The Fan Tan Players, page 13
Her heart sank. She pictured the awful blackness of previous failures, the despair and rage that came with all the let-downs. She knew from experience that when people talked about helping Papashka – the embassy officials, lawyers, the diplomats – they had always fallen short. This was old, well-trodden ground; a path that always led to disappointment. And she resented Iain suddenly for talking about it. She fixed him with a stare.
‘‘I can find him, Nadia.’’
‘‘Don’t say that!’’ she said, starting to rise from the wooden decking. ‘‘Don’t say that if it’s not true.’’
He grabbed her arm. Like a fish, she wriggled past him, and got up from her knees.
Her voice was trembling. She shivered hard, as if it was winter outdoors and not the moist heat of summer. ‘‘Don’t you dare try to sweet-talk me by making rash promises, do you understand? Don’t you ever do that!’’
‘‘I’m not trying to sweet-talk you, Nadia. I mean what I say. I can help you, I know I can. I can get your father out of Russia.’’
17
Izabel wanted Nadia to describe her lunch with Iain once more. They were seated in Izabel’s pantry, at a round table scarred by forks and bread knives, on which sat a mound of lychees in a wooden colander. Izabel also wanted to know where they’d gone swimming.
‘‘But I’ve told you five times already,’’ said Nadia.
‘‘I don’t care. Tell me again,’’ she urged, stooping over in her chair, edging closer in anticipation. She sounded like a little girl insisting on her favourite bedtime story. So in between three cups of tea in Izabel’s tiny pantry, Nadia went over again the details of what was said, how it was said and what she felt as she looked into his eyes. She told Izabel everything. All the time she spoke Izabel busied herself with her children, brushing out tangled hair, mending buttons, wiping jam-dirtied mouths, scooping crumbs from between the cracks in the table.
‘‘How do you feel when you’re with him?’’ Izabel asked, then paused as her eldest child squealed from behind the heavy curtains in the lounge. ‘‘Don’t swing on those, otherwise they’ll come down!’’
Nadia wanted to say that Iain made her go soft and watery-limbed, made her want to shout and laugh and make incomprehensible babbling sounds. She looked down and heard her voice answer at last. ‘‘Happy,’’ she said, like someone confessing a secret passion. She experienced a ripple of reckless intimate levity. ‘‘He makes me happy, and a little breathless too, as if I’m on tenterhooks. It’s a little like I’ve just poured myself a tall glass of chocolate which is still too hot to drink.’’
Izabel made a thin, startled sound and started laughing. Nadia’s cheeks reddened.
‘‘What does he do?’’ asked Izabel.
‘‘I’m not really sure. He’s attached to the British Consul. He speaks several languages – Cantonese, a bit of French.’’ She paused. ‘‘Maybe he’s a spy.’’
‘‘A spy? Phooey.’’ Izabel repeated several times. ‘‘The only thing he wants to spy on is your laundry.’’
At that moment Nadia realized how much she was enjoying herself. There was a period not long ago, she thought, when everything seemed dull; when doing ordinary things meant little, when doing little things felt ordinary – the daily walk down to the vegetable market, the donning of a pale blue blouse, the state of her bob and how it fared in the wind. These used to be mundane concerns. Now everything took on a new importance. She realized she might bump into Iain at any time; the white muslin dress with the moth holes by the sleeve, the ancient scar-tissue along her right arm, the old black shoes that sagged from overuse, the unsightly droop of her buttocks – now took on fresh significance. And why was it that when she walked down the street she smiled for no reason? Smiled big, like a nincompoop, prompting strangers to smile back at her in return. How strange, how wonderfully strange, she decided, that he could make her feel like this, as though she’d spent the night at sea, with the floor swaying beneath her feet. It was a peculiarly heavenly feeling, yet at the same time it made her feel quite sick.
To her, Iain Sutherland was a mystery; he didn’t fit her typical mould of a Scotsman. He didn’t wear a kilt and have wooden teeth, didn’t stagger about drunk on Friday nights, he didn’t have moths living in his wallet, nor did he suffer incorrigible bouts of dourness and introspection – in reality, he seemed to Nadia to be quite the opposite in nature. He was generous, exuberant and candid. In fact, in her view, he appeared to have not a worry in the world. Yet, there were times, whenever he looked deep into her eyes, when he seemed to be a very contemplative, profound person. He seemed, as her Mamuchka would say, saversyhenstva – the complete package, almost perfection. The backs of Nadia’s hands usually grew sticky with perspiration when she thought about this. Perfection was a word she used to describe a Russian fruit cake or a Mozart aria – not a man.
For all that, there were moments, late at night, when Nadia pulled her emotions apart, yanking at threads of conversation, trying to search for meanings in his words. Often she squinted into the darkness, wanting to sleep yet never feeling so awake, finding few answers, experiencing a host of contradictory things: fear, excitement, joy, expectancy. Maybe, she thought, she ought to just try and put him out of her mind, convince herself that it was simply a passing infatuation, but because she had so much time on her hands, memories of him trickled into her thoughts night and day, without warning. It usually added a glazed-over sheen to her eyes.
‘‘You’re thinking about him again aren’t you,’’ said Izabel, who was securing a Red-Indian bandana to her son’s head. A good two minutes of silence had passed.
Nadia tried to hide her embarrassment but nodded nonetheless. ‘‘I can’t seem to help it. I wish I could just shoo the daydreams away, but I can’t,’’ she said. ‘‘You know, before I met Iain I was a little scared of men, but when I’m with him it’s different. And the more I think about him the more I want to settle down. I envy you, Izabel, as a wife and mother. For the first time, I feel tempted …’’ Her mouth smiled as she spoke.
‘‘Would you like to have children?’’
‘‘One day, yes. Doesn’t every woman eventually want children?’’ She could feel the throb of contentment in her chest. ‘‘God, listen to me. I sound ridiculous.’’
‘‘Phooey! I felt exactly like you when I first met my Jorge.’’
‘‘Jorge? You’re married to Carlos. Who on earth’s Jorge?’’
‘‘Jorge was the butcher’s son. He used to deliver meat and sausages to our door. I remember I was nineteen and infatuated with him throughout that long, hot summer. Twice a week he used to drive the cart right up to the door and I’d wait by the window where he couldn’t see me and watch as he ambled up the garden path, basket in hand, with a bundle specially wrapped for my mother, all tied up with paper and string. Simply thinking about him would make me all tingly and flustered.’’ She broke off her narrative just as her youngest child, Jiao, came in to demand biscuits. When Jiao had gone she leaned in close to whisper, ‘‘I enjoyed a little kiss with Jorge in one of the back alleys once, but then one of the neighbour’s girls said he couldn’t get it up … so I lost interest.’’
‘‘Izabel!’’
‘‘It’d be like going to a restaurant and ordering a good hearty plate of chourico only to get a lukewarm bowl of cabbage soup, don’t you think?’
They were still giggling when Carlos walked in. He had heavy eyelids which made him look dozy, like a kitchen hand who has just seen all the potatoes he must peel. The girls left Carlos with the children and danced downstairs and across the road to Nadia’s apartment, where the kitchen was warm with the smells of cooking. The countertop was replete with containers of sugar and diced garlic and ground meat – all immersed in larger bowls of water to keep the ants away. Mamuchka was in her apron arranging crispy-fried piroshkis in a blue ceramic dish. She was getting some help from her friend, Mrs. Lo, the lady who sometimes childminded Izabel’s boys.
‘‘Have you heard the new Hoagy Carmichael song?’’ Izabel asked Nadia.
Nadia shook her head. ‘‘I wish I could get Iain interested in music. I’d do anything to get him to swap his Jimmy MacKay records for some Bessie Smith or a bit of Kansas City jazz.’’
Nadia’s mother smiled at Izabel and gave her a wink. ‘‘Chtonovava? What nonsense are you two talking about now?’’
‘‘We’re talking about boyfriends,’’ said Izabel.
‘‘Oyo,’’ Mrs. Lo said to Nadia. ‘‘You finally have a boyfriend? Wahhh!’’ She took Nadia’s head in her hands and made spluttering noises, ‘tchoo, tchoo, tchoo, choy choy, choy’
‘‘Why is she spitting on you?’’ asked Izabel, her eyes wide.
‘‘To celebrate good luck and ward off evil spirits,’’ said Nadia
‘‘Who is name of man?’’ asked Mrs. Lo.
Nadia looked at Izabel, as if to decide what to say.
‘‘Not the magistrate, Senhor Pinto, I hope?’’ said Mamuchka in a teasing tone.
‘‘No, he too short,’’ said Mrs. Lo.
‘‘And old,’’ said Izabel.
‘‘He not so old.’’
‘‘What do you mean, not old,’’ Mamuchka contended. ‘‘When he smiles his skin crackles like a gorodvoi’s patent leather boots!’’
‘‘A face that launched a thousand groans,’’ said Nadia.
‘‘What year he born?’’ asked Mrs. Lo. ‘‘Is he a dragon year? If he born in dragon year, tell him he must wear red underpants until new moon comes.’’
‘‘I don’t think I know him well enough, Mrs. Lo, to offer that kind of advice,’’ said Nadia.
‘‘My son a dragon,’’ said Mrs. Lo. ‘‘Red underwear bring him plenty luck.’’
Nadia knew that Mrs. Lo liked to mention her son quite a lot. ‘‘How is Lennox,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s doing very well, I hear.’’
Mrs. Lo beamed from ear to ear. ‘‘Oh, he doing fine. He bring in soap and other top, top things from Portugal. You see that soap in the shops called Musgo Real? That’s my Lennox. Business is prospering.’’
Satisfied she’d made Mrs. Lo’s day, Nadia turned to her mother. ‘‘Mamuchka,’’ she said. ‘‘You’re a woman of the world. How would you go about winning a man’s heart?’’
‘‘Food,’’ she replied. ‘‘You win a man’s heart through food. Biscuits usually work, dzhust feed him some biscuits.’’
‘‘He’s not a sheep dog, Mamuchka.’’
‘‘Is he Russian?’’ asked Mrs. Lo.
‘‘Scottish,’’ said Nadia.
Mrs. Lo shook her head. ‘‘Ayaa, Scottish very dry people.’’
‘‘Lyubov’zia, polyubishi kozin – love is blind,’’ said Mamuchka.
‘‘Russian marrying Scottish no good. A chicken can not talk to a duck.’’
‘‘Scottish?’’ Mamuchka said, as though suddenly realizing something. ‘‘You don’t mean the red-headed fellow who was asking all those questions about Lazar, do you? Bawzhemoy! Why didn’t it occur to me before?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘The man’s a fraud.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ said Nadia.
‘‘He’s a fake. I heard it from Lazar, himself. He’s a kind of policeman, interviewing all sorts of people about opium smuggling. All this talk about love is dzhust nonsense. He’s stringing you along so that he can get close to Lazar. He’s playing you for a fool, Nadrichka!’’
Nadia was more used to thinking than acting, but her anger would not be restrained. She walked all the way to the British Consulate, her cheeks burning. With every step, she heard her mother’s voice, reminding her that she’d been played ‘for a fool’ and taken advantage of. Everything that Iain had done appalled her: the stealthy questions regarding her family, the conceited attempts to charm her with lies, the false kisses, the fictitious and deceitful promise that he could help get her father out of Russia. She’d thought she was in love … thought she was loved.
By the time she reached the Avenida da Republica, she felt as if her tongue had been honed into a kitchen knife. She marched straight upstairs and raised herself to her full height. ‘‘Where is he?’’ she said, barging into Costa at the top of the steps. Angry pulses of perspiration appeared on her lip.
Surprised, Iain got up as she entered his office. He studied her face for a few moments. Her look of disgust seemed to suck the light from the sky. ‘‘Are you sick?’’ he said.
‘‘You’re the one who’s sick,’’ she said, her hands clenched into fists. Her mouth was like a chamber-pot. ‘‘Zhri govno i zdohni!’’
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ he exclaimed.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ she repeated, her tone was piercing and strange. ‘‘What’s wrong is you, that’s what’s wrong. You’re an imposter. A bloody two-faced lying … arggggh!! Did you ever think I wouldn’t find out?’’
‘‘Find out what?’’
She stared at him. In her anger, she swayed slightly. Her face contorted. ‘‘You’re a bloody shit,’’ she said.
‘‘Ha!’’ laughed Costa, entering from the hallway. He struck a match to light a cigar. Nadia watched the flame. A greater heat simmered in her chest.
Nadia glowered at Costa, before turning back to Iain. ‘‘How could you lie to me? Say those things about helping Papashka when all you wanted was to get close to Lazar. I feel humiliated, ridiculed.’’
‘‘Lazar? Is that what this is all about? Lazar was just a lead. The man we were really after was Takashi. He’s in jail now.’’ Iain stepped forward. ‘‘Look, I never lied to you. I just didn’t …’’ he hesitated, ‘‘I just didn’t tell you the whole truth – ’’
‘‘I see. And that’s ok is it?’’
‘‘What I said about your father is true. I still mean to help him. To help you.’’
‘‘You’re a liar! A liar!’’
‘‘Pants on fire!’’ Costa sang, puffing on his cheroot.
‘‘Will you shut up!’’ Iain shouted. Costa winced and backed out of the door.
‘‘Well, at least now you’ll have an amusing story to tell your friends,’’ she said, sharply.
‘‘For God’s sake, Nadia, the whole Lazar episode was before I got to know you.’’
A pained light entered her eyes. ‘‘Before you got to know me?’’ She snorted. ‘‘You don’t know me, Iain. And you’ll never get to know me.’’
He was speechless. She walked slowly out of the room.
Iain followed Nadia down the staircase and watched her board a bus. He called out to her but she wouldn’t turn around. He watched the bus buck forward as it accelerated away, spitting up dust.
In a deep funk, he turned back towards the Consulate gates. With one eye on the fast-disappearing bus, he noticed Peter Lee coming down the steeply sloping road that connected the Praya to Barra Hill. He was carrying a clay pot in his arms.
‘‘Hey, lo baan!’’ he shouted. ‘‘My Ma-Ma make you some haam-yu-gai-faan.’’
Iain was about to thank him, but all of a sudden stopped short. Something appeared out of the corner of his eye. It was someone he’d seen at the ferry pier a few days before, the snub-nosed Chinese woman with the white lilies. The scent of the flowers rose to Iain’s nostrils as a host of pointless questions surfaced in his head: Was the woman lost? Was she following him? What was she doing with these flowers? Was she trying to sell them?
He experienced a moment of cold confusion.
The woman half-ran, half-marched up to him. Mascara muddied the skin beneath her eyes. Iain stood still, expecting her to say something. Instead, the woman snatched back her shawl and pulled out a pistol. The white lilies fell from her hands, spilling. Now she held the gun at arms-length, aimed at Iain’s chest. As she squeezed the trigger, her mouth exuded a hissing sound.
The next few moments came in waves. There was a loud scream. Lee jumped in, holding up his crooked fingers as a means of defence, pushing Iain to one side. A gunshot split open the air. There was a stifled howl, a rain of blood. Lee went sprawling, his head breaking open, his gaze huge, looking far away, ivory white.
Then Costa’s hands were on the woman’s throat, his thumbs against her windpipe. They were both on the floor. Costa was squeezing with all his might. She gagged, making wheezing noises. First her cheeks, then her whole face turned from red to deep puce to blue. Her legs kicked frantically, heaving, hauling, jerking. Baring her teeth, her lungs gurgled.
She went limp.
Iain knelt down at Lee’s side. He cradled him in his hands, watched the lights in his eyes grow thin and fragile and timid. Iain felt his friend’s urine warm his knees.
The bullet had bitten a chunk off the side of his head like he was a half-eaten apple. Lee gulped for breath. His stare swelled; the real fear in his eyes unutterable, intractable. He flung an arm out and dragged Iain close. At almost the same moment, death came, very suddenly. Iain laid his hands on what was left of his assistant’s face. ‘‘My God,’ he said. ‘‘My God.’’
People stood around, unsure what to do. Some of them crossed themselves three times over. A shudder washed over Iain A dark chamber inside him opened, set his arms and legs quivering. Memories of the war – slippery duckboards, gunfire, explosions, the countryside bombed black by shells – came back to him. He let out a wail.
18
Iain stood at the window. On hot mornings like this the stench of sewage and sour cinnamon lifted off the open gutters and hovered over the city like a wet veil. His office felt small and the ache in his head was sharp, making him want to lose his stomach.
‘‘Yesterday’s killing of Peter Lee,’’ the Police Commissioner said, ‘‘merely highlights how dangerous it is for you to remain in Macao. I’m afraid we made a terrible miscalculation. The woman was one of Takashi’s people. A trained assassin. She may be one of many.’’
