The Fan Tan Players, page 12
15
A day or so later Iain went for a walk with Nadia up Guia Hill, with its views of Taipa and Coloane, famed for their firework factories, matchstick makers and black sand beaches. Nadia pointed out the broad tracts of coarse farmland, the pitch and roll of the low, green hills, the little huts made of bamboo-and-wattles.
At the top of the footpath Nadia began passing out leaflets calling for the end of infanticide and urging the Government to act. On the reverse of each flier, printed with orange crayon, was an advertisement publicizing the charity bake sale to be held in the gardens of the St. Lourenco church. Although initially apathetic, Nadia was now swept up by the cause – Izabel’s dedication to it was proving to be infectious.
Having handed out half of the fliers, they visited the white-washed lighthouse. From the observation platform they looked down and saw the ground dropping away, the sweep of pine trees, and the outer harbour full of silhouettes of slow-moving fishing junks heading in and out of the open sea. They also saw three tiny figures marching back and forth along the gates of Government House, white signboards flashing in the sunlight. ‘‘Oh God, don’t tell me that’s who I think it is,’’ said Iain.
Nadia nodded. ‘‘Izabel, Mamuchka and Mrs. Lo.’’
‘‘How did she rope your Mum into this?’’
‘‘She offered to buy her lunch.’’
‘‘Why aren’t you down there?’’
‘‘Me? I’m passing out the fliers.’’
‘‘You’re quite commited to this now, aren’t you?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
Later they took in a Hollywood matinee at the Roxy on Rua Victor. It was so hot in the theatre that almost every person was waving a paper fan or newspaper. When Nadia handed out more fliers, people wiped there foreheads with them, complaining bitterly about the stifling heat. At which point the screen came alive with newsreels showing the civil war in China – fighting in Hailufeng, Chiang Kai-shek’s troops killing Communists in Shanghai, houses burning in Ninggang County, Kuomintang Nationalists singing as they advanced through the paddy fields of some southern province – and the carping ebbed to a muted whisper.
They didn’t stay for the whole show, preferring to retire to a little restaurante on the corner of Rua Direita. They ordered spicy African Chicken and a plate of grilled fish and both thought at the time that only the intimate could eat together and be this happy. It made him want to appreciate her, reveal things to her. Over a bottle of vinho verde, they disclosed little secrets to one another, tiny hidden thoughts, making jokes about their bizarre food cravings. He admitted a passion for hot sauces and a weakness for chocolate violet creams, Caramel Bullets and ‘soor plooms’; she confessed to hating black olives and liking pickled beetroot with custard. But it was what she revealed over coffee that really surprised him – she spoke about her early childhood in Russia and the deep feelings she had for her family.
She told him about her summers spent playing in the enormous haystacks that dotted the meadows, diving in and out of them like a trout in a stream, and how in winter her father would build her a toboggan run made from ice that stretched from the first floor balcony down to the pond. Her blue eyes started laughing in the sun. As she spoke, Iain saw not the woman in the restaurant, hands gripping the table, but a little girl running with her father through the cornfields, her arms clamped around his shoulders, teeth glinting with laughter. She was vulnerable, soft, devoid of cunning. It made Iain feel rotten about himself because his initial approach to Nadia had been professional and deceitful, a fact of which she was unaware. He wondered whether he ought to tell her about Lazar.
Oblivious to Iain’s disquiet, Nadia sat sipping carbonated water, peering at the cardboard menu; she was genuinely excited. There was so much she wanted to know about Iain. So many questions she wanted to ask. She felt in the top half of her head, just above the eyes, a lightness; a thrill that was extending across her skin and surging outwards from it, illuminating the room. It made her want to smile.
Nadia looked at him. ‘‘Tell me’’, she said. ‘‘What exactly is it that you do?’’
He paused, thought for a moment. ‘‘Oh, this and that … I work for His Majesty’s Government. I guess you could call me a sort of licensed rabble-rouser.’’
‘‘Oooh …’’ she said, eyes brightening, playfully veiling her face behind her napkin. ‘‘You mean you’re a spy, a mole, a shadow.’’
‘‘Nothing of the sort.’’ He took a long gulp of beer, draining the glass. She laughed at his visible unease, feeling oddly satisfied.
A moment passed before he said, ‘‘Nadia, I’ve been thinking about your father. Can you tell me more about him?’’
Her eyes looked away. A waiter brought a fresh basket of hot bread rolls and a plate of paprika-coloured sausages. ‘‘What do you want to know?’’
‘‘Anything really. What can you remember?’’
She thought for a moment and laughed, covering her mouth with a hand. ‘‘He used to call me his little chimp because I used to climb the trees in the garden like a monkey.’’
Iain smiled and seemed pleased with himself. ‘‘His little chimp, yes, you’ve mentioned that before. What else?’’
Nadia leaned back in her chair. She had broken a bread roll in half and was hollowing it out, digging a hole in the centre with her thumb. She took in a breath and heard herself sigh. ‘‘He was a good-looking man, four years older than Mamuchka. He was dark, his face slender with the same blue eyes as mine. Back in Russia people always teased Mamuchka that she was lucky to get him. And Mamuchka said that he made people laugh, never at their expense, or by showing off, but by poking fun at his own faults. Someone once said that when he looked at you it was as if the sun was shining on your face. But I think the reason people liked him so much was because he possessed a frailty which people couldn’t quite identify. It was as if he needed you. He met Mamuchka at a playhouse in Moscow, in between scenes of Moliere’s Bourgeois Gentilhomme, when he fell through the floorboards of the dress circle into her lap. Papashka said it felt as if he’d fallen onto a thick foamed layer of eiderdown. The look of horror on her face made him laugh. They fell in love instantly. Woodworm was to blame.’’
Nadia could still hear his voice sometimes. Deep, tender, with a flutter of mischief.
‘‘Do you miss him?’’
Nadia looked at the bottles that lined the bar and thought hard about this. She was pressing a sausage into the hollow centre of her bread roll. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she eventually said. ‘‘I really don’t know anymore. Sometimes there’s a pain in my heart.’’ Her voice tailed away, enfeebled by the nearby bark of an alley dog.
‘‘Don’t you want to hug him, don’t you want to be a family again?’’
‘‘My father disappeared when I was seven years old. Much of what I remember of him are merely images from photographs. Not knowing him through that transition of childhood into adolescence then into adulthood, not having him around to witness my achievements, my disasters, seeing me fall in love, fall out of love, all the questions you wish you could ask your father, it’s a – I don’t know the English word for it. In Russian we say oorezeevats. Like a cutting off.’’
‘‘A curtailment.’’
She nodded and took a bite out of her sausage sandwich. ‘‘It is a curtailment that never leaves you. One of the most influential characters in the story of my life was written out of the plot too early. It has left me floundering a little bit, made me unsure what I want to do with my life. And I hate it.’’
‘‘Surely it’s not too late to – ’’
‘‘It’s been twenty years, Iain. I just want some sort of resolution now. For me to live my life, I’ve had to let a piece of him die. Sometimes I think what it might be like if he was to walk through the door – I don’t know how I’d react. A part of me yearns to have the past back, even if it’s only for a few minutes. But there’s another part of me, a darker part that wants to bury it, just so that there’s no more pain.’’
‘‘What about your mother? How does she feel about it?’
‘‘Mamuchka?’ She sighed again. ‘‘Mamuchka’s spirit is like a tree slowly shedding its leaves … her heart will take a long time to die. I think Mamuchka would do anything to see him again. Anything.’’
‘‘You say he’s living somewhere on the Amur River?’’
‘‘With a family called Riedle. His letters are postmarked Blagoveshchenck. But his letters say he is in a village called Elychoko. The handwriting is rarely ever the same, so he must be getting someone to write them for him.’’
‘‘Blagoveshchenck.’’ Iain said, trying to picture a map of Manchuria in his mind. ‘‘That’s on the Amur’s left bank, I think. It’s a huge stretch of water that freezes over completely in winter; about two, maybe three miles wide, and very hazardous to cross in the summer months. The nearest city on the China side would be Heihe.’’
Nadia didn’t seem to be listening to him. ‘‘Strange isn’t it’’ she said, deep in her own thoughts. ‘‘First we were separated by fire, now by water.’’
‘‘Do you still think about that day the fire took your house?’’
She placed her half-eaten sausage bun onto the plate. ‘‘Sometimes, I do. Yes.’’
‘‘Is that how you got the wound on your arm?’’
Dazed at the suddenness of his question, Nadia involuntarily ran her fingers along her forearm, felt the hard bumps on top of the granulated skin – a reminder of my past, she thought.
She jumped a little when she felt the touch of his hand on hers. And she saw for the first time that it wasn’t because of his looks or his strength that she liked him; it was his tenderness.
‘‘I’m sorry, Nadia. I’m a bloody fool. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’’ He reached over and caressed a strand of her hair away from her eyes.
The touch of his hand stayed with her for the rest of the day.
16
The next afternoon Iain took Nadia swimming in Taipa. ‘‘Aren’t you on flier-duty today?’’ he asked.
‘‘No,’’ she grinned. ‘‘Today’s a rest day. Izabel’s got blisters on her feet from marching too long!’’
They changed out of their clothes in the Nissen huts that fringed the far end of the beach, hanging their things on hooks. Nadia took a couple of turns around the drab grey concrete floor, which was polished shiny with use, unsure whether her costume might be a tad risqué. She wore an open-necked outfit with ruffles, with her arms bared and her legs exposed to mid-thigh. A yellow scarf was knotted to her head, gypsy-style. She was more than a little embarrassed about showing off her legs in public.
Iain jumped off the high rocks into the deep water with a splash, while Nadia bathed in the torpid shallows, in the glorious silkiness of the currents, away from the froth and boil of the creaming cauldron of waves. There were little fish patrolling her knees, showing off their bright golds and speckled greens, while matchstick-thin eels searched the stones and grasses for food. With a moan of pleasure, she swam on her back, on her front, even under the surface for a time, holding her nose, but the water was too opaque to see much. When she and Iain tired, Iain picked up a string of seaweed and threw it at her. She leapt out of the water in hot pursuit of him but stopped abruptly. Iain dashed out of the surf and looked around, was waiting for her on the sandy shore.
‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he said.
‘‘I’m not coming out of the water until you get me something to put on.’’
‘‘Why?’’
She cupped her hands over her breasts.
He went over to the Nissen huts and returned with her sandals, dangling them on the ends of his fingers. She started laughing. ‘‘I meant a towel, byeazoomyets!’’
He stood, watching her, the surf receding from his ankles, feathering his toes.
‘‘No towels,’’ he said, shrugging. ‘‘Sorry.’’
She stood defiantly in the water for several minutes. Then unravelling her wet scarf and wrapping it round her thighs, she raced out of the water to sprint after Iain with a handful of seaweed. When she caught up with him, they embraced at which point Iain twirled her about on the sand as if they were dancing. He lolled her head back in a tango move and she laughed. They looked into each other’s eyes.
Afterwards, they spent time on the cliffs overlooking the fishing junks soaking up the sun, making little stick figures out of grass and small conifer saplings as thick as a man’s finger. Nadia slipped her blouse over her swimming costume, feeling her wet arms snag and pull on the sleeves. Later, they went gathering pebbles and shells, picking them out of tide-soaked hollows and tidal recesses, and carrying them in the apron of Iain’s loose white shirt. Searching for the stones, which were so smooth-grained, so variably coloured, pleased Nadia as much as the swimming. Some of the pebbles were mountain ash grey and had long, slanted pink lines running across them; others were rich chocolate brown with raspberry blushes bursting to the surface. Most of them, however, were a dark, deep blue and marked with blotches of silver or stripes of white.
When they wearied of collecting pebbles, they strolled to the little ferry pier and sat upon the wooden anchored floats, dangling their toes in the sea, splashing water at each other in little sprays of blue. Looking down from the floats, into the water below, they saw tiny pouches of seagrass softly waving with the tide and tiny translucent fish swimming between their ankles. When they got to their feet, they noticed a Chinese woman with a snub nose and piercing mascaraed eyes standing by the landing stage, evidently waiting for the next ferry boat. She had a shawl draped over her shoulders and a fat bouquet of wet, white lilies nestled in the crook of her elbow. Iain said hello and nodded in her direction. The woman nodded back.
Turning to Nadia, Iain smiled a tiny enigmatic smile. Self-conscious, he folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘Nadia,’’ he said with care, inclining his head briefly. ‘‘Your father … Papashka …’’
She looked up from the water, her little girl’s eyes, edged in gold, expressing a few moments of confusion. ‘‘What about him?’’
‘‘There’s something I want to know.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Something about his character – what was he like?’’
She looked suddenly unhappy. ‘‘No,’’ she said. It was a quiet ‘no’, not a sob, but a refusal that slid away with the sea. ‘‘It’s been so long, Iain. I don’t wish to discuss it.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘I just don’t.’’
He wondered why she was reluctant to talk about her father. Was she keeping something from him? Hard little thoughts bobbed about inside his head, tiny fragments of doubt. When he’d asked her before whether she missed him, she’d answered that she really didn’t know anymore. Yet Iain had to make sure. If he was going to go through with his plan, he had to be certain. He swallowed hard and let out a breath.
‘‘Nadia,’’ he said, delicately. ‘‘Was he a good father? Was he a loving husband? You told me that if he were to suddenly walk through the door, you wouldn’t know how to react.’’
Nadia looked back down into the water and rubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. She started squeezing out the wet hem of her scarf.
‘‘Nadia, talk to me.’’
‘‘He’s gone, Iain, he’s a part of the past.’’
‘‘He’s not gone. You told me he still sends word to you. You write to him. Tell me. Please. Was he a good father, Nadia?’’
She exhaled deeply, looked almost helpless.
She took in a breath to collect herself. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said. That was when she turned to him and looked right into his eyes. ‘‘Yes, he was. He was kind, he was funny.’’ She stopped, then, softly, she said, ‘‘He was the centre of my world, Iain.’’
Soothed by the tidal throb as it lapped against his feet, Iain said, ‘‘I want to help him.’’
‘‘Help him?
‘‘Yes. Nadia, what would you say if I told you I could reach him.’’ His eyes were assessing her. ‘‘My job, the people in my field … they can do things, open doors.’’
Nadia looked at the horizon. She shook her head. Her voice was a distant, shaken whisper. ‘‘You can’t – no one can.’’
‘‘That’s not true.’’
Nadia opened her mouth to speak but no words would come out. For so long she had told herself that the past was no more, just a mass of darkness, that there was nothing to be done. It was what she had tried to believe. But she was wrong. It was always there. In her heart she was still the devoted seven-year-old girl, lingering at the foot of Mr. Bogdanov’s doorstep, waiting, looking at the kink in the dirt road, at the outline of trees, wishing, praying – praying that a troika would round the treeline, its great wooden wheels turning, kicking up dust, just as Mamuchka came running out of the house, screaming with laughter and joy. And then the tears would squeeze from Nadia’s eyes, taking the hurt away. Because Papashka had jumped out from the troika, arms outstretched, reaching forward to throw her high into the air, squashing her to him, with the words, I’m home, little chimp, I’m home, ringing in her ears.
Nadia looked at Iain now. This was her chance, she thought, her chance to have her life whole again, without the darkness, the pain, the broken-edged past. For a moment her spirits leapt and galloped. But then she saw the futility of it all, remembered all the bitter moments she’d spent with Mamuchka, sobbing with dumb frustration, when all their dreams of celebration came to nothing.
