The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [483]
Among the strollers, diners and revellers Matthew had been aware, while sinking his teeth into these weighty problems, of a number of painted girls, Chinese or Eurasian, unusually graceful and attractive in their high-collared, straight-cut Shanghai gowns, slit at the side to above the knee. These girls wore their blue-black hair short and marcelled in the Western fashion, but as Matthew stood there, immobilized by thought, he could not help noticing that one of them, strolling arm in arm with another girl, was not only wearing a Western summer frock but also wore her hair long and loose. And even more surprising, for she seemed to be Chinese, when she passed in front of a brightly lit food-stall her hair, which had seemed to be as black as her companion’s, glowed dark red around the edges, like a bottle of red ink held up against the light.
She was saying something to the girl beside her and accompanying her words with a sweet smile which revealed a glimmer of white teeth. Matthew, captivated by her appearance, could not help staring at her. Looking up, she noticed his glance and gave a start of surprise, as if she recognized him. With a word to her companion she came boldly up to him, still smiling, and said in a low voice: ‘Matthew, I knew your father.’ Then, since Matthew merely goggled at her, she went on: ‘He was very kind to me. I was so sorry when he died! My name is Vera Chiang … I saw you when you came to the Mayfair with Mr and Miss Blackett, who has also been kind to me … and she is beautiful, too, don’t you think? just like Joan Crawford she reminds me of, so lovely … and now, Matthew, you are all alone in the world …’ Her eyes had filled with tears of sympathy.
‘Good gracious!’ murmured Matthew and continued to peer at her in astonishment. He cleared his throat, however, in order to say something more adequate and was about to nudge his glasses up on his nose, but she took hold of his hand and clasped it feelingly in both of hers, saying: ‘I was in trouble and your dear father, like a saint of heaven, from the depths of my misery gave me “a bunk up” (please excuse my slang expression of speaking!) and now he has died, it is so sad, it really does give me “the blues” when I think about it and sometimes at night I cry by myself, yes, but forgive me, for you it must be very much worse than for me!’ And with emotion she clasped his hand tightly to her chest with both of hers.
‘Actually, my father and I weren’t all that …’
‘Yes, I know how you were feeling when you heard this news and I thought “Poor Matthew” because your father had shown me a “snap” of you when small baby and I wondered: “In whatever country in the world will this news reach him?” and your father had told me that when one day he was no more, you, his only son, would be left alone in the world because your dear mother had “kicked the bucket” long ago and there was no one else to look after you.’ On an impulse she flicked open a button of her frock and gently slipped his hand through the opening, clasping it with both of hers more tightly than ever to comfort him, with the result that Matthew now found his rather damp palm moulding what appeared to be, well, a naked breast: whatever it was, it was certainly silky, soft, plastic, agreeably resistant and satisfying to the touch. He continued to stand there for some moments enjoying this unusually pleasant sensation, though distinctly bewildered. Meanwhile, they gazed into each other’s eyes, hypnotized, and currents of feeling flowed back and forth between them.
At this moment a torrent of inebriated Dutch sailors, their arms on each other’s shoulders, half running, half dancing the remains of a drunken hornpipe, scattering the crowd right and left, suddenly came bearing down on them. One moment Matthew was standing there, immobilized by the question