The Fan Tan Players, page 18
‘‘Are you saying Iain’s gone missing?’’
Costa looked her straight in the eye. ‘‘It appears that way. None of our stations have heard anything since Dairen.’’ Nadia stared at Costa. ‘‘The theeng is, you shee, we want to inform him that he can return to Macao. You remember the man who was trying to kill him, Utaro Takashi, the head of the Golden Tiger secret society? Well, he hash been deported, handed over to Osaka police. Iain can finally come home.’’
The day after Christmas; a powder-blue sky. Izabel’s boys were playing football in the square and the church bells rang long into the morning. Nadia, alone in her bedroom in Macao, at her bureau, cut off by brown curtains from the world, surrounded herself with old photographs of her family.
She drew open the brown curtains. The sun was lifting off the horizon. There was a telegram from the Great Northern Telegraph Co. on the chenille bedspread. Nadia stared at the piece of frail, blue-tinged paper. With her index finger she traced the words one by one. The days and weeks without Iain had become a wasteland. A chasm had been left behind. After an eternity of waiting and more torturous waiting, living day after day without word, the communiqué had arrived wholly without warning. She had to read and reread the message over again and again if only to convince herself that it was no lie. Not wanting to cry but ultimately unable to stop herself, she cleared her throat and heard her own quivering voice announce once more:
ARRIVING MACAO ON MERCHANT NAVY SHIP TAIBU EVENING DECEMBER 26 STOP VERY MUCH LOOKING FORWARD TO HOT BOWL OF PORRIDGE STOP IAIN
Finally, after 152 days she would be able to hold him once more, feel the muscles of his arms envelope her, wrap her in his love. It had felt like a lifetime; she was determined never to be apart from him again.
She shrugged back her shoulders, momentarily feeling a nervous pressure infect her. She ought to have been ecstatic, yet something hot and troubling was making a home inside her chest. That’s when it struck her. Why was there no mention of her father, she wondered. Why had Iain left this vital question open and unanswered?
Nadia gathered up the jade monkey pendant and her piece of cloudy glass, shaped like a crown – her two most prized possessions – and pressed them to her lips. She gazed up at the image of the Virgin, hanging on the north-east corner of the wall, and said a prayer to Saint Nikolai Chudotvorets and to the Holy Mother of God, thanking them both for their miracle-making. After crossing herself and bowing to the waist, she scooped up the telegram and raced down the stairs to see her mother.
Nadia found Mamuchka sitting in the hallway by the kitchen, a console table at her elbow. It was well beyond noon yet she hadn’t changed out of her billowing, tasseled nightdress, its plumes rising and falling with her breathing; she looked stranded, like a marooned jellyfish, the piled, flouncy cloth of her dressing gown resembling the blue float of a Portuguese man-of-war. She was in a plain wicker chair that looked out of the tiny window and onto the street below. Her body, her posture, was held rigid, her face taut. In her hands she held the bowl of soup Izabel had given her an hour earlier. The soup was untouched, cold now.
Nadia placed her hand on her mother’s back. Olga Shashkova raised her head and looked into her daughter’s eyes. They both smiled hugely. Nadia brought the jade monkey pendant to her mouth with satisfaction and kissed it, just as Mamuchka emitted a great, staggered sigh. She did this several times, drawing in a great breath and sighing, as if breathing was a struggle for her.
‘‘How do you feel?’’ Nadia asked.
‘‘Oh, the way any wife would feel if she was about to meet her husband again after twenty years. Terrified mostly.’’
‘‘Mamuchka,’’ she said, hinting at caution. ‘‘There was no mention of Papashka in the telegram.’’
‘‘Your father is with Iain, Nadrichka.’’
‘‘Mamuchka, please, I urge you … don’t build your hopes up.’’
There was a moment’s pause. The sounds of the streets emptied into the house, voices floating in from the cobblestoned lanes. Nadia, restless and intimidated by her mother’s stillness, by her laboured breathing, needed to break the silence. ‘‘What are you thinking about?’’ she eventually asked.
‘‘What, right at this very moment?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I was just thinking whether we ought to make up the spare bedroom. We’ll need to change the bed linen. Otherwise where will your father sleep?’’
‘‘Won’t he be staying in your room?’’
‘‘I haven’t laid eyes on him for almost a quarter century! I can’t share my bed with a nyeznakawmets, a stranger!’’
Not for the first time Nadia felt disjointed. For years she had reeled away from the heartache and grief of losing a parent. Now, all of a sudden, his resurrection was staring her full in the face. What would she say to him? Should she hug him, kiss him? Maybe Mamuchka was right, she realized. Perhaps he was a stranger, an outsider – there was no way of guessing what type of man he had become.
‘‘You know,’’ said Mamuchka, ‘‘your father always hated travelling on boats. He would always get terribly seasick, poor soul. Do you think he will be alright on this merchant navy ship?’’
Nadia shook her head and smiled. She relieved Mamuchka of the cold soup. She didn’t know this about her father – that he suffered from seasickness. There must have been dozens of facts about him that she didn’t know. Would she be discovering dozens and dozens more similar facts in the coming weeks, she wondered? She placed the soup bowl on the console table and with her hands she massaged her mother’s shoulders, working the tension out of them, saying, ‘‘Let’s go see what the ladies are preparing for Iain’s homecoming, shall we?’’
Along the hall, within the kitchen, Mrs. Lo, Izabel and her two children were putting up Chinese characters in red ink, posting eighty-eight symbols of Shou (longevity), Fu (good fortune) and Ai (love, affection) across the wall and trailing them all the way down the stairwell to the ground floor. Nadia saw that the best silver was laid out and the food – two thick loaves of fresh white bread, steamed buns, a suckling pig flavoured with sea salt, a tureen of caldo verde, a dish of roasted almonds, garlic mussels, sausages with green beans, marinated herrings, a fat wedge of imported Portuguese cheese called Queijo da Ilha, a mountain of quavering strawberry jelly, some fruit and three bottles each of red wine, beer and seltzer – was spread out on the kitchen table. There were also dainty bowls full of eggs dyed red with yen chih, for luck, placed in each corner of the room.
When Mamuchka saw the range of dishes she gasped and said, ‘‘Bawzhemoy! Are we expecting a regiment of soldiers?’’
Mrs. Lo clapped her hands with brio and said, ‘‘Ayah! We forget to cook fish. Fish is for good luck. I should cook fish for your hussbun and give him the cheek to eat!’’ then she said to Mamuchka, ‘‘Olga, what year your hussbun born in? If he born in year of pig, we must all wear purple colours for good luck.’’
Taken aback by the question Mamuchka had to think hard about this, before concluding, ‘‘1865 … he was born in 1865 …’’
‘‘Him an ox! Wahhh! He a very speshow man! He very stable husband with strong heart like a bull! My son Lennox is a dragon. He also a very adaptable and careful character.’’
Mamuchka smiled and said, ‘‘Vek zhivi, vek uchis – you live and learn.’’
‘‘Maybe I still have time to buy fish,’’ said Mrs. Lo. ‘‘One with big cheeks.’’
During this exchange, Nadia had to remind everybody three times that there was no certainty that Papashka would be on the boat. ‘‘Iain might be alone,’’ she said.
‘‘What?’’ said Mrs. Lo, now resigned to opening a can of sardines. ‘‘You think Iain will come back empty handed? Like a beggar? Choy! Dakka laisee! Oyo, I no think so!’’
Nadia challenged everyone with her eyes. ‘‘All I’m saying is we might be disappointed.’’
Izabel who had been silent for some minutes decided to speak out, arching her already arched set of eyebrows higher. ‘‘Look, whatever happens, we know that Iain is safe. Isn’t that what really matters?’’ She rubbed Nadia’s arm. ‘‘Am I right?’’
But who would she actually prefer to have back, Nadia wondered, Iain or her father? She thought about this for several seconds. Iain was her future. Her father was her past. If she had to choose between them she would opt for her future. She felt grateful to Iain, she felt committed to him. Yet something perverse made her hate him for going into Russia, for putting himself at such risk.
‘‘Am I right?’’ Izabel repeated.
Nadia nodded.
‘‘Do you think we need more wine?’’ said Mrs. Lo, ‘‘We better buy a few bottles of vinho verde … and some fyercrackers, maybe some flowers too.’’
‘‘Camellias would look just doocky!’’ said Izabel.
Mamuchka, who was torn between rapture and apprehension, tried and failed to get into the spirit of things. She said, ‘‘Yes, flowers would be nice. No yellow ones, though, and make sure you buy odd numbers. Russians believe that even numbers are for funerals.’’
Moments later Uncle Yugevny entered the kitchen. He gave out a yelp of delight when he saw all the food. ‘‘Oughtn’t we be celebrating by now? Where is the wodka?’’
‘‘The boat doesn’t dock for another four hours!’’ said Mamuchka.
‘‘So? I am thirsty!’’ he said. ‘‘By the eyes of the domovoi, since when did a Fillipov need a reason to haff a drink?’’
‘‘The joy of Russia is drinking,’’ said Nadia, quoting Prince Vladimir, the 10th century Russian monarch.
‘‘And without drinking we cannot be,’’ finished Uncle Yugevny.
‘‘We could have a little port, I suppose,’’ said Nadia.
‘‘Phooey!’’ said Izabel. ‘‘Why have a little when we can have a lot.’’
Taking his cue, Uncle Yugevny uncorked a bottle of Sandeman and started filling glasses to the brim, Cossack-style. As he did so, he broke into song. He sang a melody about old Mother Russia. After a while, they all shared in the singing, including Mrs. Lo, who tried her hand at Cantonese opera.
Sitting around the kitchen table, laughing, they all decided a second bottle of port would be a bad idea. Instead they passed around the dish of roasted almonds, and debated whether they should all go to receive Iain at the pier or if it should be left to Uncle Yugevny to meet the ferry alone.
Three hours and a bottle of red wine later it was determined that Uncle Yugevny would go and the women would stay behind and wait. Nadia, her mouth as dry as a communion wafer, applied some make-up to her eyes and changed into a pale yellow cotton dress with an Empire waist and a short hem. She looked into the mirror and took it straight off, putting on a Cheruit-inspired dress instead. Tiny butterfly wings were beating wildly in her chest. She felt vulnerable and squeezed with anxiety.
In the cavernous entrance of their home, under the crystal chandelier, surrounded by red Chinese symbols and taffeta party balloons, Nadia and Mamuchka stood by the front door. They watched the entrance and the shadows that passed along the window, not quite knowing what they expected to see, listening out for the footsteps that would echo in a brand new, uncertain world. They gripped their sides with their arms.
Inhaling a breath, they heard a hand rattle the doorknob from the outside and a key being inserted. The doorknob twisted.
Their ribs felt crushed.
They did not cry. They would not cry.
6
Nadia saw Iain, bearded and smiling, and then this grey old man behind.
Afraid to say too much, facing each other, they stood there a long moment, unsure whether to embrace. But then Nadia held her hands out wide, almost as a petition. Her father’s face, so corrugated and rucked with lines, so white-haired, crumpled even more now as their bodies met. They gathered each other; his worn hand on her cheek, her hands pressing against the middle of his back. Stroking and stroking. Stroking the sadness out. He was all bones. Behind her, she sensed Mamuchka’s arm on her shoulder, rubbing, consoling, kneading, as if her hand did not know where to put itself. There was so much emotion in the room, it felt like a physical obstacle. Each of them wanted to speak, but the words simply would not form in their mouths. Instead, they cried. They held onto each other and wept sharp, monumental tears that spilled down their cheeks. ‘‘I never stopped believing,’’ he said, quietly. Nadia had never felt such happiness; she had never felt such sadness. The years of loss would take years more to heal.
In the days to come, Mamuchka filled the rooms with hustle and bustle, keeping the windows wide open so that everyone could witness her happiness. She hosted tea-parties and soirees, charity lunches and lucky draws. It was as though, after all those years, she was alive again. She placed a notice in the local newspaper, saying that her husband had returned, she told the butcher, the baker, the char siu supplier, the seamstress she hadn’t spoken to for ten years, as well as the rat-catcher and ear-cleaner. In the throes of her exhilaration, she even donated a statuette of the Virgin Mary to the church. While outside, in the square now with New Year bunting and strung flags, she stood on the steps of the square smiling, laughing louder than everybody else.
Papashka, meanwhile, stayed out of harm’s way and rested in his room, laying on his blankets.
It wasn’t easy for Mamuchka however. Though Ilya’s arrival, for all its emotional drama, had given her a renewed sense of self, it also brought its difficulties. Having got used to her routine over the years, her husband’s return meant that she now had to care for an invalid. She had to shop for him, cook his meals, bathe and shave him, dress him, put clean linen on his bed; she even had to help tie his shoe laces. And despite Nadia’s tireless efforts to help, occasionally the responsibility overwhelmed Mamuchka.
Only late at night, over a pot of hot cocoa shared with Nadia and Izabel, would she suddenly confess to being confused by this man in her house who shuffled about rearranging her things and forever saying, ‘Please help me with my shoes, Olga,’ or ‘Can you please bring me a pillow, Olga,’ and ‘Fetch this, fetch that.’
‘‘He’s been through a lot,’’ said Izabel.
‘‘All he does is rest, rest, rest,’’ said Mamuchka. ‘‘And when he’s awake all he does is think and think some more about Russia. You’d think he’d left his family behind.’’
‘‘In a way he has. Do you think he’s awake right now?’’ asked Nadia. ‘‘I want to speak to him.’’
‘‘He was staring at the ceiling a few minutes ago when I left him,’’ her mother replied, picking up her cluster of knitting only to put it back down again.
Nadia climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor and stood in the darkness for several moments. ‘‘Olga, is that you?’’ her father cried from behind the guest room door.
‘‘It’s me, Papashka.’’ She pushed her head into the room and saw her father in bed, the thin covers drawn across his chest. Tired lamplight illuminated his face and hands.
‘‘Nadia, come in, please, come in and sit.’’
She settled down alongside him. ‘‘Mamuchka says your doing a lot of thinking.’’ He looked at her then looked away. ‘‘Is this true?’’ He nodded. ‘‘Only people that are unhappy think all the time. And sleep all the time. You shouldn’t be unhappy. Are you unhappy?’’
He turned to her again and lifted his hand to softly touch her cheek. ‘‘Nadia, my Nadia. No, I am not unhappy.’’ His eyes were warm, smiling now. ‘‘What I am is worried …’’ He paused. ‘‘I am worried.’’
‘‘Worried about whom?’’
‘‘I am worried for the people I left behind in Harbin, Nadia. The Riedles were my family for so many years. I owe them my life. They are like a brother and sister to me. I need to know where they are. I need to know if they are safe.’’
He hadn’t said much to her about the Riedles, but she knew instinctively how important they were to him. ‘‘Iain said the Lutheran Mission in Harbin was taking care of them,’’ she said.
‘‘But it is my responsibility to ensure they find safe passage to America, to California.’’ He climbed out of bed and started buttoning his shirtsleeves. ‘‘And to ensure that once they get there, they are given what was promised.’’
‘‘What are you doing?’’ asked Nadia. ‘‘You need to rest.’’
‘‘Rest, zhest! I have been resting too long. I am going to talk with your Iain. I need assurances that my friends are safe.’’
‘‘What, now? But it’s almost eleven o’clock?’’
‘‘So? These things cannot wait. I need to talk with Iain.’’
‘‘You can use the telephone in the shop.’’
‘‘Telephone? I have never used a telephone in my life. Pass me my sticks and help me with my trousers, will you? And then go outside and hail a rickshaw.’’
‘‘Where are you going?’’
‘‘We are going to see Iain.’’
‘‘But Papashka, you can’t go out into the night. You’re far too frail.’’
‘‘Nonsense. I haven’t survived twenty-odd years as an invalid by being frail. Now, fetch me my shoes. It’s time you saw where you got your strength of character from.’’
Two hours later, having read through Iain’s correspondence and numerous Western Union telegraphs from the Mennonite Brethren in Fresno, California, Ilya concluded that the Riedles were indeed in safe hands. According to the paperwork, Peter and Nina Riedle were currently on a ship sailing to San Francisco Bay. The thought made Ilya smile. Perhaps Nina was tasting American ice-cream for the first time, he mused. He rested his palms on Iain’s kitchen table and got to his feet. ‘‘You may take us home now,’’ he said.
When they reached the Tabacaria, Ilya said a hasty goodnight. He refused any help as he struggled up the staircase. No sooner had he reached the landing when a finger-wagging Mamuchka confronted him at the top of the steps. ‘‘What time do you call this?’’ she yelled. ‘‘Just who do you think you are, out gallivanting til the early hours like an old tomcat! To bed with you!’’
