The plum. Ice-skinned and jade-boned. It symbolized winter and virginity. But its blossoming brought the spring.
"Mei hua. . . ." He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them mingle with her scent, then turned away, reddening at the thought that had come to mind. Mei hua. It was a term for sexual pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum-blossom covers. So innocent a scent, and yet Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of her. Then he turned and hurried on, his fists clenched at his sides, his face the color of summer.
"There have been changes since you were last among us, Howard."
"So I see."
DeVore turned briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole of one wall of the study.
"Who are they?"
Berdichev came up and stood beside him. "Sympathizers. Money men, mainly. Friends of our host, Douglas."
The room the two men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools, small temples, carefully placed banks of shrub and stone, shady willows, cinnamon trees, and delicate uw-tong. People milled about casually, talking among themselves, eating and drinking. But there the similarities with past occasions ended. The servants who went among them were no longer Han. In fact, there was not a single Han in sight.
DeVore's eyes took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still wore silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress seemed more austere, both in its cut and in the absence of embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was now conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no dragonflies or clouds, no butterflies or pictograms. Now only a single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar, on hems or in the form of jewelry, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned on a ring or brooch: the double helix of heredity. Just as noticeable was the absence of the color blue—the color of imperial service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the subtlest of insults.
"The Seven have done our work for us, Soren."
"Not altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war. There are men out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of coming to a gathering like this. They would have been worried that word would get back—as, indeed, it does—and that the T'ang would act through his ministers to make life awkward for them. Now they have no such fears. We have educated them to the fact of their own power. They are many, the Seven few. What if the Seven close one door to them?—here, at such gatherings, a thousand new doors open."
"And The New Hope?"
Berdichev's smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain. The New Hope was his brainchild. "In more than one sense it is our flagship. You should see the pride in their faces when they talk of it. We did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han, but us, the Hung Mao, as they call us. The Europeans."
DeVore glanced at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their host, Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. "We Europeans must stick together," he had said. And DeVore, hearing it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some token of mutual understanding.
He looked about him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of change—of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the Above; The decor, like the dress of those outside, was simpler—the design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had been. On the walls, now, hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colorful historical scenes that had been so much in favor with the Hung Moo. Gone were the lavish screens a'nd bright floral displays of former days. But all of this, ironically, brought them only further into line with the real Han—the Families—who had always preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious to the gaudy.
These tokens of change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were also worrying. These men—these Europeans—were not Han, nor had they ever been Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that they had once been—had severed them from their cultural roots as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem of a chrysanthemum. The Seven had given them no real choice: they could be Han or they could be nothing. And to be nothing was intolerable. Now, however, to be Han was equally untenable.
DeVore shivered. At present their response was negative: a reaction against Han ways, Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At length they would turn the mirror on themselves and find they had no real identity, no positive channel for their newborn sense of racial selfhood. The New Hope was a move to fill that vacuum, as was this term, European;
but neither was enough. A culture was a vast and complex thing and, like the roots of a giant tree, went deep into the dark, rich earth of time. It was more than a matter of dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A thing of blood and bone, not cloth and architecture.
Yes, they needed more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their pride; they needed a focus— something to restore them to themselves. But what? What on earth could fill the vacuum they were facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the coming days. To ignore it would be fatal.
He went to the long table in the center of the room and looked down at the detailed map spread out across its surface.
"Has everyone been briefed?"
Berdichev came and stood beside him. "Not everyone. IVe kept the circle as small as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought your man, Duchek, ought to know, too, considering how helpful he's been. And then there's Moore and Weis."
"Anton Weis? The banker?"
Berdichev nodded. "I know what you're thinking, but he's changed in the last year or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him of a number of important contracts. Now he hates the T'ang and his circle with an intensity that's hard to match."
"I understand. Even so, I'd not have thought him important enough."
"It's not him so much as the people he represents. He's our liaison with a number of interested parties. People who can't declare themselves openly. Important people."
DeVore considered a moment, then smiled. "Okay. So that makes seven of us who know."
"Eight, actually."
DeVore raised his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, "I'll explain later."
"When will they be here?"
"They're here now. Outside. They'll come in when you're ready for them."
DeVore laughed. "I'm ready now."
"Then I'll tell Douglas."
DeVore watched Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more at ease now than he had ever been; saw, too, how they looked to him now as a leader, a shaper of events, and noted with irony how different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what was different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man attractive. Even the potentiality of power.
He stood back, away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of them. Seeing how closely Weis was watching him, he made an effort to be more warm, more friendly, in his greeting there, but all the while he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.
Then, without further ado, they went to the table.
The map was of the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans, southern Italy, and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant color was white, though there was a faint, almost ivory tinge to it, caused by the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City's regular shape—each tiny hexagon a hsien; an administrative district.