Outrun the Moon(12)
The maid bobs again, then is gone.
Monsieur Du Lac steers his piercing gaze to me. “I am told you seek an education here, but I regret that it is not possible.” Though grammatically perfect, a French accent stretches his English out of shape. “Had you simply believed my wife when she informed you of this, you might have saved yourself a trip.” He speaks in the tone of one who expects his word to be the last, though he could not have always been so self-important. In an interview he gave to the Examiner, he spoke of growing up as the son of a coal peddler. “Now, she says you gave her a special herb or some such for her spells but neglected to pass along the method of its dispensation. If you’ll just give it to me, you can be on your way.”
“It is not as simple as that, Monsieur Du Lac. Public schools are required to allow in Chinese students. Tape v. Hurley, 1885.”
He rocks forward on his toes, and his shoes squeak. “I’m afraid you’re misinformed. The board of education provided your people with a public education. You may attend the Oriental Public School.”
I sniff. All Chinese know the Oriental Public School was a concession, a way around the law. “Our textbooks are outdated. Not to mention the school ends after the eighth grade. Surely you, who grew up impoverished, would understand how inequitable this is.”
One wiry eyebrow arches, and he swallows down whatever he was going to say. “Even if that were true,” he says slowly, “we are a private institution—”
“That receives public funding. Enough to make you a public school in the eyes of the law.” I examined the board of education records at City Hall myself.
“Again, I remind you that you have a perfectly adequate school.”
“A school that I have already completed. And that many believe is unconstitutional. I would hate for you to be the test case for just how unconstitutional it is.”
“You’re threatening me?” His fists clench, maybe getting ready to wring my neck. I seek a spot to gaze in place of his eyes, which Mrs. Lowry says can spark aggression, and I settle on the puffs under them.
“No, sir.” I try to effect an air of humility, though my heart races like a crazed beetle. “I am merely providing you with an opportunity. You are a businessman, and I am certain you can recognize an opportunity, even when it comes bearing fruit.”
“Business opportunity?” His eyes narrow.
“May I sit down?” Mrs. Lowry says it is always better to discuss business sitting down where one is comfortable. Not to mention, it is rude for him not to offer me a chair.
With a sigh, he gestures to a group of leather loungers, with seats too deep for any woman’s limbs. I perch on the edge of one and hide my scuffed shoes under my hem.
Monsieur Du Lac chooses the chair opposite. “Explain.”
“San Francisco is home to three hundred and fifty thousand people, six percent, or twenty thousand, of whom are Chinese. If every one of them bought just two cacahouètes at a nickel each, that’s an extra”—I glance up at the parquet ceiling, though I did the math beforehand—“two thousand dollars a year in revenue right there, for selling peanuts. If they did it once a month, well, that’s a lucrative bit of change.” He can work out the sum of twenty-four thousand dollars without me needing to tempt fate by saying the word four out loud.
He leans forward in his chair, and his expression grows hungry. Mrs. Lowry’s golden rule of negotiation is to never reveal your price tag until you convince the other party he cannot live without your product. I continue wafting the smell of profits. “You are the biggest chocolatier in the state, maybe the nation, bigger even than Li’l Betties.”
His eyes grow sharp at the mention of his competitor.
“For now,” I toss in.
“What do you mean?”
“Surely you know that Li’l Betties just opened a shop on Geary, right outside Chinatown. My brother tried one, and now he can’t get enough. His friends, too.”
A coolness sets over his features. “What are you proposing?”
“Chinatown is informally run by the Benevolent Association, which governs all matters of trade. You must petition for a hearing to sell chocolate within our boundaries.”
“I have a right to sell chocolate anywhere I damn please.”
“If it were that easy, you would be doing it already.” He could sell it, but no one would buy without the approval of the association. Many, including my late grandfather, fled the mother country because of economic hardship from the Opium Wars. England coerced China into accepting the black tar in payment for tea and cracked China open like a ginkgo nut. Old injuries still itch.
“Why would you think I want to do business in Chinatown?”
“Anyone who reads the dailies knows how Li’l Betties poached your best workers.” I devour the dailies, not just the Chinese ones posted on the sides of our buildings, but the American ones that are always discarded in Union Square. “Less workers means less output. It also means family members must chip in.” I hedge my bets that is true; why else would the haughty Madame Du Lac be minding the shop, with her daughter doling out the sweets?
He blinks as if splashed, and I know I’ve hit the mark. I hurry on. “I can get you an association hearing. No guarantees, of course, but the association only hears a fraction of the cases brought before it, particularly if you are not Chinese.” Tom’s father owns one of Chinatown’s oldest businesses and is one of the six association members.