“I would like very much to meet your father,” he said.
“Then let us go,” she said. “He will be wondering where I am. When he sees you he will understand. At least he will forget to ask me why I am late!”
THE HOUSE WAS ENORMOUS. IT was on the outskirts of Paris and on the borders of a wood, a man-made forest, as he could see, so orderly the trees stood, with shrubbery massed at their feet.
“My father loves his gardens,” she said. “Not flowers—only trees and rocks and water—flowers are for pots and vases in the house. He’s very old-fashioned—formal and all that. You’ll see when you meet him. Yet he’s very good with people—not everyone, of course, but with special people.”
She circled the drive smartly in her small Mercedes and drew up in front of the house. A wide walk of marble led to the front door, which opened, it seemed, automatically until he saw the slender black-robed figure of a Chinese manservant.
“Father brought his own servants to Paris,” she said. “Of course, that was before I was born. Their children have grown up here and some of them still serve us in the house. Others of them help my father in the business. He doesn’t trust white people.”
“Though your mother is American?”
“I didn’t tell you,” she said almost casually. “She left us when I was six. She went away with an American—a very rich man’s son, younger than she. He divorced her later—several years later—and she asked my father to take her back. He refused.”
“And you?” he asked.
Against his will he asked, for what right had he to inquire into her personal life? But the old insistent demand to know, to know everything about life and people, impelled him. The demand was not mere curiosity. It was a necessity to follow action through reaction to final resolution. He had to know the end of the story.
“I have not seen her since she left. I have not forgiven her, I suppose, for leaving us, and my father has provided all I have ever needed and I am entirely loyal to him. It is as though she were dead, to me, and indeed she could be for all I know,” she said.
They were at the top of the several steps leading to the marble terrace before the great door, now open and waiting to receive them. She paused and they stood looking out over the formal gardens through which they had passed.
“And?” he asked remorselessly.
“My father said I might go to her if I wished, but if I went I must know I could never see him again. So I stayed.”
“Because?”
“I’ve always known I was more Chinese than anything else—because I want to be, I suppose. Come—let’s go in!”
They entered a wide hall facing a great stairway that divided at its upper half into left and right. Now he saw a tall, slender man in a long Chinese robe of silver-gray satin descending from the right, to the main stairway.
“Stephanie!” he said, and then followed words in Chinese.
He listened to the unknown language, a mellifluous flow of vowels they seemed, and he looked at the handsome, silver-haired Chinese gentleman who spoke them and noticed his strong, beautiful hands. Then it occurred to him that he now heard her name, and at the same instant she turned to him, laughing.
“I want to introduce you to my father—and I don’t know your name!”
“And I have heard yours for the first time!” he said, laughing. Then he turned to the father.
“Sir, I am Randolph Colfax—Rann, for short. I must admit to being an American, for your daughter says you don’t like us, but my grandfather was in China in his youth, and he has taught me to admire your people—and so your daughter and I became acquainted today, and she told me about you and was so kind as to—” Here he turned helplessly to her. “How did you?”
“I feel he is different, somehow, Father.”
French was the language again, and the father answered in that tongue, a stilted accented French.
“And you asked him, not even knowing his name?”
“He doesn’t know mine, either,” she retorted, and began laughing again as she turned to him. “How stupid I am and you are so polite, asking nothing! I am Stephanie Kung. You will ask why Stephanie instead of Michelle or some such name, but as I told you I was supposed to be a boy, who was to be named Stephen.”
“Quiet!” her father commanded.
She stopped, looked at her father, and then went on. “Well, as you see, I disappointed my father and he punished me with this long name!”
“Be silent, my little one! And why are we standing here in the hall instead of proceeding into the library? Besides, it grows late. It will be better if we prepare ourselves for dinner. You, sir, will you spend the night with us?”
“Oh, yes—Rann Colfax, is it? Do stay the night! We will have so much good talk together, the three of us!”
He was bewitched, he was enchanted, he felt as though he were being led into another country—one unknown and perhaps long sought.
“It is too good to be true,” he said. “And of course I will stay, at least for dinner. But I have nothing with me—no change of clothes. I shall have to go back to the hotel to get my things.”
“That is easily mended for now,” Mr. Kung said. “I have clothes—suits I wear to business—we are not too different in height, or weight. I can guess we can enjoy tonight with no thought to details and then tomorrow my car can take you to pick up your bags.”
He turned to the waiting servant and spoke a few words in Chinese and then again to Rann.
“This man will take you to a guestroom and bring you anything you need. In an hour he will come back for you and lead you to the dining room.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rann said, and knew that he was indeed entering another world.
TIME HAD PASSED, DAYS MOVED INTO WEEKS, and now months. Even as he had stayed timelessly in the castle in England, he now stayed in this old French château on the borders of Paris. Wherever he found life he stayed in this timeless fashion and felt himself welcome. As long as he felt himself welcome he would stay, and yet even this was not conscious and perhaps not even true. As long as he was learning, as long as he was satisfying his insatiable wonder about the world, people, everything, there he stayed.
They were sitting in Mr. Kung’s library, where usually they spent the evenings. The windows were open to the soft evening air. The city was almost quiet in the distance, its many voices no more than a murmur afar off. It was late autumn but the weather was dry and warm, holding the promise of another mild winter in Europe. The walls were solidly books, except for the windows. Here and there a few small tables held priceless jade statues and vases or lamps, objects with which Mr. Kung could not part unless he found something he liked even better, in which case the rejected article went into his enormous shop on the rue de la Paix—a museum of a place—replaced by the new, more favored object until yet another more favored object appeared. It was an endless sifting process, only the more choice works of art remaining here. Rann had noticed the subtle changes taking place constantly and Stephanie had explained the process to him.
“Mr. Kung,” Rann asked, “how did you become so deeply interested in these works of art?”
“Ah, art is the free man’s dream,” Mr. Kung said, “and a man’s life begins and ends with his work—that is, if he is an artist. Each of these works represents the best in a man’s life to that point, for an artist is forever striving to improve and he leaves a piece of himself behind each time as he grows. If one, in a generation long past his, collects carefully then he can know the artist and follow his development even as if he lived in the same day. The artist can never escape his work, and if he is good it is his stamp on the future.”
“I wish I knew where my work begins,” Rann said. “I think of it constantly. I prepare for it without knowing what it is. Meanwhile I ask questions—I cannot keep myself from the necessity of knowing—everything!”