The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
dressed in Tartar costumes with umbrellas, all making a h--l of a din.
“Is that it?” says I.
“That’s it,” says he. “Come along, do – or someone will see us. It’s – it’s not done, you know, to be seen at these native displays, my dear Flashman.”
“I’m surprised the authorities allow it,” says I, and he said the “Free Press” was very hot against it, but the Indian processions were even worse, with chaps swinging on poles and carrying torches, and he’d even heard rumours that there were fakirs walking on hot coals, on the other side of the river.
That was what put me on the right track. I’d seen the waterfront, of course, with its great array of commercial buildings and warehouses, but the native town that lay beyond it, on the west bank, had looked pretty seedy and hardly worth exploring. Being desperate by this time, I ventured across one evening when Elspeth was at some female gathering, and it was like stepping into a brave new world.
Beyond the shanties was China Town – streets brilliantly-lit with lanterns, gaming houses and casinos roaring away on every corner, side-shows and acrobats – Hindoo fire-walkers, too, my pomaded chum had been right – pimps accosting you every other step, with promises of their sister who was, of course, every bit as voluptuous as Queen Victoria (how our sovereign lady became the carnal yardstick for the entire Orient through most of the last century, I’ve never been able to figure; possibly they imagined all true Britons lusted after her), and on all sides, enough popsy to satisfy an army – Chinese girls with faces like pale dolls at the windows; tall, graceful Kling tarts from the Coromandel, swaying past and smiling down their long noses; saucy Malay wenches giggling and beckoning from doorways, popping out their boobies for inspection; it was Vanity Fair come true – but it wouldn’t do, of course. Poxed to a turn, most of ’em; they were all right for the drunken sailors lounging on the verandahs, who didn’t care about being fleeced – and possibly knifed – but I’d have to find better quality than that. I didn’t doubt that I would, and quickly, now that I knew where to begin, but for the present I was content to stroll and look about, brushing off the pimps and the more forward whores, and presently walking back to the river bridge.
And who should I run slap into but Solomon, coming late from his office. He stopped short at sight of me.
“Good G-d,” says he, “you ain’t been in bazaar-town, surely? My dear chap, if I’d known you wanted to see the sights, I’d have arranged an escort – it ain’t the safest place on earth, you know. Not quite your style, either, I’d have thought.”
Well, he knew better than that, but if he wanted to play innocent, I didn’t mind. I said it had been most interesting, like all native towns, and here I was, safe and sound, wasn’t I?
“Sure enough,” says he, laughing and taking my arm. “I was forgetting – you’ve seen quite a bit of local colour in your time. But Singapore’s – well, quite a surprising place, even for an old hand. You’ve heard about our Black-faced gangs, I suppose? Chinese, you know – nothing to do with the tongs or hues, who are the secret societies who rule down yonder – but murderous villains, just the same. They’ve even been coming east of the river lately, I’m told – burglary, kidnapping, that sort of thing, with their faces blacked in soot. Well, an unarmed white civilian on his own – he’s just their meat. If you want to go again” – he gave me a quick look and away – “let me know; there are some really fine eating-houses on the north edge of the native town – the rich Chinese go there, and it’s much more genteel. The Temple of Heaven’s about the best – no sharking or rooking, or anything of that kind, and first-class service. Good cabarets, native dancing … that order of thing, you know.”
Now why, I wondered, was Solomon offering to pimp for me – for that’s what it struck me he was doing. To keep me sinfully amused while he paid court to Elspeth, perhaps – or just in the way of kindness, to steer me to the best brothels in town? I was pondering this when he went on:
“Speaking of rich Chinese – you and Elspeth haven’t met any yet, I suppose? Now they are the most interesting folk in this settlement, altogether – people like Whampoa and Tan Tock Seng. I must arrange that – I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you all shockingly, but when one’s been away for three years – well, there’s a great deal to do, as you can guess.” He grinned whimsically. “Confess it – you’ve found our Singapore gaiety just a trifle tedious. Old Butterworth prosing – and Logan and Dyce ain’t quite Hyde Park style, are they? Ne’er mind – I’ll see to it that you visit one of old Whampoa’s parties – that won’t bore, I promise you!”
And it didn’t. Solomon was as good as his word, and two nights later Elspeth and I and old Morrison were driven out to Whampoa’s estate in a four-wheel palki; it was a superb place, more like a palace than a house, with the garden brilliant with lanterns, and the man himself bowing us in ceremonially at the door. He was a huge, fat Chinese, with a shaven head and a pigtail down to his heels, clad in a black silk robe embroidered with shimmering green and scarlet flowers – straight from Aladdin, except that he had a schooner of sherry in one paw; it never left him, and it was never empty either.
“Welcome to my miserable and lowly dwelling,” says he, doubling over as far as his belly would let him. “That is what the Chinese always say, is it not? In fact, I think my home is perfectly splendid, and quite the best in Singapore – but I can truthfully say it has never entertained a more beautiful visitor.” This was to Elspeth, who was gaping round at the magnificence of lacquered panelling, gold-leafed slender columns, jade ornaments, and silk hangings, with which Whampoa’s establishment appeared to be stuffed. “You shall sit beside me at dinner, lovely golden-haired lady, and while you exclaim at the luxury of my house, I shall flatter your exquisite beauty. So we shall both be assured of a blissful evening, listening to what delights us most.”
Which he did, keeping her entranced beside him, sipping continually at his sherry, while we ate a Chinese banquet in a dining-room that made Versailles look like a garret. The food was atrocious, as Chinese grub always is – some of the soups, and the creamed walnuts, weren’t bad, though – but the servants were the most delightful little Chinese girls, in tight silk dresses each of a different colour; even ancient eggs with sea-weed dressing and carrion sauce don’t seem so bad when they’re offered by a slant-eyed little goer who breathes perfume on you and wriggles in a most entrancing way as she takes your hand in velvet fingers to show you how to manage your chop-sticks. D----d if I could get the hang of it at first; it took two of ’em to show me, one either side, and Elspeth told Whampoa she was sure I’d be much happier with a knife and fork.
There were quite a few in the party, apart from us three and Solomon – Balestier, the American consul, I remember, a jolly Yankee planter with a fund of good stories, and Catchick Moses,15 a big noise in the Armenian community, who was the decentest Jew I ever met, and struck up an immediate rapport with old Morrison – they got to arguing about interest rates, and when Whampoa joined in, Balestier said he wouldn’t rest until he’d made up a story which began “There was a Chinaman, a Scotchman, and a Jew”, which caused great merriment. It was the cheeriest party I’d struck yet, and no lack of excellent drink, but after a while Whampoa called a halt, and there was a little cabaret, of Chinese songs, and plays, which were the worst kind of pantomime drivel, but very pretty costumes and masks, and then two Chinese dancing girls – exquisite little trollops, but clad from head to foot, alas.
Afterwards Whampoa took Elspeth and me on a tour of his amazing house – all the walls were carved screens, in ivory and ebony, which must have been h---ish draughty, but splendid to look at, and the doors were all oval in shape, with jade handles and gold frames – I reckon half a million might have bought the place. When we were finished, he presented me with a knife, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in the shape of a miniature scimitar – to prove its edge, he dropped a filmy scrap of muslin on the blade, and it fell in half, sheared through by its own insignificant weight. (I’ve never sharpened it since, and it’s as keen as ever, after sixty years.) To Elspeth he gave a model jade horse, whose bridle and stirrups were tiny jade chains, all cut out of one solid block – G-d knows what it was worth.