The Chinese Jars (5 page)

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Xsing Ching arrived promptly at nine-thirty. He was smartly dressed in a suit from the best Hong Kong tailor. He had an ageless face with high cheekbones and languid eyes. Virginia couldn't help but again notice his strong, trim figure she remembered from their previous encounter. She watched him stroll across the foyer with confidence and ease after being let in by Fu Fung Fat, the manservant. The contrast between the two was striking. Fu had been a ferocious guerilla fighter for the resistance against the Japanese, where he lost an arm and was honored by Chiang Kai-shek, who personally bestowed the rank of colonel on him. He escaped with Chiang to Taiwan when the Communists took over and, because of his war record, was allowed to immigrate to the States. The only things left of his military service were his medals and his memories. He had been Virginia's servant and confidant for years.

Virginia ushered Xsing Ching into the living room and resumed her seat at a right angle from where she seated him on the sofa so he could have the view of the bay and her crossed legs.

“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Ching?”

“A martini, if you please,” he answered in perfect English with a British accent.

Virginia was relieved. She wouldn't have to talk in sign language.

“Would you like something to nibble on as well? We have raw oysters with a spicy sauce.”

“Of course,” he accepted.

She rang a little jade bell she had beside her. “I don't remember you speaking such fluent English when I last met you.”

“We really didn't get much of a chance to talk then,” he said. “Too many people.”

The cook walked in from the kitchen, and she ordered the oysters.

“Where did you learn to speak it so well, Mr. Ching?” she asked.

“You may call me Xsing. I suppose I may call you Virginia? I learned it in London.”

“I see. I understand that you don't live here.”

“I just arrived from New York, where I now have my main office for my export company. I travel a lot, including coming and going from Hong Kong,” he said, sipping slowly on his martini.

“Nice time of year in New York,” she commented.

“Autumn is always nice on the East Coast. Fortunately, I spend enough time in San Francisco so that during the winter I don't get what you Americans call cabin fever,” he responded.

Xsing savored the oysters slowly. He watched Virginia, discreetly admiring the graceful and professional way she handled herself. They made small talk for fifteen or twenty minutes; then she directed the conversation toward dinner.

“Would you like to go to the dining room?” she asked. “I was told you are a big fan of shark fin soup, so I thought we'd start with that.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” he said, smiling for the first time.

They moved to the table that Mathew had arranged and were soon enjoying the meal that he had also engineered.

“Would you like some wine, Xsing?” she asked.

“Chablis will be fine,” he answered.

She was prepared, and the chef brought a bottle of French Chablis and another of California Fume Blanc, Virginia's favorite. He poured the wine into the crystal goblets.

“I commend you on the shark fin soup; it is some of the best I have ever tasted,” said Xsing for the benefit of Virginia, and he repeated it in Cantonese.

The cook smiled. He knew that Mr. Ching was a real connoisseur. He then went back to the kitchen and returned with a delicately prepared whole fish, several plates of vegetables, and two bowls of steamed rice, which he placed to the left of each plate. He scraped the skin off the fish, boned it in front of them, and served each a discreet portion, then retired.

“How long will you be in San Francisco?” she asked.

“It depends. There's a business deal pending that may take a few weeks.”

“Your family will miss you.”

“Yes, but unfortunately that cannot be avoided.”

“Where is your family?”

“Normally in Hong Kong, but for the last several months they've been in New York.”

Is this because of your business?”

“For personal reasons. One of my children requires medical treatment.”

“Oh, what a shame. I hope it's nothing serious.”

Xsing nodded but said nothing.

After a light dessert of lychee fruit, they moved to the sofa that overlooked the city. They watched the lights of San Francisco shimmer as the moon, which was almost full that night, made a golden path on the bay. Virginia snuggled in next to Xsing Ching.

“Mathew speaks highly of you, Xsing.”

“That is kind of him. I hope we can complete our transaction in a satisfactory manner,” he responded without emotion.

She put her hand on his thigh and moved closer. He accommodated her, so she put her arm around his shoulder and kissed him gently on the neck. He knew Virginia's role in his deal with O'Hara, and why she had invited him to her apartment, so he didn't resist what would have been an overly aggressive move by a woman in his culture. He loosened his tie and was soon kissing her strongly and fondling her breasts. She noted he was a passionate man, and she liked the way he forced his tongue into her mouth, searching for hers.

“May I suggest we retire to the bedroom?” she said.

He stood up and put his arm around her waist with the palm resting casually on her buttock, guiding her in the direction she pointed. The bedroom had golden wallpaper, and the ceiling was dimly lit by recessed lamps that shone softly on an elaborate comforter, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. There were a few decorated pillows near the ornately carved rosewood headboard. The radio was playing soft jazz.

Xsing let her down gently on the bed and lay down beside her, kicking off his shoes. Normally he took his time, but tonight he felt on the verge of losing control. He pulled her dress up above her panty line and kissed her and brushed her moist sex with his fingers. She responded by unbuckling his belt and taking his penis, hard like a young man's, in her hand. She then pushed him away and motioned that he should finish disrobing as she slipped out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She removed her bra slowly and threw it across the room, watching it land on an armchair in the corner. She then lay down on the bed dressed only in her laced garter belt and black stockings, and waited in the soft light for him to come to her. She watched his wiry frame as he took off the rest of his clothes. She liked his maleness. In other circumstances, perhaps it would have excited her, but she wasn't there for that; she needed to keep a clear head.

He lay down beside her, naked, and his lips sought the curve in her neck right next to her ear. He removed her stockings with skill, admiring her firm legs and refined ankles. With the finger of one hand he massaged her clitoris while he fondled one of her breasts with the other. Her nipples were now erect, and she pulled Xsing over on top of her. He began kissing her again as he penetrated her. She acted as though she was trembling with delight. They started moving together slowly toward what Xsing hoped would be the inevitable crescendo.

Every time she had sex with a man, she thought of the way her father fondled and used her when she was a teenager. She hated him to this day for doing what he did to her. She learned then to fake orgasm to get her father off her quickly, just as she was on the verge of doing now. She felt Xsing's broad back and whispered a string of obscenities in his ear while writhing like a snake with her legs elevated to her waist. He thought her sex was pulsating with the rhythm they made together and in spite of his experience and cynicism, he believed her when she moaned and told him not to stop. Deep inside her, he started to reach a climax, which surprised him, and he couldn't resist. He liked to prolong sex and prided himself on his self-control, but it was too late.

Afterwards he lay on top of her and fell asleep for a minute or two. He woke up confused, and it took him a second to remember who he was with. He first recognized the smell of her perfume, and he murmured her name before sliding off to her side.

“You're a good lover, Xsing,” she whispered in his ear.

He said nothing. She noted he took it for granted, which was very convenient for her. As Xsing lay beside her in a vulnerable position, she started the most difficult part of her job.

“Tell me about your family,” she asked.

“I have four children, a boy and three girls,” he answered.

“Which one needs medical attention?”

“The boy. He's thirteen; he's the oldest and the brightest. Of course, he's my favorite,” said Xsing, but his voice broke in the middle of the sentence.

“What's wrong?”

“He has leukemia, which makes his life difficult,” said Xsing Ching, surprised he was divulging such intimate information to someone who was almost a stranger. He seldom spoke about his family.

“My goodness. What a shame. Have you sought treatment for him? It is treatable, isn't it?”

“I have sent him to many specialists, but have been advised that with his condition the only treatment is a bone marrow transplant, which is risky.”

“I've heard of that. There are doctors who are experimenting in that field at the University of California Medical Center. Do you want me to make some inquires?”

“Thank you,” he said, moved by her concern.

T
HE MISSION
District was the home of Mission Dolores, which catered to the religious needs of the Catholic community. It was the nineteenth of twenty-one missions founded by the Spanish as they conquered California. El Camino Real, or the Royal Highway, connected these Missions. Each was one day's ride from the next.

It was here Melba had grown up, and it was here Rafael Garcia lived. In its past it was home to Irish, Italian, and Scandinavian blue-collar immigrants. Now it housed a large Latin population, mostly Mexican but increasingly Central American. Part of it housed San Francisco's heavy industry, which meant the inhabitants didn't have to travel far to get to work. It was also home to Seals Stadium, the baseball park made famous by the likes of the DiMaggio brothers before big-league baseball came to Candlestick Park. There were plenty of good cheap restaurants and drinking establishments, including Melba's, until she moved uptown to Nob Hill.

Rafael Garcia stopped at the mailbox, took out his mother's welfare check, and bounded to the top of the rickety stairs to his family's third-floor apartment. The paint on the walls was flaking, there were puddles of water on the floor, and there were bags of garbage in the hallways waiting for Thursday, when the renters brought them down for collection. He entered the cold-water flat he shared with his mother and three siblings.

Inside, the smell of the beans cooking on the hot plate infused his nostrils. He made his way through the confusion of objects that blocked his way so he could embrace his mother, who came to meet him, dragging a leg and supporting herself on the secondhand furniture and piles of boxes. He saw her crutch standing in a corner. She always greeted him with disproportionate enthusiasm, as if she hadn't seen him for months or had feared that he would never return. Rafael was the oldest, the main support of the family, and was like a father to the other children. Rafael thought his mother was getting shorter by the minute; he now had to bend over to kiss her forehead.

“Bless me, Mama,” he repeated, as usual.

“God bless you, m'ijo. How are you?” She set a place at the small kitchen table, aware that he had arrived late and would have just a moment to eat something before he rushed off to his evening's work at Camelot.

“Muy bien, Mama, muy ocupado. Very busy.”

“What are you up to?” She served him beans and a couple of tortillas and sat down heavily on a stool next to him.

“ Nothing,” he answered. “How's your leg, Mama?”

“The same. You know there's no cure for this, m'ijo.”

“When's your doctor's appointment?”

“Why waste money on doctors? We have more important expenses. It's better to entrust it to God.”

Rafael thought otherwise. It'd been five years since his drunken father had attacked her with a baseball bat, thinking she was a demon. He'd been carted off to jail for what turned out to be the last time; he died in the detox ward of San Francisco General Hospital. Rafael hoped that modern medicine could help his mother. Every day there were new advances and new techniques, but money was needed to take advantage of them. Just then his two sisters, who looked alike, came in dressed in school blouses and blue skirts.

“Have you girls done your homework?” Rafael asked.

“Yes,” answered one of them.

“I can hear the radio,” said Rafael.

“We're finished, hermano.”

“Sí, m'ijo. They did their homework and sewed the blouses. With this lot we got thirty dollars. The sewing machine you bought for us is much faster than the old one. It was expensive, wasn't it?”

“You don't have to worry about that, Mama.”

“I worry about it because I don't know how you support us, son. You can't do it on your earnings.”

“I have other jobs.”

“What kind of jobs are those?”

“That's my business, old thing. I'll take the blouses. Are they in boxes?”

“Yes, they're ready.”

“Are there any more beans?”

“Serve you brother more beans,” the mother ordered one of the girls. “How's Sofia?”

“Beautiful as ever,” said Rafael as his eyes lit up. “We saw the priest yesterday at Mission Dolores. He said he would marry us for free because I have helped so much at the church.”

“I suppose it's finally time, m'ijo. How long have you been going together?” asked his mother, hiding the anxiety the subject produced. If Rafael married, he'd have his own family. What would happen to her and the children?

“Three years, two months, and twenty-two days,” laughed Rafael. “I'm tired of begging her.”