River-of-Perfumes-Chapter-06

It was no longer the River of Perfumes, but a river of stinks and industrial smells. Tall black factory chimneys in the night; rice mills; moored steam launches, lighters. All slept in the dead of night. Then came a faint tang of salt air, and Barrett quickened his strokes. Lagoons; the lighterage port of Thuan-an; and then, at last, tramp steamers anchored out in the offing.

Barrett hailed one: “Ship ahoy! Can you take a couple of passengers?”

A gabble of Malay from some serang on watch. “Am waking captain, boss.”

Presently a sleepy officer, in pajamas and naval cap, stood by the rail. Barrett repeated his query.

“Aye. We’re leaving for Singapore on the turn of the tide. If that suits ye, come aboard.”

Barrett surged with satisfaction. Good! Singapore! There would be French complications over this affair at either Saigon or Hanoi.

A rope ladder was lowered. Up it he bore his limp burden. He kicked the sampan adrift. A lantern shone on their faces as the grizzled Scotch captain sized up his passengers.

“Man, she’s a beauty! Ye’re in luck, I’d say,” he commented with a knowing twinkle over the old, old story in the East. White man taking a little trip with a native girl.

“She’s my wife.” Barrett shut that off sternly. “Your medicine chest, Captain. She got hurt badly by a jealous native. I’d like a stateroom if you can manage it.”

“Oh, aye.” The captain shrugged and gave him up. He had seen that brief infatuation for a native girl too. It always ended badly—for the girl. Nevertheless he hurried off for the ship’s medicine chest.

Barrett faced his attitude defiantly. He loved her, sincerely, with his whole heart. Let them take it as they would. She was a treasure. In Singapore he would look around for a position at the court of some Oriental potentate whose gardens were pestered with snakes.

And it was in the stateroom berth that Nanya finally came to. Her eyes opened, looked up at him with recognition. Then they glowed with steadfast adoration. Barrett could do nothing but murmur tenderly her name.

She was too weak to touch. She held onto life with the merest thread as yet. But she was gaining. An arch look came presently into her eyes; her lips quirked.

“Man,” she said feebly, but there was faint music of laughter in her voice. “My man! … What is your name?”

Barrett smiled down at her delightedly. They had omitted that trifle until now. “Jim,” he told her. “Jim Barrett, love.”

She puzzled prettily. “Djeem? … What a funny noise! I have a better one, my all. Mawng Shwé, my Golden Prince! Kiss me.”

Barrett ventured to do so. He held her very gently and drank in the poignant happiness of it. She was adorable, this gift of the River of Perfumes; she was worthy the best that was in him; and she was his.

The love-theme from Madame Butterfly sang in his soul, but it would never end like that tragedy, he vowed before God. She stirred in his arms, her body soft and warm against his, and he felt the faint flutter of her heartbeat beneath his hand. Her lips parted under his, and he tasted the sweetness of her, the promise of all the nights to come. When she finally drew back, her eyes were heavy-lidded, smoky with desire despite her weakness.

“Later, my Golden Prince,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “When I am stronger… I will show you what it means to be loved by a Shan girl.”

Barrett’s blood heated at her words, at the promise in her dark eyes. He kissed her again, deeply, and felt her respond with what strength she had—a fire banked but not extinguished, waiting only for time and healing to blaze anew.

Outside, the dark waters of the South China Sea stretched toward Singapore, toward freedom, toward a future that held this woman in his arms. The River of Perfumes had given him its greatest treasure, and he would spend the rest of his life being worthy of the gift.