The Red Thread (35 page)

Two hours, that was all they had. He wanted to make her tea, wedding her again to him in this simple timeless ceremony. He would show her the little buds from the high mountain peaks of his home, full of the flavour of fogs and snow. He would serve her in the tiny cups, watching her drink. Then he would change the sheet to fresh, wash her body in the water, slowly stoke the fire of desire. But the earthenware stove was not lit, and he was not sure where Ah Pok kept the linen. It would take too much time. He let out a low growl of discontent.

Leaning over her, he kissed her on the lips, at first softly then more deeply. She responded sleepily, running her arms round his neck, pulling him down. Remembering. The sheet was stained, sweaty and gluey. Not here. He picked up the little bottle of oil, putting it into her hand, then lifted her and carried her, half-comatose, into the bathroom. He took the bottle and handed her a ladle of water to drink, dropped her feet to the floor and began rinsing her in the cool water, running his hands over her, into her. She protested, moving away from this touch, the inside of her body swollen and painful. She wanted to pee but didn't know how to tell him, was so tired that she just let it run down her leg, shamed, wincing as it burned her raw tissues, then rinsing herself again as gently as she could.

Zhen could see she was hurting, that he was taking her dignity, that she did not want him now. But he did not care. She was woman, and she was his. She would do what he wished. He released the cord of his trousers and let the garment drop wetly to the floor, showed her his virility. Here, he was lord. She would not escape this; it was his will. He sat on the washing stool and sharply motioned her to come, dropping oil on his hands. Charlotte didn't understand this hard-eyed mood that was on him. She obeyed him, slowly, reluctantly. He knew he should stop. Every fibre of his being knew it. This was not the spontaneous flowing of the Tao which had washed over them in the night, bringing joy and peace.

Clean the dark mirror of the mind. Fulfill your purpose without violence, for this is against the Tao. And what is against the Tao will perish. The words of the
Taoteching
. At this moment its wisdom was hidden under the tight, crimped cloak of his lust. He wanted to take her again, even against her will, knowing she would soon be outside his influence, back in her world. Pulling her between his legs, he wrapped his arm around her waist, imprisoning her and put his oily fingers into her. She moaned with pain—no, no—tried to withdraw from him, tried weakly to push his hand away. His fingers still inside her, he locked her between his thighs, pulling her body to his face.

‘Please, Zhen, stop.'

Charlotte dropped her head to his. She saw his desire, but physically she could not go on. She knew he understood this but somehow could not give up this need for her.

She held his head against her, willing him to drop his hand. ‘Please, please,' she moaned against his skin.

Zhen was squeezed into a tiny place, vines of jealousy and passion all wound round his heart, choking it.

‘Please, please,' she whispered. ‘I love you.'

Then she kissed him on his head, put her hands on his neck, and he ceased, recognising the words, taking his hand from her, wrapping his arms around her waist, leaning his face against her soft belly, absorbing the power of her
yin
, dark and cool.

She felt his erection against her legs. She loosened his arms and dropped to her knees unsure how to continue, remembering the night, her mouth on him, his mouth on her.

She took him in her hands and touched him with her lips, but they were swollen and painful, and she had no idea what to do. She looked up at him. In the foggy passion of his brain, he gazed at her. Clouds cleared, and he took her head between his hands and began to guide her mouth around him. Yes, this was the way; she was wise. He felt balance return. Why had he lost trust in the Tao? She, child-like, had re-affirmed its truth.

She wanted to please him, grateful for this compromise. She remembered the way he had touched her breasts, the gentleness of his tongue, and began to emulate this, licking and kissing him despite the soreness of her lips, trying to judge the changes of his responses.

Zhen, returned to reason, saw his unfairness. If she were married to him, or his concubine, he would have had years to please her, show her how to please him. This one day was not enough. He drew her head up, looked into her eyes. Then he took her hand and moved it on him. She watched the passing shades of his face. He put her other hand to his testicles. This would make him fly faster, for he knew she was exhausted with sexual games, and he, too, needed to be released from this fleshy tyranny which had suddenly overtaken him.

She knew what he liked now and stroked him, her hand still in his as he moved himself towards release. As he felt on the verge, he ran his hand into her hair, holding her.

‘Look, look.' His voice was deep with tension. Look at what I am, look at my
yang
brightness. I am your man. See me, taste me, remember.

Charlotte saw his emotions in the pull of his lips, the grit of his teeth, the rictus smile of orgasm. He let out a deep growl, and she watched this fluid release, aroused by it, wanting to taste him, felt his liquid on her cheeks and lips, like spray from the ocean. The tension drained from his face, and he looked down as the last spasms liberated him. He let go of her hand and ran his finger down her cheek, bending his face to hers, licking her lips clean of himself. Despite the swellings, Charlotte felt blood pound in her ears, inflamed by this gesture, the sight and sounds of his orgasm, his trust in her. She pulled his mouth into a kiss, forgiving him everything. He rose from the stool taking her with him. She took his hand and put it between her legs, urgent.

Zhen knew this ardor was in her mind, temporary, and that if he touched her, pain would wither it. He held her, cupping his hand, waiting for her to relax. This passivity aroused her even more, and she groaned into his mouth. Zhen took his hands away from her, putting them on her cheeks and gently withdrew from the kiss.

‘Sh, Sh,' he whispered and pulled her to him, wrapping her close. Charlotte lay against him, knew that it was over, wished now that she had let him do whatever he wanted despite her pain, felt his tenderness, small tears coursing down her cheeks. How could she ever thank this Chinese conjurer who had given her this flawless and incomparable jewel, his selfless patience, his bounteous and immaculate wisdom and generosity? How was it possible for one man to know so much and teach her so quickly? Even with her lack of experience, she knew by instinct that this was rare.

He released her and washed quickly, touching a kiss to his fingers and putting it against her lips. Then, leaving her, he dressed. There were more sounds on the street now, and he pushed open the shutters. The air was fresh and cool. It was still darkish, but the dawn was waiting. The signal gun had not gone off, but he knew it would soon. He would have to take her to the
sampan
quickly. He returned to the bedroom, the scene of their carnal pleasures. How would he sleep here tonight?

She was hooking her corset, crying softly, fingers trembling. She had washed herself, feeling his touch everywhere. Now that it was over, she wanted these hurts, these reminders of him. In the mirror she could see that her lips were bruised and swollen. She fleetingly wondered how she would explain this to Robert, but then suddenly did not care. Zhen went to her and helped her with the buttons of her bodice. Seeing her lips, he brought out the balsam, gently treating them both. These swellings would go down soon, he tried to tell her.

Her hair was wet. Pulling the sheet from the bed, he took the bottom and began to rub, soaking up the water. From a little drawer he took a pommade of perfumed herbs and oil. Rubbing it onto his hands, he began to massage her head and straighten and smooth her hair, running his hands through its length until it lay untangled down her back. Charlotte had stopped crying. The rhythm of his hands in her hair was consoling. Zhen knew he had to comfort her. He could not let her go miserable and despairing, for as far as possible they must conceal this relationship. He sighed. If she had been a Chinese girl or a native girl he would simply have taken her as a second wife, the wife of his heart rather than his head. His father had had four wives and many concubines before the opium devil had shackled and ruined him. But he knew that white men concealed their concubines and kept only one lawful wife. Why, he did not understand, but he knew a white woman would never accept the Chinese arrangement and that outrage would be the response from both sides.

Taking his comb he divided her hair into three and began to plait it, humming the lullaby he had sung to her in the night. He tied the end of the queue with a red ribbon, then turned her towards him.

‘Look,' he said, putting their two queues together. For the first time she could smile. How could he make her understand?

‘Xia Lou, not sad, please. Meet again but secret.' He put his fingers to his lips to emphasise the word. He knew he sounded idiotic, but what could he do?
Aiya
, this would be so much easier if she were Chinese. Then he would write her poetry, use words which would thrill her, bind her even closer to him.

Charlotte knew what he was trying to say. She must take this night and lock it in her heart. She would jeopardise him, his life and his livelihood, if their affair were made known. Suddenly, her heart lightened. They would meet like this again, and in the meantime she would cocoon these feelings inside her, keeping them only for him.

Zhen took her hand and led her downstairs. At the door he found her hat, and she arranged it on her hair, pulling down the veil. He put her hand to his lips and kissed each of her fingers; then from the pocket of his jacket he took the balsam and put it in her palm, closing her fingers around the jar.

‘For hurt, sorry Xia Lou,' he said, nodding. ‘Yes? Understand?'

‘Yes,' she whispered, putting it into her bag. She looked up at him through the veil. Now at this moment of parting, her resolve wavered.

‘I don't want to go,' she said. Not go. He understood, and his heart felt an ache but also a small triumphant pleasure.

‘Sh, sh.' He took her in his arms. But there was no time. He did not want her to cry again. Quickly he opened the door, checking the street. Not many people here, but he was sure there were eyes watching the strange sight of a woman in Western clothes in Chinatown at this hour. The gun went off suddenly as they left the building.

It would be better that they not be seen together, but he could not leave her side now. It would not be safe, and he had to see her safely across the river. He held her hand in his, as she followed close behind him. It was dangerous, but for some things it was right to dare danger.

He led her to the quayside, which was already filled with smells of food, voices calling, some of the godowns already open with the Eurasian and Chinese supervisors at work although the sun was not yet over the horizon. He was glad the boatmen were mostly Indian or Malay, not able to chatter and gossip with the Chinese. Hailing the nearest
sampan
, he helped Charlotte into the boat and threw coins at the boatman. She mumbled instructions in Malay and sat looking down, not turning, as the boatman quickly rowed her up the river, round the mouth and disappeared.

Zhen ran back to the house and let himself inside. His brain swirled with ominous rumblings. He had tried to bind her blood to his through this night of passion. In his arms, his bed, he knew she would never stray, but released back to the world of her people, he was not sure.

Charlotte disembarked at the jetty of the police house. She went to her room, throwing off her hat, latching her door, undoing her bodice roughly, unhooking the corset, so hot and hard, dropping her skirt and then, too tired for more, lay down on her bed. She wanted sleep, and Morpheus swept her down into his dark cave. It was midday when she woke, dripping with sweat.

She felt immediately the deep throbbing of the swollen flesh between her legs, where he had been. Her throat was parched, and she went to the water butt, wincing, and quenched her thirst, gulping the water down and letting it course over her hot face, soak her clothes. In her room, naked, she examined herself in the mirror, pulling the queue he had made over her shoulder, touching the red ribbon. Her nipples were sore and red. The swelling on her lips had disappeared, though she still felt the bruising.

‘Crimoney, Kitt Mcleod, feels like you've barely survived the Battle of Flodden Field.'

Did all women feel like this on their first time? Surely not. She wished she had someone to ask. The idea of raising this question with Mrs Keaseberry or Mrs van Heyde, perhaps, made her smile.

She sighed and took the jar of balsam from her bag and ran it around her nipples. It felt soothing, but it also brought his face to mind, the feel of his tongue on her skin. How she would get through the next days she did not know.

Scottish resolve, Kitt, she thought and smiled. The words of her grandmother ran in her head. She had not thought of her since her first day in Singapore.

‘No matter who your mother was, my poor wee lad was a Macleod. You are of the Clan Macleod, ancient, honourable, courageous, never forget this. Hold fast, that is our devise.'

Suddenly she missed her, the uncompromising, rock-like sureness and strength of her. Her own compass seemed to be as volatile as if she were the tiniest boat on a violent sea. And dear Aunty Jeannie, the softness of her Scottish burr, her gentle understanding: she missed her, too. In this humid and sweaty heat came the memory of the cool mists and granite cliffs of Aberdeen, sailing in the bay, round the headland with Duncan in his skiff, the sharp wind in her face, the sight of Girdleness lighthouse, porpoises, dolphins, eider ducks, skylarks and pipits, the smell of salt fish in the port.

She was no longer a maid. Her mind strayed back to him. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror.