the parlour. There, Jameson immediately spotted a fine ivory
netsuke
, a belt ornament, and began to fondle it. Morrison, gritting his teeth, bade him be seated.

Yu-ti appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray with more sherry. She hesitated.

‘
Lai, lai
. Come in.’ Jameson beckoned to her with his forefinger. She reddened as though slapped. Her eyes shone for an instant with something that, if Morrison was not mistaken, seemed like defiance. Giving Yu-ti an apologetic look, Morrison held out his hand palm down, and curled his fingers inwards.

‘Jameson, in all your years in this country, have you not yet learned that in China only a dog is called with one finger?’

‘Is that so? Well blow me down. That certainly explains a few things.’ Jameson sniggered.

‘Come,’ Morrison urged the still reticent Yu-ti. ‘
Lai
.’ Pointing to the table, he mimed setting down the tray.

The breath caught in her throat as she approached them. Morrison knew that to many Chinese, ‘Hairy Ones’, as Westerners were called, smelled nauseatingly of beef and cow’s milk. Jameson was not fragrant even to Western nostrils. Holding her breath, eyes downcast, Yu-ti placed the tray where Morrison had indicated.

Jameson leered at her. ‘Speakee English?’

‘Not a word,’ Morrison answered for her, wondering as he spoke if that was really true. He had never asked.

‘Pretty little thing, isn’t she?’ Jameson observed. ‘Bertie Lenox Simpson says that native women are exceptionally soothing in bed.’

Yu-ti blushed, though whether from general shyness or comprehension, Morrison was not sure. ‘All right,
tsou, tsou
,’ Morrison said, waving Yu-ti away. She bowed her way out and hastened back to the kitchen.

‘Bertie says that once you’ve had a native, you’ll never go back to Western women, who either view fornication as the ultimate sacrifice or are complete and natural harlots. Which of course leads us back to the subject of—’

‘Bertie is a syphilitic dunderhead,’ barked Morrison before Jameson had a chance to finish the sentence. ‘He’s also a liar, for he’s certainly gone back to Lady Bredon countless times.’

‘Interesting character, Bertie. Speaks five languages, can imitate the call of the Peking muleteers and wrote a rather amusing memoir of the siege. I believe it sold rather well.’

Stupidly well
, Morrison thought. He’d heard some readers actually preferred Bertie’s loose account of events to his own. His irritation momentarily drifted in the direction of Bertie Lenox Simpson before returning to its mooring. ‘Anyway,’ he said, with a pointed glance at Jameson’s paunch, ‘I don’t really care what Bertie does. But I do have some affection for Lady Bredon and believe she could do better than Bertie, whose stomach enters the room long before his nose.’

‘I heard that.’ Dumas appeared in the doorway, one hand patting his own belly. ‘I shall remind myself to enter rooms sideways from now. Hello, Jameson.’ His voice contained some surprise at finding Jameson in Morrison’s parlour but he shook the man’s hand as if it were an everyday occurrence.

‘What news, Dumas?’ Morrison asked, relieved to see his friend.

‘I met the Japanese military attaché Kamei today at lunch. It seems the Russian minister is trying hard to convince the Chinese to assist the Russians against the Japanese in Manchuria. Kamei, naturally, is insisting to the Chinese that they maintain their neutrality in the conflict.’

‘A bit hard, don’t you think, considering it’s being fought on Chinese soil?’ Jameson interjected.

The other two turned and stared at him.

‘Think about it,’ Jameson said. ‘The last time the Japanese invaded Manchuria, what, ten years ago during the Sino-Japanese War, they massacred thousands of Chinese citizens at Port Arthur alone. Razed whole towns to the ground. Burnt crops. No wonder that although the Treaty of Shimonoseki gave the Liaotung Peninsula to Japan, the Chinese were only too happy to invite in the Russians.’

‘Nothing to do with natural justice,’ Morrison said with a dismissive flip of the hand. ‘The Chinese let the Russians take Port Arthur only because the Russians helped pay off China’s war debts to Japan.’

Jameson shrugged. ‘Agreed. I’m just saying that the Chinese are bound to be wary of seeing Japanese troops in Manchuria again. That’s all. But I’m not criticising the war. I’ve got mining interests in Manchuria and wish to see them protected just as much as the next fellow.’

Morrison was still working out his retort when Kuan, who’d returned, rang the bell for dinner.

Morrison’s table was not the most fashionable or elaborate in Peking but, unlike its host, on this particular evening it was
welcoming enough. Candles in tall silver candelabras flickered warm light over a damask tablecloth. Branches of cherry blossom protruded from a modest vase at one end, and an unpretentious epergne stacked with sweetmeats and dried fruits occupied the centre.

The men took more sherry with their soup, and hock with their fish. They worked their way through mutton with fried potatoes and beer, rice and curry with ham, a custard, some cheese and salad, bread and butter and port wine, all delivered to the table in good order by Kuan. But Morrison was in a choler. The food, as good as it was, incited his dyspepsia. He said little as Jameson nattered on about gold mines in Jehol and passed on more spurious news from the Forbidden City. He nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm as Dumas shared some minor revelations about the Russian army’s difficulty with supply. They’d just started on their liqueurs when Morrison, unable to contain himself a minute longer, turned to Dumas and announced, ‘Jameson here is in love.’

‘Is that so?’ Dumas asked, turning to Jameson. ‘And who is the lucky girl?’

‘Miss Mae Perkins,’ Morrison answered for him.

‘Oh, truly?’ Dumas could barely contain his mirth. That he doubted Jameson’s chances very much was clear from the twitch of his eyebrows.

‘Truly,’ Morrison confirmed, as gloomy as a eunuch contemplating his ‘precious’.

Dumas cocked his head. His smile dimmed.

‘Jameson here says the girl is a confirmed nymphomaniac. He says he has confirmed it himself.’

Dumas looked alarmed. ‘Well, isn’t that remarkable?’

‘She’s quite the coquette.’ Nodding and smiling like the cat that had swallowed the canary, Jameson popped a cherry into his mouth. ‘Completely man-crazy.’ He followed the cherry with a finger, making a minute adjustment to his false teeth. ‘Nice little mole above her left hipbone.’ As if the others might not be aware of that anatomical part, he poked at his stomach where his own hipbone might possibly be found, if only by way of excavation.

Morrison was filled with such a hot fury that he half expected his brandy to ignite in its snifter. He took a deep breath and counted to himself before raising his glass. ‘Here’s to Miss Perkins.’
That little courtesan. That strumpet. That trollop.

‘Miss Perkins,’ the others chorused.