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

her vivid descriptions of London and Calcutta. And she told him her own parents were dead, that she had an older sister, married and living on the mainland, where she’d lived herself before coming to Macao to stay with Mrs. Willems.

A couple of weeks into their relationship he began to realize that not everything Marissa said was true.

It had been clear from the start of their affair that, sexually, Marissa was very experienced. She taught him things he’d never done before. Their third evening together, after he’d exclaimed, “Where did you learn to do that?” she’d paused only a moment before replying, “I was married to a mariner for a year. Then he was lost at sea.”

Yet when, a few days later, he’d remarked to Read that it must have been sad for Marissa to have lost her husband, his friend had looked quite astonished before he recovered himself enough to mumble, a little vaguely, “I guess so.”

A week later, Marissa referred casually to her mother’s being unwell. And when Trader remarked that he thought her parents were dead, she frowned. “I said that?” Then, after a moment: “My father died. My mother lives with my sister.” He didn’t pursue it.

But he did begin to wonder: Did he really know who or what she was? Read and Mrs. Willems had set him up with the girl. They must know. Had they made some arrangement with Marissa of which he was ignorant? What kind of arrangement?

“Should I be paying her?” he asked Read one day.

“No. Just give her a present once in a while. Go to the market with her. She’ll let you see what she likes.”

A few days later, during one of their walks, she pointed to a bale of silk and remarked that it was beautiful. He took the hint.

—

And still the weather was kind. Hot and humid, to be sure, but not unbearable. It couldn’t last, of course. This was the summer monsoon season.

“Big rains. Got to come soon,” Tully told him. “Sometimes we get a typhoon.” But the days continued to pass in perfect peace.

Except for one small matter. Starting in June, Elliot had ordered any British merchant ships wishing to remain in the vicinity to use the safe anchorage at Hong Kong. “Right move,” Tully had remarked. “Hong Kong may be empty, but it’s only just across the gulf, and a ship can survive a typhoon tucked in there.”

Yet it was from sheltered Hong Kong that the trouble had come. Trader heard about it when he returned to his lodgings one evening in early July.

“Stupid business,” Tully explained. “Sailors got bored. Went over to a Chinese village on the mainland. Got drunk on rice wine. Had a bit of an argument with the locals. Villager killed, I’m afraid.” He shook his head. “Elliot’s going to compensate the family. Hush the whole thing up, you know.”

“The Chinese authorities won’t like it if they find out.”

“Quite,” said Tully. “Daresay it’ll all blow over.”

—

It was three days later, towards the end of the afternoon, that the people of Macao became aware that a vast horde of dark clouds was massing on the southeastern horizon. Soon, like waves of skirmishers, the leading clouds were racing towards them, whipping the waters of the gulf as they came.

Trader and Marissa, out for an evening stroll, had hurried up to where the high, empty facade of St. Paul’s gazed out across the city. The hill was still bathed in sunlight. As the skirmishing clouds drew close, they felt the first gusts of wind suddenly slap their faces.

“You’d better get home before it starts,” said Marissa.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, but—”

“I’d rather stay.”

As they went down the broad stone steps from the hilltop, a grey shadow passed over them. And when they reached the end of the steps and looked back, they saw that the soaring facade of the old church was gleaming with an unearthly light, as if it were making a last pale stand in the sky before being engulfed and struck down by the mighty storm.

Trader and Marissa lay together as Macao shook and shuddered under the crash of lightning and thunder and the ceaseless hammering roar of the rain upon the roof. The shutters outside the window rattled. The wind howled. Occasionally, during the brief lulls in the noise, they could hear the water flowing in a torrent down the narrow street.

They clung to each other tightly all through that night as though they were one and scarcely slept until, as the wind began to slacken sometime before dawn, Trader passed into unconsciousness.

But before he did so, an idea came into his mind. What if, after all, the British government did not come to the opium merchants’ aid, and despite Read’s kind help, he was ruined? What if he chose the alternative he’d imagined once before—to lead another life entirely, wander the world as an adventurer or make a home in some faraway place? Might he take Marissa with him? She wasn’t respectable, of course. But would he care about that anymore? She’d be a good housekeeper. As for their nights together, could anything be better than what he was enjoying now? He didn’t think so.

By the time they awoke, it was well into the morning. Outside, the clouds were scudding across the sky, but the sun could be discerned behind them. He decided to go down to the Avenue of the Praia Grande to see how Tully had fared in the storm.

When he reached the broad esplanade, he found evidence of the storm’s destruction everywhere. The roadway was strewn with broken roof tiles, fronds from the palm trees, and assorted debris. Sadder still was a small cart lying on its side; the traces, still attached, had been torn apart. Had there been an animal in those traces when they broke? A pony, or more likely a donkey?

He went to the edge of the road and looked down into the waters sending up showers of spume as