Outrun the Moon(15)

Captain? He hardly looks sturdy enough to pilot a baby buggy. With a grimace, I bow my head. “Are you well?”

The man grunts.

“And this is Wong Mei-Si. Your pardon, sir, she has too much phlegm in her spleen.” That is his way of saying I’m foolish.

“I hope you will not choose this girl as your wife,” says the old man to Tom. “Even a pretty name like Beautiful Thought cannot hide her bossy woman cheeks.”

I bow my head, not letting on that I take this as a compliment.

Tom produces a queasy-looking smile, then turns to me. “The captain is a very important and influential man, and he is generous to carry our meager shipment. We do not wish to keep you from your duties, sir. Please excuse these humble nobodies.”

“Wait, Wong?” The man smacks his lips, and the moles on his forehead shift positions. “Do you know Wong Wai Kwok? They say his wife is the best fortune-teller in Chinatown.”

His question doesn’t surprise me. Sailors are a superstitious lot, and they are always consulting Ma for propitious sailing dates. “They are my parents. Thirty-three Clay Street, please visit.”

He harrumphs, a rough and wet sound. A group of sailors approaches, and the captain dismisses us with a shake of his cane.

Tom leads me to the opposite side of the pier. We lean our elbows against the railing so Tom can keep an eye on his cargo. I take in all the boats, always coming or going. Business is good here in the Paris of the West, which Ma says is why her fortune-telling business has slowed. People at the top of the wheel don’t care to know when the wheel is going to fall again.

“Did I tell you about my idea for floating shoes?” I say lightly.

“That sounds even worse than the spider silk factory.”

“They’d be impossible to lose in water.”

“Since when do people swim with their shoes on?”

I grin. “Maybe they should. One day their soles might save their souls.”

The M shape of his upper lip that suggests vitality flattens as he tries not to laugh. “I hope you didn’t walk twelve blocks just to tell me bad jokes.”

“No.” I lose my place for a moment, distracted by Tom, who I swore I used to be able to look at eyeball to eyeball. Now I have to bend my neck back to look at him. Morning sun reflects off his even forehead. I stand very still, posture as straight as Ling-Ling’s, face panned toward his, like a sunflower waiting to be pollinated. Being demure really puts a crick in the neck.

“Mercy?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you have something to tell me?”

“Oh.” I shake myself out of my trance. “Yes. You’re looking at the newest student at St. Clare’s School for Girls. I’ve been given a three-month term, extension dependent on my procuring the right for Chocolatier Du Lac to sell chocolate in Chinatown.”

His tightly held mouth falls open. “Well, he has the nerve of a wasp. Do any of those other girls have to dig through tunnels to see the light? Chinese people don’t even like chocolate.”

“Tell that to Jack. And anyway, I might have put the idea about selling chocolate into his head.”

His breath hisses through his front teeth. He always does that when he’s annoyed.

“But I was bargaining for the whole three years, plus I only offered to get him an audience with the association.”

“And how were you going to do that?” He removes his newsboy cap and slaps it against his hand.

I don’t say a word and instead let my big eyes do the talking.

Another hiss breezes past his lips. “If I had a nickel for every time you asked me for a favor—”

“You could buy yourself a whole lot of cacahouètes!”

“I don’t want to know what that is.”

I smile brightly. “I’ll just let it eat at you, then. So what do you say? Could you slip us in to this Friday’s meeting?”

“What am I supposed to say? No?”

“Try it. Nooo.” I make my mouth round and draw out the word.

He mimics me, “Nuhh-yes. You see, it’s impossible.”

I give him a light shove, though his solid form hardly moves an inch. “You’re top drawer, Tom, son of a Gunn. I owe you a haircut.”

He snorts. “After that last one, how about you keep your razor away from my head, and we’ll call it even.” Reaching into his pocket, he produces a bag of mooi, salted plum, and holds it open to me. “Well, I wish you every success.” His words slip out easily, like water through fingers.

I pluck out one of the shriveled fruits, unreasonably bothered. Though I know Tom is happy for me, is he also glad to escape the pressures of marriage? The mooi sets off all the water sprinklers in my mouth, sour and salty at once. “Tom?”

His cowlick sticks up, a little bit of mischief on his head. “Yes?”

I sift through words as if they were mah-jongg tiles, searching for the right pieces. “Do you think I’m meek?”

He laughs. “Hardly. You’re more . . . daai daam,” he says, a word that roughly means “no fear.” “If you tell a mountain to move, it will listen to you.”

I poke the toe of my boot at a bulb of seaweed, wishing his observation pleased me more.

He removes the cleaned mooi stone from his mouth and, with one smooth motion, sends it spinning into the ocean. It skips three times across the ruffled surface before sinking. “Remember last Easter, how you told me you were going to that school?”