him up and down and immediately demanded one thousand pesos for his slave and her baby. No doubt, Chen Pan thought, he was trying to take him for a fool.
“I’d like to see the girl first,” he said. “And the child, too.”
A moment later, Don Joaquín shoved the girl forward and crudely pointed out her attributes. “You can cancel the milkman with this heifer in your house.”
One thousand pesos was too much money, Chen Pan knew, but for once he didn’t bargain. He took note of the girl’s feet, wide with calluses an inch thick. Nothing like his mother’s shriveled lotuses. Her name was Lucrecia. She was long-legged and wide-hipped and had a star-shaped scar on her temple.
“How did you get that?” Chen Pan asked.
“She’s prone to accidents,” Don Joaquín interrupted. “Don’t worry, she hurts no one but herself.”
“What’s your son’s name?” Chen Pan tried to catch the girl’s eye, but her head was bowed too low.
Don Joaquín grabbed the boy and thrust him at Chen Pan. “See, he never cries. In a couple of years you could put him to work as well. Then breed his mother with a few young bucks and populate your own plantation!”
Chen Pan ignored him. If he bought the girl and paid her a small salary, would she still be considered a slave? It might be handy to have a woman at his place, to clean and cook his meals. Perhaps he could train her to help him in his shop. Chen Pan was on the verge of firing his Spanish assistant. Federico Véa worked only limited hours and refused to use an abacus, insisting on calculating everything in his head. Moreover, Chen Pan distrusted the way Véa’s tongue slipped and stalled on every syllable.
Don Joaquín cleared his throat as he counted Chen Pan’s money on the solid mahogany table (worth five hundred pesos, at least). Then he gave him the writ of ownership. “Now get out of here, you dirty
chino
!”
Chen Pan turned and looked at the girl.
“Vámonos,”
he said.
Lucrecia bundled her son in a scrap of flannel and followed Chen Pan out the door. The air was as dense as old paint. Lucrecia turned to face the convent, where a nun, snow-white as an egret, nodded to her from a balcony. Chen Pan noticed a mole the size of a peppercorn on the back of Lucrecia’s neck, just below her blue cotton turban. Beyond her, thin clouds curled in the sky.
“¿Como se llama?”
Chen Pan asked her again, bringing his face close to the boy’s. His eyes were brown and alert, two coffee beans.
“Víctor Manuel,” she whispered.
Sweet rabbit! Maybe, Chen Pan thought, he could pretend to be his father. He pointed out a pair of crows to the boy in a breadfruit tree, but Lucrecia shielded his eyes, then crossed herself twice. Chen Pan wondered what sort of foolishness the nuns had taught her. In Chinatown, the Protestant missionaries besieged him constantly with the decrees of their god, Jesus Christ. But Chen Pan distrusted all forms of certainty.
Lucrecia trailed him through the streets, staying three or four steps behind him. The stores were closing their doors to the midday heat. Peddlers jostled for Chen Pan’s attention. Tangerines. Dried snake meat. Fresh eggs from the outskirts of town. One by one, they set down their loads to stare at him and Lucrecia walking by.
“To hell with all of you!” Chen Pan sputtered, and returned their stink-eyes.
Chen Pan’s home was not fancy, inside or out. He lived in three rooms over the Lucky Find. In this way he saved money, afforded more merchandise, issued loans to other
chinos
for a nominal fee. Chen Pan believed that if you spread a bit of money around, blessings grew. To hoard it was to invite disaster. His furnishings were sparse—a hardwood table and chair, an iron bedstead with a plank bottom, a wash basin, and a worn velvet divan he’d salvaged from Calle Manrique. In the kitchen, he’d set up a modest altar for the Buddha.
He also kept a pet she-duck named Lady Ban. She protected the wood beams by
“I’d like to see the girl first,” he said. “And the child, too.”
A moment later, Don Joaquín shoved the girl forward and crudely pointed out her attributes. “You can cancel the milkman with this heifer in your house.”
One thousand pesos was too much money, Chen Pan knew, but for once he didn’t bargain. He took note of the girl’s feet, wide with calluses an inch thick. Nothing like his mother’s shriveled lotuses. Her name was Lucrecia. She was long-legged and wide-hipped and had a star-shaped scar on her temple.
“How did you get that?” Chen Pan asked.
“She’s prone to accidents,” Don Joaquín interrupted. “Don’t worry, she hurts no one but herself.”
“What’s your son’s name?” Chen Pan tried to catch the girl’s eye, but her head was bowed too low.
Don Joaquín grabbed the boy and thrust him at Chen Pan. “See, he never cries. In a couple of years you could put him to work as well. Then breed his mother with a few young bucks and populate your own plantation!”
Chen Pan ignored him. If he bought the girl and paid her a small salary, would she still be considered a slave? It might be handy to have a woman at his place, to clean and cook his meals. Perhaps he could train her to help him in his shop. Chen Pan was on the verge of firing his Spanish assistant. Federico Véa worked only limited hours and refused to use an abacus, insisting on calculating everything in his head. Moreover, Chen Pan distrusted the way Véa’s tongue slipped and stalled on every syllable.
Don Joaquín cleared his throat as he counted Chen Pan’s money on the solid mahogany table (worth five hundred pesos, at least). Then he gave him the writ of ownership. “Now get out of here, you dirty
chino
!”
Chen Pan turned and looked at the girl.
“Vámonos,”
he said.
Lucrecia bundled her son in a scrap of flannel and followed Chen Pan out the door. The air was as dense as old paint. Lucrecia turned to face the convent, where a nun, snow-white as an egret, nodded to her from a balcony. Chen Pan noticed a mole the size of a peppercorn on the back of Lucrecia’s neck, just below her blue cotton turban. Beyond her, thin clouds curled in the sky.
“¿Como se llama?”
Chen Pan asked her again, bringing his face close to the boy’s. His eyes were brown and alert, two coffee beans.
“Víctor Manuel,” she whispered.
Sweet rabbit! Maybe, Chen Pan thought, he could pretend to be his father. He pointed out a pair of crows to the boy in a breadfruit tree, but Lucrecia shielded his eyes, then crossed herself twice. Chen Pan wondered what sort of foolishness the nuns had taught her. In Chinatown, the Protestant missionaries besieged him constantly with the decrees of their god, Jesus Christ. But Chen Pan distrusted all forms of certainty.
Lucrecia trailed him through the streets, staying three or four steps behind him. The stores were closing their doors to the midday heat. Peddlers jostled for Chen Pan’s attention. Tangerines. Dried snake meat. Fresh eggs from the outskirts of town. One by one, they set down their loads to stare at him and Lucrecia walking by.
“To hell with all of you!” Chen Pan sputtered, and returned their stink-eyes.
Chen Pan’s home was not fancy, inside or out. He lived in three rooms over the Lucky Find. In this way he saved money, afforded more merchandise, issued loans to other
chinos
for a nominal fee. Chen Pan believed that if you spread a bit of money around, blessings grew. To hoard it was to invite disaster. His furnishings were sparse—a hardwood table and chair, an iron bedstead with a plank bottom, a wash basin, and a worn velvet divan he’d salvaged from Calle Manrique. In the kitchen, he’d set up a modest altar for the Buddha.
He also kept a pet she-duck named Lady Ban. She protected the wood beams by
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