Chapter Five, Part Five
A Bad Beginning
A Bad Beginning
I gave a start and dropped my basket of goods, keeping my hands where the fellow could see them. He gave an exclamation in Chinese and nodded his head, indicating that I should leave at once. He made a glance at Morgan and repeated the sounds and the gesture so that Morgan would understand that he was included in this invitation.
Morgan did not flinch. He stared the young man with the rifle in the eye, and even shifted his grip so that the wicker basket was crushed beneath his right arm, leaving his left hand free.
The man who was threatening us stood with his back towards a vermilion hanging curtain, and this curtain was pulled two one side, partially revealing two other fellows of similar dress and build to the man with the rifle. They kept well back to the shadows, and I could not see if they too were armed, but as the distance between the rifle’s muzzle and myself was not great, the single weapon was more than enough to keep me in check.
Not so with Morgan. He gave another shout in Chinese and, his eyes still fixed upon the man with the rifle, lifted a fistful of ivory dice from a small cask and dropped them into the basket he carried. “Are you done shopping, doctor?” Morgan asked.
With these words, the man holding the musket swung the barrel in Morgan’s direction. The man was sweating, and clearly agitated. I had seen that look upon the faces of many men who were about to go into battle for the first time, and I knew that the slightest provocation would turn this encounter deadly. I took my own basket and made to set it upon the floor, but Morgan, his own features severe yet unmarked by fear, called for me to stop.
“We’re common customers here,” Morgan said. “We’ll take the goods we wish, and we’ll pay fair dollar for them. If these fellow think they can shoot me for that, they’re welcome to try.” Although his words were directed at me, Morgan’s gaze never left the eyes of the young man with the musket. “Pay the men, Doctor.” Morgan said. “Tell them what you think this mess of trinkets and two sorry baskets are worth. Then we’ll see if they want to haggle.”
“Morgan, I do not believe-“
“Do it!” Morgan shouted, his voice as loud as any rifle crack, and the man with the gun jumped a full three feet in the air. He would have fired, I have no doubt, but the old man gave his own exclamation, and the lad obeyed him as swiftly as a disciplined soldier would follow an officer’s command. The gun muzzle was at once pointed down into the floorboards.
Morgan, feeling he had won the bluff, broke into a sour grin. “Now pay them and we’ll be on our way!” he said with what was to me, premature triumph.
The old man was staring at Morgan, his one good eye sizing the Navy man up. His lips bulged, and I knew that he was running his tongue in and out of gaps where incisors had been pulled during the brutal torture sessions so clearly recorded upon his aged body. He raised his hand, and the two men who had been behind the curtain came forward. One moved sideways, in a crab-like fashion, keeping his face turned from us as he took the man with the rifle by the arm and led him back to the shadowed rear of the shop. The other came forward and extended a smooth hand, palm up. Still flustered almost beyond sense, I took all of the bills the professor had given me and pressed them into the young gentleman’s hand. As he took them, I looked into his eyes, and saw, shockingly, that he was all but a twin to the man who had held the gun. I will confess a white Westerner’s weakness of finding all men of other races to appear look alike, but the similarity between these two was more than striking. In fact, I imagined that the few differences that were present might be attributable to injuries or trauma taken in life. The fellow who had held the gun seemed to have had his nose broken and his lips split--old injuries long healed, but evident now in contrast to his doppelganger that stood beside him.
Morgan stood beside me and took my basket. “We’ll be going, then,” he said. Eager to be gone, I tipped my hat once again towards the old man, who did not give the slightest nod in response, and made for the door, moving sideways myself, now, unwilling to turn my back on the curtained doorway, and feeling my way through the piled merchandise in search of the street.
Morgan came after me, his thick arms crushing the two baskets. He could not resist a parting word: “You should be nicer to us Christians and especially our Jewish friends,” he said, pointing at me. “They have all the money in this city after all.”
Part Fourteen Posts Wednesday February 24th