The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [242]
The Mandarin rapped twice on the wooden door. After a few seconds there was the sound of strong bolts being drawn and the door was pulled slowly back. A smiling Chinese man of about forty years bowed low as he bid them enter.
“Honorable Father, please enter with Little Granddaughter,” he said in Chinese.
The Mandarin’s face lit with a smile as he embraced the man, then they stood back and looked searchingly at each other.
“It’s good to see you,” the Mandarin said, but from the sadness in his eyes they both knew it would be for the last time. “This is my son, Philip Chen,” he told Lysandra. “I call him my son because he came into our household when he was even younger than you. He was an orphan and still young and unformed and he became like my own child. Now he is my comprador. He takes care of all the Lai Tsin business here in Hong Kong and he is the only man in the world I trust.”
Lysandra’s blue eyes widened and she stared interestedly back at the man as the Mandarin took her hand and walked with her through the long, narrow warehouse. Its shelves were dusty and empty, lit by a single naked lightbulb swinging gently on the end of a long flex. Lysandra peered nervously into the shadowy corners, jumping back suddenly as her eyes met another’s; but it wasn’t the rat or fierce dragon she had been expecting, it was a young Chinese boy.
Philip Chen said proudly, “Sir, may I have the honor to present my son, Robert.”
The boy bowed low as the old man inspected him.
“When I last saw you, you were three years old,” the Mandarin said quietly, “and now you are ten—almost a young man. Your eyes are steady and your brow is broad. You will do well to inherit the trust we place in your father.”
Lysandra stared curiously at him: he was small and stockily built with strongly muscled arms and legs and he was dressed western-style in cream twill shorts, a white shirt, and a gray blazer with a school crest on it. As the Mandarin turned away the boy’s curious eyes, half-hidden behind round wire spectacles, met hers for a long moment. Then he bowed formally and turned to follow his father and the Mandarin to the door.
“I was hoping to entertain you at my home,” Philip said sadly, “but you are so tired.”
“To see you for these few moments was enough,” Lai Tsin replied as Philip’s head rested for a moment against his shoulder in a farewell embrace. “So that I could thank you for being my good son. And to ask you to guard the Lai Tsin family and their businesses the way you have always done, even though I will not be here.”
“You have my word, Honorable Father.” Philip stepped back, his face stern with the strain of holding back his emotion.
“Then I can die in peace,” the Mandarin replied quietly, and taking Lysandra’s hand he walked slowly to the waiting rickshaw.
As they rode down the narrow street he commanded her to look back at the old wooden godown. “We must never forget our humble beginnings,” he told her softly. “If we forget, we may believe we are too clever, or too rich, or too important. And that would bring bad joss, bad luck to the family.”
A small treasure trove of gifts from the Mandarin’s many business associates awaited Lysandra back at the mansion on Repulse Bay. As she opened the packages, exclaiming with delight over perfect pearl necklaces and exquisitely carved jade figurines, silken robes, and painted fans, he cautioned her again. “Remember, the gifts are not because these people are your friends, but because you are a Lai Tsin.”
Many years later Lysandra had cause to remember his words.
At the end, when the Mandarin lay dying on a cool October day in San Francisco, only Francie, the beautiful western woman known as his concubine, was allowed at his bedside. She bathed his fevered brow with cool cloths, held his hand and whispered words of comfort. He opened his eyes and gazed at her tenderly.
“You know what to do?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I know.”
A look of peace crossed his face and then he was gone.
The Mandarin