Bent Willows: Ⅸ
The Mandarin & the Mermen
by: Eric Griggs & Saoirse
Note to reader: the word Chinaman is used here in its 19th Century context, to refer to individuals of Chinese origin. We are aware that this term is considered offensive by many because it was used by some in the 20th and 21st century to malign individuals of Asian descent. We intend no such offense in our historical inclusion and usage of this and other terms.Quentin enjoyed his bowing contests with Chang almost as much as he did the impromptu Mandarin lessons.
The slightly-built, dexterous Chinaman was one of the triumvirate of men that made his frequent visits to the Griswold so productive and enjoyable.
Quentin’s ample upper-half was considerably less stable when his body was lubricated with alcohol and engaged in deep plummets of respect and affection for his foreign-born friend. His wobbly bows sent them both into fits of laughter. Their hearty guffaws echoed off the green and orange tiles of the kitchen and carried throughout the storerooms and adjoining laundry.
Not only was Chang’s exotic native cuisine most ineffably delicious, but also were the dishes from any other land he set his cunning mind to perfect. Fellow countrymen, friends, and relatives scattered across the continent served as his culinary spies. There were few acclaimed dishes in this new and prosperous land, or indeed in much of the known world, whose ingredients and method of manufacture remained a mystery to Chang. He was rumored to possess the recipes for delicacies from Buckingham Palace, to the Vatican, to the Ottoman palaces of Sultan Abdülaziz.
Anyone with eyes to see could easily imagine how an accomplished chef and a corpulent gentleman of means might become fast friends. But such imaginings would only illuminate a small patch of their vast and carefully cultivated fields of mutual interests. Indeed these two men, (and another contrasting pair) were among North America’s most influential éminences grises. Few places existed where their collective invisible hands could not reach and fewer still were the souls who could comprehend their influence.
“Shall I tell you, eminent counselor, what pleasures we have in store for you and your guest or would you prefer to have these mysteries revealed in time? In any case, I am certain our humble fare will not rise to the level of your refined tastes.” His placid expression gave no hint of meaning as he focused his eyes on Quentin’s shoes.
Quentin knew well the ways of this particular Mandarin, his self-effacing manners the product of two thousand years of Confucian discipline. Rather than dismiss his false humility out of hand, he one-upped the chef, so great was his affection.
“Oh no, dear Chang. For it is we who are unworthy to taste the splendor of your kitchens, much less to be informed in advance, thus ruining the serendipity that surely awaits.”
“As you wish,” the white-clad sphinx responded, again giving no outward sign of the abiding satisfaction the enormous man’s words provided.
The two bowed deeply once more, Chang the undisputed victor.
Quentin made way for his favorite wingback in the Griswold’s well-appointed reading room.
“My but you look radiant,” Griswold remarked, kissing the back of her gloved hand.
“Thank you,” Emma blushed, completely unaccustomed to such effusive attention and unable to summon a fuller response.
She turned to thank Venture too, for escorting her down the stairs, but found him already vanished.
“Won’t you allow me to escort you to your dinner engagement?” he suggested, crooking his arm for Emma to take hold.
She did so without thinking, and he patted her arm with his free hand. She considered what an odd pairing they made, taking no small measure of comfort in the fact that she would not be the target of odd second-glances.
“There now, I can see you are a bit anxious but there’s no need for any worry.”
The two walked past the parlor and lounge area. Other patrons gathered there for the evening’s social pastimes regarded her with glances and smiles of genuine conviviality and acceptance.
Such kindness and acceptance had become the norm for this unpredictable adventure. She wondered why her internal sense of acceptance lagged behind that of others.
They turned down a long, wide hall. Its lofty walls were adorned with portraits, landscapes and and the odd preserved head of many a creature. Several statues of bronze and busts of fine marble were on display.
One bust in particular caught her eye: a bearded man with horns sprouting from his forehead.
She stopped suddenly.
“My goodness!” Emma exclaimed, “there you have an image of Old Scratch himself.”
Griswold chuckled and tugged at his silvery whiskers. “Don’t let first impressions fool you, my dear. This is a copy of Michelangelo’s Moses, carved by papal commission for the tomb of Julius II.
“You don’t say?” was all the reply Emma could muster.
“Indeed so, my dear. Moses, G-d’s own best friend is said to have sported horns much like a faun. And why not? Some of G-d’s best work is crowned in horn.
Have you ever seen the magnificent curved ornaments atop the Nubian Ibex? Yon Moses’ are mere bumps by comparison.
I ͘f the Almighty hand that sculpted all of creation chose also to craft singular variants here and there, who are we to critique the handiwork? Do we dare presume to plumb the depths of G-d’s theme and variation?”
Emma was momentarily stymied by his profound observation. This exquisite yet tiny man whose arm she now clutched must have experienced frequently the jeers and insults she had heretofore only imagined for herself.
“May I ask you something, sir? I beg your forgiveness if I am being too forward.”
Griswold’s gem-like eyes sparked in the lamplight as he nodded his assent.
“I can scarce imagine the adversities you might have faced coming up in the world. How did you overcome the ignorance and heckling of folks who judged you only by your stature?”
Rather than answer her directly, softly at first, he began singing:
“O `Helmsman, O `Captain, the `tempest has `toss’d
Our `ship, cried the `sailor, I `fear we are `lost!
`Steel yourself `boatman, and `lend me your `ear:
If `dead bodies `float, then what `have we to `fear? Singing:`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `yar —
`Harken my `tale
And you’ll `surely go `far —
`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `hey —
`Angels `before ye
All `night and all `day —Then `up from `the sea sprang mer`men all with `tails
Like the `fishes, en`dowed with the `strength of the`whales.
We’re `doomed! cried the `sailor, they’ll `drag us be`low
To `safe harbor`swiftly that `vessel they `towed, singing:‘`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `yar —
`Harken my `tale
And you’ll `surely go `far —
`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `hey —
`Angels be`fore ye
All `night and all `day’ — ”
As he finished the chorus, Griswold closed his sparkling eyes in rapt concentration, reached inside his coat pocket and produced a penny-whistle.
H ͘e piped out a salty and bright counterpoint to the melody he had already sung.
When he’d finished that interlude, he drew a mighty breath and broke into a full-throated counter-tenor:
“ `Outward ap`pearances `sometimes de`ceive,
`Leaving the `gullible `mighty to `grieve,
`Wiser are `those — who `practice the `art of
`Valuing `man based on `what’s in his `heart. Singing:`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `yar —
`Harken my `tale
And you’ll `surely go `far —
`Hey lolly `lolly lo
`Hey lolly `hey —
`Angels be`fore ye
All `night and all `day — ”
As the hey lollies echoed inside her head, Griswold brought his shanty to a close by piping a descant, a melodic line as calming and bright as the sun banishing a mighty squall.
“How strange and beautiful,” Emma remarked at the end of the song. “Who is the composer?”
“Why, my dear . . . a very modest bard whose initials happen to be H.G.”
“Aitch Gee, you say?” she responded, hardly containing her delight.
“Indeed,” he lulled, a mote or two taller with pride.
So focused had she been on Griswold’s ballad, Emma failed to notice the gentle strings of a harp playing somewhere in the background.
As they neared the end of the long hall, the angelic refrain of the strings resounded more prominently.
They paused before the red velvet curtain that blocked their passage as a long familiar hand drew it to the side.
“Miss Baily,” Venture softly rumbled from beyond, “welcome to Chang’s.”
Emma gazed out upon the most sumptuous and exotic dining room she had ever seen.
“Celestial spheres indeed,” she remarked, acknowledging both Venture’s kindness and his clever retort earlier on the train platform.
The three stood together just inside the doorway as the harpist plucked away at Griswold’s tune. The saffron of her Oriental dress, together with her long vermilion hair gave the impression of a queenly ifrit. Her nails, lacquered in scarlet, were flames lapping up and down the strings.
The trio bowed in thanks for the music; the flickering harpist gave a nod and continued strumming her tune.
“Perhaps I will join with Omaira later, to entertain you during dinner if she is so inclined.” Venture suggested. “It would give me great pleasure to do so.” With that, he clicked his heels, turned, and disappeared again behind a painted screen.
The most striking figure of the room was the enormous chandelier suspended from its gigantic domed ceiling. The ceiling itself was painted to represent the canopy of a gigantic palm forest. Swooping down from the mass of illusory leaves was an enormous golden dragon, its eyes great carnelian gems, bearing in its talons the gilded gas fixture. The flickering light bathing the room in the soft amber glow of a pretend-dawn.
She was, for the second time today, transfixed.
The walls of the room were papered in azure, and the curtains were of red velvet with gold tassels. The entire room was framed in elaborate gilt mouldings of the finest craftsmanship. They must have traveled quite a distance before settling here to grace this chamber.
Emma hardly felt like she was in America anymore. The mysterious and lovely tapestries and paintings of the Orient, some portraits others landscapes, made her feel as if she had undertaken another trip.
A journey within her trip to Connecticut — one where she had just landed on a far Eastern shore.
“Come, my dear,” Griswold urged, “you must be famished.”
Griswold led her beside the enormous central banqueting table, laid with the finest china, silver, crystal for two dozen or more. It was also adorned with massive table candelabra, each aglow with long beeswax tapers. There were several smaller tables and banquettes on either side, just as splendidly appointed for more intimate parties.
“But my, who else will be dining this evening?” Emma asked, unsure now if she could handle the gaze of so many eyes, particularly in such a strange and beautiful place.
“Ah, your party alone has the great Banqueting hall tonight, mademoiselle.”
“But what about all these . . . “
“Oh never mind all the finery, my dear. Chang has quite a sense of the dramatic. He really likes to put on a show for our special guests. Try to relax and you will be just fine.”
The cavernous space was seemingly empty but for the three of them. As they neared the opposite end of the chamber she could see the form of a man standing by the red leather banquette.
She noticed first the brilliant sheen of his patent leather shoes, then the satin military stripe down the side of his black trousers.
“Mademoiselle Baily,” Griswold said as he released her arm and bowed most officiously, “mwah waye mimwahtwadwa mmmmmhmmmhmmm . . .”
Emma was unable to make out much more of what Griswold had just said. A new object now monopolized her attention. She no longer took any notice of the sound of his voice, the wondrous Golden Dragon, or the gentleman standing before her.
What positively enthralled her now was the dazzling bejeweled octopus dangling from the chain that spilled from the man’s waistcoat pocket.
Even in the soft light of the hall, it sparkled as if on fire. Surely it had been set with the finest diamonds. The tiny monster’s bulbous head was formed out of an enormous baroque pearl. Its tentacles gripped several beautiful and lustrous gems: a large opal, and other sapphires and aquamarines. Never before had she spied a gentleman wearing such an opulent and unusual bauble. She quite forgot where, indeed who, or even why she was.
Something took hold of her hand. Was it the beast from the deep now come to life?
Its touch broke the spell.
“Ahem. I say,“ repeated Griswold, still stuck in a deep bow, “may I introduce my esteemed friend, Mr. Quentin A. Thomas, Esquire.”
Oh no. she thought. She felt the heat of the blood rushing into her face. Stop it, stop it.
The tentacle, no flipper, no hand now holding Emma’s squeezed ever so gently as Quentin bowed deeply and kissed the back of her glove. “A pleasure to meet you, at last, Miss Baily.”
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. And smile.
The portly gentleman appeared regal indeed in his long-tailed dinner coat and silk lapels. Splendid witchery of some master tailor somehow shrank his equatorial circumference through the magic of fine black fabric and thread. His white satin waistcoat and tie would have cinched and molded his form into that of a fanciful, giant penguin were it not for the glistening jewel dangling from his pocket. Surely penguins had no need to keep the time.
Smile, Emma. Smile and greet him. Check your voice pitch. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Penguin. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Understanding her state of mental disarray, Quentin smiled and pretended he had not heard her gaffe. “How do you find the Gris, Miss Baily?”
You’re being a muddle-minded fool. Oh my goodness. Say something flattering.
“It’s, it is . . . “ she started, “Oh please forgive my astonishment, sir. This wonderful hotel, this magnificent room, and I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m dazzled by your fob.”
“Hoom! Ha ha ha!” the fat man laughed. “As was I once dear, as was I. Perhaps one day I’ll have occasion to tell you the epic tale of how I came by this little gewgaw. But for now, won’t you please have seat with me here at the table?”
As they settled into the enormous semi-circular banquette, Emma heard a sudden sound:
Pop, Woosh!
A wee brown object sailed high across the room, then began plummeting towards Griswold. With no apparent thought, he leapt straight into the air like a horny-toad and caught the cork in his pearly teeth.
“Bravo!” shouted Quentin, “and bully for you! Hoom, Hezekiah. Hoom!”
The tiny man’s sparkly eyes hinted at more mischief as the blew the cork back into the air and caught it on the tip of his aquiline nose.
“Hooray!” joined Emma, now somewhat restored to her earlier calm.
“Well my good man, since you are already in possession of the cork, won’t you be our taster?” said Quentin.
Griswold climbed into the booth with the other as Venture made his way with a silver tray and several delicate stemmed glasses.
“Mmm,” Griswold sniffed. “Ayala, Venture? What an inspired choice.”
“Yes indeed,” Venture grinned, “I’m glad you agree. But what of the taste?”
He poured Griswold a sip of the sparkling brew.
Tup tup tup.
Sweeeeesh.
“Ahhh. Fresh, light, and very dry.”
Griswold, Venture, and Quentin all nodded together in approval.
Emma watched the elaborate pouring with anticipation. Fresh and light sounded very appealing but she had no idea what very dry meant in terms of a liquid beverage.
Venture expertly poured three other glasses of champagne and topped off the first.
Emma peered into the beautiful coupe, entranced by the bubbles dancing in the golden elixir.
“A toast, gentlemen,” proposed Quentin. “To Miss Emma Baily. By all accounts, a promising educator, now turning adventurer and pioneer.”
“Here here.” the others agreed, clinking their glasses and tippling back the bubbling wine.
Cautiously she took a sip, unable to contain a giggle as the bubbles tickled her tongue.
“This is the very same brut that holds the Prince of Wales in its thrall.”
“You don’t say?” Quentin replied, “Fit for the Maid of Orleans as well as our very own brave Joan of Baltimore.”
“Well, our fine guests,” Griswold said climbing down from the booth, “I will leave you in the capable hands of Venture and Master Chang as I have another matter elsewhere requiring my attention. Bon Appetit.” He gave a courteous nod and made his way back out into the great hall.
“And I shall check in with Chang and see about the soup,” Venture rumbled.
“So, Miss Baily . . .”
“Oh, Emma sir. Please, just Emma. Everyone here has already been so kind. Certainly, I would feel most at ease to have you call me Emma.”
“Very well Emma,” Quentin continued, “I’ll have you know that our chef, Master Chang is a most amazing man and that we are both in for a real treat.”
“Oh, Mr. Thomas. There’s more? Surely the balance of my life will seem dull in comparison to all of the events I have witnessed this day.”
“Much more indeed, Emma. And now that we are becoming properly acquainted with one another, call me Quentin — that is unless you might happen to need the mystery of “Mr. Quentin A. Thomas, Esquire” at some point. Ceremony amongst friends is but pretense, but in the tricky affairs of the world, can work a bit of magic all its own.”
A dark metallic thunder filled the great banqueting hall, the mysterious and sombre rumble of a gong.
“Ah,” said Quentin,
“that will be the soup.”
In case you missed it, here’s the previous chapter:
To start at the very beginning:
