The Nicholas Linnear Novels (39 page)

He felt that he had the answers to those questions inside of him if only he could pin them down. He still stung from the jibe Croaker had given him in the restaurant and he was angry at himself that it had affected him so. What if Croaker had been right? How deeply had he been affected by Terry’s and Ei’s deaths? Surely he felt
something.
He must. He was no machine. But he could summon no tears. Perhaps there were other ways to grieve; he knew he was like his mother in that respect. He was far too controlled to allow certain emotions to surface. But with that he was denying a part of himself and that could prove to be disastrous. Without full understanding of himself, he could control no situation. He could be champion of nothing, not the light, nor the dark. That thought made him jump as if someone had pricked him. An idea rippled like a banner at the edge of his consciousness—

“What are you thinking?”

His eyes focused to see her. There was concern on her face. “You shouldn’t make sacrifices,” he said. “Not for me, not for anybody. It can be dangerous.”

“Damn it! I’m not making sacrifices. Not anymore. I’m through with all that. I won’t give anything up for you. Not until I’m quite certain it’s what
I
want.” Her eyes glittered, fine pinpoints of energy in the darkness. “Is it so awful that you satisfy me? That I’m content with that? Does part of you rebel against that notion?”

She had cut him to the quick without realizing it. “Christ, what made you say that?” He sat up, feeling his heart hammering.

“Because it’s true?” She tried to look in his eyes. “I don’t know. But I do know how your body reacts to mine. That’s communication on the most basic level, the way it was done a million years ago before there were books to talk about or films or plays, any entertainment. When people just had each other. I want to know why you reject that out of hand. Don’t you trust your body to tell you what’s right? It knows better than your mind what’s good for you.” She laughed. “I can’t believe it. You of all people. You’ve been working with your body all your life and still you don’t trust it.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” he said shortly.

“Oh, I don’t?” She sat up. “Then you tell me. Explain it to me simply so my poor female brain can understand.”

“Don’t be childish.”

“It isn’t me who’s being childish, Nick. Just listen to yourself. You’re terrified of revealing anything of yourself to someone.”

“Didn’t you ever think there’s a good reason for that?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I’m asking you what it is.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business.”

“Right. All right,” she flared. “I can see how far I’m going to get with you.”

“Nowhere, Justine. You don’t own me.”

“This is what I get for being honest with you.”

“You want honesty?” Knew he shouldn’t do it and didn’t care. “I met your father in the city today.”

Her head came up. She looked incredulous. “You met my father? How?”

“He picked me up in his limo outside the station. I got the first-class treatment.”

She stood up. “I don’t want to hear about this.” Her voice was abruptly harsh. She remembered San Francisco all too clearly. Rage built up inside her. She felt impotent against him. Always had. Always.

“I think you should,” he said cruelly. Some part of him egged him on, reveling in the pained expression on her face.

“No!” she cried, putting her palms against her ears. She wheeled away from him.

He got up and went after her, across the cool sand. “He wanted to know all about us. He knows all about you. What you’ve been doing. What you haven’t.”

“God damn him!” She slipped at the crest of a dune, pulled herself up, whirled on him. Her eyes were feral sparks, as large as beacons. She was white with rage.

“Christ but you’re both bastards! Him for doing it and you for telling me. You’re a real sonovabitch, you know that?”

All he could think of was pushing her away now. “He thought I might be another one like Chris—”

“Shut up! Shut up, you cocksucker!”

But he pursued her relentlessly. “He offered me a job, and you know, the joke of it is I took it. I’m working for him now.”

“How could you do this to me?” she cried. She wasn’t talking about the job. “My God! My God!” Weeping, she hurled herself from him and, stumbling up the sandy stairs to her house, she disappeared from his view.

Nicholas broke down and cried, falling to his knees in the unforgiving sand.

“He will soon be here,” said Ah Ma. “Is everything in readiness?”

“Yes, Mother,” Penny said from her spot at Ah Ma’s feet. “Willow has just returned with the last of the… ah, items.” Penny’s perfect white face bent over a leather-bound ledger in which she was writing Chinese characters in vertical lines. She used a thin brush which she dipped periodically in an open bottle of Higgins ink. Her movements were deft and sure.

She considered her mistress’s silence, then made a decision. “Do you think we should be letting this man in here?” She kept her eyes on her writing and, for just an instant, felt her heart contract coldly in her chest at the thought of Ah Ma’s possible outburst.

Ah Ma did nothing more, however, than sigh. Penny was quite correct, of course. In days gone by she would never have allowed this to happen. She shrugged mentally. Ah well, times had changed for them all and one must accommodate oneself as best one could. Her voice, when she spoke, conveyed none of this inner dialogue.

“Penny, my precious one, there is, as you well know, a great deal of money involved. I am not a prejudiced person; neither should you be.” But she knew these words to be false although Penny never would. Ah Ma, now in her late sixties, was Fukienese, from that district of coastal China midway between the cities of Hong Kong and Shanghai. She was one of fifteen children but she had always felt quite apart from them. Perhaps her name had something to do with that. There was a legend of a poor Fukienese girl by that name who sought passage on a junk. In all the port only one would grant her request. Out of port they were beset by a furious typhoon and it had been Ah Ma who had brought the junk safely through. There was a temple to her, Ah Ma knew, at the base of Barra Hill on the island of Macao.

She shifted in her chair and it creaked. She felt the slide of silk against her arm. Through the open window she could clearly hear the clatter from Doyers Street. There was a fish market on the corner which stayed open late. They carried marvelous squid this time of year. She heard several voices raised in argument and she winced at the Cantonese. Up here in the large suite of apartments which took up the entire third floor of the building only Mandarin was spoken. That was the way it had been in Ah Ma’s house when she was a child; that was how it was now.

Ah Ma got up, padded silently over to the window, peering down at the narrow crowded street. She could, she knew, have had her pick of virtually any location in Manhattan. Over the years there had been many attractive offers to move elsewhere. She had always refused. It seemed right to her that her business should be square in the heart of Chinatown. The area was dim and slightly seedy but it was atmospheric. In many ways it reminded Ah Ma of home. That was what she wanted. Now a millionairess, she was still no more comfortable among the steel and glass towers of uptown Manhattan than she had been with structures like the Chrysler Building when she had first arrived in New York.

Yes, Ah Ma thought now, looking down at the night-dark street, the bright bustling clutter of the throng, the intermittent odors of fresh fish in the early morning when the catch was brought in downstairs, the delicacy of the steamed dim sum from the dumpling house next door, I am very comfortable here. Very much so.

She sighed again. Of course, the Chinatown Planning Council might not be too pleased with her if they knew her real business. But the police were certainly happy with the thousand dollars they picked up each month. She was careful to perform this duty herself and to serve them tea each time they came; it increased her face.

Her home in Foochow was always with her but, oddly, more so as she grew older. Being in Chinatown gave her some small illusion of being home. Not that she would ever consider going back now. She had no great love for the communist Chinese and even now, when it might be feasible for her to return for a visit, she could not bring herself to contemplate the reality of it.

No, she had all that she wanted of Foochow right here.

Around the corner the red and blue neon lights of the restaurants turned the darkness watery with reflected light. It was the Japanese, of course, whom she had learned to hate long before the communists. They had come down the coast, those wealthy arrogant businessmen, from their deals in Shanghai, already jaded with that city’s nightlife or just wanting to see a bit more of China. They are so different from the Chinese, Ah Ma thought wonderingly. But of course they do not have our centuries of history to learn from. The Japanese are a relatively new people. When we had already forged dynasties, were experimenting with gunpowder, their islands were inhabited only by the barbarous Ainu—unintelligent savages. If the modern Japanese are descended directly from those people, it’s no wonder they’re so warlike.

She turned away from her window on Doyers Street, said, “I want to see him, now, Penny. There must be no mistake.”

Penny nodded, put aside her ledger and pen, stood up and crossed the room.

“Penny…”

She stopped short, her hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Mother?”

“He is not from here?”

“No, Mother. He’s from uptown.”

Ah Ma nodded. “Good. I do not want neighbors… involved.”

In the short space of time Penny was gone, Ah Ma thought about her. She had made the right decision in elevating the girl. She was clever with her mind as well as with her hands. Ah Ma would never admit it openly but there were times when she relied on Penny’s judgment, and it disturbed her that she seemed set against the Japanese.

Penny was the name Ah Ma had given to her when she had first applied for a job; Ah Ma gave names to all her girls and henceforth they were known by that name and that name alone. It was neat and tidy and as anonymous as Ah Ma believed her business should be. Besides, it gave her great pleasure to name her “children”; it pleased her, too, that they should address her by the honorific “Mother,” a word not lightly used in her land.

There would come a time, Ah Ma thought, when she would have to relinquish her hold here. When that eventuality occurred she wanted to be certain that precisely the right hands took over.

Penny came back, ushering in a boy of about eleven. She stopped just inside the threshold, both hands on his shoulders. He stood perfectly still, his eyes incurious. Through the partially open doorway Ah Ma could hear the quiet bustle of the preparations. As planned, there were only one or two guests expected tonight; this, too, was built into the enormous fee she was charging the Japanese. She did not mind.

She looked the boy over. He had clear smooth skin, a slight Mongol cast to cheeks and eyes. His irises were like chips of coal. His mouth was wide, the lips slightly sensual.

“This is Philip Chen,” Penny said.

“Close the door, precious,” Ah Ma said softly. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the fingers interlaced. She looked at the boy. “You will have another name while you are here,” she told him. “Sparrow. This will be how you are summoned, how you will be addressed. Is this understood?”

The boy nodded, then smiled slowly.

“Call me Mother.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Have you been properly instructed? I don’t want any surprises.”

“Yes,” he said happily. “Penny has explained everything. No problem.”

“Really?” Ah Ma’s eyebrows arched. “That remains to be seen. All right. Leave us now, Sparrow. Find Willow. She will take you to the proper room. You know what to do.”

“Yes, Mother.” He turned and left.

After Penny had shut the door behind him, Ah Ma said, “Parents?”

Penny shook her head. “He lives with an uncle who is too drunk to care if he’s out all night.”

“The situation is totally secure?”

Penny nodded her head. Her black hair tossed like an animal’s mane, “Willow saw to it personally.”

Ah Ma allowed herself a small smile. “You have done well, my child.”

Penny bowed her head to cover the flush in her cheeks. It was rare indeed to be addressed in such a loving manner by Ah Ma. “Thank you, Mother,” she murmured.

Ah Ma went silently to stand in front of Penny. She lifted a hand, tilted her chin up. “Now tell me what’s bothering you,” she said quietly.

Staring into those all-knowing eyes, it was difficult to find words. Penny felt as if her throat had constricted so much that not even air could pass through.

“Come, come, child. Is it the Japanese? What is it about him that offends you so?”

“I am ashamed that my feelings are so transparent,” Penny said sadly. Her eyes dropped for a moment and she felt at any moment as if she might burst into tears.

“Nonsense!” Ah Ma said, irritated. “What is apparent to me is not to others. You have lost no face with me. Please tell me now what I wish to know.”

“It is the drug which bothers me so,” Penny said. “This is something I don’t think we should become involved in.”

For a moment Ah Ma said nothing. She recalled a trip she took as a small girl into Shanghai. She could still smell the overpowering cloying stench of the burning opium. Her nostrils quivered at the memory; she had never smoked but the odor remained with her like a brand.

It had been in the air the night the communists had come for her husband. There had been no sound, no warning. They had been in hiding but the communists had known precisely where to look. They had been traduced.

Ah Ma’s husband had been a political activist. His foresight was long-range. He had seen the impending storm of the Communist Revolution, perhaps had even understood its inevitability. Yet he fought against it with unequaled vehemence. “For once,” he had said in speeches, had written in pamphlets, “we are in a position to learn from the Japanese. What good did the closed regime of the shōguns do them? There came a time when it became apparent that the country was stagnating, strangling in its hard-bound traditions of iron. The way of the future for the Japanese became Western capitalism. Now see where they are. Can we here in China ignore such a historical example? A communist take-over will seal us off from the West, from the very capitalism which has made such thriving cities of Hong Kong and Shanghai. Thus will China fall behind the rest of the woild, a true sleeping giant.”