James Clavell - Gai-Jin

Last night at Seratard's "French" dinner in a private room in the Yokohama Hotel, he had sat beside her and found her youth and seeming frivolity refreshing, her love and knowledge of Paris, the restaurants, theatres, the talk of her young friends, laughing about them and strolling or riding in the Bois, all the excitement of the Second Empire filling him with nostalgia, reminding him of his university days and how much he, too, missed home.

Too many years in Asia, China and here.

Curious this girl is so much like my own daughter. Marie's same age, birthdays the same month, July, same eyes, same coloring...

He corrected himself: Perhaps like Marie. How many years since I broke with Francoise and left the two of them in her family pension near the Sorbonne I boarded in? Seventeen. How many years since I last saw them? Ten.

Merde, I should never have married, Francoise enceinte or not. I was the fool, not her, at least she remarried and runs the pension.

But Marie?

The sound of the waves took his vision to the sea.

A stray gull cawed overhead. Not far offshore were the riding lights of their anchored flagship and that broke the spell, reminding him and concentrating his mind.

Ironic, this slip of a girl now becomes an important pawn in the Great Game, France versus Britain. Ironic but life. Do I leave it until tomorrow, or the next day, or deal the cards as we agreed, Henri and I?

"Ah," she was saying, her fan fluttering, "I feel so happy tonight, Andr`e, your music has given me so much, has taken me to the Opera, has lifted me until I can smell the perfume of Paris..."

In spite of himself he was beguiled. Is it her, or because she reminds me of what Marie might have been? I don't know, but never mind, Angelique, tonight I'll leave you in your happy balloon. Tomorrow is soon enough.

Then his nostrils caught a suggestion of her perfume, Vie de Camille, reminding him of the phial he had acquired from Paris with such difficulty for his musume, Hana--the Flower --and sudden rage swept away his impulse to kindness.

There was no one within hearing distance, most of the High Street empty. Even so, he kept his voice down. "Sorry to tell you but I've some private news you should have. There's no way to break it easily but your father visited Macao some weeks ago and gambled heavily, and lost."

He saw the swift pallor. His heart went out to her but he continued as he and Seratard had planned. "Sorry."

"Heavily, Andr`e? What does that mean?"

The words were barely audible and he saw her staring at him wide-eyed, rigid in the lee of a building.

"He has lost everything, his business, your funds."

She gasped. "Everything? My funds too?

But he can't!"

"Sorry, he can, and has. He's within the law, you're his daughter, an unmarried woman, apart from being a minor, he's your father with jurisdiction over you and everything you possess but of course you know that. Sorry. Do you have other money?" he asked, knowing she did not.

"Sorry?" She shivered and fought to make her mind work clearly, the suddenness of knowing that the second of her great terrors was now a reality and common knowledge tore asunder her carefully, self-generated cocoon. "How, how do you know all this?" she stammered, groping for air. "My, my funds are mine... he promised."

"He changed his mind. And Hong Kong's a village--there are no secrets in Hong Kong, Angelique, no secrets there, or here. Today a message arrived from Hong Kong, couriered from a business partner. He sent the details--he was in Macao at the time and witnessed the debacle."

He kept his voice friendly and concerned as a good friend should be, but telling only half the truth.

"He and I, we, we own some of your father's paper, loans from last year and still unpd."

Another fear slashed into her. "Doesn't... my father doesn't pay his bills?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

In anguish she was thinking of her aunt's letter and knew for certain now that her uncle's loan had not been repaid either and he was in jail because... perhaps because of me, she wanted to shout, trying to keep her balance, wishing this was all a dream oh God oh God what am I going to do?

"I want you to know if I can help, please tell me."

Abruptly her voice became shrill.

"Help me? You've destroyed my peace--if what you say is true. Help me? Why did you tell me this now, why why why when I was so happy?"

"Better you should know at once. Better I tell you, than an enemy."

Her face twisted. "Enemy, what enemy?

Why should I have enemies? I've done nothing to anyone, nothing nothing noth--" The tears began flooding. In spite of himself, he held her for a moment, compassionately, then put both hands on her shoulders and shook her.

"Stop it," he said, letting his voice sharpen. "My God, stop it, don't you understand, I'm trying to help you!" Several men were approaching on the other side of the street but he saw that they were weaving and concerned only with themselves.

No one else nearby, only men making for the club well down the street behind them, he and she protected by the building's shadow. Again he shook her and she moaned, "You're hurting me!" but the tears ceased and she came back to herself.

Partly to herself, he thought coldly, this same process repeated a hundred times before with varying degrees of twisted truths and violence, with other innocents he needed to use for the betterment of France, men so much easier to deal with than women.

Men you just kicked in the balls or threatened to cut them off, or stuck needles... But women?

Distasteful to treat women so.

"You're surrounded by enemies, Angelique.

There're many who don't want you to marry Struan, his mother will fight you every way she--"

"I've never said we were going to be married, it ... it's a rumor, a rumor, that's all!"

"Merde! Of course it's true! He's asked you, hasn't he?" He shook her again, his fingers rough. "Hasn't he?"

"You're hurting me, Andr`e, yes, yes he's asked me."

He gave her a handkerchief, deliberately more gentle. "Here, dry your eyes, there's not much time."

Meekly she obeyed, began to cry, stopped herself. "Why'reyousoawfulllll?"

"I'm the only real friend you have here--I'm truly on your side, ready to help, the only real friend you can trust--I'm the only friend you have, I swear it, the only one who can help you."

Normally he would add fervently, I swear by God, but he judged her hooked, reserving that for later. "Better you hear the truth secretly.

Now you've time to prepare. The news won't arrive for at least a week, that gives you time to make your betrothal solemn and official."

"What?"

"Struan's a gentleman, isn't he?" With an effort he covered the sneer. "An English, sorry a Scottish, a British gentleman.

Aren't they proudly men of their word? Eh? Once the promise is public he can't withdraw whether you're a pauper or not, whatever your father has done, whatever his mother says."

I know I know, she wanted to scream. But I'm a woman and I have to wait, I've been waiting and now it's too late. Is it? Oh Blessed Mother, help me! "I don't... don't think Malcolm will blame me for my father or, or listen to his mother."

"I'm afraid he has to, Angelique.

Have you forgotten Malcolm Struan is a minor too, however much he's tai-pan. His twenty-first birthday's not till May next year. Until then she can put all sorts of legal restraints on him, even annul a betrothal under English law." He was not completely sure of this but it sounded reasonable and was true under French law.

"She could put restraints on you too, perhaps take you to court," he added so sadly, "Struan's are powerful in Asia, it's almost their domain. She could have you hauled into court--you know what they say about judges, any judges, eh?