Part 44 (2/2)

He started to see dangers.

The girl smiled at him. It was meant to rea.s.sure. But behind the smile she was anxious, he could see it.

'She is away in Datong with her new husband. She won't be back until Sat.u.r.day.' As an afterthought she added, 'Today is Tuesday.'

'And this house?'

'It is our new home. There's no one here but us.'

'Servants are not no one no one.'

The skin of her cheeks turned a dull red. 'The cook lives in an annex but I hardly see him, and I have told the houseboy and gardener not to come for a week. I am not a fool, Chang An Lo. I know it was not a well-wisher who did this to you.'

'Forgive me, Lydia Ivanova, the fever makes my tongue foolish. '

'I forgive you,' she said and laughed.

He did not know why she laughed, but it warmed some cold place inside him and he slept.

'Wake up, Chang, wake up.' A hand was shaking him. 'It's all right, shh, don't shout, you're safe. Wake . . .'

He woke.

He was drenched in sweat. His heart was roaring in his chest. Red fury burned the sockets of his eyes and his mouth was as dry as the west wind.

'You were having a nightmare.'

She was leaning over him, her hand on his mouth, silencing his lips. He could taste her skin. Slowly his mind clawed its way to the surface. He kicked away the feel of knives at his genitals and the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils.

'Breathe,' she murmured.

He dragged air deep into his lungs, again and then again. His head was spinning but his eyes were open. It was dark, with just a whisper of light from a street lamp slinking under the curtains, enough for him to make out shapes in the room, the clothes cupboard, the table with the mirror and the medicine bottles. Her. He could see the slender silhouette of her, hair all rumpled and wild-edged. Her hand had left his mouth and was hovering above his damp forehead, fearful to touch. He breathed once more, picked up a rhythm for it.

'You're s.h.i.+vering,' she said.

'I need a bottle.'

There was a slight pause. 'I'll get it.'

She turned on the light. Not the overhead one with the cream shade and silk fringe but the small green lamp that was on the table of medicines. He would have preferred the dark for this task. She came with the wide-necked bottle and lifted the quilt and blankets from his body. He rolled on his side, felt his head swim from just that simple movement, and said nothing while she slid the bottle over his p.e.n.i.s. The flow of urine was laboured and sporadic; it took time, too long. He was aware of her embarra.s.sment, just as he was aware of the nakedness of his loins where she had clipped away the black hair when he was unconscious. He hated her doing this, but his own hands were bandaged into useless swollen stumps. Neither he nor she were yet used to it, and the sound of the liquid trickling into the gla.s.s bottle made his ears burn.

At the end when she held the bottle up to the light and said, 'Looks like a good vintage,' he had no idea what the girl meant.

'What?'

'A good vintage.' She grinned at him. 'Like wine.'

'Much too dark.'

'Less blood in it than last time though.'

'The medicines are working.'

'All of them.' She laughed as she gestured to the colourful row of bottles and potions and packages.

On the table they formed a strange mixture of cultures, Chinese and Western, and yet she seemed totally at ease with both in a way he admired. Her mind was so open and ready to make use of whatever came her way. Just like a fox.

He lay back on the pillow. Sweat trickled from his forehead. 'Thank you.'

The effort had exhausted him, but he remembered to smile at her. Westerners threw smiles around like chicken feathers, another sharp divide in customs, but he had seen how much a smile mattered to her. He gave her one now.

'I am humbled,' he said.

'Don't be.'

'Look at me. I am empty. A hawk without wings. You should despise such weakness.'

'No, Chang An Lo, don't say that. I'll tell you what I see. I see a brave fighter. One who should be dead by now but isn't because he will never give in.'

'You blind your mind with words.'

'No. You blind your mind with sickness. Wait, Chang An Lo, wait for me to heal you.' She reached out and rested a cool hand on his burning forehead. 'Time for more quinine.'

Throughout the rest of the night she dosed him and bathed him and battled the fever. Sometimes he heard her speaking to him and at others he heard himself speaking to her, but he had no idea what he said or why he said it.

'Spirit of nitre and acetate of ammonium with camphor water.'

He recalled her voice wrapping around those difficult words as she spooned things into his mouth, but they were just sounds with no meaning.

'Mr Theo said the herbalist claimed this Chinese brew will work miracles on a fevered brain, so . . . no, please, no, don't spit it out, let's try again, open up, yes, that's it. Good.'

More sounds. Mistertheo. Mistertheo. What is What is mistertheo? mistertheo?

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