Ghostwritten (15 page)

“One hundred percent, Sir Denholme.”

What was the old fuck on about?

“I want to add a special account to your Hong Kong portfolio. It’s for an ally of mine. A Russian chap, based in Petersburg, you’ll meet him one day. You’ll be hearing from him soon enough. A splendid fellow. Chap by the name of Andrei Gregorski. A real mover and shaker. He’s done a few favors for us in the past.” He
leaned forward over the desk, tapping his cigar into an intricate ashtray inlaid with jade and amber, and etched with lotus flowers and orchids.

“He’s asked me to set up an account for his operation with our Hong Kong branch. I want to put you in charge of it.”

“What do I do with it?”

“Whatever he tells you to. However much, wherever, whenever. Child’s play for a trooper of your experience.”

We’d come to the clincher.

“I think I can manage that, Mr. Cavendish.”

“Keep it hush-hush. Just between you, me, Jim, and grandfather here, eh?”

I get it. The old fuck’s asking me to bend the law.

“One thing matters and one thing only.” I’d always assumed it was his leather chair that creaked, but now I wondered whether or not it was really him. He prodded each word at me with his cigar. “Do—you—have—the—balls?” The blackheads on the tip of his nose urgently needed squeezing. “Eh? Eh?”

I’m a financial lawyer. I bend the law every day.

“They were firmly attached when I last used them, Sir Denholme.”

D.C. was deciding whether or not he liked my answer. Then his laughter ignited, sending a projectile of saliva hurtling between my eyebrows. Jim Hersch smiled too, a photo smile of a manager in a local newspaper. And I was smiling the same smile, too.

Do I go back further?

How about this? Hong Kong had been appropriated by British drug pushers in the 1840s. We wanted Chinese silk, porcelain, and spices. The Chinese didn’t want our clothes, tools, or salted herring, and who can blame them? They had no demand. Our solution was to make a demand, by getting large sections of the populace addicted to opium, a drug which the Chinese government had outlawed. When the Chinese understandably objected to this arrangement, we kicked the fuck out of them, set up a puppet government in Peking that hung signs on parks saying
NO DOGS OR
C
HINESE
, and occupied this corner of their country as an import base. Fucking godawful behavior, when you think about it. And we accuse
them
of xenophobia. It would be like the Colombians invading Washington in the early twenty-first century and forcing the White House to legalize heroin. And saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll show ourselves out, and take Florida while we’re at it, okay? Thanks very much.” Hong Kong became the trading hub of the biggest, most populated continent in the world. This led to one big burping appetite for bent financial lawyers.

Or is it not a question of cause and effect, but a question of wholeness?

I’m this person, I’m this person, I’m that person, I’m that person too.

No wonder it’s all such a fucking mess. I divided up my possible futures, put them into separate accounts, and now they’re all spent.

Big thoughts for a bent little lawyer.

My forehead kissed the tarmac, soft as a sleeping daughter. I keeled over into a fetal position. A lurching tide of voices sloshed the hull of my hearing. What the fuck is going on?

Now I understand what this insane fucking day has been about!

Hilarious!

I am fucking dying!

No doubt about it. Now that I’m dying again I recognize the signs.

Thirty-one years old, and I am fucking dying!

Avril’s going to be so fucked off with me. And when D.C. hears, well, I think I can safely kiss my six-figure bonus goodbye. How will Katy take it? That’s the clincher. Dad?

Hilarious …

She comes through the wall of legs and torsos. She looks down at me, and she smiles. She has my eyes, and the maid’s body, in
miniature. She gives me her hand, and we pick our way through the crowd of gawkers, the shocked, the titillated, and the gum-chewing. What can have happened to fascinate them so on such an afternoon?

Hand in hand we walk up the steps of the Big Bright Buddha, brighter and brighter, into a snowstorm of silent light.

UP, UP, AND up, and down, maybe.

The Holy Mountain has no other directions. Your left and right, your south, north, west, east, leave them at the Village. You won’t be needing them. You have ten thousand steps to go before you reach the summit.

There is a road, now. I saw it. Buses and trucks go up and down. Fat people from Chengdu and further drive up in their own cars. I watched them. Fumes, beeps, noise, oil. Or they drive up in taxis, sitting in the back like Lady Muck Duck. They deserve all the fleecing they get. Engine-powered pilgrimages? Even Lord Buddha doesn’t give a shovelful of chickenshit for engine-powered pilgrimages. How do I know? He told me Himself.

On the Holy Mountain, all the yesterdays and tomorrows spin around again sooner or later. The world has long forgotten, but we mountain-dwellers live on the prayer wheel of time.

I am a girl. I was hanging out the washing on a line I had suspended from the upstairs-room window ledge and the Tree. The height of our Tea Shack above the path, it was safe from thieves, and the Tree tells the monkeys not to steal our things. I was singing to myself. It was spring and the mist was thick and warm. Upbound, a strange procession marched out of the whiteness.

The procession was ten men long. The first carried a pennant, the second, a kind of lute I’d never seen, the third, a rifle. The fourth was a footman. The fifth was dressed in silken robes the color of sunset. The sixth was an older man in a khaki uniform. Seven to ten were baggage carriers.

I ran to get my father, who was planting sweet potatoes behind
our house. The chickens fussed like my old aunts in the Village. When my father and I got around to the front, the strangers had reached our Tea Shack.

My father’s eyes popped open. He hurled himself onto the ground, and yanked me down into the dirt with him. “Silly little bitch,” he hissed. “It’s the Warlord’s Son. Kowtow!” We knelt, pressing our foreheads into the ground, until one of the men clapped.

We looked up. Which one was the Warlord’s Son?

The man in silk was looking at me, smiling from the corner of his mouth.

Footman spoke. “Sire, is it your wish to rest awhile?”

The Warlord’s Son nodded, not taking his eyes off me.

Footman barked at my father. “Tea! The best you have in your pit of roaches, or the crows will dine on your eyeballs tonight!”

My father leapt to his feet and pulled me with him behind the table. My father told me to polish the best tea bowls, while he loaded fresh charcoal onto the brazier. I had never seen a Warlord’s Son before. “But which one is he?” I asked.

My father slapped me with the back of his hand. “It’s none of your concern.” He glanced over his shoulder nervously at the men, who were laughing at me. My ear began to throb. “The striking gentleman, in the beautiful robes,” muttered my father, loud enough to be overheard.

The Warlord’s Son—I guessed he was twenty—removed his hat and sleeked back his hair. Footman took one look at our best bowls and rolled his eyeballs. “How dare you even think it?” A baggage carrier unpacked some silver bowls, decorated with golden dragons with emerald scales and ruby eyes. Another servant unfolded a table. A third spread a perfectly white cloth. I thought I was dreaming.

“The girl may serve the tea,” said the Warlord’s Son.

I felt his eyes touch my body as I poured the tea. Nobody spoke. I didn’t spill a drop.

I looked to my father for approval, or at least for reassurance. He was too busy worrying about his own skin. I didn’t understand.

The men spoke in crisp, shiny Mandarin. Their magnificent, strange words paraded past. Words about somebody called Sun Yat-sen, somebody called Russia, somebody else called Europe. Firepower, taxes, appointments. What world had these men come from?

My father took my shawl off and told me to tie back my hair and wash my face. He made me serve some more tea. He was picking his teeth with a splintered chopstick, and watching the men carefully from the shadows.

Silence thickened the air. The mist had closed in. The mountainside was dark with white. The afternoon became so sluggish that it stopped altogether.

The Warlord’s Son stretched his legs and arched his back. He picked at his teeth with a bejeweled toothpick. “After drinking tea as bitter as that, I want sherbet. You, rat-in-the-shadows, you may serve me a bowl of lemon sherbet.”

My father fell to his knees and spoke to the dirt. “We have no such sherbet, Lord.”

He looked around at his men. “How tiresome! Then tangerine sherbet will have to suffice.”

“We have no sherbet at all, Lord. I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry? I can’t eat your ‘sorry.’ You wreck my palate with your brew of nettles and foxshit. What kind of stomach do you think I have? A cow’s?”

His look told his entourage to laugh, which they did.

“Oh well. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to eat your daughter for dessert.”

A poison thorn slid in, bent, and snapped.

My father looked up. The Khaki Man coughed.

“What’s that cough supposed to mean? My father told me to come on this accursed pilgrimage. He didn’t say I couldn’t have any fun.”

Footman inspected my father like shit on his boot. “Get your upstairs room as ready as you can for His Lordship.”

My father made a gurgling noise. “Sir … Lord. I—I mean—”

The Warlord’s Son imitated the buzzing of a horsefly. “These wormholes! Can you believe it? Give him one of the bowls. They
were a wedding present from my ogre-in-law, I never liked them. As a dowry. More than a fair exchange for sluicing out a peasant girl’s cunt. They’re from Siam. She’d better be a virgin for workmanship like that!”

“She is, Lord. Untouched. I promise it. But I’ve had some genuine marriage proposals, from suitors in high places.…”

Footman unsheathed his sword, and looked at his master. The Warlord’s Son thought for a while. “Suitors in high places? Carpenters’ cocks. Very well, give him two bowls. But no more haggling, Mr. Wormhole. You’ve tried your luck enough for one morning.”

“My Lord’s reputation for generosity is just! No wonder all who hear of My Lord’s grace weep with love at the very mention—”

“Oh, shut up.”

My father looked around at me. “You heard His Lordship, girl! Ready yourself!”

I could smell their sweat. Something unspeakable was going to happen. I knew where babies came from. My aunts down in the Village had told me about why my bad blood leaked out every month. But …

Lord Buddha was watching me from his shrine beside the Tree. I asked him for it not to hurt as much as I feared.

“Up.” Footman jabbed towards the stairs with his sword.

“Up!”

The silences after his last gasp were sung together by a blackbird. I lay there, my eyes unable to close. His were unable to open. I listed the places where I hurt, and how much. My loins felt ripped. Something inside had torn. There were seven places on my body where he had sunk his fangs into my skin and bitten. He’d dug his nails into my neck, and twisted my head to one side, and clawed my face. I hadn’t made a noise. He had made all the noise for both of us. Had it hurt him?

I could feel him shrinking inside me, at last. He finally stirred to pick his nose. He pulled himself out of me, and a few seconds later something slid out of me and down my thighs. I looked.
Gummy blood and something white was staining our only sheet. He wiped himself on my dress, and looked down at me critically. “Dear me,” he said, “we’re no Goddess of Beauty, are we?”

He got dressed. He dug his big toe into my navel, and looked down at me from the dimness. A spoonful of saliva splashed onto the bridge of my nose. “Skinned little bunny.”

A spider spun the dimness between the rafters.

“Mr. Wormhole,” I heard him say as he descended the creaking stairs. “You should be paying me. For breaking in your foal.”

A flutter of laughter.

If I were a man, I would have flown down the stairs and shoved a dagger into his back. That afternoon, without a word to me, my father went to sell the bowls.

In the misty dusk an old woman came. She labored slowly up the stairs to where I lay, wondering how I could defend myself if the Warlord’s Son called again on his way down. “Don’t worry,” she said. “The Tree will protect you. The Tree will tell you when to run, and when to hide.” I knew she was a spirit because I only heard her words after her lips had finished moving, because the lamplight shone through her, and because she had no feet. I knew she was a good spirit because she sat on the chest at the end of the bed and sang a lullaby about a coracle, a cat, and the river running round.

Ten or twenty days later, my father returned, penniless. I asked him about the money, and he threatened to whip me. When we wintered with my cousins I was told the whole story: he’d gone to Leshan and spent half my dowry on opium and brothels. The other half he had spent on a scabby horse that died before he got back to the Village.

I was airing my bedding from the upstairs room’s window ledge when I heard their voices. A boy and a girl had arrived without me noticing—my hearing is drawing in. Through a spyhole in the planking I watch them for some moments. Her face is made-up like the daughter of a merchant, or else a whore. Her breasts are
budding, and the boy has that look men get when they want something. And not a chaperone in sight! She was leaning against her hands, against the skin of my Tree on the hidden side, where a hollow will cup a young girl’s body perfectly. Above it, a bunch of violets grow every spring, but she cannot see it.

The boy swallows hard. “I swear I will love you forever.

Truly.”

He rests his hands on her hips, but she swats them away. “Did you bring your radio to give me?” The girl has a voice used to getting its way.

“I brought you my life to give you.”

“Did you bring your radio? The little silver one that can pick up Hong Kong?”