over him that set the muscles of his face into a rigid, grim mould. I knew it, he thought bitterly, staring at the great stolid walls of the godowns coming into view along the quayside. I knew it all along.
But then, after those few minutes of bitterness, he boarded his first ship and had to force himself to work. And he started checking the manifest with a determination that closed his mind down as if with metal shutters and left it bare of any thought or feeling except the details of tax, likin, seals and signatures.
He went through the morning without once opening his pocket and re-reading her letter - without even touching it through the cloth of his uniform. At tiffin in the mess, he deliberately sat next to Johnson, knowing that Johnson's stream of banalities would flow on unprompted and distract his own mind with its soothing trivia. He even shared a rickshaw with Johnson back to the wharves, the first time in weeks, and listened to his detailed, unhurried account of the hikes he planned to make round Hankow over Christmas.
His last inspection of the day was of a small opium cargo from Bombay. At the head of the gangway a European stood beside the ship's Chinese agent, a man whose sallow face and dapper appearance seemed vaguely familiar to Denton.
'Good afternoon,' the European greeted him with a slight accent. 'I am the owner of the cargo if you have any questions. This is the ship's agent, but they never know anything.' His voice was smooth yet tense, as if it might grow warmer or cooler suddenly, without warning - the nervy voice of a volatile temper. Looking through the manifest, Denton briefly, hazily, tried to recall where he'd seen the man before, till the spidery figures and letters, inscribed, in ink that was almost brown, by some clerk in Bombay, took over the forefront of his mind.
He examined the opium without comment and computed the tax and likin, accepting the cup of coffee which the owner impatiently told the agent to bring before they had even reached the saloon.
'How long have you been here, Mr...?' the owner asked, sipping coffee himself.
'About six months.' He thought of Emily's letter and looked away from the man's face, which was peering at his across the table. Six months - in just six months she could forget him and take up with someone else! He felt his eyes darkening with self-pity.
'I have been here six years,' the owner declared proudly.
'Have you?' How would he spend the evening? The long empty hours? There was the weekly Christian Youth Fellowship meeting, but - 'In six years I have made myself rich,' the man was saying, peering closer into Denton's abstracted face and smiling with almost boyish pride. 'I came from Russia with nothing, and now I have a business, a house on Jessfield Road, servants, money in the bank ... Jessfield Road, you know? Only rich people.' He opened his hands, palms up, as if he were a magician performing a trick. 'You wait and see, I will be a millionaire. My name is Ephraim, Jacob Ephraim. How do you do? One day you must come to dinner with me.' He thrust out his hand, his brown eyes glowing with friendly warmth.
Denton shook it stiffly, distrustfully.
'And what is your name, may I ask?'
'Mine? Denton.'
'Denton? Are you from England? Yes, I thought so. One day I am going to buy a ship from England. John Brown makers. Secondhand. I will start a fleet.'
Denton nodded inattentively, returning to the report he was writing in his book. And just as he was writing down the time of his inspection, he remembered suddenly where he'd seen this talkative little man before. It was on that Saturday, a couple of months before, after tea with Mr Eaton, when the rickshaw had taken him into the French Concession. This was the man who'd come out of that house with the green shutters and the gross Chinese at the door. This was the dapper man who'd greeted him and walked casually away as if he'd done nothing to be ashamed of. Denton frowned in disapproval at the memory and a moment later thought. Then I was still engaged to Emily, she hadn't written that letter yet.
'What is the matter?' the man's voice broke in sharply. 'You don't like to talk to me? Because I am a Jew?'
'What?'
'Because I am a Jew? You despise me, is that it?' Ephraim's eyes had suddenly grown fierce with resentment and his sallow skin was heavily flushed.
'Not at all!' Denton answered hastily. 'I was busy, that's all.'
'You think, he's a Jew, he's only interested in money, don't you?' Ephraim went on as if Denton hadn't spoken, his eyes burning brighter.
'No - '
'Well, I was a teacher in Russia. In Odessa. Not for money, for love of learning!' He rapped the table imperiously with his knuckles, to compel Denton's attention. 'The Cossacks killed my father, so I came to Shanghai, and yes, I said, yes, I will make money now, because money is security. That is why.' He nodded emphatically several times. 'Money is security for us, Mr...?'
'Denton.'
'Denton. Money is security and power, and we have been without it. That is why Jews make money. Not greed, but safety. We have to survive!' He nodded emphatically again. 'There is only one safety for a Jew: get rich. I have learned my lesson, Mr Kenton - '
'Denton.'
'Denton. I have learned my lesson and I am not ashamed. I am making money and nobody can harm me. I feel safe. That is why I make money. You have no need to. So you have no right to look down on me. I tell you I would rather be a schoolteacher - '
'I was going to be a schoolteacher too,' Denton said drily, closing his report book.
'What? A schoolteacher?' Ephraim's indignant flood ebbed as suddenly as it had risen. The angry light drained from his eyes and was replaced by one of sympathetic curiosity. 'A schoolteacher? Why are you here, then? Why did you stop?'
'For money too. I didn't have enough to carry on with my training. I had to give it up.' He thought bitterly of what else he'd lost.
'A teacher?' Ephraim shook his head wonderingly. 'In that case you cannot have any prejudices against the Jews. Your country had Disraeli for prime minister.' He announced that as if Denton himself might not know it. 'But in Russia they think we are all bad, evil, cheats, robbers, murderers. Do you know they believe we kidnap Christian children and sacrifice them? Russia!' He wrinkled his nose distastefully. 'Barbarians! They think we are all Shylocks, you see? They are still in Shakespeare's times, so backward!'
Denton nodded uncertainly.
'They think our religion is superstition,' Ephraim was saying excitedly, his moist lips smiling derisively as he spoke. 'But what about Christianity? Three gods in one - absurd! Whereas Jewish customs are good ones. Circumcision, for instance. You think it silly? Well, a famous German doctor has proved it prevents cancer of the sexual organ!' He paused to gaze directly into Denton's eyes, as if expecting to see astonishment and admiration there instead of confusion and embarrassment. 'I have a copy of his paper in the Zeitschrift für Chirurgie at home, I will lend it to you. You will be interested to read.'
'I don't know any German,' Denton said quickly.
'Never mind,' he waved the difficulty aside. 'You can make it out. I will lend it to you. Where are you going now - after this ship?'
'I've finished for the day now.' Again he thought of his empty room and the letter in his pocket. A disconsolate, self-pitying tone had slipped into his voice.
'You have finished work? Good! We will have some tea at the Central Hotel. Or the Astor House. You know the Central? It is near my office. The Astor House is the most expensive. I go there too. Which do you prefer?'
'I'm afraid I can't.'
'Another time, then, I will bring you that article, you will be very interested.'
Denton retreated under the barrage of Ephraim's words. The little man kept bringing his face closer to Denton's, gazing at him searchingly so that Denton had to keep drawing back. As Ephraim was ushering him towards the gangway, still talking and gesticulating volubly, he suddenly checked himself and stared harder at Denton's face. 'We have met before, haven't we?' he asked almost suspiciously. 'I have seen your face.'
Denton