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

with potatoes and coconut curry sauce. Trader closed his eyes to savor the rich aroma. There was Tchai de Bonzo, a dish of vegetables cooked with noodles. “They call it Buddha’s Delight,” Read informed him with a grin. Minchi, white rice with minced meat and topped with a fried egg. Cod, scallops, and black pudding with orange jam, a pig’s ear salad, truffled potatoes. Desserts followed in profusion: almond cookies, of course; Portuguese cheeses; a coconut milk custard; a mango pudding. And all this finished off with coffee, rather than Chinese tea.

She might look Chinese, but Mrs. Willems sat at the table with the men, as a European woman would. As the meal progressed, extra dishes were brought in by a rather good-looking young Macanese woman whom Trader took to be a servant. Each time she came, she kept her eyes down and quickly disappeared back into the kitchen.

His hostess asked a few polite questions about his family and how he came to Canton. But he sensed that she was not particularly interested in his answers. What she really wanted to know was the date and time of his birth. As for his place of birth, he pointed to the picture of the Port of London on the wall.

Throughout the meal, Read steered the conversation well, like a ship’s captain ensuring an easy crossing. Trader made polite conversation with Mrs. Willems, asked about her travels, and learned that she had lived in several Asian ports with her husband. But it seemed to him that, although she spoke of the Dutch sea captain’s occasional voyages to London, the Netherlands, and even Portugal, she was a little vague about the precise location of these places. It was only at the end of the meal that the conversation ran into rough water.

The young servingwoman had brought in the coffee. She lingered a little this time, listening to the conversation, perhaps. Did she understand English? Was she observing him?

She looked more Portuguese than Mrs. Willems. She had high Asian cheekbones and almond eyes. But her features were bolder: Her hair was dark brown, not black, and it was thick. Her mouth was broad, her lips full. A sensual face, he thought. And yes, she was watching him.

Mrs. Willems saw it, too, for she suddenly screamed in Macao Portuguese, and the young woman fled.

Then, quite calmly, Mrs. Willems turned to him. “You go to brothels here?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment he wondered if he’d misheard her. He glanced at Read, but Read only looked amused and said nothing.

“No, Mrs. Willems,” he managed to reply. “I don’t.”

She was watching him. He didn’t know what she was thinking. He’d told the truth, but did she believe him?

“You go to the flower boats in Canton.” This did not even seem to be a question.

“I was invited,” he said, thinking of the boat he’d passed when he first arrived, “but I didn’t go.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to catch anything.” If she could be blunt, so could he.

“Are you a clean boy?”

“Yes.”

It appeared that she had now lost interest in the subject, because she rose from the table and went into the kitchen, whether to bring something out or to chastise the girl, he had no idea.

Read waited until she’d gone before he spoke. “You like the look of that girl, Trader?”

“Perhaps. She looks rather interesting, I think. Why?”

“She likes you.”

“The girl? How do you know?”

“I know.” Read paused. “She’s a young cousin of Mrs. Willems. She’s living with her for a while.”

“Oh.” Trader mulled over these answers. “Those questions about brothels…”

“She was checking you out. I told her you were all right, but she feels responsible for the girl. That’s why she asked about your birthday. For your horoscope.”

“I see. What exactly,” Trader asked slowly, “is on offer here?”

Read’s smile broadened. “Whatever you want.”

—

Her name was Portuguese: Marissa. In the weeks that followed, Trader saw her every day or two. He would not go to the front door of the house, where he might encounter Mrs. Willems, but to the side door, which gave into the kitchen, beside which Marissa had a small bedroom. Sometimes he went in the afternoon, sometimes in the evening. If he stayed the night and returned to his lodgings in the morning, Tully Odstock never asked him where he’d been, though he undoubtedly knew. Nor did the British and American families he visited make any reference to Marissa, though they probably knew about her, too.

As for Read, they continued to meet, go out drinking, and sometimes encounter each other on social occasions; but when Trader came to visit Marissa, they kept themselves to themselves in the kitchen corner of the house.

Their affair quickly became passionate. He had only to see her standing at her work in the kitchen or smell the delicate scent of her skin to be possessed by acute desire. She had a strong peasant’s body, though paler than he had at first expected; and also, he soon discovered, she was amazingly supple. He couldn’t get enough of her, nor she, it seemed, of him. A good part of their time together was spent in her little bedroom. But sometimes they would take a stroll. The nearby gun battery with its fine views over the harbor was a pleasant place to wander in the evening. Or he would enter the Protestant cemetery and walk under the trees with her. It didn’t bother her though she was Catholic. More than once he kissed her in that quiet, walled enclosure. Sometimes they would go farther afield, northward onto the broad open plain of the Campo, or down to the waterside at the southern end of the island, to visit the lovely old Taoist temple of A-Ma, where they would light incense sticks for the goddess Mazu, who protected the fishermen.

He taught her English, and she made rapid progress. She liked to ask him questions about his life. He told her how he’d been orphaned and about his boyhood at school. He gave