James Clavell - Gai-Jin

He beamed and left.

"Cheri?" Automatically she offered the chicken soup.

"Later, thank you, darling," Malcolm Struan said as expected, his voice very weak.

"Try to take some," she said as usual, again he refused.

Back once more to her seat in the window and her daydreams--about being safe at home in Paris again, in the great house of her uncle Michel and her darling Emma, the highborn English aunt who had mothered her and brought her and her brother up when her father had left so many years ago for Hong Kong, all of them surrounded in luxury, Emma planning luncheons and riding in the Bois on her prize stallion, the envy of everyone, charming the massed aristocracy and being fawned on in return, then bowing so gracefully to Emperor Louis Napoleon--Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew--and his Empress, Eugenie, and their smiling recognition.

Boxes at theatres, La Comedie francaise, choice tables at Trois Freres Provencaux, her coming of age, seventeen, the talk of the season, Uncle Michel recounting his adventures at the gambling tables and the races, whispering naughty stories about his aristocratic friends, his mistress, the Countess Beaufois, so beautiful and seductive and devoted.

All daydreams of course for he was only a junior Deputy in the War Ministry, and Emma, English yes but an actress from a travelling group of Shakespearean players, daughter of a clerk, but neither with enough money for the outward display so necessary for Angelique in the capital of the world, for the spectacular horse, or two-in-hand and carriage that she needed so desperately to break into real society, the real upper echelon, to meet those who would marry and not just bed and flaunt and soon to pass on to a younger flower.

"Please please please, Uncle Michel, it's so important!"

"I know, my little cabbage," he had said sadly on her seventeenth birthday when she had begged for a particular gelding and the riding clothes to match. "There's nothing more I can do, there are no more favors I can ask, I know no more arms to twist, or other moneylenders to persuade. I possess no State secrets to sell, or princes to promote. There's your young brother and our daughter to consider."

"But please, darling Uncle."

"I have one last idea and enough francs for a modest passage out to join your father. A few clothes, no more."

Then the making of the clothes, all perfect, then trying them on and refitting and improving and yes, the green silk gown as well as all the others-- Uncle Michel won't mind--then the excitement of the first railway journey to Marseille, steamer to Alexandria in Egypt, overland to Port Said past the first diggings of Monsieur de Lesseps' canal at Suez that all wise informed people believe it was just another stock promotion, that it would never be finished, or if it was, would partially empty the Mediterranean because those seas were higher than the seas below. Onwards, everything begged pleaded beguiled and from the very beginning correctly First Class: "The difference is really so tiny, dear dear Uncle Michel ..."

Sweet winds and new faces, exotic nights and good days, the beginning of the great adventure, at the end of the rainbow a handsome, rich husband like Malcolm now all spoiled because of a filthy native!

Why can't I just think about the good parts, she asked herself in sudden anguish? Why is it good thoughts dribble into the bad and then into the awful and then I start thinking about what truly happened and begin to cry.

Don't, she ordered herself, forcing away the tears. Behave. Be strong!

You decided before you left your room: nothing happened, you will act as normally until your next period arrives. When it begins--it will begin-- then you are safe.

But if, if it doesn't?

You won't think about that. Your future will not be torn asunder, that wouldn't be fair. You will pray and you will stay close to Malcolm, and pray for him too, and act the Florence Nightingale, and then perhaps you will marry him.

She glanced at him over the handkerchief. To her surprise he was watching her.

"Is the smell still so awful?" he asked sadly.

"No, cheri," she said, pleased the lie sounded more sincere each time and required less effort. "Some soup, yes?"

Wearily he nodded, knowing that he must have some nourishment but whatever he consumed would inevitably be retched out of him and tear the stitches, within and without, and the pain that followed would unman him again, much as he tried to contain it. "Dew neh loh moh," he muttered. The curse was Cantonese, his first language.

She held the cup and he drank and she wiped his chin, and drank a little more. Half of him wanted to order her away until he was up and about again, the other half terrified she would leave and never return. "Sorry about all this--I love your being here."

For a reply she just touched his forehead gently, wanting to leave, needing fresh air, not trusting herself to speak. The less you speak the better, she had decided. Then you will not be trapped.

She watched herself minister to him and settle him and all the while let her mind drift to ordinary happenings, to Hong Kong or to Paris, mostly Paris. Never would she allow herself to dwell on that night's wake-sleep dream. Never during the day, too dangerous. Only at night when the door was safely barred and she was alone and safe in bed could she release the dam and permit her mind to voyage where it would...

A knock. "Yes?" Babcott strode in.

She flushed under his gaze. Why is it I think he can always read my thoughts.

"Just wanted to see how both my patients are doing," he said jovially. "Well, Mr.Struan, how are you?"

"About the same, thank you."

Dr. Babcott's sharp eyes noticed that half the soup had gone but there was no vomit yet to clear up. Good. He held Struan's wrist.

Pulse rate jumpy but better than before.

Forehead still clammy, still a temperature but that's also lower than yesterday. Dare I hope he will actually recover? His mouth was saying how improved the patient was, that it must be the ministrations of the lady, nothing to do with him, the usual. Yes, but so little else to say, so much up to God, if there's a God. Why do I always add that? If.

"If you continue to improve I think that we should move you back to Yokohama. Perhaps tomorrow."

"That's not wise," she said at once, frightened she would lose her haven, her voice harsher than she had wanted.

"Sorry but it is," Babcott said kindly, wanting at once to calm her, admiring her fortitude and concern over Struan. "I wouldn't advise it if there was a risk but it would be wise, really. Mr. Struan would have much more comfort, more help."

"Mon Dieu, what else can I do? He mustn't leave, not yet, not yet."

"Listen, darling," Struan said, trying to sound strong. "If he thinks I can move back, that would be good, really. It would free you and make it easier."

"But I don't want to be free, I want us to stay here, exactly as it is now without... without any fuss." She felt her heart pumping and she knew she was sounding hysterical but she had not planned for a move. Stupid, you're stupid. Of course there would have to be a move. Think! What can you do to prevent it?

But there was no need to prevent anything. Struan was saying that she should not be concerned, it would be better to be back in the Settlement, she would be safer and he would be happier and there were dozens of servants and suites of rooms in the Struan Building, that if she wished she could have the suite next to his and she could stay or leave, just as she wished, with constant access by day or by night. "Please don't worry, I want you to be content too," he assured her. "You'll be more comfortable, I promise, and when I'm better I'll..."

A spasm took him and used him.

After Babcott had cleaned up and Struan was once more drugged asleep, he said quietly, "It really would be better for him there. I've more help, more materials, it's almost impossible to keep everything clean here. He needs... sorry but he needs stronger aid. You do more than you can imagine for him, but certain functions his Chinese servants can do better for him. Sorry to be blunt."