any true cases of witchcraft?” he says, hoping to distract him.
“No. Though I’ve seen some amazing runs of luck.”
“What sort?”
“You know, gambling, or things like not getting on a boat before it capsizes and so forth.”
For an instant, William is tempted to tell Rawlings about his own peculiar fortune: how time and again he has narrowly avoided trouble by the merest twist of fate. Like stumbling upon the obituary of that salesman, the only witness to his affair with Ambika. But it’s best not to say too much to Rawlings, who’s still pedantically listing different types of luck. “The Chinese say it’s your fate. You were in China, weren’t you?”
“I was born in Tientsin. My father was Vice Consul,” William says, relieved that the topic has shifted.
Rawlings looks at William with interest. “Were you now? So do you speak Chinese?”
“No, we came back when I was seven. I had an amah who taught me to speak Mandarin but I’ve forgotten it.”
He hasn’t, however, forgotten the gracious streets, the European buildings on wide roads in the foreign concessions, and behind them the jumble of alleys and hutongs. In his memories, it’s always winter in Tientsin, that city in the far north of China. A cold dry winter with the tang of burning donkey dung and a bone-chilling wind blowing in from the steppes.
“I’m surprised you didn’t enter the Service as well.”
There are reasons why he hasn’t followed his father’s footsteps, but he doesn’t discuss them. Instead, he says, “I can still write my Chinese name, though I can’t pronounce it properly.”
He pulls out his shining black fountain pen, and writes three characters awkwardly on a sheet of paper.
“Is that Chinese?” asks Leslie, peering over his shoulder. The guests crowd around curiously.
Lydia squeezes his arm, saying she’s impressed. “I’ve got a Chinese name, too. A fortune-teller wrote it for me in Hong Kong.”
“I used mine as my secret mark in boarding school,” says William lightly. “For years and years. Which is probably why I can still write it. Ren—how do you pronounce this?”
Shyly, Ren shakes his head. Although he can speak Cantonese, he can’t read many characters. Ah Long might be able to, though. Chattering and laughing, the group pours into the kitchen, despite William’s protests that it would be easier to call his cook out.
To his horror, the first thing he sees is Nandani sitting quietly at the kitchen table with a plate of food. He glances sharply at Ren, who lowers his head guiltily. The boy must have given her something to eat. Well, he can’t fault him for that. He’s a better man than me, thinks William, wishing desperately that Nandani would disappear and not look at him with her sad eyes.
Ah Long is disgusted that so many people have invaded his kitchen, but he wipes his hands on his grubby white apron and peers at the piece of paper.
“Wei Li An.”
“There you go.” William smiles awkwardly, wanting to get away from the kitchen and Nandani as soon as possible. “It’s my name—‘William.’”
“But what does it mean?” asks Lydia, staring at Nandani, who shrinks further into her seat.
Ah Long says something in Chinese to Ren, who nods.
“He says most Chinese names for foreigners just copy the sound of their name, but this one has a meaning.” Ren points at the middle character, the one that looks most complicated. “This word is Li. It means doing things in the proper order, like a ritual. And this one, An, means peace. If you put them together with Wei, it means ‘for the sake of order and peace.’”
The kitchen has fallen silent. Ren, raising his eyes from the paper, discovers that everyone is staring at him and looks frightened.
“Is this your houseboy?” Rawlings breaks the stillness.
William nods. Despite itching to get away from Nandani, who sits frozen, like a mouse, he’s proud of Ren’s soft-spoken, clear explanation.
“Where on earth did you find him?”
William ushers everyone out of the crowded kitchen. “It’s a long story,” he says, “best told over a stengah.”
Someone puts a record on the gramophone, and outside there’s the ebb and swell of conversation. Two guests linger in the kitchen: Lydia, who has gone over to chat with Nandani, and Rawlings. Making an excuse to the others, William returns. He has to stop Lydia from talking to Nandani, in case she sniffs out their relationship. Lydia’s good at things like that.
But when he edges into the kitchen, Lydia is already turning to go. Catching his eye, she smiles, assuming that