the little girl in her white cotton dress, amused at the way her tongue was stuck between her teeth as she concentrated on her task. The girl knelt down and scraped the resin into a bowl which she kept on the soil by her feet, then grinned up as she realised that her grandmother was looking at her.
'Not tired?' the old woman asked.
The little girl shook her head. She wiped her forehead with her arm and sighed theatrically. 'No. I'm fine.'
'We'll have a break soon. You can drink some water.' A break would also give the old woman a chance to smoke some opium. Not the fresh sap that she'd just harvested but opium from the previous year's crop which she kept in a horn box in the pocket of the black apron that she wore over her red embroidered jacket. Her opium lamp and spirit pipe were in a bag at the edge of the field.
'Who's that, Grandmother?' the little girl asked, pointing up the hill.
The old woman narrowed her eyes and looked in the direction the girl was pointing. At the crest of a hill was a man on a horse. The horse was big, much bigger than the packhorses and mules that carried the opium through the jungle and which brought supplies to the village, and it was white, gleaming in the early morning sun. It stood proudly, as if aware of the attention it was THE SOLITARY MAN 39 attracting. One by one the women in the fields stopped what they were doing to look up the hill. The man in the saddle sat ramrod straight, as proudly as his horse. He scanned the fields with a pair of binoculars.
'That's Zhou Yuanyi,' said the old woman. 'Get back to work.' She seized another oval pod.
'Who's Zhou Yuanyi?' asked the little girl.
'It's his fields we're working in,' said the old woman. 'These are his poppies.'
'Wah!' said the little girl. She looked around the field in amazement. 'He owns all these flowers? All of them?'
The old woman grinned, showing the gap where her two top front teeth had once been. 'Child, he owns the whole mountain. And those beyond.'
The little girl stared back at the man on the horse. 'He must be very rich.'
The old woman scraped the opium sap from a large pod. 'The richest man in the world,' she said. 'Now get back to work. Don't let him see you staring at him. Zhou Yuanyi doesn't like being stared at.'
The old woman took a quick look over her shoulder, up the hill. Zhou Yuanyi took the binoculars away from his eyes. He was wearing sunglasses, but from a distance it looked as if he had no eyes, just black, empty sockets. He kicked the white horse hard in the ribs, jerked on the reins and turned it around, riding down the far side of the hill, out of sight. The old woman watched him go, then turned back to her poppy plants. There was still much work to do.
WARREN HASTINGS PRESSED A yellow button on the dashboard of his Range Rover and the wrought-iron gates glided open. He nudged the car forward into the compound, its tyres crunching on the gravel drive. His two-storey house with its white walls and red-tiled Spanish-style roof was illuminated by his headlights, and long black shadows were thrown up against the tree-lined hillside behind the building.
He'd stayed on Hong Kong Island until late, knowing that both cross-harbour tunnels would be blocked solid by spectators returning to Kowloon and the New Territories. Two large Dobermanns came running around the side of the house, their stubby tails wagging and their long pink tongues lolling out of their mouths.
Hastings cut the engine and climbed out of the Range Rover. 'Hiya Mickey, hiya Minnie,' he said, greeting the dogs with pats on their heads.
Behind him the wrought-iron gates began to close, but as they did two headlight beams swept across the compound and a Mercedes saloon accelerated through the gap. It braked hard and skidded several yards across the gravelled drive. The dogs stared at the car, their ears up.
The engine of the Mercedes was switched off, but the headlights stayed on, blinding Hastings. He was as tense as the two dogs,
'Not tired?' the old woman asked.
The little girl shook her head. She wiped her forehead with her arm and sighed theatrically. 'No. I'm fine.'
'We'll have a break soon. You can drink some water.' A break would also give the old woman a chance to smoke some opium. Not the fresh sap that she'd just harvested but opium from the previous year's crop which she kept in a horn box in the pocket of the black apron that she wore over her red embroidered jacket. Her opium lamp and spirit pipe were in a bag at the edge of the field.
'Who's that, Grandmother?' the little girl asked, pointing up the hill.
The old woman narrowed her eyes and looked in the direction the girl was pointing. At the crest of a hill was a man on a horse. The horse was big, much bigger than the packhorses and mules that carried the opium through the jungle and which brought supplies to the village, and it was white, gleaming in the early morning sun. It stood proudly, as if aware of the attention it was THE SOLITARY MAN 39 attracting. One by one the women in the fields stopped what they were doing to look up the hill. The man in the saddle sat ramrod straight, as proudly as his horse. He scanned the fields with a pair of binoculars.
'That's Zhou Yuanyi,' said the old woman. 'Get back to work.' She seized another oval pod.
'Who's Zhou Yuanyi?' asked the little girl.
'It's his fields we're working in,' said the old woman. 'These are his poppies.'
'Wah!' said the little girl. She looked around the field in amazement. 'He owns all these flowers? All of them?'
The old woman grinned, showing the gap where her two top front teeth had once been. 'Child, he owns the whole mountain. And those beyond.'
The little girl stared back at the man on the horse. 'He must be very rich.'
The old woman scraped the opium sap from a large pod. 'The richest man in the world,' she said. 'Now get back to work. Don't let him see you staring at him. Zhou Yuanyi doesn't like being stared at.'
The old woman took a quick look over her shoulder, up the hill. Zhou Yuanyi took the binoculars away from his eyes. He was wearing sunglasses, but from a distance it looked as if he had no eyes, just black, empty sockets. He kicked the white horse hard in the ribs, jerked on the reins and turned it around, riding down the far side of the hill, out of sight. The old woman watched him go, then turned back to her poppy plants. There was still much work to do.
WARREN HASTINGS PRESSED A yellow button on the dashboard of his Range Rover and the wrought-iron gates glided open. He nudged the car forward into the compound, its tyres crunching on the gravel drive. His two-storey house with its white walls and red-tiled Spanish-style roof was illuminated by his headlights, and long black shadows were thrown up against the tree-lined hillside behind the building.
He'd stayed on Hong Kong Island until late, knowing that both cross-harbour tunnels would be blocked solid by spectators returning to Kowloon and the New Territories. Two large Dobermanns came running around the side of the house, their stubby tails wagging and their long pink tongues lolling out of their mouths.
Hastings cut the engine and climbed out of the Range Rover. 'Hiya Mickey, hiya Minnie,' he said, greeting the dogs with pats on their heads.
Behind him the wrought-iron gates began to close, but as they did two headlight beams swept across the compound and a Mercedes saloon accelerated through the gap. It braked hard and skidded several yards across the gravelled drive. The dogs stared at the car, their ears up.
The engine of the Mercedes was switched off, but the headlights stayed on, blinding Hastings. He was as tense as the two dogs,
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