Outrun the Moon(29)

“Sin-saang is the honorific title.”

“Shing-shing,” she attempts in an accent that makes me wince.

“Maybe it’s better to say ‘Sirs.’ Most speak English.”

We slow in front of the Chinese Benevolent Association building. Its red, yellow, and green colors are believed to bring luck, power, and prosperity. A pair of stone lions guards the entrance, one male with his paw upon an embroidered ball to represent dominion over the world, and one female, playing with her cub. A figure moves near the door.

“Tom!” My happiness at seeing him spins inside me like a coin. He put on his good jacket—navy silk with gold frog closures down the front. His hair is combed off his forehead, and his cheeks look freshly shaven. He reaches for me, and his quick embrace is both familiar and enthralling. I glance around, as if Ling-Ling and her mother might spring out of the darkness. But only men populate the street at this hour.

Tom glances at Elodie and asks me in rather sarcastic Cantonese, “Make a new friend?”

“May I introduce Mr. Tom Gunn, son of Dr. Gunn? Tom, this is Miss Elodie Du Lac. Her father was called away on business.”

Tom bows, the polite thing to do. I expect Elodie to do something saucy like just plain ignore him, but to my surprise, she curtsies. “How charmed I am to make your acquaintance.”

“It is kind of you to come.”

Elodie smirks at me. She is probably trying to gauge how things lie between Tom and me, so I force myself to appear disinterested.

Tom holds the door for us, and we file into the anteroom with its elaborately carved wooden panels. “Wait here.” He slips through a set of red doors leading to the main room.

The familiar sweet scent of incense perfumes the air. Elodie holds herself tightly, looking like she got off at the wrong trolley stop. I begin to doubt the wisdom of bringing her along. But moments later, Tom reappears and beckons us in.

Ready or not, it’s time to sell chocolate.





12



THE SIX STARE DOWN AT US FROM THEIR table atop a raised platform that spans the length of the room. Though I’ve grown up knowing these men, the sight of them lined up with such serious expressions makes me stand straighter.

All are garbed in traditional sam-fu trousers and jackets, queues draping from their black skullcaps, with the exception of my favorite, Just Bob, who sports a flannel shirt with elbow patches over his compact frame. He winks at me. He can get away with wearing the “foreign devil” clothes because he looks like a devil most of the time, wielding his cleaver, and with bloodstains on his apron. The heavyset Mr. Cruz spreads out at the end, his gouty leg stretched to one side. He can also wear western clothes, because he is half-Portuguese.

“Greetings, sirs,” I say in Cantonese, bowing low. I can smell the fragrant chrysanthemum tea they are drinking, and wish I had a cup to soothe my nerves. “Thank you for accepting this humble girl’s request for a hearing.”

I introduce the chocolatier’s daughter. Elodie bobs a deep curtsy, and the Six incline their heads.

“You’re late,” Mr. Ng barks in Cantonese. He slouches back in his chair, and his neck disappears. Ma says people with “firecracker necks” have short fuses.

“My apologies, Ng sin-saang. Please forgive my slow feet.”

He grunts, and Elodie looks at me for translation. I ignore her. There are many rabbit holes of cultural misunderstanding to fall into here, and not everything requires a translation.

Mr. Leung shushes Mr. Ng. To us, he says, “Please sit.”

We sit on a two-seater bench with the box of chocolate between us. Tom takes his place at the small desk where he records the minutes. He pulls the cap off his calligraphy brush and rolls it in the ink. His hands are as at home with a brush as they are with a spench.

The sight of a pink pastry box at one corner of his desk, stamped with the insignia for Number Nine Bakery, puts a hot coal in my firebox. The two-headed snake—Ling-Ling and her ma—strikes again. Tom doesn’t fritter away his money on sweets. They must have given it to him. Clearly they are on a campaign to win him over.

Elodie catches me watching him.

“I heard you are attending a new school, Mercy,” says Mr. Leung in lightly accented English. Mr. Chow translates for Tom’s father, the only one who doesn’t speak the “barbarian clackety-clack,” English. “It is good to see you broadening your horizons.”

“Thank you, Leung sin-saang.”

Mr. Ng leans forward again and places his pointy elbows on the table. The man can’t sit still. He says in Cantonese, “Girls do not need school. You should find a nice boy to marry and have some babies. We need more babies here.”

Mr. Leung shushes Mr. Ng again and steers the conversation back in English. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“No. This is a recent endeavor.”

“Why is Monsieur Du Lac himself not here?” asks Mr. Cruz in a hale voice that seems to rattle the teacups. The Portuguese man only has one volume: loud.

“Monsieur Du Lac had to be out of town unexpectedly, but has great confidence in his daughter, and has authorized Miss Du Lac to act on his behalf. She will take over his business one day.”

Mr. Leung makes a triangle of his fingers, nodding thoughtfully. It strikes me that Elodie’s presence adds a measure of credibility to my plan, more than if her father had been the one to come. Mr. Ng, in particular, might have been suspicious of my partnership with a seasoned businessman.