Pell Street Blues chapter 7

LEISURELY, from his loose sleeve, the
Manchu drew a paper—the paper which a few months earlier, Foh Wong had signed on the editor’s request—and which Yang Shen-Li now read aloud:
“Herewith, for the sum of five thousand dollars, I employ Kang Kee to kill my wife—”
Foh Wong grew pale. He stared at the Manchu, who stared back. There was in their eyes the old hate that had never weakened. Alone they were with this searing, choking hate. The outer world and its noises seemed very far away. There was just a memory of street cries lifting their lean, starved arms; just a memory of river wind chasing the night clouds that clawed at the moon with cool, slim fingers of silver and white.
Then the Manchu spoke:
“If I lose my head, you lose yours. Only—I am not afraid of losing mine, being a brave man, an iron-capped prince; whereas you, O coolie, are—” “A coward,” the other said dully.
“Precisely. But brave man and coward shall be united in death. Together our souls shall jump the dragon gate.” Yang Shen-Li turned toward the door. “I shall now go to the police of the coarsehaired barbarians, and—”
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
Unconsciously, Foh Wong used the words which, decades ago, in Ninguta, the Manchu had used:
“Is there a price for your silence?”
“There is.”
“How much?”
“Everything,” announced the Manchu, sitting down, slipping a little fan from his sleeve and opening it slowly. . . .
He had not arrived tonight, he related, but twenty-four hours earlier. He had spent the time with Yung Tang, talking over the whole matter with him, and making certain arrangements. For instance, bribing a Chinese doctor who would certify that Foh Wong had died—of heart failure.
“You,” the merchant whispered, “you mean to—”
“Kill you? Not at all. Did I not tell you there is a price for my silence? And would your life be the
price? No, no! Your life is sacred to me.”
“Then?”
“Listen!” Yang Shen-Li went on to explain that, with the help of the physician’s certificate, Na Liu would be buried as Foh Wong, while it would be given out that she had gone to China on a lengthy visit. “Clever—don’t you think?” he smiled.
“But what will happen to me? How, if I’m supposed to be dead and buried, can I show my face?”
“You can’t,” said the Manchu grimly. “You will live in the garret of your house until death—may it not be for many years! You will see nobody— except me. You will speak to nobody—except to me. Nobody will know that you are among the living—nobody except me and Yung Tang. This shall be a bond between you and me. The moment
you break it, I shall go to the police and—”
“But my business—my money—”
“I shall look after it. For before—shall I say?— your death, you shall have made a will—you are going to sign it presently—making me trustee of your estate for your absent wife. You will leave her your whole fortune—all, that is, save eighteen thousand dollars—make it thirty-eight thousand— which you will leave to Yung Tang. . . . Hayah!”— as the other began to plead and argue. “Be quiet, coolie! For today I command—and you will obey!”
AND thus it is Foh Wong is cooped up in the sweltering garret of his Pell Street house, with the door locked and the windows tightly shuttered, and an agony of fear forever stewing in his brain. It is thus that Yang Shen-Li is lording it gloriously over Foh Wong’s clerks, spending Foh Wong’s money recklessly; and in the evening, after a pleasant hour or two at the Azure Dragon Club, mounting to the second floor, bowing courteously to his wrinkled old wife and asking her:
“Moonbeam, was there ever love as staunch as ours?”
Always she gives a quaint, giggling, girlish little laugh. And at times, hearing the echo of it, Foh Wong wonders—then forgets his wonder in his fear.