City of God Page 5

  “Where is Barnabas?”

  “He helped Mrs. Devrey into her chaise, ma’am. Same as always. I expect now he’s gone round the back and—”

  “Yes, well I don’t care where he actually is. Tell him I want him. I must talk to him about shoeing the riding mare. Bring him here.”

  “To the parlor, ma’am?”

  “Yes, I can’t—Oh, never mind. I shall go out back and talk to him there.”

  It was hard to lumber out to the mews in her condition and would probably cause a scandal if any of the neighbor men happened to see her now that it wasn’t possible to disguise the bulge. But at least it meant Dorothy wouldn’t hear her mistress questioning the stable boy about whether Mr. Samuel had that day ridden horseback to his business or taken the buggy. Once she knew that, Carolina would know whether her husband was to be late home, as he was most nights, or perhaps—as rarely happened—he might arrive back in time to take supper with her.

  Market Street. Very too much bad name. Very too much tell you nothing. Ah Chee mumbled the complaints under her breath as she hobbled along on her seven-inch golden lilies.

  Not really golden lilies at all. Must be she was an ugly baby from the first minute. So no one think she will maybe be a rich man’s wife and don’t do a good job and give her golden lilies that will fit inside a man’s hand. Never mind. This yang gwei zih place had rock streets. Not smooth like the wood decks of sampans on the Pearl River or like sand streets on the shore. Three-inch golden lilies could easily break your neck in this foreign devil place.

  Market Street. Very too much stupid name. Chicken Street. Rice Street. Street of green peas and cabbages. Those were names that could help a civilized person do her shopping. Never mind. She had anyway taught herself to say it. “Mar-ket-str-eet,” she practiced.

  Ah Chee’s mouth made the sounds, but they had a foreign taste like all the lumps of words she had been storing up for so long. Since back on the Pearl River, since the day when she first bent the big toes of three-year-old Mei-hua toward the balls of the little girl’s feet and tied the cotton wrappings that would keep them in place.

  Not too very much tight that first time, though the plum blossom screamed and screamed as if worst thing had happened. It had not happened yet. Also not worst thing next night, when she made the wrappings tighter. Worst thing was when the heavy stone smashed down and broke the tiny bones so the girl’s golden lilies would be straight, not arched.

  First one foot, then the other. Smash. Smash. While Ah Chee cried and her plum blossom screamed.

  Smash. Smash. Tears and screams. But not until the yang gwei zih had gone away. Dog turd pirate father of plum blossom told Ah Chee to wait. “Yang gwei zih want to watch,” he said, “but not want to see.”

  That was one way yang gwei zih and civilized men were alike. Making sons with clouds and rain, very terrific good. Having sons almost as good. Getting born part? No men wanted to see that. Same thing with making golden lilies. Men cared only about the result, tiny little feet, swaying steps—make jade stalk get big and hard. Make clouds-and-rain-best-part of bed stuff be terrific good. How did it happen? Mei won ti, little sweet thing. No problem. Not for men.

  So why was it that the first time she bound Mei-hua’s feet there was a yang gwei zih watching from the other deck, thinking Ah Chee did not know he was there? Ah Chee knew.

  Had to be that Di Short Neck, whom the women secretly called Short Stalk because his jade appendage was said to be as tiny as a courtesan’s golden lilies, this dog turd pirate Di had promised the little girl to the Lord Samuel yang gwei zih as part of their business dealings. If so, Ah Chee needed to begin preparing to protect her tiny treasure. The first step was to acquire yang gwei zih words and never let on she knew them.

  It was not so hard to learn such things on the sampans of the Pearl River, where foreign devil men of business were as thick as maggots on rotting meat. Even easier once the pair of them were shipped to New York with furniture and china and clothing. Enough for a grand mansion, though when they arrived Ah Chee discovered it was all to be crammed into three rooms on the top of what she right away thought was a not so special house, and got too much angry when she found out how many very terrific better houses there were in this place.

  The Lord Samuel promised the plum blossom would be a princess in his faraway country. Why else learn music stuff and writing stuff and speaking like supreme first lady stuff? Super-special big important princess supreme lady tai-tai. Big lie. A princess would live in the best house, not three rooms on top of a not so good house with no garden and no wall. Never mind. Didn’t matter as long as the plum blossom did not know. And how would she find out? A rich man’s supreme lady tai-tai would never go outside in the Middle Kingdom. Same thing here, Ah Chee told Mei-hua. In reality, maybe yes, maybe no, Ah Chee wasn’t sure. But only she went out most days to stupid name Market Street, and walked along the stalls, and did business as she would have done at home in the land between heaven and earth.

  “Not good. Not fresh. More hard. More hard.” And when at last a pumpkin was produced that had the right ring when she knocked on it, “How much?” And inevitably, “Too much. Too much. You think this old woman have so much money?” Followed by the half turn away from the stall and the pumpkin seller’s agreement to lower the price by two pennies.

  As always, Ah Chee counted out the agreed on price with care and put the coins she calculated she’d saved by clever bargaining in a separate purse.

  The Lord Samuel gave Ah Chee three American dollars every week to buy food for herself and the tai-tai. By comparing what things cost here with what they would have cost at home she had carefully worked out that it was equivalent to half a string of copper cash. Half a string, to feed herself and one small female. The lord ate with his tai-tai only very occasionally, when, Ah Chee suspected, he longed for the tastes of the Middle Kingdom and was sickened by the slabs of meat and huge lumps of vegetables which according to Taste Bad and Leper Face and the rest it was customary to serve in this foreign devil place. For only that much food, half a string of copper cash? Who would spend so much on so little? Was she a wicked servant as well as an ignorant one that she could not get good value in any market, even this one full of foreign devils? No, she was not. She knew her duty was to protect the child who was as much hers as if she had squeezed her out between her own two legs. Her exquisite Mei-hua, given to the foreign lord, which was only a little better than being blinded or crippled and sent out to beg, as were the daughters of even some rich men in the Middle Kingdom. Never mind. That’s how life was for women. Ah Chee did not expect things to be any easier here than they were there. Store up coins that you do not need now, because you will need them later.

  The secret treasure purse was hidden below the quilted tunic she wore over a long narrow skirt of sturdy homespun slit on both sides to accommodate walking. Ah Chee pulled her hair into a bun and wore a conical straw hat tied firmly under her chin. It kept the rain and the snow away in winter and in summer protected her from the sun.

  Plenty yang gwei zih this-place people looked at her and pointed and laughed. Sometimes little boys threw stones, bad stink things. Never mind. There was plenty of food to eat in this place. And even the house that was not terrific best house kept out the rain and wind and sun. Also, according to what the plum blossom told her, the Lord Samuel had a terrific big jade stalk that could go in very terrific deep. Make a son for supreme lady tai-tai, whatever he think.

  The Lord Samuel had plans. Ah Chee knew that. Ah Chee also had plans. And very terrific best thing in this place was no mother-in-law to also have plans. She had burned twenty joss sticks in thanksgiving to Fu Xing, the god of happiness and good luck, when they arrived here and did not find a waiting mother-in-law.

  But then she made Leper Face show her where Lord Samuel did his business and eventually found out he had taken a concubine, and that she lived in a very too much better house than the one where the lord kept Mei-hua and her Ah Chee.<
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  Concubine not such a bad thing. Dog turd pirate Di Short Neck have plenty of concubines, even other wives. Her plum blossom was the Lord Samuel’s supreme lady first wife tai-tai. But terrific hard to understand that he never bring yellow hair concubine to kowtow and serve the tai-tai to show she knew who was supreme lady. No respect for the tai-tai was very too bad business. Very important plum blossom have son to secure her position.

  Ah Chee slapped her hand on the display of flounders at the front of the fishmonger’s stall. “No good fish. Too small. You no have better fish? Bigger? More fresh?”

  “Here now! Don’t handle the merchandise if you’re not intending to buy.” The fishmonger sounded indignant, but he knew this peculiar old woman and what would please her. He pulled a basket of glistening and slithery mackerel from under the counter and grubbed through them until he found one he judged would suit his customer. The fish was alive and squirming in his hands—“God’s truth, missus, how much fresher can it be?”—still he held it out for her to sniff. He’d grown accustomed to this ugly little creature’s ways in the three years she’d been coming to his stall. These days he hardly noticed her yellow skin or her peculiar eyes. Couldn’t help but stare at the stunted feet though.

  Ah Chee, still intent on the fish, gave a reluctant nod. “Good enough for poor old woman like me. You take five pennies. I take your old stinking fish.”

  The fishmonger wrapped the squirming mackerel in a bit of paper and dropped it in the little woman’s basket. “Six cents it is, and none of your arguments. That’s the price and it ain’t gonna change.” He held out his hand and Ah Chee counted out the coins, mumbling under her breath all the while.

  Six cents was a fair price, though she would never let him see she thought so. And the fish was magnificently fresh and fat. She would buy a bit of ham as well, then she could make the Land Sea Golden Wonder Soup that was the absolute terrific best thing for supreme lady with a child in her belly.

  She hobbled quickly across the way to the stall of the pigman. “Small piece that meat,” she said, pointing to a rosy pink ham. “Not much too fat bad stuff.”

  The man cut her a thin slice of the ham and they dickered over the price until she agreed to pay four pennies, then went to buy two big duck eggs. They were more expensive than they should have been, but still she was left with enough to tuck a few more coins into the special purse. Which, considering the Lord Samuel’s plans and Ah Chee’s plans, was bound to be terrific very much important.

  Chapter Four

  SINCE 1816 THE almshouse of the city of New York had occupied a red-brick complex on a sprawling tract of land stretching north-south from Twenty-second to Twenty-eighth streets, and east-west from the East River to Second Avenue. At least so said the signposts. To Dr. Nicholas Turner, just arrived from Rhode Island, the numbered streets and avenues seemed pretentious nonsense. The buildings were surrounded by woods and fields, and the populated part of the town ended at least half a mile to the south. But according to the driver of the hansom cab he’d taken from the pier, proposed streets and avenues were laid out and numbered and marked all the way up to the far end of Manhattan island, where One hundred and sixty-eighth Street could be found. City planning, they called it. Turner glanced around, trying to imagine these trees and hedgerows all disappeared, and buildings as far as the eye could see. Absurd.

  The March wind off the river was bone-chilling, made worse because he hadn’t been truly warm since the evening before, when he had boarded the coastal steam packet from Providence for the fourteen-hour journey. The miserly breakfast of black tea and stale biscuits he’d been offered before disembarking had not helped. Indeed, the whole notion of coming to New York seemed mad now that he was finally here.

  All the same, here he was. Turner squared his particularly broad shoulders. He’d wanted a new challenge, a change from sleepy Providence, and it seemed that’s what he’d got.

  The word “Almshouse” was etched above the granite arch of the Twenty-sixth Street central entrance. The buildings on either side housed an orphanage, a workhouse for the destitute who were able to labor, and a poorhouse for those too old or too infirm to be put to any use. The hospital where he was to work was in the middle, dividing the poorhouse for men from that for women. It was supposed also to serve the sick of the city who could not pay for medical care, though probably few of them used it. Almshouses were the same the world over. Hospitals as well, for that matter. Given a choice, even the poorest of the poor preferred to die in whatever hovel they called home, where if nothing else they were spared regular visits from clergymen haranguing them about morals.

  Enough stalling. Turner hefted his pair of valises—both heavy with more books than clothes—and strode beneath the arch into the place known everywhere simply by the single shudder-inducing word, Bellevue.

  Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

  “I apologize for not receiving you in my private residence, Dr. Turner. It’s being refurbished at the moment. This office was the only place available.”

  “No apology required, Dr. Grant. This is after all where I am to be working.”

  “Here at the Almshouse Hospital. Yes, exactly. If you’re quite sure…”

  Grant let the words trail away and waited for him to say something. Nick knew what the other man expected. I didn’t realize how bad it would be. I’m afraid I must change my mind. But that wasn’t the case. Even in Providence they knew about Bellevue.

  At first sight the hospital lived up to its reputation. Just to get this far he’d had to thread his way between pallets spread on the floor because the wards were full, and to dodge ambulatory patients who wandered around as if they had no notion where to go or what to do. Most patients wore little or no clothing and the pallets were without sheets or blankets. The stench of death and disease permeated even this quite decently appointed small office at the far end of the entrance hall.

  It said “Director” on the door. That was the title of the man appointed to run the entire almshouse operation. By long tradition a doctor, he functioned as an administrator, and was empowered to hire a single Senior Medical Attendant to look after the hospital patients and oversee the work of one resident doctor and a few medical students. In practice they were those who could not manage to get themselves assigned to supervised work in the town’s private hospital, New York Hospital on Broadway at Anthony Street. It was reputedly a decent place. In contrast to Bellevue, it was funded by private charity and served those known as the deserving poor, decent folk fallen on hard times. Worthy work, perhaps, but not for twenty-eight-year-old Nicholas Turner. A practicing physician for seven years, had seen the Bellevue position advertised in the Evening Post, known exactly what it was likely to be, and applied by mail and been hired—sight unseen—in a matter of days.

  “I’m sure, Dr. Grant,” he said.

  “But a man such as yourself…You were in private practice in Providence, were you not?”

  “I was.” Then, when the other man’s look of puzzled skepticism didn’t alter, “Let me be quite frank, Dr. Grant. I don’t think private practice suits me. I’ve never been particularly good at what I believe is called bedside manner. And as I wrote in my application, I have an interest in medical research. Surely here, with so many from such a wide variety of backgrounds, I shall see a good deal that is new to me.”

  “Oh, yes. A wide variety. Mostly the paupers are Irish, of course. I’m told we’re getting some thirty thousand a year since England removed restrictions on their leaving, and they all seem to wind up in New York. But a goodly number of other nationalities are represented, bring all sorts of strange ailments with them. Taken all together, there are around two thousand inmates here at Bellevue.”

  “Inmates? I thought the prisoners had been separated from the almshouse a few years back when they opened the penitentiary up at Ossining.”

  The older man seemed suddenly to wake to the notion that he might lose this excellent prospect for his hospital. �
��They will be, Dr. Turner. Any day now, I assure you. There’s yet another penitentiary being built on Blackwell’s Island a bit up river from here. Finished soon, they tell us. The male prisoners we have here will all go there.”

  “The male prisoners? Then there are also women?”

  “Some,” Grant admitted. “Prostitutes mostly. The ministers have their way occasionally, and a great drive is made to pick up the more rowdy sorts. Working on the streets. You know.”

  Nick nodded. He did know. No need to leave Providence to see crabs and the French disease.

  Grant was attuned to his reaction. “There are pickpockets as well. The women are quite good at that, I’m told. The Dubliners particularly.”

  “And they’re imprisoned here at Bellevue?”

  “Well, most are kept at the old bridewell next to City Hall, but we do get the overflow. Not for long, however. There’s talk of yet another prison to be built. Center Street, I hear.”

  “It seems there is a never-ending need for prisons here in New York.”

  “The Irish, as I said. Dirt poor most of ’em. Roman Catholics. Refuse to work. Waiting for glory in the next life.”

  “Indeed. I would have thought”—Nick nodded towards the hall and the pallets on the floor—“the mere idea of this place would encourage better habits.” In Providence newspapers were full of job notices that said no Catholics or Irish need apply. He had no doubt whatever it was the same in New York.

  Grant was apparently not susceptible to irony. “I realize the conditions are not everything we would wish. Hippocratic oath, promise to heal. All that. But the budget the Common Council provides…” The director of Bellevue waved a hand as if the matter was not worth further discussion. “The hospital serves some two hundred of the inma…er…residents on any given day. As you say, you’ll see it all here.”

  The office was warmed by a Franklin stove. It was almost too efficient; from being chilled to the bone Nick had gone to sweating. He was ready to get out of this small space, start moving about, see the rest of what awaited him. “Bellevue will suit me quite well, Dr. Grant. I’m quite sure.”