Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [172]
Two years ago, Rick left the Vancouver Hotel and started work at the Hudson’s Bay Department Store as purchasing manager, which meant making frequent business trips to London, Paris, Munich and the Canadian East Coast. His job was tiring, and whenever she talked to him about getting a new servant, she felt his impatience. So when he suggested they employ Frank’s son, although she did not agree straightaway, she did not veto the idea either. Rick’s nerves were like a rope stretched thin and her ailments were the heaviest drag on it. Since she did not want the rope to snap, she had to deal with things on her own, but that was only a stopgap measure. In due course, she would find another rope to bear the weight of her problems.
This new rope was a simpleton of a Mongol boy she called “Jimmy.” (She could not get her tongue around his Chinese name so she made up one of her own for him.)
“Stop, Jimmy, stop!” Mrs. Henderson said to Kam Ho.
But Kam Ho was deaf to all sounds except those of the banging of the wooden spoon against the bowl. Mrs. Henderson had to stamp her foot hard before Kam Ho heard. The spoon stopped, while his hand remained haplessly quivering—like a horse jerked to a halt by its master that carries on galloping on the spot.
Mrs. Henderson massaged her knee joints and stood up. She began the complicated process of making the cake. Flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, sugar, water, oil—she measured the proportions carefully according to the recipe. Not forgetting, of course, the vanilla custard which Rick adored. She had no idea how long it would take this Chinese boy to learn the art of baking. She hoped not too long.
Today was Rick’s fifty-seventh birthday. She pretended it had slipped her mind and had not given him the slightest hint that she remembered. In fact, she had been making meticulous preparations for this evening for a few days. She had bought the wine, a fifteen-year-old red Bordeaux. They would start with a clam chowder. The appetizer was pâté de fois gras on lettuce. The main courses would be smoked salmon and shoulder of lamb. And the dessert would of course be the cake. These dishes, normally only to be found in European-style restaurants, all would be made by her. She knew that Rick was tired of the dinner parties he had to go to, preferring to slump into his own armchair to relax and then eat a simple home-cooked meal. The cake needed forty-five minutes in the oven, so it was too early to bake. Rick got home at six o’clock, so she would put it in at half past five. After Rick had come in through the door, taken off his coat and loosened his tie, the cake would appear on the cake plate, warm and spongy soft. Then she would exclaim in pretended astonishment: “Good heavens! What a nice cake. It must be somebody’s birthday!”
In fact, all this preparation, although intended for his enjoyment, paled in comparison with the preparations she made for herself. She had had the best dressmaker in Vancouver make her an evening gown in the latest Paris fashion. It was of crimson satin, trimmed with lace. The first time she had met Rick in Manchester, she was wearing a long crimson dress. They had both been guests at the house of a friend. He was a balding forty-eight-year old man and she, at twenty-six, was already an old maid. They were both past the best time for marriage, but a successful man, no matter how old, could always find a mate. She held herself back that day, not making any special effort to talk to him or distinguish herself from the bevy of other young women. But he stared so intently at her outfit that she seemed to feel his gaze on her all the way home that evening. The next day she accepted his invitation to lunch. She never forgot that he liked the colour crimson. She was the daughter of a textile merchant and had grown up surrounded by bales of cloth. She knew just what fabric and colours flattered her figure and made the sparks fly. This evening,