Outrun the Moon(31)

“It is no good,” says Ah-Suk, holding a half-nibbled bonbon. He puts down the sweet and sips from his teacup, swishing a few times, as if trying to rid himself of the taste. “This food will lead to too much dampness in the gut, too much overstimulation of the heart doors.”

“Let’s take a vote,” says Mr. Ng.

“But—” I haven’t even gotten to my benefits analysis.

The door opens, and a man pokes in his head. “Are you ready for us?”

“Not yet,” Mr. Leung replies, consulting a clock on the wall. We have overstayed our welcome by ten minutes already.

The man nods and closes the door again.

“All in favor of approving this proposal, say hai,” instructs Mr. Ng.

Mr. Leung frowns at his colleague. “Who’s the chairman here?”

“If you please,” says a voice from the side of the room. Tom bows to his father and says in Cantonese, “Ba, you have taught me that no food is all good or all bad. How a particular food affects us depends on many factors, including the quantity, the health of the person, and the season. Have you not said that wine in proper amounts can aid energy circulation? Surely chocolate is no worse than wine.”

That’s my Tom. I give him a bright smile, though he’s locked in a gaze with his father. Ah-Suk holds his jaw so tightly that the joints bump out on either side.

A tense moment passes. Ah-Suk glowers at his son. “You are young and na?ve, Tom, as are these schoolgirls.” His cold eyes flicker to me. “If the gwai lo truly had our interests at heart, they would be selling our products in their neighborhoods. Instead, they want to drain our dollars, and then buy our homes right from under our noses.”

Mr. Cruz tugs at his mustache, nodding. Just Bob gazes into his teacup. Mr. Chow snores softly, done in by a single bonbon. The only one who looks untroubled is Mr. Ng, who now stares into space with the serenity of Buddha.

I dig my arms into my rib cage. While it is true that wealthy businessmen have been pressuring the Chinese to sell their land for years, it is unfair to blame Chocolatier Du Lac. By “protecting” Chinatown they make it harder for us to interact with the rest of the world. Chinese should have the same freedom and choices available to whites, including where to live, where to go to school, and when to eat chocolate.

Elodie backs away from the table and plants herself on the bench.

“Now can we vote?” Mr. Ng gestures to the door. “We have more important matters to discuss with the Yu-Pei Family Association.”

Mr. Leung sighs. “All in favor of allowing the sale of Du Lac chocolates in Chinatown, say hai.”

Only one man says hai: Just Bob. Even if Mr. Chow were awake, we would still not have a majority. The frustration sits like a hot ball in my throat, and I watch my tenuous connection to St. Clare’s begin to break, thread by thread.

Elodie’s gaze leans heavy on me, and an idea suddenly comes. I feel for the Indian head penny in my pocket. “Mr. Ng, the issue of unemployment is of grave concern here in Chinatown, true?”

He cuts his jittery gaze to me. “One of many concerns, yes.”

“I believe there is an opportunity here. Monsieur Du Lac needs workers. We have workers in abundance, such as members of the Yu-Pei Family Association.”

Elodie tugs sharply at my uniform, and she hisses in my ear, “What are you doing?”

Mr. Leung rubs his finger along the edge of his teacup, nodding. Just Bob elbows Mr. Chow, who jerks awake, bloodshot eyes bobbing as he gets his bearings.

When I have everyone’s attention, I say, “I propose we provide workers for Chocolatier Du Lac, at the going wage, in return for giving them the right to sell chocolate in Chinatown.”

Elodie gasps. “But Papa would never, I can’t—” she begins to whisper.

Mr. Ng watches us carefully as Mr. Chow translates for Ah-Suk.

Before Elodie can erase our facade, I whisper, “It’s a bold move, but I have no doubt your father would benefit. Chinese are the hardest workers you’ll find. Loyal, too.”

Mr. Cruz drums his large fingers on the table, making the teacups rattle. “If we were to consider this, we would need assurances of fair work practices, plus we would require Du Lac to consult with someone from Chinatown on hiring decisions.”

Elodie’s brow knits, and she tugs her gloves back on, as if getting ready to leave. She casts me an irritated gaze, and any hope I felt slinks away. She never wanted me at St. Clare’s. How could I fool myself into thinking that she might be an ally?

“We would need to hand-select this consultant,” she says.

I go still, not sure I heard correctly.

“Fair.” Mr. Leung looks down the table at the men. “Who is in favor?”

This time, three say hai: Mr. Chow, Mr. Cruz, and Just Bob, enough for a majority. Mr. Ng scowls, and Ah-Suk sits as still as one of the wood panels.

“Will your father honor this agreement?” asks Mr. Leung.

She throws back her shoulders and says primly, “Hai.”





13



I WANT TO TALK TO TOM BEFORE WE LEAVE, but he’s already bent over the minute book again as the Yu-Pei Family Association begins its meeting.

I catch his eye, and the shadow of a smile flickers over his face. In an instant, I feel as light as the Floating Island. I forget all about Ling-Ling and her buns, which are mostly air, anyway. I am two steps closer to full tenure at St. Clare’s, and my happiness from seeing Tom is hard to wipe off my face.