why Mason so uncharacteristically treated him with a certain respect.
Mason was leafing through the sheets of the manifest, each covered with a strange, looped writing that looked illegible to Denton. Then he glanced up, shaking the sheets together. 'We'll sort this out while we're eating, all right?'
'Of course, Mista' May-song.' The agent bowed again, folding his hands together in his sleeves, then led the way with short gliding steps, his gown flowing behind him, to the first class saloon.
They had hardly sat down at a table by the window, when the chief steward himself appeared, ushered in by the agent.
'What will you like to drink?' Mr Ching was asking, smiling that same courteous yet faintly mocking smile as he looked down at them through his rimless glasses. The chief steward snapped his fingers for the wine list.
'Sherry to start with. What about you, Denton? I can't stand vodka, myself.'
'Oh, nothing for me thank you,' Denton said hurriedly. 'Or just a glass of ginger beer?'
'Sherry and ginger beer?' Mr Ching turned to the chief steward and spoke to him briefly in Russian, leading him gently away.
'He speaks Russian as well,' Denton remarked tentatively. 'The agent.'
'Yes. Used to live up near the Russian border.' Mason opened the menu and studied it, frowning. 'Keep on the right side of him. He knows a thing or two.'
Confused by the names on the menu, Denton let Mason order for both of them. The putrefying corpse clearly hadn't put Mason off his grub after all, Denton noticed, nor indeed himself. It was as though it hadn't really been human at all, but some strange decaying fish. Only when he recalled the sightless eyes and exposed teeth did Denton feel a nauseous qualm.
After the meal, Mason sipped a brandy and picked over the box of cigars the steward brought them, while Mr Ching smoothed the cargo manifest out on the table in front of him. 'Wouldn't get this in second class,' he nudged Denton as the attentive steward lit the long cigar he finally selected. At last he looked reluctantly down at the manifest's sheets trembling under the fan, and began turning them languidly.
'Here, time you got started,' he said abruptly after a while. 'Sort out the tax on this lot. I'll check it afterwards.' He got up, dabbing his moustache with his napkin and went with Mr Ching to the far corner of the saloon, where the agent refilled his brandy while they talked quietly, facing each other across the table like card players.
At first Denton thought he wouldn't be able to decipher the script, but as he worked at the pages he found he could make it out after all. He finished with a lift of pride that was only slightly dashed when Mason negligently checked his calculations without comment.
'All right,' he burped. 'Let's sign.'
'Shouldn't we examine one of the cases?' Denton asked doubtfully.
'Hell, I s'pose we'd better,' Mason frowned in annoyance. 'Have 'em open up a case will you, Mr Ching?' He turned back to Denton as the agent rustled away. 'Teaching me my job now, are you?' he muttered, in a tone that seemed to hover uncertainly between indignation and bantering.
A case was opened in number three hold and Mason checked the contents perfunctorily against the manifest. 'All right,' he turned away. 'Let's sign and be off.'
As they were approaching the gangway, Mason suddenly stopped, slapping his pocket. 'Forgot my report book' he said. 'You go ahead, tell them to get ready. They're probably fast asleep, the lazy devils.'
It was night now, violet and soft, the lights glistening along the shore, with little misty hazes of moisture round them. Denton looked over the side at the Customs launch. The coxswain was talking to one of the sailors, looking up expectantly at Denton. The boiler fire glowed on their faces, and the water all round the boat seemed black and still, as if it had been varnished.
'We're just coming.' Denton called down. The coxswain moved into the shadow of the wheelhouse and then the engine began its vociferous clanking.
He returned along the empty, dimly-lit companion ways to the dining saloon. Mason was holding a white envelope in his hand, talking to Mr Ching in a low, tense voice. They moved apart when they saw him. Mr Ching quickly smiled, but Denton felt he had intruded. 'They're ready,' he said apologetically to Mason. 'Did you find it?'
'What?' Mason stared at him blankly.
'Your report book.'
'Oh.' His face loosened. 'Yes, got it. It was on the, er, on the table there all the time.'
They all looked at the table, while Mason slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his tunic.
'Goodbye, Mista' Den-tong,' Mr Ching said in his high cheerful voice. 'Goodbye, Mista' May-song.'
Mason buttoned his tunic as he went along. He walked most of the way without talking, but then began speaking with a sudden heartiness. 'Extraordinary thing,' he chuckled. 'The old chief steward on this tub sent me a letter.' He patted his pocket as if he was willing to produce the evidence if Denton doubted him. 'We used to go round a bit when he came ashore. Nice of him to remember me, eh?'
Once on board the launch, Mason leant silently against the rail, one foot on the neatly coiled rope, unusually self-involved. Denton wondered why he didn't read his letter. There was light enough from the lamp on the mast.
'He's got a very fair skin for a Chinese, Mr Ching?' he asked across the uneasy silence.
'Mm.'
The night air sliding over his face was mild and cool. 'I always thought Chinese were yellow, but he's paler than many Englishmen,' Denton risked again as the silence between them tautened once more.
'They come in all shapes, sizes and colours,' Mason answered brusquely.
Rebuffed, Denton didn't speak again. He recalled the moral distance he'd meant to keep from Mason and turned his head stiffly to watch the dark shapes of the ships they passed, each lit by pale twinkling lights. The launch put in at the Bund, near the Shanghai Club. Denton gazed up at the long, brightly-lit building with its wide verandas and balconies, from which he could hear the distant, muffled sound of music and laughter, cheerful and assured. He watched two Sikhs in red tunics and white turbans stamping their polished boots arrogantly outside the main entrance, magnificent under the heavy gas lamps as they summoned sedan chairs or rickshaws for the members emerging in evening dress from the open doors. As Denton watched, Mr Brown arrived in a sedan chair borne by four coolies, with an oil lantern burning yellowly on one of the poles. He inclined his shiny bald head, with its woolly circlet of grey hair, as the Sikhs saluted him and ascended the stone steps with a steady, stately step, as if he knew Denton was watching and wished to impress the dignity of his office upon him once more.
12
HE TOOK THE LETTER from the rack with a slight churning feeling in the top of his stomach, and walked slowly into the lounge. He'd recognised Emily's long-anticipated handwriting from a distance, but now that her letter had come, he felt an apprehensive reluctance to open it, as if it might contain bad news. Through the open doors he could hear the soft clack of balls in the billiards room as, his pulse quickening faintly, he pushed his little finger under the envelope flap and tore it open. He drew the letter out.
Dear John,
It is only a fortnight since you left, but it seems an age already.
I am back at the college and you will be somewhere in the Mediterranean by now. This last week has been quite hard and I always get a headache in the tram coming home. But I expect I will get used to it. The weather has not been too bad, although I expect you are getting a lot more sunshine than we are.... When you have got this letter, I expect you will be quite used to your new life. Write and tell me all about it, and how your trip was and everything. I expect you stopped at a lot of interesting places. I wish it was not quite so far away though.
Is it very hot? Do the natives understand English? I always thought Chinese was a hard language to learn, but I suppose you can if you have to. There is going to be another lantern show about