Cosimo nodded. “‘Thou canst not stir a flower, without troubling of a star,’” he declaimed.
Sir Henry smiled at the quotation. “I have never heard that. Who said it?”
“It’s from a poem by a chap named Francis Thompson-a bit after your time, I’m afraid. Nice, though, isn’t it? Here’s another: ‘The innocent moon, that nothing does but shine, moves all the labouring surges of the world.’”
Turning once more to Kit, he said, “The point is that through some innocent action your girlfriend might, like Pandora of old, wreak havocs great and small throughout this universe and beyond.”
“Then we’d better find her fast,” said Kit. “Knowing Wilhelmina, she’s probably stirred up a whole field of flowers by now.”
CHAPTER 12
In Which a Notable Skin Is Honourably Inscribed
Macau sweltered beneath an unforgiving August sun, and the Mirror Sea was calm. The tall ships in Oyster Bay, the few wispy clouds in the sky, the lazily circling seabirds-all were faithfully replicated in precise detail in their liquid reflections. And none of it evaded the hooded gaze of Wu Chen Hu as he sat on his low stool before the entrance to his small shop on White Lotus Street, above the harbour.
A small, nimble man of venerable age, his squat form swathed in a light green silk robe, he leaned against the crimson doorpost and smoked a long clay pipe, watching the aromatic wisps drift lazily up to heaven. Every now and then he turned his eyes to the bay to take in a familiar summer sight: a ship being rowed into harbour by its tender boat. During the dull summer season, when the gods slept and the weather was still, there was often not enough wind to drive the big trading ships into harbour, so they must be rowed by their crews-sometimes from many miles out at sea-into port.
The ship was Portuguese, of course: a large full-bellied sea hound with three skyscraping masts and a great curved scimitar of a prow. Fully laden with trade goods, it required three tenders to haul its bulk into the bay, while lifeless canvas hung limp on the spars. Soon the docks would shake off their slumber and resume the business of transporting goods from hold to shore. For the next few days at least, there would be work and money for the dockyard lackeys. And eventually work, too, for Chen Hu.
Sailors were the principal source of income for Wu’s Heavenly Tattau. Portuguese sailors were the chief contributors to his modest personal wealth.
From his lofty vantage point on White Lotus Street, he watched as the ship was slowly berthed and roped, and the gangplanks extended. There was a scurry of activity on deck as the cargo vessel was made secure. In a little while, the welcoming delegation arrived: a body made up of the harbourmaster and his assistants, several customs officials, heads of the various trading houses concerned, and the local labour broker. There would be the obligatory exchange of gifts, speeches read out, official documents presented and signed, and then-and only then- would the first voyagers be allowed to come ashore.
The dutiful servants of the emperor were highly skilled bureaucrats. Such ceremonies employed and honed the arts of official obfuscation and obscurantism that, from the highest sceptre-wielding magistrate to the lowest ink-dipper, served to protect someone’s position in the imperial pecking order. The Qing Dynasty revelled in its bureaucracy.
Wu Chen Hu knew all about bureaucracy. As one of the few private businessmen allowed to deal directly with foreign devils, he had attracted more than the usual amount of official interest in his affairs over the years. Everyone from tax officials to building inspectors knew, and respected, the House of Wu. He saw to it that the right palms were lubricated with the right measure of monetary grease to ensure that his business ran smoothly and with a minimum of interference.
He rubbed the back of his neck and put on his straw hat to shade his eyes, and continued to watch the ship. Soon-if not tonight, then surely tomorrow or the next day-the sailors would begin to find their way to his door. He thought of sending a boy or two down to the docks to advertise his services; better still, a girl. Sailors liked the young girls and followed them blithely.
But it was early yet. It was best to wait and see. If the expected trade did not appear, or proved a little too sluggish for his liking, he could send the girls.
Chen Hu finished his pipe and gently knocked the bowl against the leg of his stool to tap out the ashes, then rose and went into his shop. He removed his hat and knelt beside the hearth and took up the little iron kettle, filled it with water from the stoup, and set it on the brazier. He settled himself cross-legged with eyes closed and waited. When he heard the burbling sound of water beginning to boil, he counted out nine green leaves from a pouch at his belt and dropped them into the steaming water. A few moments later, the aroma rose to his nostrils and he removed the kettle from the coals. He was just pouring the fresh brew into a tiny porcelain cup when the room darkened.
He turned to see the shape of a large man silhouetted in the doorway.
From the ungainly and graceless stance, he could tell his visitor was a gaijin. He sighed, poured his tea back into the kettle, stood, tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robe, and moved to the door, using the shuffling gait that indicated humility.
“Good luck to you,” he said in his best Portuguese. “Please to come in.” He bowed low to his visitor.
“May good fortune follow you all your days,” said the stranger in a voice at once distinctive and familiar. He stepped back into the light and began unbuckling his shoes.
“Masta Attu! It is you!” cried the Chinese artisan.
“I have returned, Chen Hu,” replied the dark-haired gentleman with a reverential bow. Switching smoothly to English, he said, “Tell me, old friend, how fares the House of Wu?”
“All is well, Masta Attu,” replied Chen Hu with a wide, betel-stained grin. His facility with English was only slightly less assured than his Portuguese; both had been earned through long association with sailors. “How could it be otherwise now that you are here?”
“It is good to see you, too, Chen Hu,” replied Arthur Flinders-Petrie, his own grin wide and fulsome. “You are the very picture of health. Your daughter, Xian-Li-how is she? Well, I hope?”
“Never better, Masta Attu. It will bring her great joy to know that you have returned. I will send for her at once.”
“It would be lovely to see her, of course,” said the Englishman. “Later, perhaps-after we have done some business.”
“Let it be as you wish.” The Chinese merchant bowed.
“Then let us get to it!” said Arthur in a voice much too loud for the little shop. “I am itching to get this new design safely tucked away.”
“Please to come this way.” He led his visitor to a low couch beside a large window covered with a bamboo screen. “Be seated, sir, and allow me to bring you a cup of cha.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Arthur sat down on the silk-covered settee and began unlacing his shirt. “It is a very oven out there. We’ve been a-stew in our own juices for a fortnight. Hardly a breath of wind to stir the sails. Dead in the water these last two days.”
“Ah, yes,” replied Chen Hu, pouring out the pale yellow infusion. “It is the Season of the Dog. Very hot everywhere. Very bad for business. No one sells because no one buys. Very bad.” He presented the small porcelain cup with a bow, then turned to pour one for himself.
Arthur raised his cup. “Health to you, Chen Hu!” He sampled the hot liquid gingerly. “Ah! How I have missed the cha.” He smacked his lips in the accepted sign of satisfaction. “Thank you, my friend.”
“The pleasure is mine,” replied the merchant, inclining his head slightly.
They drank for a while in silence; it was rude to intrude on another’s enjoyment of cha. When the formalities had been concluded and the cups set aside, Arthur thanked his host and said, “If you have no pressing business, I would like to begin at once.”
“Your servant awaits your command, sir.”
A fair-size man with a compact frame, Arthur stood and removed his shirt, pulling the capacious garment off
