“It is a hard decision to make, unfortunately. Back in China any man who does not wear his hair in the queue is thereby insulting the Emperor and thus subject to instant beheading. So a man who cuts off his queue can never go home again.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “Barbaric.”
“No more barbaric than the way we are treated in America,” Mr. Lee said calmly. “What about the Chinese out West who were driven from their homes, or locked in their cabins and burned alive? Is that not barbaric?”
“Extremely,” I said. “But why would anyone do this?”
“Because we look different, and because we work hard and prosper. Always a recipe for hate.”
I glanced across at him. “You use the word ‘we,’” I said. “You’re not Chinese, are you? You don’t look like these men.” But as I said it I realized that what I had taken for an arrogant stare was, in fact, a slight difference in facial features—the high, flat cheekbones and the narrower-than-usual eyes.
“I am half Chinese,” he said. “I am one of the few of the first generation to be born here. My father had to flee from the West Coast after the Gold Rush when the persecution started. He came to New York and has prospered. I received a good education. I have been brought up between two cultures but consider myself an American.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “So do I take it your employer is also a prosperous Chinese gentleman?”
“Extremely,” he said. “He owns many businesses, including a large import company. He brings things like porcelain and fine silks over from China. Ah, here we are now.” We stopped outside a storefront. GOLDEN DRAGON EMPORIUM was written in golden letters over the doorway and under it presumably the same thing in Chinese characters. In the window brightly colored plates and cups, jade statues, and carved ivory daggers and balls were displayed. “Please be kind enough to wait here for a moment. I will go and announce our presence to my employer.”
“May I know his name?”
“My employer is Lee Sing Tai,” he said. “You may have heard of him. As I told you, he owns many businesses—cigar factory, importing, this store, that restaurant.”
I shook my head. “I know nothing about the Chinese.”
“You will address him as Mr. Lee, or Honorable Mr. Lee.”
“Oh,” I said, as light dawned. “The same last name as you. So that’s why you work for him. You’re related?”
“Not exactly, but we are both members of the Lee clan. In a way we are all related. This is how things work among the Chinese—we rely on our clan for support. And Lee Sing Tai knew my father when they were still in California. This is why he employed me.” He held up a slender hand. “Now please wait here. I will not keep you but for a moment.”
With that he darted inside the shop. I heard harsh, unfamiliar words spoken and Mr. Lee emerged again. “They say that our employer is upstairs in his residence and will receive us. This way, please.”
He led me up a flight of steps beside the shop. He used a key to open a front door, then we climbed a long flight of stairs before we came to a second closed door. He knocked on this and it was opened by a young boy, dressed in Chinese garb, who bowed to us. Mr. Lee snapped some words to the boy, who gave me a curious glance before he scurried away, leaving us standing in a foyer. I looked around me. Another flight of stairs ascended up into darkness to our left. Ahead of us was a large, intricately carved screen, inlaid with what seemed to be semiprecious stones, depicting a mountain scene with cranes standing among reeds. It blocked my view of the interior of the apartment.
“That’s a beautiful screen,” I commented.
“Chinese always have something like a screen at the front of their dwelling,” Frederick Lee said. “It is to deter evil spirits from coming in. They will not enter if there is not a straight path for them.”
“People still believe that, do they? Or is this just for tradition’s sake?”
“Of course they believe it.” He sounded shocked. “Is it any stranger than praying to a statue in a Catholic Church?”
“I suppose not, although we don’t really pray to statues,” I said. “Actually—” I broke off as the boy returned. He said something in Chinese to Frederick Lee.
“My employer will receive you now,” he said, and led me around the screen and into a large living room. I almost had my breath taken away at the sumptuousness of the surroundings. The furniture was of a black wood I took to be ebony and it was intricately carved, inlaid in places with mother-of-pearl. On the floor were exotic carpets, again with designs of mythical beasts on them. There were bright red silk hangings draped around a large jade statue in one corner and more lovely pieces of jade and ivory on shelves and side tables. On the walls were hung jeweled ceremonial swords and daggers, as well as scrolls of Chinese characters and painted scenes of mountains and flowers. The air was thick with a scented kind of smoke, and I noticed in a far corner little sticks glowing in front of yet another jade figure.
And in the midst of all this a man sat on a high-backed chair, looking for all the world like an exotic emperor on a throne. He was not young, and a long wispy white mustache drooped at the corners of his mouth. He was not wearing a skullcap and his head appeared at first to be bald, until I saw that he had hair at the back of his head, falling in a long dark queue. Although he was surrounded by these exotic objects, he was dressed in a smart Western business suit, with an immaculate white shirt and ascot. He held a cigar in one slim bony hand and puffed on it as we entered the room.
“I bring you Miss Molly Murphy, as you requested,” Frederick said, bowing slightly before retreating behind the screen again.
Lee Sing Tai waved the hand bearing the cigar at me. “Excellent. Excellent. I knew you would come, Miss Molly Murphy. I knew you would not let me down. Very well. Sit. Sit.”
He pointed at a long bench, piled with brocade pillows. I perched on it cautiously because it looked extremely slippery. Also I was feeling ridiculously nervous and at the same time angry with myself for being intimidated.
“I understand you have a commission for me to carry out?” I said. “I asked your employee about its nature but he was not very forthcoming.”
Lee Sing Tai tapped ash into an exquisite blue-and-white dish. “You will take tea with me,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer but clapped his hands. The boy came into the room and bowed low. An order was given. The boy disappeared.
“Chinese tea is very fine,” he said.
“I know. I’ve drunk it. It tasted almost perfumed.”
“That was Lapsang Souchong,” he said. “In my household I prefer to drink Keemun. The king of teas, they call it. I am only one who imports it to this country.” He spoke English with a heavy accent, snapping out individual words rather than delivering a fluid sentence. “But important families in New York City come to me for their tea. Rockerfellers. Astors. You have heard of them?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I supply them tea and silk and many other things.” There was a quizzical smile on his face as he said this. “You would be surprised which distinguished people come to Lee Sing Tai to be supplied with what they need.”
He didn’t even glance up as the boy came in, carrying a red lacquer tray. I noticed that the servant moved silently and was wearing black cotton slippers. He put the tray on a side table and poured tea into two little round cups. Clearly Frederick was not to be included and indeed he had made himself scarce. Then the boy placed one of the cups on a smaller tray and carried it to me, presenting it with a bow. I took it and savored the smoky aroma. It was scalding hot and I hoped I wasn’t expected to drink it yet. Luckily the boy served his master, then came to me with a bowl of little almond cakes. I took one and nibbled politely.
“Delicious,” I said. Lee Sing Tai watched me eat and waited for me to take a sip of the tea. It was still very hot and I was used to having milk and sugar in my tea, but I sipped dutifully.