China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

Oxford had access to the royal court. Or he could burn the letter and forget the business. After a week, he decided just to put it in the strongbox he kept under his bed.

The English-speaking community centered on the merchants’ families, with a sprinkling of missionaries, teachers, and tradesmen. As a bachelor, he was invited everywhere, and nobody expected him to return the favor. British and American families were good at entertaining themselves with cards, music, amateur theatricals, and healthy walks—up the hills where the views were fine, or down in the Campo Plain just north of the city. He was quite enjoying himself and hardly had to spend any money. Once a week he and Read would meet for a drink at a bar Read favored down at the waterfront.

Despite Read’s advice, he’d been cautious about finding himself a woman. Some of the English-speaking families had unattached young ladies. With these, however, Trader was circumspect. After all, he wasn’t in a position to court any of them. By letting it be supposed that he was courting a lady in Calcutta, however, he made himself respectable, safe, and rather interesting, both to the young ladies and to their mothers, which suited him quite well.

Like any port, Macao had a few bordellos. But he’d always been somewhat fastidious; besides, he had a healthy fear of catching something. Two of the merchants’ wives had dropped hints that they’d be interested in getting to know him better. But in a small community such liaisons could mean trouble. The last thing he needed was angry husbands to add to his problems. For the time being, he just had to manage without.

That left only his debts to trouble him. In the midst of all his social activities, he usually managed not to think about them. But he didn’t entirely succeed. If he awoke during the night, they came into his mind. As he lay awake, it was as if he could hear the slow drip, drip of the payments leaving his bank account in faraway Calcutta on the first business day of each month, whittling away his substance. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep again.

And then one night he had a dream. He was crossing a rope bridge, high over some vast abyss, when he glanced back and saw, to his horror, that the wooden planks upon which he’d just been walking were coming loose and falling away, one by one, behind him. Hurrying forward, he looked back again and realized that the falling planks had almost caught up with him. And then suddenly the planks beneath his feet had gone, and he was falling, falling into the endless void below.

Two nights later, the nightmare came back again, and waking with a cry, he lay there wretchedly till dawn. After that, the sense of fear came to him more and more frequently, and there was nothing he could do about it. Like an addiction, his secret walked beside him, close as a friend, deadly as an enemy. Some days he felt so depressed he had to force himself to get up. But he always managed to put on a cheerful face for the world to see. And in a bleak way, he was even rather proud of himself for concealing his fears.

So the days passed, and with so much on his mind, John Trader scarcely realized he was lonely.

—

It was the third week of June when he went to the old cemetery. The humid heat of the monsoon season had been slow to arrive that year, but it was making itself felt that day.

He and Tully had taken a stroll down on the Praia Grande, but Trader had felt the need of more exercise. “Why don’t you walk up the hill?” Tully suggested. “Might be a bit of a breeze up there. And if you want a rest, look in at the Old Protestant Cemetery. It’s rather a pleasant spot.”

As he went up the hill, Trader began to sweat. He felt oppressed. If Macao looked pretty from a distance, it was not so lovely up close. And today he noticed its faults.

The painted stucco walls of the houses were mostly cracked. Cornices over doorways were missing pieces. There was dirt everywhere. The dust of the street stuck to his boots. There seemed to be a beggar in every alleyway. He saw a dead cat in a ditch, being stripped by carrion crows.

Halfway up the hill he came to the stuccoed baroque church of St. Dominic. Creamy yellow walls, white trim, high green doors. An old woman was sweeping the stone terrace before its entrance, but apart from her, the little square was deserted. There was an inviting bench nearby, but he wasn’t ready to rest yet, and he continued on his way, passing the huge open facade of St. Paul’s and finally walking around the Jesuit cannon emplacement near the hilltop, enjoying the fine views and the breeze. Time now, he thought, to take a little rest.

The Protestants had received permission to build their modest chapel only twenty years ago. It was a small, simple whitewashed building. Its congregation was British and American mostly, though Protestants of any nation were made welcome. And on a level shelf of land just below the chapel, its lawn gently shaded by trees and enclosed by thick stone walls, lay the Old Protestant Cemetery.

It was cooler here than in the street. The faint breeze from the sea touched the higher leaves on the trees, though they made scarcely any sound. The headstones rising from the grass and the tablets set in the walls were larger than he’d expected, some of them six feet high. The engraving, evidently done by a local mason, was a little crude. But all the memorials had this in common: They were the last record of those who had come out to this faraway island and departed life before they could return. East India Company men, Dutch sea captains, American merchants, their wives,