Shanghai (26 page)

The Foreign Settlement and the Concession were divided by nothing more than an invisible line down the centre of a street, yet they had different governing bodies, different laws, different police forces—all of which made it very convenient for a felon from one side or the other to cross that invisible line and suddenly go from wanted man to free man.

Within the Concession boundaries and under the protection of the guns of the French flagship, the
Cassini
, the Colombes—Jesuit and madam—thrived. Within three months Suzanne had managed to open the House of Paris on the central road of the Concession, and Father Pierre had the foundation completed and
some of the walls up for Asia's largest Christian house of worship, the Cathedral of St. Ignatius.

Much to the surprise of the English and Americans, the
Cassini
was quickly becoming a permanent fixture in the harbour. The Foreign Settlement failed to realize that the commander of the
Cassini
, Captain de Plas, was a devout Catholic who believed it was his duty to protect both the Concession and all Catholics in this “heathen hellhole,” hence the positioning of his ship so that his stern port guns could reach the government building on the western edge of the Concession and the bow port guns could reach the Cathedral on the east.

It never occurred to good Captain de Plas that his guns offered as much protection to Suzanne's house of pleasure as they did to Pierre's cathedral.

* * *

FATHER PIERRE FINALLY APPROACHED the red-haired Jew who had been coming by the cathedral construction site almost every day. “Are you attracted to our house of worship? It is open to all,” Father Pierre said.

For a moment Maxi thought he understood what was being asked, then he made the international signal for “I don't speak the language”—a large shoulder shrug accompanied by an ain't-I-a-fool? face.

Father Pierre nodded slowly—a Jew
and
a non-French-speaker. He couldn't decide which was more offensive. But he made himself smile and rephrased his question in torturously slowly spoken English.

Maxi began to shake his head before Pierre had even finished. “No, I don't want to come in.”

“Father,” the Jesuit prompted congenially.

“Excuse me?”

“You can call me Father. Father Pierre.”

Maxi smiled, showing a lot of large, white teeth, and said, “I think not.”

“Fine.” Father Pierre's smile seemed to harden on his sharp features. “Then why are you here if not for God's word that can only be received within the walls of Mother Church?”

Maxi waved a hand, as if it were keeping smoke from his face. He wasn't going to be drawn into this sort of argument.

“What do you want here, Jew?”

Pierre's tone was one that Maxi had heard often enough in his life. In a certain way, Maxi preferred hatred out in the open. At least that way the rules were clear. “I want nothing inside your church … Father … just knowledge of how the building is put together.”

That surprised Father Pierre. “Are you interested in building design?”

“No. I'm interested in how buildings are made.” He didn't bother adding that he was actually interested in the mathematics behind the construction, and how the mathematics sometimes led him to understand the meaning of things, and that without the meaning of things Maxi felt somehow adrift. As if any day of the week or year could be any other day of the week or year. As if there was no forward motion. With Ahmed the opium farmer he hadn't felt that way; when he attended the Chinese opera he didn't feel that way. This Church, with its arbitrary rules and dogma, didn't hold out the possibility of meaning to Maxi. But the building itself, that which encased the religion, might.

Father Pierre's smile returned. He knew that every angle, every construction idea behind the building of the great cathedral had come directly from God, so he thought that the Jew's interest in the building techniques might very well lead to an interest in God
,
who had made the rules that governed all the principles of nature—and the building of His great churches.

Pierre called over his master builder and instructed him to answer Maxi's questions. Maxi wanted to know about the flying buttresses, their respective weights versus the weight of the section of the roof they supported, the mathematical calculation involved in finding the pivot point for the buttress, and the depth to which the buttress had to be sunk into the ground.

Father Pierre stood back and watched him soak up the proffered information. He was impressed with Maxi's quick comprehension of the information and his ability to deduce problematic issues arising from the facts he had heard.

The master builder moved on to the actual machinery used in the construction, but Maxi already knew the basic principles involved. Even the complex knotting systems used for the block and tackle were nothing new to him.

“Would you like to step inside?” Father Pierre asked. Maxi hesitated. “It is not yet consecrated. Besides, there are few walls. God's buildings require walls,” he joked.

Maxi nodded and followed the Jesuit.

“Over there will be the front door of the cathedral. And where we are now is the main aisle—the nave.”

Maxi looked around him. The flying buttresses on the west side were already levered against wall stanchions and holding sections of roof aloft. He could imagine the
walls in place and the feeling of weightless lift given by the buttresses, which were massive outside the walls but slender inside, like the branches of the trees that fell over the walls of the Government of India Alkaloid Works at Ghazipur.

They walked side by side down the central aisle toward the high altar. About two-thirds of the way down, other aisles branched out left and right. Maxi looked at Father Pierre, who replied, “The transept. To the east,” he said, pointing, “and the west,
à la
Rue des Juifs.”

“Pardon me?”

“Just the name for the street outside the west transept door.” Father Pierre wasn't interested in explaining that the Rue des Juifs was the only place where Jewish moneylenders were allowed to enact their savage trade. Since Mother Church seldom had enough money on hand to build the necessary buildings to glorify God, the money was often raised by borrowing it from the Jewish moneylenders just outside the west transept door. Convenient for business. And in cases where the congregation could not raise the money needed to pay back the Jews, they could be riled up on an Easter Sunday and sent to chase away those who happened to hold the debt note for the Church. No moneylender—no money lent. Very convenient.

* * *

WHILE HER BROTHER occupied himself with construction of his great cathedral, Suzanne had business of her own to attend to. She decided it was finally time to see what the local competition had to offer. Accompanied by
two of her bouncers, she entered the anteroom of Jiang's establishment. Her men wore a consistent scowl, but Suzanne knew that this was just a mask. Right at that moment they couldn't have been happier, because they were about to sample the wares of Jiang's pleasure house, and Suzanne would foot the bill. Who wouldn't be smiling, especially since the bouncers were not allowed under any circumstances to touch the women in Suzanne's House of Paris?

Suzanne was impressed by the understated elegance of Jiang's establishment. Her discerning eye caught the carefully planted clues to the erotic, despite the fact that most were cloaked in a classical Chinese formality. The women wore Manchu-style robes,
hanfu,
and hair dressings, but a few ribbon ties were always left open to reveal the curve of a breast or the length of a finely defined calf muscle. All of the women had beautifully painted mouths, and tiny feet—the result of binding when they were young.

“You are troubled?” Jiang asked.

“No,” Suzanne lied smoothly, then decided to be honest. “Yes. Have all their feet been bound?”

Jiang nodded. “Absolutely. It is a sign of respect from their parents. After all, who would marry a woman with unbound feet?”

“But your feet were not bound.”

“Yes, but that is my family's tradition.”

“Do the women in your family marry?”

“The eldest daughter, yes. She is always an artist.”

“And the others?”

“One of my younger daughters will succeed me. She will not marry, but she will produce at least two daughters. It has always been thus here. So, now look at the beauty arrayed before you and choose.”

To her surprise Suzanne felt an old stirring deep within her as one of the tall beauties tilted her head and gave her a lascivious smile.

Jiang's silky voice spoke a series of Mandarin words that were quickly translated into French. “Her name is Tu Yeh. She is most practised in the pleasuring of women like yourself.”

Suzanne turned and looked into the high-cheekboned, flawless-skinned face of the famous Jiang. “Is she indeed?”

“She is.” Jiang's round-faced translator stood behind her mistress and did her job with remarkable ease.

“Does she perform with accoutrements? Both receiving and delivering?”

Jiang needed a moment to sort through the difference in euphemisms, then understood the question. She looked closely at this
Fan Kuei
woman, allowing her eyes to examine openly the fine white skin, the petite curves, the devilish, thin-lipped smile—and tiny, very sexy ears. She knew from her many spies that this was Suzanne Colombe from the House of Paris. She leaned forward. Suzanne's delicate perfume wafted up and surrounded her. Then she kissed the woman on the neck.

Suzanne was startled by the kiss, then allowed herself to move with the touch. She reached up a hand and pulled the lovely lips from her neck. Then she looked into Jiang's unfathomably deep eyes. The women both smiled at the same time, their eyes expressing even more pleasure than their mouths.

“And how much do you cost?”

“The same as you do. Too much for paying customers.”

“How about this Tu Yeh creature?”

Suzanne didn't bargain. She paid the price demanded and retreated with Tu Yeh to a back room that they accessed through a narrow hallway. On either side of the corridor, two bunks high, were pallets upon which men reclined and smoked their opium. Some were alone. A few were with partially clad girls.

Tu Yeh noticed Suzanne's interest. “Would you like to partake … before?”

Suzanne allowed a smile up to her lips and said, “Before what?”

When Suzanne emerged from the expert ministrations of Tu Yeh she was surprised to hear a kind of high-pitched singsong colloquy of voices. She followed the sound through the main greeting chamber, through an interior courtyard, and into a high-ceilinged room with a set of raised platforms at one end. Across from the platforms sat an attentive audience on low chairs and three-legged bamboo stools. On the platforms were four Chinese men in elaborate costumes, singing. The crash of a cymbal froze them in space, and a delicate woman, wearing a costume with sleeves that draped all the way to the floor, moved quickly—it seemed to Suzanne that the woman floated on air—to the centre of what was clearly a stage. A cymbal crashed and a screech came from the woman that shook the crystal chandelier. Then she threw her arms up in the air, causing her sleeves to float up like yards of silk caught by the wind. When the sleeves were at their full extension the actress struck a startling pose, the horns blared, and cymbals crashed and then crashed again. And the audience went wild. Shouts of “
Hoa!
” which Suzanne knew meant “good,” rose from the room. People sprang to their
feet and cheered. None louder, it seemed to Suzanne, than an attractive red-haired man whose applause led the room.

“Do you like?” It was Jiang whispering in her ear again. Suzanne didn't know if the woman was referring to the red-haired man or the performance. Before she could answer, a tall, handsome Chinese woman in her mid twenties came onstage and readjusted the actress's position, turned to the other actors, and shouted, “Again.”

Quickly the actors moved offstage and the musicians rearranged themselves. The Chinese woman then counted down from three and said “
Kai shi,
” which Suzanne recognized as meaning “play.”

“So, I ask again, do you like?”

“It's a play?”

“My daughter's newest opera. She is thinking of calling it
Journey to the West
.”

Suzanne had often had opera singers and concert violinists perform in her establishment back in Paris, so she appreciated the odd symbiosis of art and sex. “The handsome one in charge is your daughter?”

“Yes. I named her Fu Tsong.”

“Fu Tsong. Very pretty.”

Jiang pushed Suzanne's shoulder just a little more than gently and said, through her translator, “She's a widow, but actually she's married—married to her operas.” Suzanne turned to face Jiang. The woman was smiling. “Besides, she's too good looking for an old bird like you.”

Suzanne smiled back and nodded. “Absolutely too young for me. But that one over there isn't,” she said, indicating the red-haired man who had returned to his seat and was watching the stage intently.

“Ah. The true Red-Haired Devil.” She stopped for a moment and tried to wrap her tongue around the strange name, “Maxi Hordoon.” Her pronunciation was close to perfect.

“Ah, the Jew. Is he a frequent visitor to your house?”

“Yes. He is unmarried. At first the girls were frightened of him, but once they saw his spear they changed their tune. Now he comes more often for the plays my daughter stages than for the girls. Be careful with him.”

“Why careful?”

“There is violence there.”

Suzanne had already seen that. But violence was also passion, and as Tu Yeh had proved to her in no uncertain terms, she needed some passion in her life just now. She also needed a partner, so she turned to Jiang. “Would you be available for tea tomorrow afternoon? I have a business proposition that might interest you.”