Chapter Eight

Alain took another swig of hazelnut coffee; he was too excited to sleep. He had one full syringe in front of him, carefully placed on the kitchen table, and had read his notes on the Qianlong court one last time. The unfortunate frog’s skin would make a nice wallet.

He was wearing shorts, and the needle pointed at his femoral vein. He took a deep breath and punctured the skin; it was ten a.m. precisely, and perhaps a cuckoo clock would have been more appropriate on the wall. He didn’t use an alcohol swab, nor did he aspirate, but he did know the exact quantity of drug he was using, and was certain of its sterility. He pushed deeper into the tissue, and slowly injected.

Nothing came, just an empty feeling of lost expectation. He went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. Then, as he was bent over the sink, his heart erupted, blood pumping like fiery lava; throwing him to the floor. He scrambled up, and reached for the medicine cabinet, but someone else was looking back in the mirror.

He still had a ponytail but that was all. The rest of his hair was gone, and he stroked his bald head. He looked down and saw his robes, and finally convinced he allowed himself a smile.

‘You must go,’ said Wa Yu behind him.

Her face in the mirror was Chinese, but when he turned around it was Verity looking at him lovingly.

‘The Emperor will be expecting you,’ said her eunuch, looking nervous.

‘When will I see you again?’ asked Alain.

‘We are moving to the Summer Palace in a fortnight’s time,’ said Wa.

‘You must go,’ said Yi the eunuch.

‘Pray for us,’ said Wa, and Alain touched the large wooden crucifix that hung from his neck, closed his eyes, and quickly murmured a few words.

‘I can hear footsteps,’ said Yi breaking into a sweat, for he understood the Emperor’s wrath.

‘Ah there you are Alain,’ said Bertrand ‘I thought you’d got lost my dear fellow.’

‘A soul in need of guidance,’ said Alain.

The harem was off limits to men, except eunuchs and occasionally chaste priests who prayed for pregnancy, health in childbirth, and strong children.

‘Anyway Alain it looks like Chien-lung is becoming more besotted with you by the day.’

‘It’s the fountains at Xiyanglou,’ said Alain.

Xiyanglou was the Summer Palace at Beijing, and Alain had designed a series of timed waterworks, complete with underground pipes.

‘I hope you’re right my brother. Word has it that Heshen has him under a spell,’ said Bertrand smiling.

‘And by the way Alain, I’d be careful with the concubines if I were you,’ added Bertrand, and he gave Alain a wink.

The acrobats had finished, and a new delegation was about to greet the Emperor. Three men knelt, each tapping their foreheads on the floor nine times. Eventually the eldest of the group spoke.

‘We respectively ask your Imperial Highness to reconsider the case of Cong Chu Cheng,’ he said.

Cong Chu Cheng had reached infamy in Court circles. She was the unfortunate concubine whom startled by a playful Emperor had hit his arm with her hairbrush.

‘But she struck the Emperor,’ said his right hand official.

The Emperor, whom Bertrand referred to as Chien when only Jesuit priests were in ear shot, was seated and wearing his bright yellow Imperial robes. He looked more thoughtful.

‘I cannot change the law for one girl,’ he said, but he did genuinely look disappointed.

That was all; Cong Chu Cheng’s family had been heard, but there was no discussion with the Emperor.

Some vassal had been fanning the Emperors face, and as the bright blue peacock on the back of the rushes was removed Alain could clearly see the Emperor’s features; it was Marcus Forster, Verity’s husband.

‘Who’s the man on the Emperor’s right?’ Alain asked Bertrand.

‘Heshen of course,’ he replied before adding ‘are you feeling well Alain?’

He wasn’t, because Heshen looked mightily similar to Dr Lawrence Calder.

‘Perhaps your guilt is playing tricks Alain,’ said Bertrand.

‘Guilt: What for?’

Bertrand, who was also wearing Imperial garb, pulled Alain closer by the sleeve, and whispered in his ear, just in case one of the courtiers was learning French.

‘Whom actually, Wa Yu the concubine,’ said Bertrand.

There was a knowing pause between the two men.

‘I believe abstinence and penitence are in order, are they not?’ said Bertrand.

‘Perhaps,’ Alain replied, although he wasn’t amiss to self-administered punishment.

‘Alain Fontaney,’ announced a courtier standing beside the Emperor, whilst holding a long unfurled scroll.

‘Good luck,’ said Bertrand.

Alain went in front of the throne, and tapped his forehead to the ground.

‘Come closer,’ said the Emperor.

Like the other priests Alain had learnt Chinese before departing France.

‘Alain my dear friend how are the gardens progressing?’ asked Chien-lung.

‘They are finished your Majesty,’ said Alain.

Heshen looked a little jealous, and he could sense the Emperor’s excitement.

‘Excellent,’ said Chien-lung.

‘And what would you like in return Alain?’

He could have asked to distribute more bibles in the Imperial Kingdom or perhaps, rather playfully, for a cathedral, but he asked for neither.

‘Only that I can visit Xiyanglou over the summer, and continue our friendship your Highness,’ said Alain.

‘Granted, but you won’t make a Christian out of me,’ said Chien-lung.

‘Your Majesty is already guaranteed his place in heaven,’ said Alain not believing a word; but expediency demanded he follow the Imperial protocol.

For a moment everything became blurry, and Alain swayed on his feet.

‘It is the power of your Imperial Highness against the barbarian’s God,’ laughed Heshen.

‘We have much to learn from our guests Heshen,’ said Chien-lung, reprimanding his favourite official.

‘Indeed we do your Imperial Majesty,’ said Heshen.

‘Steady yourself Alain, the whole Court is watching,’ said Bertrand as Alain re-joined him.

But for Alain the room was beginning to spin. He splashed more cold water on his face, and reached for the towel to his side; he was home. He ran into the kitchen, and grabbed his notebook, checking, praying he had written down the formula exactly, and the dose. He headed to bed exhausted, but not before picking up his flail.

‘What are these for?’ Verity asked Sheila, looking at the tablets in the palm of her hand.

Sheila held a small plastic tot of water by her side.

‘They’re to make you feel better,’ said Sheila.

She held up the tot of water in readiness, and to prod her patient in the right direction, like a cow on its way to slaughter.

‘Do you think I really need them?’ asked Verity.

‘Yes, for the moment.’

Verity put the tablets in her mouth, and swallowed, washing them down with the water.

‘Mind if I take a look?’ asked Sheila, and Verity duly opened her mouth.

‘And if you could just lift up your tongue for me,’ said Sheila.

‘Is there nothing else apart from these awful tablets?’ asked Verity, screwing up her pretty face.

‘Well the psychologist is coming next week; he thinks you could benefit from a spot of cognitive behavioural therapy.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t a clue,’ said Verity.

‘CBT corrects dysfunctional responses.’

‘Don’t think I like the dysfunctional part,’ said Verity raising her eyes.

‘Well there’s a lot more to it than that, but I’m not the best person to explain. Alain’s back tomorrow night, he’s knows a lot about it.’

Indeed he did, Alain Fontaney was an expert on CBT, but not the sort Sheila had mentioned. Verity was right though; it was the quiet ones you had to watch.