The Fan Tan Players, page 14
The sun was low in the sky and the windows of the houses behind were obscured with lines of washing. Iain could hear the Hakka women in their black lampshade hats chattering in the street below; their serrated voices pounded his head purposefully; it was market day and in his foggy mind he could visualize the makeshift stalls strewn across the broken brick sidewalk, see their assorted wares – fried cinnamon dumplings, temple incense and fruit. He could hear the talk of politics and minor warlords, about the retreating Communist party, the failed Nanchang uprising, and how businessmen in Shanghai and Peking were throwing money at the Kuomintang Nationalists. He could also see the bloodstains on the road left behind by Peter Lee.
Iain placed his palm on the back of his neck and dry-heaved. The smell from the cinnamon dumplings seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. A peculiar chill flooded his brow followed by a pinching so extreme he creased over.
‘‘We think it prudent,’’ the Commissioner continued, ‘‘if you went away for a time. Let us know your decision.’’ The policeman left the room.
Iain turned his gaze away from the road. After a while he closed his eyes and said, ‘‘He was only twenty-three.’’
‘‘You’re in danger if you remain in Macao.’’ It was Costa’s voice spilling out of the shadows. He had a cup of steaming café preto in his hand and a brown package with a torn red wax-stamped seal. ‘‘The grey suits are talking about moving you.’’
‘‘I don’t want to be moved.’’
The big Macanese nodded. ‘‘That’s what I told them.’’
‘‘I expect they want me back in Hong Kong.’’
Beached like a walrus in his chair, Costa said. ‘‘Whitehall’s shtarting to worry about the Japanese and this Shantung incident,’’ he said, scratching his belly through his shirt. ‘‘There was a bloody, yet brief, armed conflict between Japanese forshes and the Kuomintang southern army. The Kuomintang emissary was killed.’’
‘‘I suppose Whitehall expects there to be more skirmishes.’’
Costa shrugged. ‘‘It looks like they want somebody in Tsingtao.’’
By somebody, Iain imagined that Costa meant Paul Katkoff his colleague in Shanghai, which was four hundred miles from Tsingtao across the Yellow Sea. ‘‘You mean Katkoff, I suppose.’’
‘‘No.’’
Iain looked aghast. ‘‘Not me, surely?’’
‘‘Yes, you.’’
‘‘To Tsingtao?’’ Iain shook his head. ‘‘Who rubberstamped this?’’
‘‘Du Maurier in Sh-tation C, Peking. He asked for you shpesh-ifkly. Read the report yourself if you don’t believe me.’’
‘‘Who’s the liaison officer in Tsingtao?’’
‘‘A fellow called Fielding from the Administrative Service. Do you know him?’’
‘‘Aye, I know him. He was the liaison officer the first time I landed in Hong Kong. The man’s a prick, a trusdar. What about in Dairen. Do we have a man in Dairen?’’
‘‘Cooke,’’ said Costa. ‘‘The man in Dairen is called Cooke. Why?’’
He rubbed the skin between his eyes. ‘‘How long do you think I’ll be gone?’’
Costa shrugged and ran a hand through his mesh of sweaty hair. ‘‘Seex months, maybe longer. Who knows? For as long as it tayksh for things to cool off here.’’ He leaned forward, exposing parts of his pink belly where a shirt button had popped.
‘‘Why don’t they send Katkoff?’’
Costa looked at Iain incredulously. ‘‘It’s 1928, Vermelho. Perhaps you’ve forgotten there’s a war going on in China. The anti-foreign rampage has already claimed the British concessions in Hangkow and Nanking. And Shanghai is still unshtable – only a year ago the Municipal Council declared a State of Emergency. Remember there was that fighting near the Settlement between the Nationalists and the Communists? Katkoff can’t be risked.’’
‘‘But I can?’’
‘‘You’ll be shafer in Tsingtao than here. Of course, you could always take offee-cial leave.’’
Iain thought about this and realized that because of the civil war in China, he hadn’t taken a holiday in three years. ‘‘Yes, I could take official leave.’’ Iain got up and approached the window. He looked across to Government House where he could see Izabel Perera marching with a face like thunder. There was a Chinese lady picketing as well, but he couldn’t see Nadia. Then he spotted her standing by the seawall, staring out into the ocean, her hands balled into fists.
‘‘Tell me,’’ said Iain. ‘‘How far is Tsingtao from Heihe?’’
‘‘Heihe?’’
‘‘Heihe, Manchuria. On the right bank of the Amur River.’’
‘‘How should I know?’’
‘‘You must have some idea?’’
‘‘Why are you always ashking me these difficult questions, Vermelho?’’ He closed his eyes, as if trying to picture a map in his head. ‘‘At a guess, I would shay about a thousand miles.’’ Costa raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Why do you want to go to Heihe? Is that where you intend to go on holiday??’’
Iain said nothing. A plan had already formed in his head.
19
The very next evening, Nadia and Mamuchka were in their kitchen. They were planning on making 100 rambutan tarts for the charity bake sale to be held in the gardens of the St. Lourenco church. Earlier, they’d heard about Peter Lee’s death outside the British Consulate – something that the press put down to illicit opium trafficking – which made Nadia push all thoughts of Iain even further away.
‘‘Horrible, isn’t it, Nadrichka?’’
‘‘Yes, horrible.’’
‘‘Turning this peaceful place into the Wild West … I’m so glad you have nothing to do with Iain any more.’’
Nadia did not reply, instead she broke open a hairy-skinned rambutan with a thumbnail and, spreading the sections like petals, squeezed the white marrow out – luscious, translucent, pulpy, shimmering with juices.
The kitchen was an old room, floored in pale wood with a dust-covered bulb in the middle of the ceiling that gave off a faded light the colour of grubby tea. Nadia and Mamuchka were standing at a long oak table; it was draped with layers of green gingham tablecloths. The whole house seemed to swell with the aroma of cooking.
A basin of milk was full of soaking custard powder, a curlicue of honey was running off a thick wooden spoon, and a batch of cornflour and desiccated coconut was on the stove. There was also a platter of chopped rambutan and black persimmon – their chewy seeds removed – a salver arranged with apple crescent moons, a tin of Banania tapioca and a fat pitcher of freshly whipped cream. Plates and saucers were piled up high. Nadia added teaspoonfuls of honey and knobs of butter into the milk and custard mixture, stirring it as it simmered, feeling something black and hot smoulder in her heart.
‘‘Beris’druzhno ne budet gruzno – many hands make light work,’’ said Mamuchka.
‘‘When the baking is done, Mamuchka, will you join us down in Government House?’’
‘‘Nadrichka, let me be honest with you. Much as I support Izabel’s intentions and admire her conviction, I don’t think we should get involved.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’
‘‘People are already starting to talk. They’re branding her a troublemaker.’’
‘‘But it’s an honourable cause. I feel ashamed that no one has done anything about it before.’’
‘‘That may be so, but you know how people are.’’ Her voice was intense yet gentle. ‘‘They’re like sheep. Everyone’s afraid to buck the system. And don’t forget that we’re outsiders. Despite living here for almost twenty years, we’ll never be regarded as Macanese. The last thing I want is for the authorities to brand us as troublemakers too. There’s nowhere for us to go if they kick us out, you know.’’
‘‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Mamuchka.’’
‘‘I’m not being melodramatic, I’m being sensible. Put these in the oven for me, will you?’’
Just as Nadia was preparing to slide the tray of pastry shells into the wood-burning oven, she heard a knock on the door.
Uncle Yugevny’s eyes were heavy-lidded and dozy. He looked like a grumpy, bespectacled bear roused from his cave. There were grease marks on his spectacle lenses and, blinking like a pothole dweller, he wiped his hand on the tablecloth and leaned on one leg to remove something from his trouser pocket. It was a small present, square in shape and wrapped in shiny red paper.
‘‘For you,’’ he said to Nadia.
‘‘What’s this?’’
‘‘That red-headed, nincompoop friend of yours left it at the counter. Wait. There’s a letter that goes with it.’’
‘‘Wh-what did he say?’’
‘‘He said something about a vegetable.’’
‘‘A vegetable?’’
‘‘By the eyes of the domovoi, you know what his Portuguese is like? I think he was trying to tell me he was going on a journey.’’
‘‘Is he still downstairs?’’
‘‘No, he is gone. He mentioned having to catch the afternoon steamer to Hong Kong.’’ Uncle Yugevny returned his eyes to the bowl of olives. ‘‘He also asked for some photographs.’’
‘‘Photographs?’’
‘‘Yes, he wanted something to remind him of you, and asked if he could take the one of you as a little girl standing with your father by the fountain in Vadra.’’
‘‘Did you let him have it?’’
‘‘I did. At first I was reluctant to give such a precious thing to him, but he promised to give it back and take care of them. Why? Did I do wrong?’’ When Nadia did not reply, he scratched his head. ‘‘I will be in the shop if you want me,’’ he said, walking out the door, wiping his glasses with his thumb.
Nadia tore open the envelope and read Iain’s words. Dear Nadia, I have had to go away, said the note. The other morning, when we were sitting in the square under the big banyan tree, I was going to tell you something. She felt her face burn and flare, and she set her mouth tight, determined not to cry. Something I had rehearsed for hours. But as soon as I started to speak … well, needless to say, I lost my courage. If I have hurt you in any way, please forgive me. It was never my intention to deceive you. My heart has belonged to you from the moment we first met. Keep this gift close to your heart. Remember me always. Yours, Iain. She removed the top of the little red box. Inside she found a cirrus of cotton wool, and inside the cotton wool, sitting on a bed of tissue, was a tiny, jade monkey pendant, carved into the shape of a banana leaf. It was attached to a gold chain. Her hands began to tremble; she felt the stifled air rush out of her lungs with a gasp. Her anger towards him dissipated. ‘‘Oh God,’’ she said, fighting for breath and turning away from her mother.
‘‘Bawzhemoy! What is it, Nadrichka?’’
‘‘He’s gone.’’
‘‘Who has gone?’’
There followed a forlorn silence. Then Nadia whispered the word Papashka. She said it with a hooded breathlessness, as though it was a secret blown across a jagged beach. She made to leave the room but her mother blocked the doorway with her body.
‘‘What do you mean, Nadrichka. What are you talking about?’’
Nadia raised both hands, palms upturned. Her mind felt like two birds flying in opposite directions, one out the front door of the house, the other out the back. ‘‘Oh God! Mamuchka!’’ Nadia looked white in the face. ‘‘I think Iain’s gone to do something very stupid.’’
‘‘You’re not making sense, Nadrichka. Why are you looking at me like that?’’ Nadia went to hurriedly remove a bottle of port from the shelf. She laid out two Russian glasses, set them down right next to the jade monkey pendant. There were all sorts of knots and tangles inside her stomach. Anxious, with unfounded hopes, she yanked the cork off the bottle and said, ‘‘I don’t want to say this. What if I’m wrong?’’
‘‘What is it? What’s the matter?’’
‘‘Maybe it’s something that I’ve imagined … but … I think Iain’s gone north.’’
Mamuchka shook her head. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’
‘‘I think he’s gone to get him.’’
Mamuchka stared at her, as if Nadia had somehow betrayed her. Her voice quavered now. ‘‘Get who, Nadrichka?’’
She covered her trembling mouth with a hand and closed her eyes.
‘‘Nadrichka, why are you crying? What are you trying to tell me?’’
‘‘Papashka, I think Iain’s gone to get Papashka.’’
PART TWO
Autumn 1928
1
Within a week of Iain’s arrival in Dairen, Manchuria, the weather had turned bitterly cold. In the three months that it took for him to journey north and arrange what needed to be arranged, rain had turned to snow and freezing air had begun to blow in from the high table-lands of the interior.
During that time, Iain had been very busy. To begin with he had to gain an extended leave of absence, attain the necessary entry visas for travel through the Three Eastern Provinces, then make contact with his SIS counterpart in Manchuria and find temporary accommodation. He also acquired several maps of Northern China, a Commercial Traveller’s Guide to the Far East, and bribed several people to keep his movements quiet to avoid suspicion. Everything began moving quickly after that.
Bundled up warmly, wrapped in a woolen scarf and coat, his red hair crinkled in windswept waves, Iain waited for Cooke to arrive. He was breakfasting in the square opposite The Yamato hotel. A bowl of steaming noodles sat on the table before him. He ate little of it.
In the distance he could see the ocean. A torrent of sampans, lighters, cockboats, double-enders, wallah-wallahs and shallops crammed the docks cheek-by-jowl. Ships’ bells clanged in the filthy harbour.
He didn’t like Dairen; at one time part of a Russian-leased territory, it was now controlled by the Japanese, with a Japanese governor general, and aside from the former Russian Governor’s Palace and the properties in Nicholas Square there was little to admire. Iain thought it charmless and ugly – every other building was either a gas works or a sulphuric-acid factory. It reminded him too much of Glasgow.
Cooke, a veteran of Amiens, was tall and slim with a fresh healthy face and thick earlobes. He emerged out of a rickshaw at the circular plaza and came forward now, greeting Iain with a wave. Cooke only had one hand. His left paw was a stump, severed at the wrist like a snapped-off icicle.
He sat down, looking preoccupied. A pot of tea was set before them. Cooke drew in a breath and ran his good hand through his oiled hair. ‘‘Well, I think I’ve got everything you asked for,’’ he said.
Iain rummaged in his pocket and extracted a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth. ‘‘Including a guide?’’ he asked.
‘‘Yes, I found a Russian-speaking guide who can get you across the Amur River.’’
‘‘What about guns?’’
‘‘I’ve found you a pair of M-1891 Cossack rifles. They are standard Russian infantry rifles used during the War. You’ll want to blend in, so no point carrying British weapons.’’
‘‘Yes, that’s good. Well done.’’ His thoughts hurried ahead. ‘‘And furs? You’ve got furs. Good. How cold do you think it’ll be?’’
‘‘If there’s no wind, minus five on a good day. Minus thirty-odd when the weather closes in for the winter. I strongly advise that you to get in there before then. However, there are Red Guard river patrols out in full force at the moment, so your best bet would be to wait for the Amur to freeze over and cross it on foot. How many people are you looking to bring back with you?’’
‘‘I don’t know for certain,’’ he said. He was thinking about the Riedles. ‘‘I know for sure that I’ll have one passenger, a very frail one at that. There’s a chance of two or three others.’’
‘‘The danger is that if you cross too early the ice won’t have set and you might fall through it, too late and your sick passenger’s liable to freeze to death. It’s a small window of opportunity.’’
Above them, a clock struck the quarter hour.
Cooke pulled a watch from his pocket and both men rose from the table. ‘‘Let’s take a walk,’’ said Iain.
They made their way across the square and headed into some backstreets. With the advent of winter, the snow fell like drifts of sifted flour. Beggars and pavement-dwellers, wrapped in tattered animal skins, huddled under lean-tos, scratching out life from the slush.
‘‘Rickshaw! You wan Rickshaw?’’ bellowed the touts from every corner. Despite the wafting snow and harsh wind, dozens of sleet-covered Mongolian ponies and coolie-carts were out on the streets, dragging gunny sacks of grain, rice, melon seeds, blackened bananas, straw braid and lumber from north to south, east to west.
Iain and Cooke continued to walk straight ahead. The route took them past buildings with walls punctuated with Chinese graffiti: Down with Imperialism! Abolish unfair treaties! Boycott all Japanese Goods!
Their feet crunched against the thin snow. The twinkling ice stretched along the street like a long sheet of shellacked tin. Overhead, dark clouds gathered.
Cooke reached into his overcoat and extracted a pair of train tickets. ‘‘I’ve got us a late evening departure, leaving tomorrow. Means we can sleep a bit if we want. We’ll change trains at Mukden and I’ll accompany you as far up as Changchun. That’s where the guide will meet you. We’ve arranged a truck to take you to Heihe from there.’’
Iain thanked him again. After a pause he asked, ‘‘What’s your section saying about Soviet Russia? What’s the current political climate? Do I need to worry?’’
Cooke was expecting the question. He pulled his watch from his pocket once again and twirled its chain round his finger. ‘‘Stalin’s government seems to be in a state of organized chaos. They’ve been trying to put forward the idea of a collective farm system, but they’ve come under heavy resistance. Last year there wasn’t enough grain being produced in Russia, so now there’s a bread shortage. It might lead to another famine. Stalin’s blaming the kulaks.’’
