Outrun the Moon Page 9

  Today’s classes were shortened for an early ‘fasting’ dinner of soup and crackers, followed by Good Friday Mass. I head straight to the library after chapel while the others rehearse for the Spring Concert. The splendor of so many gilded books stretching out like scales of a giant dragon thrills me. The cemetery’s collection was a fraction of this size, and they were all worn, their lettering rubbed thin.

  Before I put the final touches on my marketing plan for this evening’s meeting, I sniff the papery smells the way Ah-Suk sorts through his jars of herbs, wishing that reading a book was as easy as one inhalation. It would take years to finish all the books here, and I don’t have years.

  Yet.

  “Oh, hello.” Ruby Beauregard unfolds herself from a wingback chair. She was so quiet, I didn’t notice her sitting nearby.

  “Hello. Don’t you have to practice for the Spring Concert?”

  “Headmistress dismissed me for singing out of tune, but I didn’t mind.” A mischievous grin lights her face. “I was out of tune.”

  Her eyes fall to the book she’s holding, Pays de France. To my knowledge, geography is not a subject taught here. “Are you planning to travel?”

  “Oh, no.” She replaces the book on a shelf carefully so that its spine evenly matches the others, then softly adds, “I mean, not unless I’m married, of course.”

  I notice her use of the word unless rather than until, as if there was a question of her ever entering that blessed state so revered at St. Clare’s. Her hips are wide, the kind that Ma says indicate a pod that has many peas.

  “I plan to travel one day, married or unmarried,” I tell her.

  She blinks. “But, it’s not proper for young women.”

  My marketing plan crumples a little in my hand. “Women were born with eyes and feet, same as men. Why shouldn’t we see the world if we want to?” My thoughts stray back to Tom. How could he not prefer someone who wants to view the world from above in a balloon, rather than someone content to remain below?

  Ruby’s gaze falls away, and her carriage weakens. “Maybe it is different in China.” She flashes me a smile. “Minnie Mae will be looking for me.” She shuffles from the room, leaving behind the scent of rosemary.

  I don’t know why it surprises me that the Southerner and I share something in common—a desire to see the world, hampered by the world’s desire not to see us without a husband on our arms. We are both girls after all, born into the same social girdle that comes with having a womb, despite our cultural differences. In many ways, I have more in common with the students of St. Clare’s than I have with my Chinese brethren.

  Sliding into a writing desk, I try to put Ruby from my mind and focus on tonight’s meeting. My analysis is sound, but the association could still refuse. Last year, they turned away a purveyor of Turkish delights because they were “against Chinese custom.” How would I get around that objection?

  Mrs. Lowry says that in order to fill a need, one must understand the customer. Farmers in Michigan need a sturdier kind of cow than farmers in the milder climates of Texas, where she lives.

  So, what things are important to the Chinese? Family. Food. Funerals.

  Funerals. I jerk upright, banging my knee against the apron of the walnut table. That’s it.

  If Monsieur Du Lac wrapped the chocolates in white paper, he could sell them as offerings to the ancestors, maybe even mold the chocolate into coins. Chinese buy all sorts of luxuries for the dead to ensure a comfortable afterlife: cigarettes, pomelos, why not chocolate?

  I sweep up my papers, the sweet taste of victory already on my tongue.

  11

  AT THE APPOINTED TIME OF SIX O’CLOCK, I wait at the curb for my ride to the Benevolent Association, rehearsing my argument one more time.

  The thought of seeing Tom ties an extra band around my stomach. Have the few days apart worked in my favor or against? Maybe Ling-Ling has already wormed her way into his heart, that is if her ma has not knocked him over the head and dragged him off like a prized goat.

  I scold the worries away. As Ma likes to say, you cannot control the wind, but you can control your sails.

  The great door of St. Clare’s opens behind me. Elodie emerges in a pin-striped suit with ruffles around the wrists and neck and a smart gray hat on her head. I’m suddenly conscious of my uniform, which looks drab as a feed sack by comparison.

  She sashays down the stoop and glides to a spot a few feet away, not acknowledging me. What is she doing here?

  “Going out?” I ask.

  She rummages in her beaded handbag and takes out a mirror. A pearl ring, delicate as a tear, adorns her gloved finger. “I’m coming with you. Papa made me second-in-command with executive authority. I am entitled to know everything that happens with the business, even the unsavory aspects.” A smarmy grin wings up her face. Seeing me squirm has quickly become a favorite pastime of hers.

  Unsinkable as a cork, I remind myself.

  The blond car finally sails to the curb, but Monsieur is not inside. William calls over the engine, “I’m sorry, ladies, but he was called to New York. Wants you to reschedule the meeting.”

  I gape. “New York? How long will he be gone?”

  “Hard to say. The express takes a few days each way. He had pressing business to attend to.”

  Elodie rolls her eyes. “Right. Business . . .” she mutters.

  My heels sink into the pavement. “But we . . . we had an arrangement,” I say lamely. The sweet taste of victory tastes more like bitter melon. “The association will be waiting for us. I can’t not show up.” I cringe, thinking about their reactions.

  William frowns in sympathy. He draws out a wooden box with satin ribbon and offers it to Elodie. “He says he’s sorry about your birthday and that you should still see Carmen. He had these truffles made for you.”

  It’s her birthday? Elodie doesn’t bother to take the box but instead turns on her heel to march back to the house. My anger flares. Tom went through a great deal of trouble to get this appointment. We’re going to keep it, Monsieur or not.

  I step in front of her, blocking her path. “You said yourself, you are second-in-command. That means you can fulfill business obligations as proxy. Or do you not have executive authority as you said?”

  Her mouth opens and closes like a fish as she looks from me to William. The man’s jaw moves, like he’s sucking on a chaw of tobacco. She’s probably waiting for him to defend her, but I wonder if he’s thinking about how she didn’t even acknowledge the box he’s still holding.

  No one says anything, and so I twist the screw a little more. “I would hate for your papa to be in breach of contract, especially when his daughter could have done something about it.”

  “Well, I never—” Elodie huffs. She pushes past me up the stairs.

  “Bet your papa would be right proud of you for filling in.” William’s words slow Elodie in her tracks. For a moment, I think she might even turn around.

  But then she continues her ascent.

  The door shuts behind her with a heavy thud. My dreams, gone in a cloud of pinstripes.

  William’s gaze falls to the box. “He forgets that chocolate makes her mouth itch.”

  I gape. “She’s adverse to chocolate? How will she work in the business?”

  “She is bright and capable. One day her father will see it.” He leans over the car door and places the chocolate on the front seat. “Do you still need a ride to Chinatown?”

  “Thank you.”

  Just as William pulls on his goggles, the front door of St. Clare’s opens again. We glance up at Elodie sweeping down the stairs.

  She casts me a black look, then announces, “I’ve decided to accompany you.”

  William smoothly opens the door to the automobile, a smile lurking around his freckled cheeks, and at last, we set sail.

  The fa
miliar scents of gasoline, horse manure, and salty ocean air blow around us as we descend toward downtown.

  Elodie tosses back her hair, freshly ironed into curls. “How does this association work?”

  “Chinese people group themselves into ‘companies’ according to family villages, which look out for their welfare, help them find jobs, things like that. The association governs the companies, much like the federal government oversees the states. It’s made up of six company presidents who we call the Six.”

  “Who knew you were so organized,” she says with a smirk. “Who’s the head mandarin?”

  I cringe. “We are not oranges. The chairman is Mr. Leung, and he is fair, though he has no vote. Mr. Ng is the vice chairman, and he is prickly. He’s the most likely to turn us down, but a majority can overrule him.” Once, he chased a traveling salesman all the way to Market Street for trying to sell him a dog leash. “Then there’s Mr. Chow . . .” I pause, remembering the soft-spoken man with the fondness for the black tar. He might support us if he can stay awake long enough to vote. “Also, Mr. Cruz, who’s half-Portuguese; Ah-Suk—that is, Dr. Gunn—our herbalist; and ‘Just Bob,’ who’s a butcher.”

  “Just Bob.” Elodie’s voice is sticky with sarcasm.

  “His real name is Mok Wai-Keung. You may call him that if you prefer.”

  She makes a tsch sound with her tongue. May she remember that, tonight, we’re on the same side.

  A collision forces us to detour down Market Street, and my legs begin to bounce with nervous energy. The Benevolent Association values punctuality.

  Businesses of every nature cram this crowded street—gun shops, barbershops, moving picture theaters. A tall knot of buildings—the Call, Mutual Bank, and the Chronicle—compete for who can reach the stars first. To many San Franciscans, those behemoths are San Francisco, tall and proud, survivors in a rough landscape.

  I will survive, too, with or without Elodie’s help.

  When we enter Chinatown, William stops where I direct him. We pile out of the automobile, and my eyes catch on the box of chocolate. “Do you mind if we—” I begin to ask him.

  But before I can finish, Elodie leans over and snatches up the box herself. “It is my chocolate, and I will hold it.”

  It’s good to smell the smoky cabbage and ginseng aroma of the old neighborhood. Most shops have closed for the night, but a crowd collects around a restaurant with a fan-tan hall in the back. Chinese love that game, especially the unemployed, who can least afford to play it.

  Elodie clutches her box tightly, hurrying to keep pace with me as men eye us with curiosity. “These people do not look like our ideal customers.”

  “You prefer them fleshier? Paler?”

  She fixes me with a glare that wars with her bouncing curls. “I hope you have a strategy.”

  “Of course. I plan to use the benefits versus features model, followed by an analysis of potential revenue streams.” Mrs. Lowry explained this in detail, using graphs and flow charts, though I hardly expect Elodie to understand.

  “Potential revenue streams,” Elodie says carefully. “We can also offer incentives, if sales volume meets expectations, joint accounting of course.”

  My mouth drops as she marches on, a smart clip to her step. I never thought I would hear the term joint accounting from her coralline lips.

  “What about bulk discounts?” I ask, testing her. “Product redemption for low demand?”

  She shakes her head. “No redemption. Chocolate has a short shelf life, and that would be impossible. Now, these six gentlemen, how shall I address them?”

  “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.

  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.”