Текст книги "Elephant Song"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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All the brothers knew it must be one of them.  They had known it the moment that the Englishman had made the request.  Cheng had noticed the others lean forward at the words, and he had seen his own excitement and expectation mirrored in their eyes.  Ever since then, the brothers had been walking around each other like dogs with stiff legs.  The extent of Lucky Dragon's investment in the Ubomo syndicate was unprecedented. When the project was fully financed and developed, the family would be committed to raising almost a thousand million dollars, much of it borrowed from banks in Hong Kong and Japan.

It must be one of the sons.  Ning Heng H'Sui would never put so much trust in an outsider.  Only his age forced him to delegate the task to one of them.  Not long ago he would have taken command in Ubomo into his own hands, but now his sons knew he had to give it to one of them, and each of them would kill for the honour.  That command would be the ultimate accolade which would show clearly whom Heng had chosen as his heir.

Cheng longed for the honour with a passion so intense that it denied him sleep and spoiled his appetite.  In the two weeks since Sir Peter's visit, Cheng had lost weight and become pale and hollow-cheeked.  Now, when he exercised in the gymnasium with his hired sparring partners, his body was lean to the point of emaciation.  Every rib showed through the hard rubbery casing of muscle.  However, his blows and kicks had lost none of their fury.  As he fought, his dark eyes, sunken into bruisedlooking cavities, glittered with a feverish intensity.

He found every excuse to be in his father's company.  Even when the old man was painting, or meditating with the Confucian priests at the shrine in the gardens of the estate, or cataloguing his ivory collection, Cheng; tried to be with him, keeping himself close.  Yet he sensed that the moment was not exactly right to make the gift.  He believed that his father's choice must in the end come down to that between his second brother, Wu, and Cheng himself.

The eldest brother, Fang, was tough and ruthless, but lacking in guile and cunning, a good hatchet man but not a leader.  The third son, Ling, possessed an unreliable temperament.  tie was clever, as clever as either Wu or Cheng, but he was easily panicked and inclined to fly into a rage when things went against him.  Ling would never head Lucky Dragon.  He might become Number Two perhaps, but never Number One.  No, Cheng reasoned, the choice must be between himself and Wu.

As a child he had recognized Wu as his main rival and in consequence he hated him with a single-minded malevolence.

While she had been alive, Cheng's English mother had protected him from his half-brothers.  But after she died he had been at their mercy.

It had taken all these years to learn to hold his own and insinuate himself ever deeper into his father's favour.

Cheng recognized that this would be his chance, his only chance for supremacy.  His father was old, more than old, he was ancient.  Despite his seemingly boundless strength and energy, Cheng sensed that his father was near death.  It might come at any moment of any day, and he went cold at the thought.

He knew that unless he consolidated his accession while his father still lived, Wu would wrest it from him with the help of his two full brothers, the moment his father died.  He sensed also that his father was on the point of deciding on the Ubomo project.  He knew that this was his moment.  This was the slack water of the tide of his fortunes, and now they must turn and begin to flood, or he would be for ever stranded on the mudbanks.

Honourable Father, I have something for you.  A small and humble token of the respect and gratitude I feel for you.  May I present it?

Fortune seemed to conspire with Cheng to provide an appropriate opportunity.  The old man was spry today, his mind quick and his waning bodily strength in some measure restored.

He had eaten a ripe fig and an apple for breakfast, and had composed a classical stanza while Cheng walked him down to the shrine.  It was an ode to the mountain peak that stood above the estate.  The poem began: Beloved of clouds who caress her face .  . .

It was good, although not as good as his father's paintings and ivory carvings, Cheng thought.  However, when the old man recited it, Cheng clasped his hands.  I am awed that so much genius resides in one person.

I wish only that I had inherited a few grains of it for myself.  He thought he might have overdone it a little, but the old man accepted the praise and for a moment tightened his grip on Cheng's arm.  You are a good son, he said.  And your mother his voice trailed off mournfully, your mother was a woman He shook his head and Cheng thought incredulously that the old man's eyes had moistened.  It must have been his imagination.

His father was not prey to weakness and sentimentality.

When he looked again his father's eyes were clear and bright, and the old man was smiling.

That morning Heng stayed on at the shrine much longer than he usually did.  He wanted to inspect the work on his own tomb.  One of the most famous geomancers on the island had come to position the tomb precisely and to orientate it so that it stood neither on.  an earth dragon's head nor on his tail.  That would have disturbed the old man's death sleep.

The georriancer had worked with a compass and a magic bag for almost an hour, directing the efforts of the priests and the servants to get the marble sarcophagus laid properly.

All this preparation for his own funeral put Heng into a pleasant relaxed mood, and when they were finished Cheng seized the moment and asked to be allowed to present his gift.

Heng smiled and nodded.  You may bring it to me, my son.  Alas, father, the nature of the gift makes that impossible.  I must take you to it.

Heng's expression changed.  These days he seldom left the estate.  He seemed about to refuse.  However, Cheng had anticipated his reaction.

All he needed to do was lift one hand and the Rolls that was parked behind the clipped privet hedger, beyond the lotus pools slid silently forward.

Before the old man could protest, Cheng had helped him into the back seat and settled him comfortably with a cashmere rug over his knees.

The chauffeur knew where to take them.  As the Rolls came down the mountain road on to the littoral plain, Heng and Cheng were isolated and protected from the heat and humidity, and from the teeming humanity that clogged the Toad with Vespa motorcycles and buses, wild chicken taxis and heavily laden trucks.

When they entered Chung Ching South Road in the Hsimending area of the city the chauffeur slowed and turned in through the gates of the Lucky Dragon company's main city warehouse.

The guards jumped to attention as they recognized the couple in the back seat.

One of the warehouse doors stood open and after the car drove through, the steel shutter doors rolled closed behind it.

The Rolls parked on one of the loading ramps and Cheng helped his father out of the back door and took his elbow to lead him to a carved teak chair that stood like a throne, covered with embroidered silk cushions, overlooking the floor below the ramp.

As soon as his father was comfortable, Cheng signaled one of the servants to bring freshly made tea.  He sat on one of the cushions lower than Heng and they drank tea and talked quietly of unrelated subjects.

Cheng was drawing out the moment, trying to spice his father's anticipation.  If he succeeded, the old man did not show it.  He barely glanced towards the floor belok.

Ten brawny workmen knelt in a row facing the throne.

Cheng had dressed them in black tunics, with red headbands, and the emblem of the Lucky Dragon embroidered on their backs also in red.  He had rehearsed them carefully and they were motionless, heads bowed respectfully.

Finally, after ten minutes of talk and tea, Cheng told his father, This is the present I have brought you from Africa.  He indicated the rows of chests, arranged behind, the workmen.  It is such a poor little present that now I am ashamed to offer it to you.  Tea?  Heng smiled.

Cases of tea?  Enough tea to last me the rest of my lifetime.  it is a fine gift, my son.  It is a poor gift, but may I open the cases for you? Cheng asked, and the old man nodded his permission.

Cheng clapped his hands and the ten workmen sprang to their feet and ran to seize one of the tea-chests and bring it forward.  They worked swiftly, efficiently.  With half a dozen blows of a slap-hammer and a twist of a jernmy bar, they lifted the lid off the first case.

Heng showed the first sign of animation and leaned forward in the high chair.  Two of the workmen lifted out the first tusk from its bed of caked black tea.

Cheng had long ago arranged that it should be one of the largest and most finely shaped tusks in the entire shipment of stolen ivory.  He had asked Chetti Singh to mark the case that contained it before the.

shipment left the Indian's warehouse in Malawi.

The tusk was long, over seven feet long, but not as thick and blunt as one of the typical massively heavy tusks from further north than Zimbabwe.  Yet from an entirely aesthetic point of view this one was more pleasing, its girth more in proportion to its length and the curve and taper were elegant.  It was neither cracked nor damaged and the patina above the lip was creamy yellow.

Involuntarily Heng clapped his hands with pleasure and exclaimed aloud.

Bring it to me!  Two of the workmen, struggling under the burden, climbed the concrete steps and knelt before him offering the lovely tusk.

Heng stroked the ivory and his eyes sparkled in the cobweb of wrinkles that surrounded them.

Beautiful!  he murmured.  The most beautiful of all nature's creations, more beautiful than pearls or the feathers of the brightest tropical birds.  He broke off abruptly as his fingers detected the rough patch on the tusk.  He leaned closer and peered at it and exclaimed again.  But this tusk bears a government stamp.  "ZW".  That is a Zimbabwe government number.

This is legal ivory, Cheng.  He clapped his hands again.  Legal ivory, my son, many more times more valuable for those numbers.  How did you do it?

How many more tusks are there?

His father's unrestrained pleasure was giving Cheng huge face.

He must be careful to remain humble and dutiful.  Every one of those cases is filled with ivory, honoured Father.  Every tusk is stamped.

Where did you get them?  Heng insisted, and then raised his hand to prevent Cheng replying.  Wait!  he ordered.  Wait.  Do not tell me!  He was silent, staring at his son for a while, and then he said, Yes.

That is it.

I know where this ivory comes from.  With a wave of his hand he sent the black-clad workmen out of earshot and leaned closer to Cheng, dropping his voice to a whisper.  I read some time ago that there was a raid by a gang of poachers on a government ivory store in Zimbabwe.  A place called Chiwewe?

The gangsters were wiped out, but the ivory was not recovered, is that not so, my son?  I read the same newspaper article, honoured Father.

Cheng dropped his eyes and waited while the silence drew out.

Then Heng spoke again.  The man who planned that raid was clever and bold.  He was not afraid to kill for what he wanted, he whispered.  The kind of man that I admire.  The kind of man that I was once, when I was young.  The kind of man that you still are, Father, Cheng said, but Heng shook his head.  The kind of man that I would be proud to have as my son, Heng went on.  You may present the rest of your gift to me now.

Now Cheng's standing, in his father's eyes, was so enormous that he wriggled in his seat with pleasure and shouted for the workmen to open the other cases.

For the next two hours Heng examined the shipment of tusks.  He gloated over every single piece, picking out a dozen or so of the loveliest or most unusual for his special collection.

He was particularly interested in deformed ivory.  The nerve of one of the tusks had been damaged, while it was still immature, by a hand-hammered lead ball from a native poacher's musket.

The result was that the tusk had split into four separate shafts and these had twisted around each other in the same way as the strands of a hemp rope.  The original lead musket-bullet, heavily corroded, was still embedded in the root of the tusk, and the entwined spirals of ivory resembled the horns of the legendary unicorn.  Heng was delighted with it.

Cheng had seldom seen him so animated and voluble, but at the end of the two hours he was obviously fatigued, and Cheng helped him back into the Rolls and ordered the chauffeur to return to the estate.

Heng laid his head back on the soft Connally leather and closed his eyes.

When Cheng was sure the old man was asleep, he gently adjusted the cashmere rug over him.  One of Heng's hands had dropped on to the seat beside him.  Cheng lifted it into his lap and before he covered it with the cashmere he caressed it so gently as not to wake his father.  The hand was thin and bony and the skin was cool as that of a corpse.

Suddenly the long thin fingers tightened on Cheng's wrist and the old man spoke without opening his eyes.  I am not afraid of death, my son, he whispered.  But I am terrified that all that I have achieved will be destroyed by careless hands.  Your brother Wu is strong and clever, but he does not have my spirit.  He does not care for fine and beautiful things.  He does not love poetry or painting or ivory.  Heng opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at his son with those bright implacable lizard's eyes.  I knew that you had inherited my spirit, Cheng, but until today I doubted that you had the warrior's steel.

That is the reason why I hesitated to choose between you and Wu.

However, this gift that you have given to me today has changed that thinking.  I know how you obtained that ivory.  I know that it was necessary to squeeze the juice from the ripe cherry.  This was Heng's euphemism for drawing blood.  And I know that you did not shrink from it.  I know also that you succeeded in a difficult enterprise, whether by luck or cunning I do not really care.  I prize both luck and cunning equally.  He tightened his grip until it was painful but Cheng did not wince or pull away.  I am sending you to Ubomo, my son, as the representative of the Lucky Dragon.  Cheng bowed his head over his father's hand and kissed it.

I will not fail you, he promised, and a single tear of joy and of pride fell from the corner of his eye and sparkled like a jewel on the pale dry skin of his father's hand.

Ning Heng H'Sui made the -formal announcement of his selection the following morning.  He made it while seated at the head of the lacquer table overlooking the garden.

Cheng; watched the faces of his brothers while the old man spoke.  Wu remained as impassive as the ivory carving his father had made of him years ago.  His face was bland, smooth and creamy yellow, but his eyes were terrible as he returned Cheng's stare across the table.  When the old man finished speaking there was a moment's silence which seemed to last an eternity as the three elder brothers contemplated the world that had changed for them.

Then Wu spoke.  Honourable Father, you are wise in all things.  We, your sons, bow to your will as the rice stalks bow to the north wind.

All four of them bowed so low that their foreheads almost touched the table-top, but when they straightened the other three were looking at Cheng.  Cheng realised at that moment that it might be possible to attain too much face.  His face was greater than that of all his half-brothers combined and he felt an icicle of fear slide down his spine, for his brothers were watching him with the eyes of crocodiles.

He knew that he dare not fail in Ubomo.  They would be waiting to rend him if he did.

Once Cheng was back in his own apartment, the fear fell away to be replaced by the clarion of success.  There was so much work to do before he returned to Africa, but for the moment he could not concentrate his mind upon it.  Tomorrow certainly, but not now.  He was too charged with excitement, his mind restless and unfocused.  He needed to steady'himself, to burn off the excess energy that made him both physically and mentally overwrought.

He knew exactly how to achieve this.  He had his own special ritual for purging his soul.  Of course, it was dangerous, terribly dangerous.

On more than one occasion before it had brought him to the very brink of disaster.  However, the danger was part of the efficacy of the ritual. He knew that if anything went wrong he would have lost all.

The monumental successes of these last few days, his father's selection and the ascendancy over his brothers would all be wiped away.

The risk was enormous, completely out of proportion to the fleeting gratification that he would achieve.  Perhaps it was the gambler's urge to flirt with self-destruction.  After each episo he always promised himself that he would never indulge in the madness again, but always the temptation proved too strong, particularly at a time such as this.

As soon as he entered his apartment his wife made tea for him, and then called the children to pay him their respects.  He spoke to them for a few minutes and took his infant son on his lap, but he was distracted and soon dismissed them.  They left with obvious relief.

These formal interviews were 2 strain for all of them.  He was not good with children, even his own.

My father has chosen me to go to Ubomo, he told his wife.

It is a great honour, she said.  I offer you my felicitations.

When will we leave?  I shall go alone, he told her, and saw the relief in her eyes.

It annoyed him that she made it so obvious.  Of course, I will send for you as soon as I have made the arrangements.  She dropped her eyes.

I will await your summons.  But he could not concentrate on her.  The excitement was fizzing in his head.  I will rest for an hour.  See that I am not disturbed.  Then I have to go down to the city.  There is much work to do before I leave.  I will not return tonight, and I shall probably stay at the apartment in Tunhua Road.  I shall send you a message before I return.

Alone in his own room he teased himself with the telephone.

He placed the cordless instrument on the table and stared at it, rehearsing every word he would say and his breathing was short and quick as though he had run up a flight of stairs.  His fingers trembled slightly when at last he reached out for it.  The telephone was fitted with a special coding scrambler.  It could not be tapped and it was impossible for any other person, Civil or military or police, to trace the special number that he punched into the key panel.

Very few people had this number.  She had told him once that she had given it to only six of her most valued clients.  She answered it on the second ring and she recognized his voice instantly.  She greeted him with the special code name she had assigned him.  You have not been to see me for almost two years, Green Mountain Man.  I have been away.

Yes, I know, but still I missed you.

I want to come tonight.  Will you want the special thing?  Yes.

Cheng felt his stomach clench at the thought of it.  He thought he might be sick with fear and loathing and excitement.  It is very short notice, she said.  And the price has risen since your last visit.  The price does not matter.  Can you do it?

He heard the high strained tones of his own voice.  She was silent, and he knew she was baiting him.  He wanted to scream at her and then she said, You are fortunate.  Her voice changed.  It became obscenely soft and slimy.  I have received new merchandise; I can offer you a choice of two.  Cheng gulped and cleared his throat of a plug of phlegm before he could ask.  Young?  Very young.  Very tender.  Untouched.

When will you be ready?  Ten o'clock tonight, she said.  Not before.

At the sea pavilion?  he asked.  Yes, she replied.  They will expect you at the gate.  Ten o clock, she repeated.  Not earlier, not later.

Cheng drove to the apartment building in Tunbua Road.  It was in the most prestigious part of the city and the accommodation was expensive, but it was paid for by Lucky Dragon.

He left his Porsche in the underground garage and rode up to the top floor apartment in the elevator.  By the time he had showered and changed it was still only six o'clock and he had plenty of time in which to prepare himself.

He left the apartment building on foot and set off down Tunhua Road.

tHe lo ed the renao of Taipei.  It was one of the things that he missed most while he was away.  Renao was a concept that was almost impossible to translate from the Chinese to any other language.  It meant festive, lively, joyous and noisy all at the same time.

It was now the ghost month, the seventh lunar month when the ghosts return from hell to haunt the earth and have to be placated with gifts of ghost money and food.  It was also necessary to keep them at a distance with fireworks and dragon processions.

Cheng paused to laugh and applaud one of the processions led by a monstrous dragon with a huge papier-michi head and fifty pairs of human legs beneath its serpentine body.  The jumping-jack fireworks popped with spurts of blue smoke about the ankles of the spectators and the band beat drums and gongs and the children shrieked.  It was good renao and it heightened Cheng's excitement.

He threaded his way through the crowds and the bustle until he reached the East Garden area of the city and left the main thoroughfare to enter a back, alley.

The fortune-teller was one Cheng, had used for ten years.  He was an old man with thin wispy grey hair and a facial mole like Cheng's father had.

He wore traditional robes and a mandarin cap and sat cross-legged in his curtained cubicle with his paraphernalia around him.

Cheng greeted him respectfully and at his invitation squatted facing him.

I have not seen you for a long time, the old man accused him, and Cheng apologised.  I have been away from Taiwan.

They discussed the fee and the divination that Cheng required.  I am about to undertake a task, Cheng explained.  I wish to have spirit guidance.  The old man nodded and consulted his almanacs and star guides, nodding and mumbling to himself.  Finally he handed Cheng a ceramic cup filled with bamboo rods.

Cheng shook this vigorously and then spilled the rods on to the mat between them.  Each rod was painted with characters and emblems and the old man studied the pattern in which they had fallen.  This task will not be undertaken here in Taiwan, but in a land across the ocean, he said, and Cheng relaxed a little.  The old man had not lost his touch.

He nodded encouragement.  it is a task of great complexity and there are many people involved.  Foreigners, foreign devils.

Again Cheng nodded.  I see powerful allies, but also powerful enemies who will oppose you.  I know my allies, but I do not know who will be my enemies, Cheng interjected.

You already know your enemy.  He has opposed you before.

On that occasion you overcame him.  Can you describe him?  The fortune-teller shook his head.  You will know him when you see him again.

When will that be?  You should not travel during the ghost month.

You must prepare yourself here in Taiwan.  Leave only on the first day of the eighth lunar month.  "Very well.  That suited Cheng's plans.

Will I overcome this enemy once again?  To answer that question it will be necessary to make a further divination, the old man whispered, and Cheng grimaced at this device for doubling the fee.  Very well" he agreed, and the fortune-teller replaced the bamboo sticks in the bowl and Cheng shook them out on to the mat.  There are two enemies now.

The fortune-teller picked two rods out of the pile.  One is the man that you know, the other is a woman whom you have not yet met.

Together they will oppose your endeavours.  Will I overcome them?

Cheng asked anxiously, and the old man examined the fall of the bamboo rods minutely.

I see a snow-capped mountain and a great forest.  These will be the battleground.  There will be evil spirits and demons The old man's voice trailed away, and he lifted one of the bamboo sticks from the pile. What else do you see?  Cheng insisted, but the old man coughed and spat and would not look up at him.  The bamboo sliver was painted white, the colour of death and disaster.

That is all.  I can see no more, he mumbled.

Cheng took a new thousand Taiwan dollar note from his top pocket and laid it beside the pile of bamboo rods.  Will I overcome my enemies?

Cheng asked, and the note disappeared like a conjuring trick under the old man's bony fingers.  You will have great face, he promised, but still he would not look directly at his client, and Cheng left the cubicle with some of his good feelings dissipated by the ambiguous reply.

More than ever now he needed solace, but it was still only a little after eight o'clock.  She had told him not to come before ten.

It was only a short walk to Snake Alley, but on his way Cheng paused in the forecourt of the Dragon Mountain Temple and burned a pile of ghost money in one of the gaudy pyramid furnaces to placate the ancestral ghosts who would be prowling the night around him.

He left the temple and cut through the night market where the stall-holders offered a bewildering array of wares and the prostitutes plied their trade in flimsy wooden sheds in the back areas of the market.  Both storekeepers and painted ladies haggled loudly with their potential customers, and the spectators joined in with comment and suggestion and laughter.  It was good renao, and Cheng's spirits revived.

He entered -Snake Alley down which the shops were crowded closely together.  Outside each stall were piled snake baskets of steel mesh and the front windows were filled with the largest and most spectacularly coloured of the serpents which gave the alley its name.

Many of the shops had a live mongoose tethered outside the front door.

Cheng stopped to watch an arranged contest between one of these sleek little predators and a four-foot cobra.

The cobra reared up as it confronted the mongoose, and the crowd gathered quickly and shrieked with delight.  With its striped hood fully extended, the cobra revolved and swayed like a flower on its stalk to watch the circling mongoose with unblinking bright eyes while its feathery black tongue tasted the scent of its adversary on the air.

The mongoose danced in and then leapt back as the cobra struck.  For an instant the snake was off balance and fully extended and the mongoose darted in for the kill.  It seized the back of the glistening scaled head and its needle teeth crunched into bone.  The snake's body whipped and coiled in its death throes and the proprietor of the shop separated the mongoose from its victim and carried the writhing reptile into his shop, followed by two or three eager male customers.

Cheng did not join them.  He had his own special shop, and he wanted a particular type of snake, the rarest, the most expensive, the most effective.

The snake-doctor recognized Cheng over the heads of the crowd that thronged the alley.  His shop was famous.  He did not have to stage mongoose fights to attract his customers.  He beamed and bowed, and ushered Cheng through to the back room which was curtained off from the public gaze.

It was not necessary for Cheng to state his requirements.  The shop owner knew him well, over many years.  it was Cheng who had arranged his supply of the most virulently poisonous reptiles from Africa.  It was Cheng who had introduced him to Chetti Singh, and made the first consignments of snakes through the diplomatic bag.  Of course, Cheng; took a commission on each shipment.

Cheng had also persuaded him to deal in rare African birds.

Once again these had been supplied by Chetti Singh and the trade was now worth over a quarter of a million US dollars a year.  There were collectors in Europe and America who would pay huge sums for a pair of saddle-billed storks or bald this.  The African parrots, although not as colourful as the South American varieties, were also much sought after. Chetti Singh could supply all these, and once again Cheng took his commission.

However, the main source of the snake-doctor's income was still the supply of venomous snakes.  The more venomous, the more valuable they were to Chinese gentlemen with faltering potency.  The African mamba had been entirely unknown in Taiwan or mainland China until Chetti Singh had made the first shipment.  Now they were the most prized of all snakes on the island, and commanded a price of two thousand US dollars apiece.

The snake-doctor had a particularly beautiful specimen ready in a mesh cage on his stainless-steel-topped table.  Now he drew on a pair of elbow-length gloves, a precaution that he would have scorned had he been dealing with a cobra.

He opened the sliding lid of the cage a crack and slipped in a long steel forked rod.  Deftly he pinned the mamba's head and the snake hissed sharply and twined itself around the steel rod.

Now the snake-doctor opened the lid fully and seized the mamba behind the head, careful to get thumb and forefinger aligned behind the protuberances of the skull so the snake could not pull free of his grip.

The instant he released the pressure of the forked rod, the snake wrapped itself in tight coils around his forearm.  it was six feet long and angry.  it exerted all its rippling scaled strength to pull its head free, but the snake-doctor prevented the points of the skull from being drawn through his fingers.

The mamba's jaws gaped wide open and its short fangs were erect in the pate soft mucous lining of its mouth.  The clear venom oozed down the open channel in the fangs and dripped from the points like dew from a rose-thorn.

The snake-doctor held the reptile's head on a small anvil and with a sharp blow of a wooden mallet crushed the skull.  The snake's body whipped around wildly in the death frenzy.