scent of roses. Her bedroom looked out over the formal rose garden, and she had breathed their perfume every day of her confinement.
Nicole had left Paris three years ago, in 1914, just before the first German bombs fell. Since then she had felt no urge to return. Her friends had said the Orient would be crawling with disease and danger, but Shanghai was cleaner than Paris had ever been. In Paris she sometimes had to do filthy things just to feed herself. In Shanghai she made good money working as a hostess in a swanky dance hall.
As for the danger, she hadn't believed in it until she met Tom Lee.
A trader of things legal and otherwiseâmostly otherwiseâMr. Lee had spent a great deal of money on Nicole, claimed to love her, then seemed to tire of the whole thing after a couple of back-scratching, eye-gouging marathon fucks. This was nothing new, and Nicole quickly forgot Mr. Lee. When she missed her next period, she had no thought of contacting him, but planned to see a herbalist to take care of the problem. If she had not happened to mention this to her friend Daisy, a Chinese bartender at the club, the matter would have ended there.
"Tom Lee?" Daisy repeated incredulously. âThe importer ? The man who moves so much opium that the Triads have given him a scale made of gold?"
âBut I don't want a baby..."
âListen to me. You cannot do this. Everyone knows that Tom Lee has always wanted an heir, but refuses to marry. If you abort his child and he finds out, he will have you killed."
âAnd if I tell him I am carrying it? Why should he believe me?"
âHe will want to believe you. He will care for you until the baby is born, then pay you off and send you away. This is your only choice."
But Tom had made no mention of paying her, or of sending her away. He could not marry for obscure legal reasons, he said, but he would love Nicole as his wife and the mother of his son. He never mentioned the possibility of a daughter. Gradually Nicole succumbed to the vision of a hazy, wealthy future, a brace of shining sons, perhaps a small opium habit once the childbearing was over with.
Soft footsteps sounded in the hall. Here was Tom at last, come to see his perfect boy. Nicole's fingers found the top of the baby's head, stroked the silky black tuft of hair. She could not say why she was afraid to look at the opening door, afraid to question the source of the quick light footsteps crossing the room.
A hand covered her mouth. Another yanked her head back. The moon engulfed her vision now, filled the whole sky with its dazzling brightness. When they began to work on her, she could not tell where the moonlight ended and the pain began.
***
The house of Perique's father contained many mansions. Some were made of precious stones and metal, some of hand-cut paper, some of carved wood or ivory. All were miniatures of famous Western and Oriental structures: a jade Versailles, a scrimshaw Taj Mahal. The summer he was ten, Perique spent a great deal of time studying these mansions through their polished glass cases, wondering what life would be like there, no, there . Sometimes he thought he saw a ghost looking back at him, but it always proved to be the faint reflection of his own face: the sharp features and strange green eyes that marked him as a half-breed.
Today he was staring at a jewel-encrusted replica of Napoleon's tomb. He was admiring its blatant, unapologetic grandeur, and certainly he was pondering Paris. But most of all he was trying not to think about the tale his father had just told him.
It was not unusual for Perique to be called into his father's office. In 1927, Tom Lee had not yet despaired of teaching his son the family business, and Perique was sometimes recruited to add figures, stamp documents, or weigh out black bars of opium. Today he had had to do none of these things. Today he had only stood before his father's desk, eyes fixed on the tips of his glossy leather shoes, listening
Nicole had left Paris three years ago, in 1914, just before the first German bombs fell. Since then she had felt no urge to return. Her friends had said the Orient would be crawling with disease and danger, but Shanghai was cleaner than Paris had ever been. In Paris she sometimes had to do filthy things just to feed herself. In Shanghai she made good money working as a hostess in a swanky dance hall.
As for the danger, she hadn't believed in it until she met Tom Lee.
A trader of things legal and otherwiseâmostly otherwiseâMr. Lee had spent a great deal of money on Nicole, claimed to love her, then seemed to tire of the whole thing after a couple of back-scratching, eye-gouging marathon fucks. This was nothing new, and Nicole quickly forgot Mr. Lee. When she missed her next period, she had no thought of contacting him, but planned to see a herbalist to take care of the problem. If she had not happened to mention this to her friend Daisy, a Chinese bartender at the club, the matter would have ended there.
"Tom Lee?" Daisy repeated incredulously. âThe importer ? The man who moves so much opium that the Triads have given him a scale made of gold?"
âBut I don't want a baby..."
âListen to me. You cannot do this. Everyone knows that Tom Lee has always wanted an heir, but refuses to marry. If you abort his child and he finds out, he will have you killed."
âAnd if I tell him I am carrying it? Why should he believe me?"
âHe will want to believe you. He will care for you until the baby is born, then pay you off and send you away. This is your only choice."
But Tom had made no mention of paying her, or of sending her away. He could not marry for obscure legal reasons, he said, but he would love Nicole as his wife and the mother of his son. He never mentioned the possibility of a daughter. Gradually Nicole succumbed to the vision of a hazy, wealthy future, a brace of shining sons, perhaps a small opium habit once the childbearing was over with.
Soft footsteps sounded in the hall. Here was Tom at last, come to see his perfect boy. Nicole's fingers found the top of the baby's head, stroked the silky black tuft of hair. She could not say why she was afraid to look at the opening door, afraid to question the source of the quick light footsteps crossing the room.
A hand covered her mouth. Another yanked her head back. The moon engulfed her vision now, filled the whole sky with its dazzling brightness. When they began to work on her, she could not tell where the moonlight ended and the pain began.
***
The house of Perique's father contained many mansions. Some were made of precious stones and metal, some of hand-cut paper, some of carved wood or ivory. All were miniatures of famous Western and Oriental structures: a jade Versailles, a scrimshaw Taj Mahal. The summer he was ten, Perique spent a great deal of time studying these mansions through their polished glass cases, wondering what life would be like there, no, there . Sometimes he thought he saw a ghost looking back at him, but it always proved to be the faint reflection of his own face: the sharp features and strange green eyes that marked him as a half-breed.
Today he was staring at a jewel-encrusted replica of Napoleon's tomb. He was admiring its blatant, unapologetic grandeur, and certainly he was pondering Paris. But most of all he was trying not to think about the tale his father had just told him.
It was not unusual for Perique to be called into his father's office. In 1927, Tom Lee had not yet despaired of teaching his son the family business, and Perique was sometimes recruited to add figures, stamp documents, or weigh out black bars of opium. Today he had had to do none of these things. Today he had only stood before his father's desk, eyes fixed on the tips of his glossy leather shoes, listening
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