smoke, yao,” says she, extending a palm. “Yao” is “foreigner”, and not at all polite from a Chinese to a white man.
“The black smoke, or one of these?” I offered my cheroot case, and the slant eyes flickered.
“A fan-qui who speaks Chinese? A cheroot, then.” Certainly not a common woman; she spoke Pekin, albeit roughly. I lit her a cheroot, and she held my hand with the match in slender fingers whose grip made me tingle; not a whore’s touch, though, just simple strength. She inhaled deeply – and so did I, gloating.
“Come to my cabin,” says I, slightly hoarse, “and I’ll give you a drink.”
She showed her teeth, gripping the cheroot. “There’s only one thing you want to give me,” says she – and named it, anatomically.
“And right you are,” says I, quite delighted. This was something new in Chinese women – coarse, insolent, and to the point – so to show my own delicacy and good breeding I gripped her port tit; under the thin blouse it felt like a large, hard pineapple. She gave a little grunt, and a long, slow, wicked smile at me, drawing on her cheroot.
“How much cash?” says she, narrow-eyed.
“My dear child,” says I, gallantly relinquishing her poont, “you don’t have to pay me! Oh, I see … why, I wouldn’t insult you by offering money!” Wouldn’t I, though – I was boiling fit to offer her the Bank, but I guessed it wouldn’t answer with this one, in spite of her question. She had a damned leery look in her eye, sensual and calculating, but with a glint of amusement, unless I was mistaken.
“No cash, hey? But you expect me to——?” Her vocabulary was deplorable, but at least it left no room for misunderstanding.
“That’s the ticket,” says I heartily, “so instead of further flirtation I suggest that we –”
Suddenly she chuckled, and then laughed outright, with her head back and everything quivering to distraction. I was preparing to spring when she came up off the rail, bangles tinkling, and stood looking down at me, the ogre’s missus contemplating a randy Jack-the-Giant-Killer. It’s a rum feeling, I can tell you, being surveyed by a beauty half a head taller than you are. Stimulating, though.
“Suppose,” says she, in that soft deep voice, “that I took payment? I might rob a rich fan-qui.”
“You might try, Miranda. Now then –”
“Yes, I might. And if you, big clever fan-qui, caught me …” She put her hands on her hips, with that lazy smile. “…Šyou might beat a poor girl – would you beat me, fan-qui?”
“With pleasure,” says I, slavering at the prospect. She nodded, glanced either way, gave me her insolent grin again, drew deep on the cheroot – and pulled the front of her blouse down to her waist.
For a moment I stood rooted, homily agog before all that magnificent meat, and then, as any gentleman would have done, I seized one in either hand, nearly crying. Which was absolutely as the designing bitch had calculated – she suddenly gripped my elbows, I instinctively jerked them down to my sides, and without stooping, or shoulder movement, or the least exertion at all, she lifted me clean off the deck! I was too dumbfounded to do anything but dangle while she held me (thirteen-stone-odd, bigod!) with only the strength of her forearms under my rigid elbows, grinned up into my face, and spoke quietly past the cheroot:
“Would you really beat a poor girl, fan-qui?”
Then before I could reply, or hack her shins, or do anything sensible, she straightened her arms upwards, holding me helpless three feet up in the air, before abruptly letting go. I came down cursing and stumbling, clutching at the deckhouse for support. By the time I’d recovered my balance, she was modestly replacing her blouse, taking a last pull at the cheroot, and flicking it over the rail. She put a hand on her hip, grinning derisively, while I seethed with rage and shame – and awe at the realisation of that appalling strength.
“All right, then, damn you!” I snarled. “Twenty dollars? Fifty if you’ll stay the night!”
God, how she laughed, the strutting, arrogant slut – and she’d lifted me like a kitten! I don’t know when I’ve felt so mortified – or so determined to have my way with a woman. Well, it wasn’t going to be rape, that was sure – nor money, apparently.
“Fifty dollars?” She laughed. “No, fan-qui – nor fifty thousand, from a weakling. But a strong man, now …” She waited, with that taunting, confident smile, daring me, as I fell to raging at her and then to whining, saying it had been a trick, she’d taken an unfair advantage, damn her … and then I gave a great gasp, like Billy Bones in apoplexy, rolled my eyes, clutched my heart, and reeled fainting against the deckhouse … well, she’d not have been human if she hadn’t stepped up for a closer look, would she?
I bar hitting women, except for fun, especially when they’re strong enough to uproot the town hall clock, but I was choking with vengeful fury – toss me about like thistledown, would she, the infernal slut? I let out a whimpering groan, and as she advanced, alarmed, I let drive my right into her midriff with all my force; she doubled up like a rag doll, her knees buckling, and I was on her back in an instant, twisting the chain collar like a garotte, flattening her by sheer weight. She clawed back at me over her shoulder, and I shot my left hand under her arm and on to the nape of her neck in a half-nelson. I was blind with rage and fit to murder, and if she’d been less abominably powerful I might have done it. But as she heaved and strained beneath me it was all I could do to hang on, doing my damnedest to choke her with the steel links biting into her throat. We thrashed and rolled about the deck, her long legs flailing; thumping against the bulkhead, then against the rail, my aching fingers twisting the collar ever tighter, her splendid shoulders heaving to break my grip – God, she was strong, and I knew in a few seconds she must break the lock.
I gave one last despairing heave on the collar, and suddenly felt her slacken beneath me; her head gave a little beneath my left hand, and I roared with triumph. Suddenly her free hand was slapping the deck, in the age-old wrestler’s submission; I clung to the chain like grim death.
“Had enough, damn you?” I wheezed. “Give over, you bloody monster?” Slap-slap, on the deck, I let the collar slacken an inch – and suddenly she reared up, breaking the headlock and tearing the collar free. I rolled away, preparing to fly for my life, when I realised she was scrambling back, holding her throat, her other hand up to ward her face. Was she beat? Was this the moment to set about her with my belt? – and then I realised that she was poised on one knee, ready for battle … and she was absolutely grinning at me, bright-eyed … and we were no longer alone.
The unholy row had attracted half Kiangsu Province, by the look of it, certainly every coolie on the steerage deck, and a ragged mob was staring from either side of the deck house, with her Chinese rivermen to the fore, looking mighty truculent. As they pressed forward I put my back to the rail, reaching for the Adams – which I’d forgotten until that moment. The sight of it stopped them dead, the rivermen’s hands came away from their knife-hilts – and the girl stood up, her shoulders shuddering and heaving, and grunted something in river dialect. Then she looked at me, gasping and rubbing her throat, and so help me, she was grinning again, positively amiable.
Tuckered as I was, I wondered bemusedly if that murderous struggle had been the usual courting ritual of this female Goliath; lust revived as I observed her fine dishevelment, with one udder peeping provocatively out of her blouse; I put
