from going with us—in fact, there is a slender but strong-looking chain about his ankle, the other end being attached to the wall, should the lad think of making a run for it.
I have duties, as does Ravi, and we are kept quite busy. With five languages between us, we have proved quite useful to the empire of Chopstick Charlie. Only this morning I had helped to iron out some differences between a very angry Spanish captain and the House of Chen. All parted on good terms ... Charlie's terms, to be sure, but finally acceptable to all concerned.
And yesterday I had sat with him in his records room, where accountants pored over ledgers, adding and subtracting columns of figures, just like in London. Charlie has quite the operation, I have discovered, and I have continued to press my case—my plan, as it were—to do Charlie some good, and to get me out of this part of the world. Although I ran my mouth off quite a bit that first day, thanks to that evil saki, I think my idea of bearing some of Charlie's treasure as gifts to King George is a good one. Chops has got the money, the booty, the ships, and the influence. He is my way out of here and back to where I came from. I know that for certain.
"If you keep me here, what have you got?" I ask now. "Just a scrawny girl who can speak several languages."
"Yes, and one who is mildly amusing and who graces my table with her charm and her musical ability," says Charlie, chuckling.
"But if you help me return to Europe, not only will I get you into the good graces of the British Foreign Service, but I'll also make sure that you are designated as our main contact in the East for Faber Shipping Worldwide. We're planning to open up this area of the world for trade with America. That was decided at the last board meeting. And China, too ... Don't forget, my ships have guarantees of safe passage through Cheng Shih's huge fleet. That's a big thing ... a very big thing."
"Hmmm. True, you have been busy, but still, it makes poor Chop's blood run thin as rice water to think of entrusting you with a large amount of money. That goes against old Charlie's grain."
"Not money, Chopsie," I say, leaning in and pushing my case. "Not just money, no. Stuff. Like statues, artifacts... mummies ... cheap jewelry ... anything as long as it's old. Brits love that stuff, believe me. They've got a big museum in London to hold it all, and their army and navy are always stealing ... uh ... collecting things from all over the world—Egypt and Greece and Rome and Cathay and just about everywhere. That stuff means nothing to you, but I've been there and I've seen 'em—gods and goddesses and such—whole temples, suits of armor and things. I tell ya, they eat that stuff up. They could charge admission just to look at it. Charlie, you couldn't miss! They'd love the hell out of you, and if you ever went back to England, they'd prolly make you a bloody Knight o' the Garter!"
He still looks dubious, his brow knitted as he strokes his goatee and ponders my suggestion.
"They've got a huge stone mansion over on Bloomsbury Street. I've been there. It's free to the public. Oh, sure, they chased us grubby beggars out after a while for panhandling and being filthy, but still I got to see lots of wondrous stuff. The other kids weren't much interested in it all, but I was and I still am."
I poke my finger in his big belly, which today is encased in a flowing white skirt that reaches from the bottom of his brocaded red vest to the tops of his golden silk slippers. He is standing with his hands behind him, bouncing his gold-slippered toes. He is surprisingly light on his feet despite all of his girth.
"Think of it, Pops. Vases with pictures of naked Greeks runnin' around on 'em throwin' spears at each other and wrestling and stuff, and golden masks and figurines ... all gifts from you to the people of England. There'd be little cards next to each, tellin' where they come from and who gave 'em, and that'd be you, Charlie.
I have duties, as does Ravi, and we are kept quite busy. With five languages between us, we have proved quite useful to the empire of Chopstick Charlie. Only this morning I had helped to iron out some differences between a very angry Spanish captain and the House of Chen. All parted on good terms ... Charlie's terms, to be sure, but finally acceptable to all concerned.
And yesterday I had sat with him in his records room, where accountants pored over ledgers, adding and subtracting columns of figures, just like in London. Charlie has quite the operation, I have discovered, and I have continued to press my case—my plan, as it were—to do Charlie some good, and to get me out of this part of the world. Although I ran my mouth off quite a bit that first day, thanks to that evil saki, I think my idea of bearing some of Charlie's treasure as gifts to King George is a good one. Chops has got the money, the booty, the ships, and the influence. He is my way out of here and back to where I came from. I know that for certain.
"If you keep me here, what have you got?" I ask now. "Just a scrawny girl who can speak several languages."
"Yes, and one who is mildly amusing and who graces my table with her charm and her musical ability," says Charlie, chuckling.
"But if you help me return to Europe, not only will I get you into the good graces of the British Foreign Service, but I'll also make sure that you are designated as our main contact in the East for Faber Shipping Worldwide. We're planning to open up this area of the world for trade with America. That was decided at the last board meeting. And China, too ... Don't forget, my ships have guarantees of safe passage through Cheng Shih's huge fleet. That's a big thing ... a very big thing."
"Hmmm. True, you have been busy, but still, it makes poor Chop's blood run thin as rice water to think of entrusting you with a large amount of money. That goes against old Charlie's grain."
"Not money, Chopsie," I say, leaning in and pushing my case. "Not just money, no. Stuff. Like statues, artifacts... mummies ... cheap jewelry ... anything as long as it's old. Brits love that stuff, believe me. They've got a big museum in London to hold it all, and their army and navy are always stealing ... uh ... collecting things from all over the world—Egypt and Greece and Rome and Cathay and just about everywhere. That stuff means nothing to you, but I've been there and I've seen 'em—gods and goddesses and such—whole temples, suits of armor and things. I tell ya, they eat that stuff up. They could charge admission just to look at it. Charlie, you couldn't miss! They'd love the hell out of you, and if you ever went back to England, they'd prolly make you a bloody Knight o' the Garter!"
He still looks dubious, his brow knitted as he strokes his goatee and ponders my suggestion.
"They've got a huge stone mansion over on Bloomsbury Street. I've been there. It's free to the public. Oh, sure, they chased us grubby beggars out after a while for panhandling and being filthy, but still I got to see lots of wondrous stuff. The other kids weren't much interested in it all, but I was and I still am."
I poke my finger in his big belly, which today is encased in a flowing white skirt that reaches from the bottom of his brocaded red vest to the tops of his golden silk slippers. He is standing with his hands behind him, bouncing his gold-slippered toes. He is surprisingly light on his feet despite all of his girth.
"Think of it, Pops. Vases with pictures of naked Greeks runnin' around on 'em throwin' spears at each other and wrestling and stuff, and golden masks and figurines ... all gifts from you to the people of England. There'd be little cards next to each, tellin' where they come from and who gave 'em, and that'd be you, Charlie.
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