Chen read the note through once more, then took it across to the sink. Taking a taper from the box he lit it, letting the burning paper fall into the empty bowl. Maybe he’d meet her, maybe not. He would see how busy he was. In the meantime he would transcribe the tape and get it to her. Chen lifted the jug and poured some water into the bowl, then sluiced the ash away. There, he thought. Now no one will know. But even as he tried to dismiss the idea, something told him he would go, if only to find out whether he was right about her.
Leaving a single light on in the kitchen he went out and down the hallway to the toilet, standing over the bowl to piss, then turned and went out, crossing the hallway to his room. In the doorway he paused, hearing Wang Ti’s gentle snoring in the darkness, then went inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
He stripped off, down to his breechcloth, then clambered in beside her. She was warm, her familiar scent strong in the dark. For a time he lay there, pressed against her back, hoping she would wake and turn, but there was nothing. She did not move, the rhythm of her breathing did not change. But so it was these days. So it had been for a long time now. It was as if he did not exist. As if...
He shuddered and then turned beneath the sheet, facing away from her, separating his body from the awful, taunting warmth of hers. Maybe that was why he worked so hard. Maybe that was why he kept away so often, so as not to face this torment. For that was what it was. Torment. Endless bloody torment. Only at such times, faced by the darkness and the long hours of the night, did he realize just what he had lost when Wang Ti had gone mad.
Chen took a long, shivering breath, trying to calm himself, to lie there and be at peace, but it was impossible. Sometimes her turned back seemed like a wall, vast and insurmountable, the very symbol of an indifference that was like death itself. He might wait forever and she would never turn and greet him lovingly, as she once had. Oh, he could take her from behind, certainly, and she would not stop him, but neither would she show any sign of wanting him. It would be as if he were making love to a corpse, or to the warm pretense of a human form. But it would not be Wang Ti. It would not be his darling wife.
He sat up, perching himself on the edge of the bed, his bare feet on the floor, his chin resting on the knuckles of his fists, knowing he would not sleep. He should not have come here. Not now. He should have come during the day. This . . . well, this only made things worse. He looked up suddenly. There had been the soft rustling of cloth outside in the hallway. He stood and went to the door, thinking it was maybe his young daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, having nightmares again. But it wasn’t she, it was the new maid, Tian Ching.
“Master ...” she said quietly, giving a tiny bow, then moved past him, going into the toilet and pulling the door closed. Chen stood there, staring into the half dark, conscious of what he’d seen. The girl’s nightrobe had been of a thin, almost translucent cloth, and the shape of her young body, of her breasts and the dark triangle of her pubis, had been clearly visible. He drew a long breath, waiting, then heard the soft, almost musical sound of her urinating into the bowl. Gods, he thought, the stiffness at his groin almost unbearable. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Two years now? Three? He shivered, watching as she came out again, conscious of her eyes shining briefly, moistly in the half dark as they met his, then looked away. There was no doubting that look. He watched her move past him, conscious once more of the naked form of her beneath the thin cloth. At her door she paused and turned, the briefest smile playing on her lips, and then she went inside. He listened, waiting to hear her door click shut, but there was nothing.
Chen stood there, conscious of the blood beating in his head, his chest, his limbs, desire like a dark tide flowing through him. Then, as if waking, he padded slowly down the hallway, checking at each of his children’s doors to see if they were sleeping. Outside the new maid’s door he stopped, hearing her move on the bed inside the darkened room. He imagined her lying there naked beneath the thin sheet, waiting for him. The door was ajar. He had only to step inside. For a moment longer he stood there, aware of the tension in him, the madness that seemed to boil and bubble in his skull, then, reaching out, he put his hand on the edge of the door and slid it shut.
CHAPTER NINE
Old Men
The main reception room of Hythe-MacKay was imposing and elegant. Life-size statues of ancient Greek gods and goddesses lined one wall, each finding its echo in one of the old masters hung upon the wall opposite. The ceiling, some twenty ch’i above the pure white marble floor, was alabaster and gilt, based on an ancient Italian design, while the center of the room was dominated by an ornamental pool in which a dozen jet-black carp swam indolently.
A beautiful young girl—American but dressed in traditional silks of gold and blue—waited, head bowed, beside the private lift, ready to greet each client of the great auction house, but the Senior Clerk—the “gatekeeper” of the great emporium—sat at the far end of the room behind an ornate, late Empire-style desk, stiff backed and self-important, the gold-on-blue H-M motif on the wall behind him repeated on the patch on his chest. Usually he was to be found seated there with an expression of profound boredom—modeled, perhaps, on that of the statues at which he had had to stare for so long—but right now he was busy. He smiled tightly and, with a politeness bred of contempt, leaned toward the young woman seated opposite him.
“Forgive me, Madam Lever, but it is unusual for us to deal with new customers without . . . well, without an introduction of some kind.” She stared coldly at the man, then took the folder from her bag and placed it on the desk in front of her. Inside were more than a hundred receipts from the Hythe-MacKay Auction House, dated over a three-year period. “I believe you dealt with my late father-in-law.”
“Forgive me, Madam, but I do not recollect. . .” She pushed the folder toward him. “I think these might refresh your memory.”
He stared at her a moment, then, reluctantly, flipped open the folder and fastidiously removed the top sheet. “Ah . . .” he said, seeing what it was, “this is a ... delicate matter.” He smiled at her again. “You see, none of these things exists officially. And these documents”—he smiled sadly, as if the matter were unfortunate—“well, they’re clearly fakes.” Cut the bullshit, she thought. Tell me what I want to know. He hesitated, then closed the folder decisively. “Okay. If you would come with me, Madam Lever.”
Good, she thought. At last!
He stood and bowed, waiting for her to stand, then put out an arm, all charm now, and ushered her out of a door to his right and down a long, dimly lit corridor.
“You understand how it is, Madam Lever,” he said fawningly. “We have to be absolutely certain of whom we deal with. One mistake and we’re all in trouble. The Ministry”—he stopped, opening the end door for her, then, much more softly—“the Ministry would have our balls!”
the knocking came again, louder, more insistent this time. Kemp swore and climbed up off the naked girl, frustration fueling his anger. Pulling on his robe, he tied the sash about his portly waist, then shooed the girl into the next room.
“Stay in there,” he hissed, giving her rump an impatient slap, “and don’t make a noise.”
He waited a moment, then went across, pulling the outer doors open with a flourish, a broad, artificial smile lighting his features. “Britton! You’re much earlier than I expected!” The man outside was in his fifties, smartly dressed in dark green business silks, with a broad, pugnacious-looking face and a closeshaven scalp. He bowed with the very minimum of respect, then stepped past Kemp into the room.