In the days after his son’s passing, Emanuel tore at his garments every day until they hung like peelings off his ample frame. He ate nothing, nor would he countenance medicines for his profound melancholia. On the day of David’s interment, Emanuel stayed in his carrier chair outside the gates of the cemetery. He watched the proceedings like a Nazarite who feared impurity by being near corpses, even those of his own family. He saw his wives there, the Sikh and the amahs, saw them intone the Kaddish, saw them toss dirt, saw them leave a stone remembrance, but departed before they could see him.
In the weeks that followed, those who visited him at his offices on Lyndhurst Terrace saw an ashen-faced man who looked as if he had slept under a bridge. Their attempts to offer him condolences were met with obscenities. Insomnia had clouded his mind to the point where he signed whatever papers were placed on his desk in front of him. He used his office as a bedroom and ate the occasional crust of bread there. When motivated and stoked with wine, he would sneak, unseen, in the dead of night, back into Kingsclere. He would enter David’s room, sit in a chair, and stare at the empty bed. Then, before dawn, he would depart as surreptitiously as he had arrived.
Each day he would lie on the leather couch in his office and beg his G-d for some sign, some relief—a moment or two of sleep, a second’s reprieve from the agony-sucking pain in his chest, an instant of psychic harmony. But all he received was silence, that deep, wide maw of emptiness that invades a parent who has outlived their child. Downing a cup of rice wine and scratching his signature on papers were never sufficient to distract him from the turbulence in his heart and mind. In time, even the thought of waiting for nightfall to begin a nocturnal vigil in David’s room became meaningless and the visitations pointless, so he abandoned that routine. Other than the upcoming land auction, which had been postponed due to the recent quarantine, he had nothing to look forward to.
Silence fell when he entered the ballroom of the Hong Kong Hotel. Heads turned and necks craned to see the rumpled, portly man, hair frazzled and beard unkempt, shuffle into the room, his clothes in tatters and his shoes scuffed. Emanuel presented himself at the registration table. When asked to sign his name, he pushed so hard on the nib that it snapped and sprayed ink across the sheet of paper. Attendees murmured and shook their heads, then turned away and restarted their conversations. He took his bid paddle and looked around.
Huddled in a cabal near the auctioneer’s dais were Sassoon, Kardoorie, and Hardoon. They nodded in his direction. But Emanuel ignored them, biting his lip with disappointment. Neither Li nor Aleandro was present.
“I will do this for you, Senhor, one time and the ledger is balanced,” Aleandro had said. “You freed my family, now I will free yours.” Emanuel had seized upon those words as his surety. The mulatto had sailed out of Hong Kong just prior to the British naval blockade. But the quarantine had been lifted for weeks and there was no sign of his return. Emanuel was about to bid everything he had without knowing whether he possessed sufficient funds to cover the purchase.
As he walked to his seat, attendees in the vicinity gave him wide berth. He sat alone, surrounded by empty chairs.
There were several lots ahead of the main event. As the auctioneer got closer to the lot containing the Kowloon properties, the air seemed to stiffen. Men brought handkerchiefs to their foreheads as the room turned warm with body heat. Emanuel too felt the change in temperature. It was exactly what he had felt that first time he attended an auction in Calcutta. He needed this. He needed to win at something. He needed to fill the giant hole that had been hewn out of his chest. He needed to feel danger.
The auctioneer announced the final lot and started the bidding at one million dollars. Increments rose by fifty thousand and soon reached one and a half million, with the Sassoon cabal leading the pack. Emanuel raised his bid paddle and called out his first offer: “Two million.”
A collective intake of breath shot through the hall. But the crowd recovered quickly. Someone offered 2.1. Other bids followed in increments of one hundred thousand. 2.2! 2.3! The Sassoon cartel shouted 2.5. Emanuel topped it with 2.7.
Anything beyond three million would place him on shaky ground. Someone called 2.8. Emanuel felt a rush of excitement shoot up into his chest. It made him stand and shout, “2.9 million!” He was almost at his limit. The occupants of the room murmured. Some shook their heads and tossed their paddles to the floor.
“I have 2.9,” the auctioneer said, looking around the room. “Do I hear more? I’m looking around the room. Do I see three?”
“Three!” Sassoon yelled and punched the air with his paddle.
Emanuel narrowed his eyes and focused on his rival. He felt like a young man again, suddenly transported back to the dusty floor of Calcutta’s auction rooms where he had learned his trade. He was about to raise his paddle when he felt a tug on his shoulder. It was Li. He said,
“I must speak with you.”
“No need for words, old friend.” Emanuel smiled. “You’re here, that’s all that counts.” Emboldened, he turned back to face the auctioneer: “3.1!” he shouted. The room roared with disbelief.
“Emanuel, come with me,” Li said.
“3.2!” Sassoon yelled, face as red as a beet. His fist curled around the handle of his bid paddle, making it vibrate.
Li grabbed Emanuel’s hand, thrust something into his fleshy palm, and closed his fingers over it.
“3.2 million,” the auctioneer called out. “Do I have more? Mr. Belilios?” he asked, looking directly at him.
“Yes,” Emanuel shouted, “3.5 million!”
Then he opened his hand. Sitting on his palm was a stone larger than a quail’s egg but smaller than a hen’s. It was flat and smooth—perfectly shaped for skipping on water.
“The Generalissimo has taken all the opium—Aleandro is dead,” Li said.
“$3.5 million going once,” the auctioneer stated cheerfully. “3.5 going twice.” The auctioneer was insistent now.
“Oh my G-d,” Emanuel said. “No—”
The gavel fell.
“Sold for $3.5 million dollars to Mr. Belilios!”
Blood drained from Emanuel’s face—he was over two million short.
The room erupted in cheers and applause. Even the Sassoon clique joined the caterwauling hoots and whistles that accompanied cries of congratulations for the largest bid ever made in the colony’s short history.
For the Chinese in the room, it was a good omen. It was auspicious that this had happened at the end of the lunar year. They had seen an abundance of money exchange hands—money that would grow as the colony grew. Everyone agreed that the business concluded on that wintery afternoon certainly augured well for the years ahead.
Cries of “Gung Hei Faat Choy—Happy New Year” rang out around Emanuel. The room emptied quickly and he was left to enjoy his joss—his good fortune—standing alone in the hall as mute as the stone in his hand.