Outrun the Moon(30)

Just Bob folds his sleeves meticulously. His chopping arm, the right, is more muscular. “You were always enterprising, Mercy.” To the others, he says, “Her ma sent her to buy a five-pound chicken when she was seven. Mercy told me she wanted five pounds of drumsticks, since chicken is chicken.” He smiles, and a pang of guilt niggles me.

“You honor me with your memories, Just Bob.”

“Get on with it. What is this proposal?” asks Mr. Ng testily.

“As some of you might know, Chocolatier Du Lac is the largest chocolate business in the country. They would like approval to sell chocolates in Chinatown. I believe this is an opportunity for Chinese people to elevate their status with gwai lo.” I don’t translate the Chinese word for “ghost man,” an unflattering term. “The more dealings we have with reputable gwai lo like Monsieur Du Lac, the more Chinatown will be seen as a worthy trading partner.”

Mr. Ng snorts. “That will never happen. Gwai lo do not respect us. They only seek to exploit us.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Ng, a trip of a thousand miles begins with one step.” Ma always says that when I don’t want to get out of bed.

The men begin to argue in Cantonese, but Mr. Leung puts his hand up for quiet. He addresses Elodie. “Please tell us about your father’s company so we know who we are dealing with.”

Elodie’s suit rustles as she shifts about on the bench. “Certainly. Our main manufacturing plant is off Bay Street, where we also run a very successful boutique. Most of the business, however, is distribution through grocers and luxury goods stores located throughout the country. Our sales average half a million dollars every year.”

Tom’s brush pauses as an appreciative murmur ripples through the room. Money follows money, as the saying goes.

After Mr. Chow translates, Ah-Suk’s gray eyes narrow. “Yes, but are you profitable?” His knobby fingers tap together. The doctor is the shrewdest of the Six.

I translate for Elodie. She arranges her gloved hands prettily in her lap. “We have been profitable for the past twenty-two years.”

“I heard that many of your workers jumped ship to Li’l Betties,” Mr. Ng says with a sneer. “Maybe your house is not so prosperous on the inside.”

I expect a sharp rebuke from Elodie, but instead, she tilts her chin, managing to look almost charming. “It is no secret that Li’l Betties poached some of our workers three months ago. They promised higher wages. But their facility has no safety protocols or industrial sickness funds—benefits that more than make up for our ‘lower wages.’ We are doing our best to find new workers, and expect to return to normal productivity in the next few months.”

The men begin to grumble in Cantonese.

Mr. Ng slices the air with his finger. “I would not trust her. Anyone can see the mark under that girl’s nose.” Everyone focuses on Elodie’s beauty mark.

“A mark like that can simply mean she doesn’t gossip,” I pipe up. If someone had told me I would one day be defending Elodie’s mole, I would’ve told him to go push a cow up a tree. “One would need to consult a fortune-teller to be sure.” Let them remember who my mother is, and who, by default, is the expert in this room.

Elodie rubs her nose, probably wondering why everyone is staring at it. “What are they saying?” she hisses at me.

“They are commiserating with your father’s troubles,” I whisper back. Before any further objections are raised, I say, “We have brought samples. You can judge the quality for yourself.”

Elodie carries the box to the table. With a flick of her wrist, she slips off the ribbon and unhinges the lid. Nestled like eggs in shredded wax paper lay a dozen bonbons, even more beautiful than the ones in the shop. “Our best sellers are caramel and strawberry cream.”

“Like gemstones,” breathes Mr. Chow, who in addition to the black tar, loves to eat.

Mr. Ng scowls. “Who will buy something so fancy?”

“If we wrapped them in white, they would make excellent offerings to the ancestors,” I volunteer.

Elodie shoots me a dirty look. “They make excellent gifts for your wives, and lady friends.”

“There are few wives or ladies here,” Mr. Ng snaps. “The government prohibits us from bringing them from China. You come to us without knowing this basic fact about our population? It’s an insult.”

Elodie’s face pinkens, and Mr. Leung chastises Mr. Ng in Cantonese.

“Of course Miss Du Lac knows this,” I jump in. “She is simply vouching for the high quality of the product.”

Mr. Leung rubs at his smooth chin, looking deep in thought. Without a caution, Mr. Chow plucks a bonbon out of Elodie’s box and pops it into his mouth. We all watch his round cheeks puff up as he chews, then swallows.

“Smooth as duck yolk,” he proclaims.

Mr. Leung points at the box. “How much do they cost?”

“They retail for fifty cents per bonbon,” chirps Elodie.

The men begin a loud protest in Cantonese.

“Highway robbery!”

“That’s a box of good Cubans, hey?”

Even the butcher scratches his head, his kind face crinkling.

Elodie, who can’t understand the men’s chattering, casts me a black look.

I say in English, “While the cost may seem high, it is no higher than the prices paid for similar luxury goods already offered in Chinatown. A good bag of oolong tea. A single abalone. Chocolatier Du Lac is willing to make bulk discounts available. The benefits are numerous, starting with the merchants, who will not only get a share of profits but also increased traffic—”