Flowers in the Blood (79 page)

My forbearance exploded. Sadka was near enough for me to grab, and this I did by leaping up and throwing myself at him. I pummeled his shoulders, his chest. Noticing Gulliver's hand hovering near mine, I defiantly pushed him away with one hand. “No! This is for me to do!” With the other hand I continued to pelt Sadka. The heavyset man was more muscular than flabby. He accepted a few blows, then pushed me aside roughly, making it impossible for me to encircle his thick, corded neck. I fell against his table, gasped for a breath, and started back to claw him.

“Dinah . . .” Sadka warned harshly. He raised a knee to ward me off while his arms slapped at invisible insects. I was too hysterical to remember I was dealing with a man in an opium stupor. Some moments he had been lucid, others crazed. My fingernails grazed his cheek before he raised his leg. His swift kick to my abdomen stunned me for a second.

Gulliver moved forward to block me as I heard Godfrey's hiss from the far corner of the room. “My God, Dinah! Stop!”

Wheeling around, I caught a glimpse of him cowering and then shot a look back to Sadka. His face was bleeding from the one long scratch I had managed to inflict. He was pointing a pistol at me. Where had it come from? He might have armed himself behind the table or he might have had it in his pocket the entire time.

My mind calculated the threat with a peculiar precision: Sadka had no idea who else knew I was there. My brother, my servants, even Governor Robinson could know my whereabouts. “You wouldn't be foolish enough to kill me . . .” I took a long, shuddering breath as I tried to tell myself the weapon was his way of settling me down, warning me off. “. . . or Mr. Troyte.”

“I can control Godfrey without a pistol. Bad boys can't afford to tell tales out of school, can they?” Sadka gave a wicked laugh.

The man was impaired. Best not to incite him further, I told myself. I backed away from the barrel in the direction where I sensed Gulliver had been standing.

“That is better. Don't want you to lose control of yourself,” he said soothingly. “Godfrey said you were a sensible lass. Must be to have been given so much authority.” He grinned patronizingly. “Another child might have been ruined by what happened.” The barrel of the pistol drooped in his lazy fist. For a second my hate melted like the ebb of a strong tide before it yawned up in an immense wave and crashed down, crushing me. “Yes,” I whispered as I continued to move away. My arm brushed Gulliver's rough coat. Now he stood in front of me, kukri in hand.

Sadka laughed. “Down, boy, down.” He brandished the pistol as a malevolent reminder. “A bullet will beat a Gurkha. Tell him to put it away.” He pointed his weapon in the direction of Gulliver's scabbard.

My belief in my own safety did not extend to Gulliver, who was frozen in position. Sadka could claim self-defense against an overzealous guard. “Gulliver,” I began gently. “Please. Everything will be all right now.” Unthinking, I moved in front of Gulliver to shield him.

Sadka's mouth distorted viciously. “Tell him!” His order had the sting of a whiplash. Just then firecrackers rumbled among the hills. The lights in the sky were like flashes from faraway storms. Nobody flinched.

“What a foolish girl. Like mother . . .” Sadka released the safety on the pistol. The tiny metallic click reverberated in the silence.

“Gulliver!” I cried in desperation, and moved aside.

Gulliver had been coiled like a spring: every muscle wound, concentration honed on his target. My cry released him. Bending his knees, he rose from the floor in an impossible arc. The dazzling kukri echoed the movement in the air and it was this metallic gleam that my eyes followed as it sliced through the air, met a brief resistance, then came full circle in front of his white waistcoat.

I looked down. Blood pooled from the pointed sword's tip like tears.

“Aiii!” swelled Sadka's gruesome cry.

Something skidded across the floor “What. . .?” I sputtered. It was the pistol—attached to what had been Sadka's right hand.

“Aiii!” Sadka held up his bloody stump and gawked in disbelief.

At the sound of their master screaming, three servants burst into the room. The sight of the spurting arm stunned them. Gulliver spun around and flashed his kukri, ending their advance.

At that moment Sadka rallied. He lunged forward, bellowing curses at me from a face contorted by pain and fear, rage and revenge. Again he lifted his leg—he's trained in martial arts, I realized—and delivered a sharp blow to the side of my head. I recoiled from the wave of pain, only to realize he was on top of me. His remaining hand pressed into my throat. Gagging, I tried to push him away with hands slippery with his blood. Fighting to protect myself, I did not notice that Gulliver's knees were bent again. Or that his elbows were drawn in. Or that his chin was close to his chest. There was a swishing sound before the shining steel caught my eye. The kukri had begun its second spin.

Seeing it coming at him for the second time, Sadka flung himself against a pillar and held his one whole arm across his face to fend it off. But Gulliver had picked out his mark long before. The tapered edge of the elegantly angled blade completed its destined trajectory and cupped Nissim Sadka's neck.

I closed my eyes and heard voices from the past:
“Papa, what will they do to them?” And my father's face, solemnly promising, “In the Bible it says, 'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth . . .' “ And me wondering, “How?” And the images of amputations and his response: “They shall hang by the neck until they are dead.
. . .”

There was a bump. I looked down. Sadka slumped toward the floor. At first it appeared he had gone to sleep. When his buttocks landed, however, his head, attached by a slender rope of sinew, flopped over to one side like a child's broken toy. Sadka's servants thundered out, screeching. I turned away. Behind a screen Godfrey retched. I pivoted back. Gulliver stood erect, kukri raised, waiting to take on anyone who dared approach us.

Again I glanced down at Sadka.

I stared at the face that in death held the twisted paroxysm of his final seconds. The mouth gaped, the tongue lolled. His glazed eyes bulged like those of the giant carp. I felt nothing—not loathing, not disgust, not regret, not dread. It was as if I were floating above him: remote, detached, as though I had come from a long, long way to see this, and would journey on.

Someone was speaking. I heard the voice, but I did not understand it. At last it broke through the shimmering barrier. It was Godfrey and he was saying we had to leave. He tugged my sleeve and we followed Gulliver out. The grisly kukri led the procession. Nobody detained us.

Once outside, I ran past the tiger statues. Shadows had not cast an illusion. Their mouths did drip painted blood. I made it to the carriage. The wind carried an acrid smell of gunpowder. Godfrey jumped beside the terrified driver, who whipped the horses. We burst through the gate. Away we rushed, away from the walled enclosure, which I hoped would confine the evil spirits in, rather than out.

Happy Valley was plunged in darkness. Most of the lanterns had been extinguished. The children had run out of fuses to light. The solitary sound was the hooves of the horses blasting against the hardness of the rim road.

The Year of the Dog had begun.

52

 

“N
ow what do we do?” I asked when I had caught my breath.

“We go directly to Government House,” Godfrey replied thickly.

“How can we?” I noticed a metallic odor permeating the carriage. My skirt was encrusted in blood. “I must change my clothes first.”

“No, you mustn't.”

My mind swirled with other thoughts. I was haunted by my own childish cries after the trial of “Not fair . . . not fair . . .” and my farfetched vow to settle the score with Nissim Sadka. And as I considered the biblical injunctions about vengeance belonging to the Lord, I marveled at the events which had spiraled out of my control, even though justice had been served at last.

Thinking that my silence meant I might not agree with him, Godfrey continued, “If your man is to be vindicated, the governor must see the horror you faced.”

Too exhausted to argue and too stunned to know what would ensue, I allowed him to orchestrate the events of the next hours.

We roused Governor Robinson from his bed. By the time the first morning of the new year dawned, many more authorities were sobered from their revels by the crime. Over and over Godfrey explained what he had witnessed: Nissim Sadka, formerly of Calcutta and known in Hong Kong as Song Kung Ni, had asked to meet with me to discuss purchasing a quantity of opium. Godfrey had taken me to his home in Happy Valley, ignorant that Sadka had had prior dealings with the Sassoons. Upon my realization that Sadka had been an accomplice to the murder of my mother—and Sadka's confession of the same—a struggle between the two of us had ensued. Sadka had pulled a gun, pointed it at me, and undone the safety catch. My bodyguard had acted swiftly to protect me, by cutting off the man's offending arm. When this did not halt his attack, Gulliver had swung his kukri a second time to scare him off, accidentally decapitating him.

“No point in suggesting that Gulliver wanted to kill the man. Since Song was disarmed, a case could be made against Gulliver,” Godfrey had explained before we saw the governor. Even though I was dazed, I had seen the sense in this. Besides, I was not certain what had happened. Part of the time my eyes had been closed.

Pity at my plight was the universal reaction. Lady Robinson bathed me herself and put me to bed. My stained clothes were turned over to the police.

Jonah and the compradore arrived to manage the details. The case absorbed several days, although it seemed the officials were merely going through the motions. Nobody doubted that I had been in mortal danger. Gulliver had to appear before a judge, and statements were sworn. Known to be exceptional members of the British military, Gurkhas' loyalty was unquestioned. Sadka's servants, who all had conveniently disappeared, were never questioned. Publicly, the chief magistrate ruled that Sadka had been killed accidentally in the defense of my life, commenting that Gulliver, in acting on my behalf, was “a fine example of his people.” Privately, he commented that Gulliver had served the colony as well, for Song Kung Ni, whose dealings skirted the fringes of the law, had been a thorn in his side. In police circles Gulliver was a hero. He would have received a medal if there had been any to give.

 

Anxious to leave for India as soon as possible, I spent my days sequestered at Mount Gough, while my brother and the compradore attended to the legal and company affairs.

“A representative of the Co-Hong merchants has accepted our rise in rates without a quarrel,” Jonah reported to me. I was sitting in the green leather armchair, staring out at the low black clouds that swirled above the harbor in an eerie counterclockwise motion that looked as if a giant was stirring a steaming caldron.

I should have been elated, but I was merely relieved. Now we could go home! I listened patiently while Jonah described the favorable terms of the deal. “For the finest triple-A Patna they have agreed to a twenty-three-percent increase,” my brother said, preening. “The average was eighteen percent. For the least expensive chests we've conceded to a twelve-percent rise. Even so, there will be no reason to lower those rates next season. That means we'll make up the difference by the end of the year, with a tidy profit.” My expression did not reflect the excitement he exuded. “We've done it, Dinah! Mr. Ming was astonished. He said he had never seen the merchants agree to anything that quickly.”

“Why do you think they assented?”

“Perhaps in gratitude. Sadka's tactics had squeezed profits from them as well.” He touched my shoulder. “Aren't you pleased?”

“They settled because they were afraid of us. I do not think fear should be the basis of negotiations. Goodwill and a handshake should be our calling cards, not murder and blood—” I choked on my words.

“It is over, Dinah. Can't you forget it?”

“You weren't there! You don't know!” Tears flooded my eyes. For days they had welled up at the slightest provocation. Jonah had no recollection of our mother, let alone the vivid memories of her bludgeoned body. He had not been to Happy Valley and had no images of Sadka's menacing face taunting me in life—and death.

Perching on the chair arm, he took my hand in his. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. Nobody can help me now.”

“Edwin should be here with you.”

“What difference would that make? I am floundering in a nightmare of my own creation. Most of the time I feel as if I am stumbling in a thick fog. Now and then, when it lifts, I catch sight of something unspeakably horrible.”

Fortunately, my brother did not press the point. He gave a hopeless sigh, moved away from my chair, and paced in front of the windows. I was too engrossed in my own misery to realize that another matter racked him.

At last he spoke. His voice rang out clear, bold, and compelling. “Believe me, I am sympathetic to you, Dinah. I don't want to diminish your troubles, but the fact of the matter is that everything is settled. It has come full circle. By some quirk of fate, you have avenged our mother's murder. With your diligence and cleverness you have succeeded in clobbering Uncle Samuel and salvaging the company. In a few days we will be on our way back to Calcutta and you will be crowned for your latest triumph.” He whirled around and gave me an opaque stare. His dark eyes reflected the sky like mirrors. “Yes,
your
triumph. I feel privileged to have been your assistant, your brother, and I hope your friend.” Swallowing hard, he pursued his objective. “All I ask is that you widen your circle to include me and my predicament. I would not make this request, not after everything you have endured, if it were not essential to my happiness.”

“What is this about?” I asked foolishly. The color drained from his face. His lips looked as if they had been outlined in chalk. “Wu Bing?”

“Yes,” he murmured, “Wu Bing.” The words fell from his mouth like the peal of a bell.

“You will be sad to leave her.”

“I cannot leave her.”

My heart pounded in empathy with his dilemma. “Jonah, how terrible for you!”

“Not terrible, wonderful. While you were in Happy Valley, I spent the evening with her. We managed to be alone for hours, and she is everything I have ever wanted—and more, far more!”

Alternating between feeling appalled at the consequences and thrilled for him, I had no words of advice. “What will you do?” I asked slowly, while reminding myself that I must not interfere in the matter. I had enough difficulty leading my own life to presume to order his.

“Yesterday I asked the compradore if I might marry her.”

I swallowed hard, but remained silent.

“And he said he would release her. If you don't object, I will bring her back with us. There will be a period when she will study our ways, and if she continues to want to convert, the arrangements will be made, and we shall be married.”

“And if she does not convert?” I trembled as I took the poor girl's side over my brother's. “What then? She would not be able to return to her people with honor, and she would be a pariah in India.”

“We have arrived at an agreement on that,” he replied simply and firmly. “If in her heart she does not wish to become a Jew, then we will come back to Hong Kong together and be wedded in her traditions. Here it will be easier for each of us to remain true to our beliefs. In any case, I hope to return eventually and work for the family here. A Sassoon is needed permanently. At least you'll agree with me about that.” He gave a charming, lopsided grin.

“Tell me, Jonah, what is Wu Bing?” He gave me a questioning glance. “Under what animal sign was she born?”

“That nonsense again?” He laughed with relief. “She's a buffalo. Is anything wrong with that?”

“On the contrary.” I jumped up and went to the shelf where Godfrey's compatibility table had been placed. “If she's a buffalo and he's a rat, the woman will be the perfect housewife and an exceptional hostess.” I chuckled as I scanned the box matching buffaloes and rats.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“ In this union,
she
wears the trousers,' “ I read. “ 'Besotted by the buffalo, the rat will remain faithful, and she will make the rat very happy.' “ I looked up. My brother's eyes had filled with tears.

“Oh, Jonah! In this world where there is so much pain and misery, so much bloodletting, brutality, and death, should anything matter except the time spent caring for one another?” My brother reached his hands out to me and I clasped them. “Wu Bing is as worthy of love as anyone.” I choked on my tears. “Take your happiness, Jonah, take it and run to the end of the earth if necessary.”

 

On the voyage home the weather was mild and the steamship
Morning Star
made good time because of the advantage of a following sea. For propriety's sake, I shared my stateroom with Wu Bing, but she took every opportunity to visit with Jonah. During the day they roamed the decks. When night fell, they settled into one of the public rooms and talked until midnight. I preferred to be alone. As the shock of the last weeks in Hong Kong wore off, a legion of disparate emotions flooded my mind: remorse, anxiety, fear, anger, punctuated by odd moments of ecstasy. A constant headache was my companion. Sleep was my solace.

As we rounded Singapore and headed into the Strait of Malacca, we were greeted by a punishing sea. Rains, brought by gale-force winds, lashed the decks for two days and nights. Once the cataclysmic downpour began, the ship shuddered under the impact. The lurching motion was unpredictable. A simple walk to the toilet required forethought as to where to place one's hands, one's feet. In a more positive frame of mind I might have coped better with the temporary adversity, but since it mirrored my inner turmoil, I gave myself over to the sea and suffered immensely.

Wu Bing, whose love apparently had vanquished any natural frailty, did not succumb to sickness. Within a few hours she had mastered the rolls and pitches and moved around with impunity. Seeing my distress, she was reluctant to leave me. She fed me tea and broth and rice gruel and had the steward concoct a soothing juice of coconut milk. When I could not contain my nausea, she held the bowl and sponged my brow. Her ministrations were offered with a knowing gentleness that reminded me of my grandmother's touch.

Jonah visited me several times a day. “Tonight the rains should end,” he reported when, with every forward thrust of the engines, ferocious waves crashed over the deck.

“How do you know that?”

“I've been talking with the crew. By this time tomorrow we will have put the Malay Peninsula behind us. After that, it should be clear sailing.”

I smiled gratefully, but Wu Bing and my brother hardly noticed. Hand in hand, they were oblivious of the thundering sea that rushed beyond the thin steel skin of the hull. “Why don't you two go upstairs for a while? I am going to try to sleep through this. If s the only way I can cope.”

Seemingly torn between her duty and her desire, Wu Bing looked to Jonah for direction. Concerned, he checked back with me. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.” I pulled up my covers and turned away from them to prove my point. I heard the door click closed. It was a relief to be alone. Alone to absorb the shudders and shakes, the pummelings and poundings that were the outer manifestations of the churnings that racked my mind. My life was like the sea: one moment the placid, cosseted stream of Theatre Road; the next agitated by the tumultuous storms of maharajahs, murders, and opium. In the delirium of my anguish, images of my mother mingled with those of Sadka. From a long way off I heard my children calling, but they vanished behind a wall of water. I lost track of the days and nights. This roiling hell was my whole world. The awful odors of oil, of sickness, of fried foods and spoiled fruit and urine combined with the noise and the humidity to debilitate me further.