The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham

was enjoying this unexpected feast, and they chatted amiably about home, basking in the clean salt air from the sea.
    Then Zhen saw her: the black-haired Ch’ang O from the barbarian ship. She was with a white man. They were wandering about the marketplace, and the man was pointing out things now and then and talking animatedly. From time to time he put out his hand for hers and led her somewhere else. Zhen watched them with narrowed eyes, an odd heavy feeling in his chest. For a moment he thought she looked in their direction. He thought they might come towards him, willed them to do so. More than anything else at that instant, he wanted to see her close up. But they turned and left the market.

    â€˜ Snatch the joys of life as they come and use them to the full
    Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon’

    He watched the place where she had been for a long time.

6
    Incheck Sang sat alone, cross-legged, on a large tiger skin in the middle of the room. Strewn around this skin on which he slept were coffers and chests of varying sizes. Other than these objects, the room was bare. This was his sanctuary and his treasury. The only other person who ever set foot inside this room—and then only under his fierce gaze—was his eldest daughter. She came in to clean the room, change his clothes and bring him food. He entrusted these duties to no one else, not even his wives. The windows were barred, behind shutters which were rarely opened. The only air that penetrated came from a band of open decorative porcelain bricks that ran around the room on three sides under the ceiling. It was humid and hot, but Sang did not mind. Sometimes he would open one of his chests and draw a long, curved fingernail over its silvery contents. The little finger on one hand was missing from the knuckle, the stumpiness of this finger emphasising the length and boniness of the others. He had cut it off himself after a spectacular loss in the gambling den, as a painful reminder to stop this obsessive habit. It had made no difference. Gambling was in his blood.
    Sang was cutting his toenails. He was a superstitious man. After each snip he would dexterously pick up the clipping with his long fingernails and place it carefully in a dull metal box which sat atop the tiger’s head. When the job was finished to his satisfaction, he closed the box, took a small key on the long cord around his neck and locked it. Opening a silver embossed chest, he placed the box inside and locked it. He was a small man, bird-like and wrinkled. His face drooped slightly to one side, the results of a stroke he had suffered five years before. He was over seventy years old, but his eyes were clear and his mind was sound. He wore a long black coat with a silk skullcap. His beard and droopy moustache were grey, and real. The thick black queue attached to his head was not.
    The captain from the Amoy junk, an old colleague, was waiting for him in his entrance hall, together with Ah Liang, his chief clerk, and Guan Soon, the coolie agent. Locking the door carefully behind him, Sang crossed the open courtyard with large pots of bamboo, went through the ornate central hall and out into the open yard. The two men were seated in the entrance hall, chatting amiably. When they saw him they sprang to their feet and bowed low.
    â€˜Come,’ he commanded. They followed him into a room he used as an office on the side of the entrance hall.
    This room contained a desk and several hardwood chairs, elaborately carved and inlaid with veined marble. Sang’s chief clerk was also present.
    They sat. Sang did not call for tea, but looked at the two men he had known for years.
    â€˜How many men do you need, sir?’ Guan Soon asked respectfully.
    The men talked about labour and numbers; then Guan Soon left, and they turned to filling the captain’s orders for his return journey. Most of the captain’s needs could be filled from Sang’s own