Totally merge the companies? The new Noble House—Cooper-Struan. No! Struan-Cooper. You’ll be fair with Culum. He’ll be next. There are gigantic possibilities in a merger, of course there are. But you’d better move fast or Brock’ll have the poor lad eating out of his hand. Tai-Pan of the Noble House.
The Tai-Pan. Why not?
“What’re you smiling about?” Shevaun asked.
“A passing thought,” he said, and put his arm in hers. You were very wise, Dirk, my friend. Both gambles. Yes. It’ll take me a year to consolidate. “I’m so very glad to be alive. Let’s go to the jetty. We should see if Zergeyev’s all right. Listen, Shevaun, I’ve decided to send you home for a year, by the next ship.”
“What?” Shevaun said, and stopped.
“Yes. At the end of that time, if you decide you love me and want to marry me, I’ll be the happiest man alive. No, don’t say anything,” Cooper added as she began to speak. “Let me finish. If you decide you don’t, then you have your freedom and my blessing with it. Either way I won’t buy out the Tillman interests. Your father will receive, during his lifetime . . .”
Shevaun turned away and they began to walk again, arm in arm, as he continued. But she wasn’t listening now. A year, she exulted, hiding her joy. Free in a year. Free of this cursed place! And Father still has his shares! Oh God, you’ve answered my prayers. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Poor Dirk, my love. Now I’m free and now you’re dead.
She looked at the Russian brigantine. Yes, she thought, the Tai-Pan’s dead. But you’re free, and the archduke would be the perfect choice.
“I’m sorry, Jeff. What did you say?”
“Just that I want you to deliver some private documents to your father.”
“Of course, my dear. And thank you, thank you. The year will pass quickly.”
Gordon Chen bowed before the Buddha in the shattered temple and lit a final joss stick. He had wept for his father and for May-may.
But now is not the time for weeping, he told himself. Joss is joss. Now is the time for thinking.
The Noble House is dead.
Culum hasn’t the strength to carry on. Brock will dominate him and join the companies together. Brock I cannot handle. If Culum joins with Brock, Culum is finished. So either way, he cannot help me. Can I help him? Yes. But I can’t help him with the barbarians, and I can’t help him to be
the Tai-Pan. That is something a man gets for himself alone.
The thread of incense smoke curled delicately in the air and he watched it, the perfume pleasing.
Only my father knew about our arrangement. I have the lac of silver and it will become fifty, a hundred lacs in time. I am richest Chinese on Hong Kong. And the most powerful.
The Tai-Pan of the Chinese.
Let me be honest—I’m not Chinese, not English. No. But I am content with my joss and more Chinese than English. I will marry a Chinese and so will my children and my children’s children, never mind.
Hong Kong? I will help the island grow strong. I stopped the looters today. Labor will be plentiful and obedient in the future.
I believe what my father said: The British Government will fall. It has to fall. Oh gods, I demand that it fall for the future of China! You’re Chinese—think of China. I will endow the largest temple in south China . . . well, at least—a temple fit for the headquarters of the Triads and for Tai Ping Shan: as soon as the government falls and Hong Kong is absolutely British.
He kowtowed and touched his forehead on the floor in front of the statue to confirm the bargain.
Yes, only Father knows how rich we were to become. Even so, half will be Culum’s. Each month I will account to him and we will split equally just so long as he fulfills Father’s side of the bargain: that I control everything, and few, if any, questions asked; and everything private—just between the two of us.
Go and find him now. Pay your respects. Pity Culum married the Brock girl. That’s his downfall. Pity he hasn’t the strength to go alone. I wish he and I could trade places. I’d show the barbarians how to run The Noble House. And the emperor, for that matter. If Culum had even a little strength and was prepared to take counsel, Chen Sheng and I could hold the Brocks and all the other jackals at bay.
Well, never mind. I will give my father and his Tai-tai a funeral which will be legend for a hundred years. I will make him a tablet and his Tai-tai a tablet and mourn a hundred days. Then I’ll burn the tablets for their safe rebirth.
I will fetch Duncan and the babe and bring them up as my own. And I will start a dynasty.
It was near sunset. Culum was sitting on the steps of the derelict church on the knoll in Happy Valley, his head propped in his hands. He was staring into the distance. You’ve got to get the key, he told himself again and again. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ve got to get the key and then the papers. Come on, Culum.
He was over his panic now. But now he was consumed with self-disgust—and loneliness. He looked at the residence below. Vargas and Orlov were still standing by the doorway. He remembered vaguely coming into the valley, hours ago, and seeing them there and then turning away to avoid them, then shrieking “Leave me alone” when they came after him. He noticed that Gordon Chen was with them now. Gordon wasn’t there before, he reminded himself. What does he want? To sneer? To pity me like all the others? Longstaff . . . Brock . . . Cooper . . . Shevaun . . . Skinner . . . Vargas . . . Orlov. Even Tess. Yes, I even saw it in your face when we stopped on Queen’s Road. Even yours. And you’re right. You’re all right.
What do I do? What can I do? I’m not my father. I told him that I wasn’t. I was honest with him.
Get the key. Get the key and get the papers. You’ve got to deliver the papers. Longstaff ordered you aboard. It’s almost time. Oh God. Oh God.
He watched the shadows lengthen.
Do I tell Brock about Jin-qua’s coins? About the remaining three half coins and the three favors and the holy oath and about
Lotus Cloud? I’ll have to. Oh God, what about Wu Kwok? And the Chinese apprentice-captains and the boys, Father’s wards? Brock won’t honor my oath, I know he won’t. I don’t care. What’s the difference?
“Hello.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Quance.” Culum dully squinted at the shadows. “Please leave me alone. Please.”
Aristotle Quance ached in every limb. Only an hour ago he had been dug out of the wreckage. His hair and face were caked with blood and rubble dust, and his clothes were ripped.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It was joss. Just joss.”
“I hate that word. Please, please leave me alone.”
Quance saw the helplessness and agony and self-hatred in the face that vaguely resembled the one he knew so well. He remembered the first time he had seen Struan. In a back alley in Macao, lying unconscious in the dirt. Just as helpless, just the same, he told himself. No, not the same, never the same. Dirk was like a god even though he lay in the filth. Ah, Dirk, you always had the face of a god and the power of a god—awake, asleep. Yes, and even in death, I’ll wager.
Face. That’s what you had. So different from your son.