He saw the wariness in her face immediately. She gave an almost inaudible sigh. “He is a most generous benefactor.”
“I’m sure.”
They were silent.
Sister Margaret’s clothes rustled. “I am aware of what people say, Mr. Field, but in my situation, I believe beggars cannot be choosers.”
“Of course.”
Sister Margaret searched his eyes for signs of insincerity, her own expression defensive. She placed her hands in her lap, entwining her fingers.
The younger nun came in with a tray. As she placed a cup in front of Field, she smiled shyly at him.
“Thank you, Sister Jane,” the older woman said sharply.
Field waited until she had gone. “I see that Lu—Mr. Lu—is coming to visit the children.”
“We are grateful that he finds the time.”
“Of course. I assume—well, he was an orphan, so he must like to see children being better cared for than he was.”
Sister Margaret did not answer. Her eyes rested steadily upon Field’s face, her expression still guarded, before it slipped far enough to betray a blend of resignation and something else—moral compromise perhaps. Field felt a cloud of depression begin to envelop him. He had hoped Maretsky was wrong and that the situation here was not as debased as he had suggested.
“Lu sometimes finds children a home?” Field asked.
“Sometimes, yes. He very kindly found two of the young boys homes earlier this year.”
“Expatriate parents?”
“Chinese, I believe. They were Eurasian boys.”
Field looked down. He wanted to relieve his frustration and anger by shouting at her.
“Are you all right, Mr. Field?”
He sipped his tea. “Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “Lu—Mr. Lu—picks out the children himself on these visits?”
Sister Margaret hesitated. She dropped her gaze. “Yes.”
Field swallowed hard. He could not be certain how much she knew beyond doubt, how much she suspected and tried to block out.
“The parents are happy? They have worked well—the adoptions, I mean?”
“We do our best here, Mr. Field, but, of course, the boys were excited to leave.” She shrugged. “Mr. Lu kindly made the arrangements and the boys were thrilled—of course, they were.”
Field hesitated. He imagined two young boys darting down the corridor outside, bursting with happiness at the thought of the better life they believed awaited them beyond the gate on Avenue Joffre. He could see Lu Huang’s portly fingers as he habitually opened and closed his right hand. “They’re happier now?”
“I believe so, yes. Mr. Lu kindly keeps us in touch with their progress.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“You’re a policeman, Mr. Field, so perhaps you can appreciate the true nature of this city.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Without the orphanage these children would have perished long ago. All of them. Without our benefactor there would be no orphanage.”
Field looked at her. For a moment, believing that she was completely aware of the extent and scope of her Faustian pact, he felt like throwing up.
“Alexei Simonov.” Field saw immediately that Sister Margaret knew the boy. “Mr. Lu—or his men—brought him here and asked you to give him shelter?”
Sister Margaret did not answer.
“The mother . . .”
“It is a tragedy,” she said.
“Of course.” He allowed himself a mournful pause.
Sister Margaret raised her hand. “We have had five Russian children in one year,” she said, spreading her fingers.
“Five.”
“Suicide is against God’s will.”
“Yes.”
“But it is still a tragedy, of course.”
“Of course, yes.”
