Son of Fortune (37 page)

“How do you know to do this?” Aiden asked. “Have you seen a child like this before?”

“No, but”—Ming watched the ink swirl in the water—“I know what it feels like to have no voice.”

The nurse came abruptly into the room. “It is time for Master Peter's supper.”

Ming got up immediately and bowed. “I am grateful that you have allowed me to visit with Peter today.”

“Hmm.” The woman scowled. She looked at the paintings and her expression relaxed. “Well, those are real pretty.” She commandeered Peter's wheelchair and pushed him out of the room.

“Thank you,” Aiden said, feeling awkward again now. “This is amazing.”
You are amazing,
he wanted to say. “Um—uh, does Silamu Xie have children?” he asked. He had to keep her a little longer. He was failing at his real task once again. He had to find out about Lijia. He had to stop being a stupid love-struck boy! He wanted to both smack himself in the head and sink into a field of daisies. None of this made any sense.

“No,” Ming replied.

“So you, um, mostly just work as his translator?”

“When he is in need of my service, I am happy to assist.”

“How did you learn to speak English so well?”

“In Shanghai, where I am from, there are many English people.”

“And how did you come to be here? In San Francisco?”

“It was my destiny.”

Clearly, she was growing uncomfortable with his questioning. How did Christopher always know what to say so smoothly?

“Would you—would you like to see the zoo before you leave?” Aiden asked.

“Yes.” Ming's face brightened. “I would like that very much.”

“Then, please, I would be honored to show you our zoo! But come down the back stairs, or the ducklings will capture us.”

He led her down the servants' stairs and through the conservatory. He hurried past the orchids and lemon trees and parrots, though he expected she would have liked to see them. He was eager to be outside with her, where no one would be hovering and spying. When he pushed the heavy leaded-glass door open and the damp, cool air hit them, they both laughed. Though the afternoon was foggy, the world felt bright.

Aiden had forgotten, however, about Gouzhi. As they rounded the corner of the house, they saw the stony bodyguard waiting on his stony bench. He stood immediately and without even a nod began to walk toward the side gate, where the buggy waited. Aiden's heart sank. But then Ming said something in Chinese. Gouzhi stopped and turned, a shocked expression on his broad face, as if a tree had just spoken. Ming said something else that sounded very sweet and calm to Aiden but that made the bodyguard scowl. Even in this most foreign of languages, Aiden recognized her tone as commanding. Gouzhi's face turned red, and he stared hard at Aiden, squaring his chest in a challenge. Aiden had fought bigger men—not successfully. But no fight was necessary. Gouzhi sat back down, folding his ham-sized arms across his bull-sized chest and staring straight ahead as if he had never intended to go anywhere.

“What did you say to him?” Aiden asked as he opened the iron gate to the zoo.

“Many pretty words,” she said as she slipped past him, “to thank him for the work of protecting me. Then I told him that the fence around the zoo is like the Great Wall of China, and this is the only gate. If he is meant to protect me, he must protect the gate.”

“What is he meant to protect you from?” Aiden asked.

Ming smiled. “You hear stories about Chinese villains,” she said. “We hear stories about American villains.”

“Fair enough.”

Aiden closed the gate behind them, happy to feel the latch click firmly into place. Ming looked around and gave a small sigh of relief. Her whole posture changed, as if all the little shadow birds in her paintings were lifting her up.

“This is the first time since I have come to San Francisco that I may look and see no buildings,” Ming said.

Even a rich man's house in the crowded warrens of Chinatown would offer little garden space or view of the sky, Aiden realized. The zoo was carefully landscaped with terraced rock walls, winding stone paths and green plants everywhere, even in February. The clouds were thin enough to let a soft wash of sunshine through. They walked in a gauzy quiet, casting no shadows. The air seemed distorted—it was like looking through water. How was it that in her presence he could feel completely calm and completely crazed at the same time?

“This is an aardvark,” Aiden said. “It comes from Africa. In the wild it eats ants and termites, which it digs for furiously with its enormous claws. But here we raise crickets and mealworms to feed it.” The aardvark was curled up and sleeping in its shelter. “This is a coatimundi,” Aiden went on hurriedly. “It comes from South America, is thought to be in the raccoon family and eats fruits and grubs.” The coatimundi was also sleeping. It was in fact a sleepy little zoo.

“These are a kind of antelope called dik-diks,” Aiden said. He realized he was almost reciting Christopher's standard girl-at-the-zoo speech word for word. But what else could he possibly think of to talk about? As easy as it had been in Peter's room, now his brain was full of noise and sand. Ming shifted the air as she walked, made it denser and loaded. Aiden showed her the monkeys and an enormous waddling porcupine. Ming stopped in front of the bobcat's cage. She pulled her jacket tighter around her neck.

“What is this animal?”

“A bobcat,” Aiden said. “Also called a lynx.”

“It is beautiful.”

The bobcat had a thick caramel coat spotted with brown, and tufts of black fur on its ears. The cat stared at them with a defiant gleam in its yellow eyes. It had worn a track around the perimeter of its enclosure with its pacing.

“It is very wild?”

“More shy, really. It won't attack a person.”

“I mean, it doesn't like the cage.”

Aiden didn't know what to say to that. What animal did?

“It gets plenty to eat here,” he offered. “A rabbit every day, and lots of mice.”

“That is good,” Ming said sadly.

Aiden desperately did not want her to be sad. “Come see the polar bears—their cage is enormous and they have a pool. The cubs have grown up here—they're really very happy.”

He led her along the winding stone path. She bent the light around her. The polar bear cage was carved out of the hillside, and a thick hedge along the walkway obscured any sight of it until you rounded a corner and arrived directly in front. The approach was designed to have a big impact, and it certainly did now. The two cubs, nearly full grown, charged the bars. Ming cried out and jumped back. Aiden touched her shoulder. It was like touching lightning. The bone fit perfectly in his palm, like it was carved to the exact shape of his hand. He could feel her slender body trembling, but she stood straighter, as if embarrassed to show fear.

“They can't get out,” he said, not moving his hand. Her body leaned closer to his, naturally, like a reed in a current. Her hair smelled of ginger. A swarm of noisy angels started buzzing around inside Aiden's skull.

“They're just excited to see people,” he said. “And I usually bring them hardtack.”

“Hard tacks?” she said.

“It's a piece of toasted bread,” he explained. “Crunchy.” His lungs were melting. “For a treat.”

He reached in his jacket pocket in hopes there might be a crust but instead felt the letter to Lijia. Leftover angels crashed. His skull was full of dust. There would be no better chance. The letter to Lijia was the whole reason he had pursued Ming, after all, wasn't it? To fulfill his duty, to secure the absolution he needed. But once he gave Ming the letter, everything would change. And right now, he wanted nothing to ever change. He wanted only to stand next to her until her breath filled up the sky.

“I—I have something to give you,” he said. His fingers squeezed the letter and slowly began to draw it out. But what would it matter if Lijia didn't know for a little longer? Her brother would still be dead. Maybe it was mercy to let her hope a little longer. He let go of the letter, pulled his hand out empty, bent down and plucked a crocus from one of the planter boxes.

“Here.”

“Thank you,” Ming said. “It is very pretty.”

“It's a crocus,” he said. “The gardener forces the bulbs in the hothouse.”

“Yes, we have crocuses in China.” She tucked the flower into the button loop at the neck of her blouse. The fabric shifted, and he caught a glimpse of her collarbone. The ground shook, the clouds swirled, every animal roared and a thousand crocuses burst open across the globe. He could be happy with just the bones of her, he thought. The seagull arc of her collarbone, the gravel of her wrist.

“What is that?” Ming said, looking at his chest. Her glance cut through his ribs like an axe. Aiden clutched awkwardly at the leather pouch that he wore around his neck. It had swung free when he bent to pick the flower.

“It's, ah, it's an Indian pouch,” he stammered. “To keep tokens.”

“Tokens?”

“Little things that have meaning.”

“Like a charm? An amulet for luck?”

“More like to remember things that have taught you something. Or to help you remember things that are important.”

“Tokens are for guiding?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Have they guided you well?”

“I don't know,” he said honestly. “But I like where I am right now.”

Ming blushed and dropped her gaze but did not move away. “Are there Indians in San Francisco?”

“No,” Aiden said. “I came across the country in a wagon train. I met Indians on the journey. I come from Kansas. Do you know where that is? I'm sorry,” he added hurriedly. “I know very little about China. So I don't know what you know.…” Why did he sound so stupid around her? He had learned to talk to regular girls well enough.

“I do not know about Kansas. I know about New York. Is Kansas far from there?”

“Oh yes,” Aiden said. “Kansas is far from everywhere.”

The bears, as if frustrated by his most lame conversational skills, turned away from the bars and tumbled into their pool. They were big enough now that they nearly filled it.

“How did you come to be here?” Aiden asked. “In San Francisco.”

“I suppose because I had no tokens to guide me.” Ming's smile vanished, and it was like a cloud had darkened the earth.

“You are unhappy here,” Aiden said.

Ming looked at him steadily. Aiden could see a galaxy of stars in the dark irises.

“I—I should go now,” she said.

“Are you—are you ill treated?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I am sorry. I did not mean to sound ungrateful with my destiny. But I must go now—Gouzhi is not a patient man.”

“When can you come again?” Aiden said.

“I think there is nothing more I can teach Peter,” Ming said hesitantly. “I think the secret is only the brush and the ink. And simple pictures. You will do very well as you are.”

“But I—we—want to see you again. The little girls and—and Peter and I—I want to see you again.” He yearned to touch more bones of her: the trellis of her ribs, the seashell of her ear, the bent-willow jaw. But he restrained his greedy hand, curled his fingers away and just brushed his rough knuckles across the crocus in her blouse. When he dropped his hand, it touched hers, and she didn't pull away. Her fingers melted into his palm. Her body leaned into his. Aiden kissed her on the lips. They both stiffened at the pure surprise of it, then realized the kiss completely—every soft, trembling moment of it.

A purposeful step and cough sounded from the path back beyond the hedges. Aiden and Ming sprang apart.

“Mr. Madison, sir?” Mr. Butter certainly knew enough about the zoo to keep a discreet distance.

“Coming,” Aiden called, his heart pounding. “Right away.” He looked at Ming. “I must see you again,” he whispered, taking her hands. “Tell me how. Tell me where to go and I will go there.”

“There is nowhere.” Her voice cracked. She leaned into him and spoke into the dip of his shoulder, where motion joined breath. “This must be enough.”

“It is not.”

“It is impossible,” Ming said. “It is not my destiny.”

She pulled away, her body slow and reluctant. Aiden brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Destiny changes all the time. You just take one step on a different path. One step different, and there's a new destiny. Say you'll meet me again.”

Finally Ming gave a little nod. “Tomorrow night is the last night of our New Year—the Lantern Festival. Everyone will be out in the streets to celebrate. Women are allowed to walk freely on this night. Go to the steps of the restaurant where the dinner was held—just after dark. Can you find it?”

“Yes.” He would find a single crocus in the desert, one petal floating on the ocean. “I will be there.”

iden slept but a few restless hours that night and woke before dawn, just as the sky began to lighten. How could he wait for dark again? Dark was a year away. How could he pass all the minutes of this day? He splashed cold water on his face, dressed and walked to the harbor and back. The sun had risen by then. He read the newspaper and drank his coffee; he visited the polar bears and played with the ducklings and sat in the conservatory looking at the orchids that would never be beautiful again because now everything was compared to Ming. It was not yet ten. He worked with Peter and it was still only noon. The piano teacher came and the little girls plunked away another hour. Time seemed like a cruel mirage. His throat was closed to food. His blood was thin and fizzing like soda water. He played chess with Christopher and it was still only two o'clock.

“What is wrong with you?” Christopher pressed. “The sun is out today, and you're still as restless as the ducklings on Christmas Eve.”

“Nothing,” Aiden said.

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you were in love.”

Aiden blushed and zipped his bishop recklessly across the board.

“Good thing you know better, then,” he replied. Christopher looked at him suspiciously but was distracted with the opportunity to entrap the bishop.

Finally the afternoon passed and the dusk began to purple the sky. Aiden slipped out of the house through the kitchen while the cook was busy preparing supper. He had not told Christopher he was going out, for he knew that his friend, already suspicious, would see through any excuse Aiden offered. But he did tell the cook not to set a place for him, so the family would not be worried at his absence. He walked quickly down the drive, keeping to the grass along the edge so as not to scrunch on the gravel, then set off down the road, forcing himself not to run. As he neared the border of Chinatown, he saw other Americans also headed that way. Clearly, he was not the only one to know about the Lantern Festival. Any entertainment was welcome on a February evening. Aiden kept his head down. He knew enough people in the city by now that there was bound to be someone who would recognize him. At lunchtime Christopher hadn't had any plans for the evening, but it was quite possible one of his friends might have sent a note in the afternoon post, looking to get up a group to go. Aiden wore the jacket from Fish's mother's old dead cousin and his denim trousers. He knew he could never blend in among the Chinese—he was far too tall, for one thing—but at least he could be not terribly obvious.

As he neared Chinatown, he could see a glow, and when he turned the corner onto Kearny Street, he suddenly saw a river of red light, as if the streets were flowing with lava. Hundreds of people were gathered there, and everyone, from the oldest man to the smallest baby able to hold a stick, carried a lantern. Lanterns hung over every door of every building and from every signpost, sending curls of candle smoke up into the plummy dusk. Most were plain red globes, made of bamboo frames with paper skins, but some were elaborately painted with fish and dragons and birds or Chinese symbols. Vendors wiggled through the mob with bouquets of small lanterns on bamboo sticks held over their shoulders.

Aiden wormed his way through the crowd, looking for the restaurant. He quickly realized, with dread, that all the buildings looked alike. This time there was no stream of white guests and swarm of attendants. He could not, of course, decipher the Chinese signs. He climbed the stairs of several places and peeked in the windows, but that didn't help, as all the restaurants were also furnished and decorated pretty much the same. He felt cold prickles of sweat race down his back. A little over a year ago, when he was trying to find his way through mountains in a blizzard, he had not felt such a sense of panic. Finally Aiden decided to just pick one of the restaurants, wait there and hope she would see him. He scanned the crowd, certain that he could spot her despite the hundreds of people and the bobbing lanterns and the clouds of smoke from firecrackers.

But what if she wasn't coming? The way she looked at him, the way her body seemed drawn to his own—that could all be his imagination. And even if she did feel something, any relationship—even just as friends—was impossible. Aiden pressed his fingers hard against his eyes, trying to smash back his thoughts. Red lanterns bobbed through the street below. The full moon inched up into the sky.

Had Silamu Xie suspected something and locked Ming away? Like Lijia was locked away? Aiden felt a new wave of guilt. He would tell Ming tonight. He had to. Unless the universe shifted somehow, he would never see her again. But that was an impossible life to accept. The red lanterns spun luminous threads through the darkening street. Faces were distorted by the lights, carved into arcs of glowing chins and cheeks. Drumbeats tattered the night, and strings of firecrackers snapped. Two little boys darted past in green silk jackets, a protective swarm of family lighting a ring around them. The full moon rose higher—and still she had not come.

A young boy appeared by Aiden's side. “Are you lost?”

“No,” he said, startled. “Thank you, but I'm just watching the lights.”

“They are very beautiful.”

“Yes.”

Only then did Aiden realize that the boy was Ming. She wore a man's blue cotton pants and quilted jacket. She had braided her hair into a pigtail and wore a little cloth cap.

“It's you!” he said.

“Yes.” The candle in her lantern flickered and Aiden saw her smile. It was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her.

“Come,” Ming said, stepping quickly back, also evading the urge. She led him down the steps, into the swirling river of light. Time stopped. Nothing mattered now but this moment, and they were together in the moment and that would be enough for all time. Aiden felt like his senses were mixed and overlapping. Solid objects melted while mist turned to stone. Colors were sharp against his skin. Sounds had weight inside his head. People and objects froze completely still or moved so fast they were a blur. Although they were among hundreds of people now, Aiden felt like he and Ming were alone and invisible, walking in a cloud of fireflies. They could not hold hands, or even touch. They could not really even talk, for a common Chinese boy speaking near-perfect English with an American man would be suspicious. When Ming did speak, she feigned the simple words and broken speech that one of the Chinese tourist guides or restaurant touts might use.

“See lantern, yes!” She pointed at a particularly elaborate lantern covered with Chinese symbols. People were gathered around it, chattering and laughing. “Chinese word on lantern tell joke. Joke with answer? People guess?”

“A riddle?”

“Ah, yes—riddle!” Ming smiled and rolled her eyes, laughing with him.

“What is the riddle?” Aiden asked. It was too noisy to hear the whole thing, but he loved the chance to bend his ear close to her lips and feel her breath on his cheek for a few seconds. A vendor interrupted, carrying two baskets on a pole over his shoulder. In the baskets were little paper-wrapped bundles.

“Ah, good!” Ming pulled a coin out of her pocket, and the man handed her one of the bundles. She unwrapped the parcel, which held two little rice balls.

“Yuanxiao,”
she said. “Tradition food of Lantern Festival.” She took one out and fed it to him. Aiden could not tell if it was sweet or salty, only that her finger had touched his lips. They walked together through the crowd. Because they could not talk freely, they spoke with their eyes and postures, inventing a new language of brushed arms and secret smiles. Ming would point out something, as a guide would do, but her hand would linger in the air, seductively as an exotic dancer's, then brush the length of his arm as it fell. Aiden could touch her shoulder now and then, for the crowd was so dense he might rightfully fear getting lost. The thick jacket muffled her shape, leaving him only the knob at the top of her back and the plow blade of her shoulder. Sometimes she clutched his coat sleeve and he could feel the curl of her knuckles through the fabric.

Aiden had almost starved to death once. Love felt exactly the same, only completely opposite. Starvation had scraped out the center of his bones, numbed his hands and feet and shimmered his vision. It conjured weird, distant music in the back of his brain and made everything he touched feel oddly unreal. The same symptoms seized him now, only the ache in his gut was a lump of silver. The strings that fastened his heart in his chest had come undone, so the muscle skidded around with every beat. His lungs could never get enough air, for the air contained the breaths she had exhaled.

Firecrackers exploded nearby, and both of them startled and reached for the other—then quickly pushed away. It was insane not to take her hand. Insane to be kept apart not by mountains or rivers or deserts, but by stupid social rules.

“Come,” she whispered, a bright, conspiratorial glint in her eyes. She led him away from the river of people and down a small street, deeper into the heart of Chinatown. She hesitated several times, looking around for some landmarks as the streets grew more narrow, twisting and dead-ending, but finally she led him into a square. There was an ornate building in the center, which Aiden guessed was a joss house, or temple. Lanterns hung across the entry, strung between two ornately carved wooden posts. Three elderly men sat on a bench outside. Ming mumbled something, bowed and backed up, pulling him along, back into the dark street.

“I am sorry,” Ming whispered once they were out of sight. “I thought there would be no people there now because of the festival. I thought it might be a place for us to be alone.”

Aiden said nothing. In this dark corner, for a moment at least, they were alone. He slid one hand behind her velvet neck, pulled her face to his and kissed her. That kiss could not have been long enough had it lasted a year, but it was only a few seconds before they both heard voices coming. They jumped apart. Aiden turned his face to the wall and hunched his shoulders to hide his height. Three Chinese women came around a corner, walking toward them. One carried a lantern that cast enough light to show them. The women muttered something but hurried on their way. Aiden and Ming both choked back nervous giggles and clutched each other again.