And went back to the barrow leaving me staring. So much for the help you can expect from a compatriot. Almost weeping at parting from the jade, I cut my losses and blundered on.

As an incident it wasn’t much, probably the sort of encounter that happens a trillion times a day in cities everywhere. But it had an effect on me; got me into one mess called murder and another called prostitution. I have this knack, you see.

An eon later I was in the air-conditioned splendor of the Ocean Terminal, a vast shopping arcade of bogglesome affluence. From there I could keep an eye on that vital clock tower, making sure it didn’t escape before nine o’clock when Goodman would arrive and be my salvation.

But all I could think of was that blindingly beautiful jade. And the jade woman. They both stayed in my mind like a siren’s fatal song.

6

« ^ »

THE heat emptied from China’s coast as if daylight had suddenly decided to switch off. I emerged from the Ocean Terminal and walked by the Kowloon Public Pier. Hundreds of Chinese had the same idea, so quite a press milled along the waterside.

If you’ve never seen Hong Kong’s harbor, go soon. See for yourself because it’s really no good my going on about the spectacle. You know the pictures: the massive junks trailing a forest of multicolored flags, the huge oceangoing ships, the chugging diesel lighters, that cerulean sky, that long fawn spine of the island rising clear out of the ultramarine harbor, the crustacean-white buildings. They’re on Chinese restaurant wall posters the world over, so you’ve seen plenty. The feel’s different. You need the dynamism, Hong Kong’s loveliness zapping out at you from all sides, the glorious immediacy. And you’ve got to be there to feel that. Daunting yet exhilarating. Too much, when you’re starving.

It’s a physiological truth that if you lie down, you don’t feel as hungry. A doctor told me that, but by then I’d already found it out. How long had I gone hungry now? Two days?

The aroma of the noodle stalls, the wafts of fry-ups no longer raved in my dulled brain.

I was quite light-headed. Ominously my hunger had faded, becoming a lead hollow in my belly. I perched on the railing to stare at the dying sun glare and oily water.

Rubbish floated in a kind of sludge, plastic bottles and other indestructibles. I crouched and dozed fitfully in the cooling air, every so often waking with a start to see the cream-and-honey clock tower still there. Finally I rose and wandered, but never too far for safety as nine o’clock crept closer in the dusk. But safety, I was fast learning, comes rationed by the minute in Hong Kong. Two safe minutes together and you’ve had your share. What I didn’t know was that I’d already had mine, been lucky. I thought I’d been through hell.

Once, I was accused of honesty—a woman who should have known better —but I soon cleared myself by betrayal. (She forgave me, which only goes to show women’s unreliability. Probably comes from having naught to do all day.) That unnerving experience taught me resilience. So, starving and sun-grilled, I racked my experience in the interests of survival.

Back home it’d have been a doddle. I mean, take Vasco Pierce. He was a born incompetent. From reasons of backing knacker’s meat on Derby Day he once got stranded in London. Know what he did? Went up to one of those girls who hand out free advertising at railway stations and offered to do her stint, five thousand pulps.

Delighted, she gave him a couple of quid and offed. Whereup Vasco starts selling commuters these free drosses. Kept it up all day, made enough to buy himself a new suit. God’s truth. But here in sun-sogged Hong Kong nothing was free, except me.

Nothing was vulnerable, except me. And nothing easy, e.m. Fate rubs your nose in it.

You have to stay alert, like old Vasco.

Trying for alertness, I sensed a sudden faint bonging in my chest. Pausing in a small patch of shade long enough to stop sweat waterfalling to sting my eyes, I peered about. I saw a shop front opposite crammed with loads of utter dross—vases, porcelains, ivory, bone statuettes, soapstone cups. Before I could stop myself I’d darted through the traffic, causing an unholy orchestra of horns. There it stood on a glass shelf, the cause of my sudden throb. I literally staggered, looking in. Shaped like a circular cushion made of red lacquer, its surface was carved into scenes of the Eight Immortals feasting and swilling. Even through the thick glass I felt its radiance. No more than a container for a gift of luxury food, its dull appearance dazzled me like a lighthouse. Only about fifteen inches across, it beamed 1560 a.d. at me. Undamaged apart from its aging cracks, dirty, but pristine, Ming period. I’d only seen one before, in the Victoria and Albert’s undeserving museum. True lacquer comes from a Rhus tree species, and is so highly poisonous that the lacquer people all died young. It’s weird stuff. The ancient Chinese built up thin layers on ash and bits of thin cloth, polishing each layer to a lovely sheen. Modern lacquer usually doesn’t have these layers. I leaned and peered. Sure enough, a chipped area on the lid revealed a series of striations.

Maybe 250 layers, applied over two years. I knew without even trying that it would pass the fingernail test: Genuine old can’t be dented, modern rubbish can— but watch out for polyurethane hardeners. Its beauty almost slammed me unconscious, weakened as I was. What cruel accident had cast it among a shoal of pathetic replicas? I knew I could get it for a pittance, only I hadn’t got that much. (I warn you: Genuine ancient lacquer is currently the most underpriced of all antiques.) Tears of frustration ran down my face. I forced myself away. People never want what they have, it seems to me. Like, I mean, Catherine the Great of Russia spurned the immortal Matthew Boulton’s magnificent sidereal clock which he sent her in St.

Petersburg in 1776 (she thought it rather plain). And here were thousands, millions of people who could buy that superb antique, all walking past uncaring. I went and sat by the harbor, feet dangling.

“Lovejoy?”

Somebody was shaking my shoulder. I awoke from a dream, but the jail bars were only the railing and the bottomless sucking pit below the night swirl of Hong Kong’s harbor.

So much for vigilance. Mr. Goodman, though, was there with a Chinese bloke in the waterfront lights. I scrambled up trying to look worth an investment, smiling ingratiatingly. My bottom lip cracked and bled merrily. I gripped Goodman’s hand and wrung it.

“Thanks for coming, sir. You’ll not regret it.”

He gazed at me doubtfully. This boring fellow passenger seemed bigger than I remembered, more vital. Still the same florid bonhomie, only now he was inspecting me with a clear desire to keep his distance. I nodded and beamed at his reluctant companion.

Вы читаете Jade Woman
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату