The Fan Tan Players, page 19
Downstairs, in the cavernous ground floor, Iain smiled at Nadia. She threw him a strange look. They made their way along the corridor and into the cigar shop. Nadia switched on the lights. They stood amongst the white jars of Zubelda and Mild Virginia, looking at one another.
‘‘We haven’t talked much since I got back,’’ said Iain.
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You haven’t kissed me either.’’
‘‘Iain,’’ she said firmly. ‘‘We need to talk.’’
‘‘Talk about what?’’
‘‘Things … you … the way you just go off and do things without asking me first. It annoys me. What you’ve done annoys me.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘The trip north … it was unfair what you did, toying with our emotions like that.’’
‘‘I don’t understand. I never toyed with you.’’
‘‘You’re playing God with our lives, Iain. Who gave you permission to go and rescue my father? Who said you could send the Riedles half way across the world.’’
‘‘Permission? What are you talking about? I don’t need permission.’’
‘‘He’s my father.’’
‘‘I got him here in one piece, didn’t I?’’
‘‘But what if you hadn’t?’’
‘‘I don’t think you have any idea what we had to go through.’’
‘‘Actually, I do Iain. My father told me about the blizzard, about the Red Guards, how you never once let go of him. But did you think about the risks? Did you even once stop and think that the journey might have killed him … or you?’’
‘‘Of course I did. Why are you acting as if I’m the villain of the piece?’’
‘‘Look, Iain, if we’re going to be friends, I can’t have you making these sorts of decisions without consulting with me.’’
‘‘Friends? Is that what we are? Friends?’’
She looked at him as her words sunk in. ‘‘Yes, friends. Have you forgotten what happened before you went north? I called you a liar and an imposter. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all about Lazar.’’
‘‘No, I haven’t forgotten about Lazar.’’
Reaching into her coat pocket she went over to the Tabacaria’s entrance and, following a clicking of locks, pushed the front door ajar.
‘‘You want me to go?’’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
She held the door wide open.
Iain stepped out into the cool night.
He walked briskly across the Largo da Sien. A stray dog lifted his leg across the road. He listened for the cries of ‘hey mista, you wan ride?’, but there weren’t any rickshaws in sight. Iain stood in the darkness for several moments and stared at the ground.
Three minutes later he banged on the cigar shop door.
‘‘You also called me a shit,’’ he said.
‘‘A bloody shit if I remember correctly.’’
‘‘I’ve thought long and hard about you, Nadia Shash„kova,’’ he said. ‘‘Long and hard.’’
‘‘And?’’ She folded her arms across her chest.
‘‘There used to be a hot stone in here.’’ He pointed to his heart. ‘‘It was something alien, something anxious and impatient filling a void. But it’s gone now. You made it go away. ’’ She unfolded her arms. ‘‘They want to send me to Hong Kong. Maybe not right away, perhaps in a couple of years time. There’s even talk of returning to Scotland.’’
‘‘Then you should go.’’
‘‘I want you to come with me.’’
‘‘That’s not going to do your career any good is it? Bringing back a White Russian.’’
‘‘It’s a gamble I’m prepared to take.’’
‘‘Well if it’s gambling you’re after then perhaps you should try your luck at the fan tan tables.’’ She looked at her watch. ‘‘Club Camoens will still be open.’’
‘‘I’d choose you over my career any day. I’d choose you over anything.’’
‘‘Are you saying you want to marry me?’’
He tried to kiss her mouth, but she pulled away.
He stopped and looked at her. ‘‘I don’t know, am I?’’
‘‘My mother always said you were a flatterer and a deceiver.’’
‘‘You’re mother’s no fool.’’
After which a smile spread across her face. ‘‘Do you know,’’ she said. ‘‘When you were away I used to ask myself that if only one of you could return to me, would I rather have you or Papashka?’’
‘‘And? Which one of us did you choose?’’
Nadia laughed, tickling his ribs with her fingers. Then she looked him in the eyes. ‘‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Iain, I really am. Don’t get me wrong. But don’t you ever take a risk like that again. And don’t you ever play God with my life. Never again, do you promise me?’’ Her words were spoken through softened eyes.
‘‘I promise.’’
‘‘Goodnight then.’’
‘‘Goodnight.’’ He turned and walked once more into the night and like a rush of warm water, a sparkle of contentment fell over her. She pressed her nose to the glass and watched him disappear into the blackness.
For the next few weeks Nadia’s life was serene and contented. But like a marsh snake in a flooded paddy-field, trouble eventually found its way to the surface.
It was during one of Mamuchka’s cocoa-nights that Izabel burst into the kitchen and started tossing pots and pans onto the floor.
‘‘Izabel!’’ cried Nadia. ‘‘What are you doing? Stop it!’’
After staring at her friend for several moments, Izabel let out a scream and the colour left her face.
‘‘What’s happened?’’ asked Nadia. ‘‘Has something happened to the boys? Is it Carlos?’’
‘‘The police have sent me a summons.’’ Izabel choked a little as she said this.
‘‘What are you talking about?’’
Izabel sat, gripping her thin elbows with her hands. ‘‘They are charging me for being a public nuisance, for disturbing the peace. They say that my marching bordered on harassment.’’
‘‘Harassment? That’s ridiculous. All you did was walk up and down the Praya. You weren’t chanting insults or banging drums. You didn’t accost anyone or abuse anyone.’’
‘‘I called Queiroz a worm.’’
‘‘So have hundreds of others, I’m sure.’’
‘‘Do you think I’ll go to jail?’’
‘‘Of course not, Izabel, you’ve done nothing wrong.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘What am I to do?’’
Mamuchka interrupted. ‘‘Can anyone help us? What about Iain? Can he do anything? Do we know anybody who works for the law?’’
‘‘They might send me back to Portugal,’’ said Izabel. ‘‘What’s going to happen to Carlos? What if he loses his job over this, or his club membership? The shame is not worth thinking about.’’
‘‘Maybe someone in the Government can help us,’’ Mamuchka said.
‘‘I know nobody in the Government.’’
‘‘Or someone in the judiciary …’’ Mamuchka tailed off.
In the semi-darkness of the kitchen, a thick silence settled over them.
Suddenly, the whites of Nadia’s eyes grew large. ‘‘Senhor Pinto,’’ she said. ‘‘Bawzhemoy! Why didn’t I think of it before? He’s a magistrate. I’ll go and talk to Senhor Pinto.’’
The following morning Nadia paid Senhor Pinto a visit at his Rua da Colina offices. The brass plaque on the building read ‘Supremo Tribunal de Justica’
Nadia knocked lightly and pushed the doors open, and as she entered, the judge came forward and welcomed her with a boyish grin.
‘‘Sit,’’ he said, pulling his chair close. She handed him a parcel, wrapped in silver paper.
‘‘What’s this?’’ he said.
‘‘Oh, nothing really,’’ she said. ‘‘Just a little something.’’ Nadia cast a quick glance at the room as Senhor Pinto unraveled the paper. His law chambers were furnished sumptuously – Regency furniture, heavy velvet curtains, leather tomes in opulent carved bookshelves – and cooled by twirling ceiling fans.
‘‘You’ve brought me some embroidered handkerchiefs,’’ he said, delighted.
‘‘Yes, beautiful little chrysanthemums, all satin-stitched,’’ she said.
‘‘But I thought you told me that lencos bring tears.’’
‘‘These will only bring you tears of joy.’’
He thanked her and tugged at the end of his nose. ‘‘Well,’’ he said. ‘‘What exactly can I do for you?’’
Pinto was in his judicial robes, made of pearl buttons and black shiny cloth. Wearing his court medallion low against his chest, he studied Nadia closely as she related Izabel’s story. His eyes travelled up and down her face as she spoke. She felt like a bug in a jar. ‘‘So you come to me for a favour, hmm?’’ he said, leaning back in his chair.
‘‘Yes.’’
There was a long moment when neither spoke. He drummed the desktop with his fingers. His eyes were aglint. ‘‘And if I grant you this favour, what will you do for me?’’
Nadia looked at the floor. Her face reddened. After several moments she raised her head to find Senhor Pinto shaping his mouth into a grin.
‘‘I am toying with you,’’ he conceded. He held out his left hand to her which she took and kissed. ‘‘Come back at noon tomorrow. I will see what I can do.’’
Nadia met Izabel in a cafe near Big Step Street; it was the same chau lau they’d gone to months before when they’d first met. Both women ordered iced mint tea with limes and sat staring at each other.
‘‘What did Pinto say?’’
‘‘Not much,’’ said Nadia.
Izabel, dressed in a pale slimline linen dress and silk scarf, removed the scarf from her throat and brought it up to her eyes. ‘‘What am I going to do?’’
‘‘Can you show me the summons?’’
She reached into her handbag. ‘‘Here.’’
Nadia read the arraignment. It stated that Izabel was required to appear in corte 21 days after the issuance of the summons and if she failed to show up the court would order a judgment in favour of the prosecution.
‘‘Carlos is livid, of course.’’
‘‘I’m not surprised.’’
‘‘He says we should have been more respectful to Queiroz.’’
‘‘We were doing something we believed in. It’s something we still believe in.’’
‘‘You’re right.’’
‘‘However, I think we may have to find you a solicitor.’’
‘‘Merda! A solicitor will cost money. Carlos won’t like the sound of that.’’
‘‘Can Carlos not talk to Queiroz himself? Don’t they belong to the same sports club?’’
‘‘He already has. Queiroz called him a fool and told him to coma a merda e morra.’’
‘‘Bawzhemoy!’’
‘‘And there’s more.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Queiroz mentioned something about you.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘He said he was going after you too, Nadia. He said he’s going send you packing back to Russia.’’
At noon the next day, Nadia entered Senhor Pinto’s law chambers once more.
‘‘Please sit down,’’ he said, gesturing unsmilingly.
Nadia looked at him with eyes wide with hope. ‘‘A-any thoughts?’’ she eventually asked. ‘‘Any thoughts on my friend’s problem?’’
Pinto shook his head. ‘‘I can not help you,’’ he said.
Nadia’s heart sank.
Pinto stared at the floor. But then his face cracked into a grin. ‘‘Haaaahaaaa!’’ he yowled. ‘‘I fooled you, eh? Of course, I will help you.’’ He smiled, face crinkling. ‘‘It just so happens that I share your friend’s opinion. What’s happening to these babies is a disgrace. The problem must be addressed either by the Legislative Council or the Health Ministry.’’
‘‘But what about Queiroz? He has a point to prove … his honour has been challenged.’’
‘‘Nonsense! Queiroz is being sent back to Lisbon in two months. His three-year posting is drawing to an end. His opinion holds no weight around here.’’
‘‘But what about the summons?’’
He got up from his chair and took Nadia’s arm, guiding her to the door. ‘‘You leave this to me, Nadia. And tell your friend, Senhora Perera, to tear up that summons. I have spoken to the Governor about this matter. From this moment on it has become void.’’
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Sim, really.’’
‘‘Tell her Juiz Pinto, circuit judge of Macao’s court of appeal, has taken the matter into his own hands.’’
‘‘I don’t know how to thank you – ’’
‘‘Also I wish to help with this orphanage.’’
‘‘You wish to help?’’
He lifted a finger aloft to underline his words. ‘‘We will have a new orphanage set up here in no time. Mark my words.’’
‘‘I can hardly believe what I’m hearing.’’
‘‘Ah, believe, believe, my dear. Old Pinto still has some pull around here, no?’’ He flexed the bicep muscles in his arms.
Ecstatic, Nadia wrapped her arms round the old man and kissed him hard on the cheek. Senhor Pinto blushed and looked to his right and left. ‘‘Please, Nadia, I have a reputation.’’ He pulled out a comb from his hip pocket and ran it through his hair several times.
‘‘Thank you, Senhor Pinto! Thank you!’’ She raced out of the office and down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
Outside, Iain was waiting patiently, swinging a folded umbrella about. He pretended it was a golf club. When Nadia saw him, she rushed into his arms. ‘‘How did it go?’’ he asked. Nadia’s lip parted in a broad smile. Feeling proud, she said it went well. They turned from the gates of the chancery and walked towards the Praya, eyes looking off into the distance, sunshine spilling on their shoulder, their future bright, full of new hope. She paused midway down the street and looked back. Standing at the second-floor window, she saw Senhor Pinto. She gave him a wave as she took Iain’s hand. Pinto smiled and flourished a satin-stitched lenco. She removed her own handkerchief from a skirt pocket and held it high to the sky, watched it flutter freely in the breeze.
She had never felt so alive.
PART THREE
1937
1
Nadia’s first impressions of Scotland were not good. On a morning in early February, Glasgow was biting cold and wet, smelling of mud and smoke and puddly streets. The terrain was grey, its landscape cheerless, with endless silhouettes of power stations, warehouses and crummy industrial chimneys. To Nadia it resembled a worn-out shoe.
Nadia stepped down the narrow covered gangplank separating ship from shore. It was drizzling and the landing stage was teeming with humanity; a bustling sea of tweed coats and skirts and steamer trunks. The strong wind blew her shoulder-length hair across her eyes, stinging her cheeks, making the skin tingle. Reaching into her overcoat, she brought out a silk scarf. Under the shadow of ropes hauling baggage from the ship’s hold and groaning pallets being winched high into the sky, she secured the headscarf under her chin and strode into the roaring maelstrom of stevedore cries and clanging bells.
‘‘Guid day McCleish! Ye bampot!’’ came a shout from above, ‘‘Dornt stain arooond lookin’ glaikit, gie those bags aff jist loch ‘at!’’
Nadia turned her face forward. She had to push through the throng of salty dock-hands and porters and people watchers in order to catch up with Iain, who was several paces ahead. She wanted to stick to him like a burr, but he kept moving away. Bumping hips, and arms and shoulders, she weaved through the traffic, hurrying after him. Crowds trailed behind her and from nearby she heard the skirl of bagpipes – a welcoming band perhaps – as passengers and long-shoremen ran round her. But where was the Scotland from the guide books, she asked. She had half expected to see moated castles, thistled hillsides and horse-drawn trams advertising Nairn’s Handbaked Scottish Oatcakes – not this; anything but this.
After a long time of standing around at the Dock Offices and not recognizing anybody, Iain eventually put up his arm and waved. Abandoning Nadia and the luggage, he sprang forward, winter coat tails flapping, to embrace a man with shimmering dark eyes and Iain’s lean build. The two men stood admiring one another for several moments, sizing each other up. ‘‘Nadia this is my brother, Callum. Callum, meet my wife, Nadia.’’
Callum, clad in plus fours and a tweed coat, dipped his head. He peeled off his flat cap. Nadia shook his hand – a big hand, calloused and broad – then offered her condolences. ‘‘I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,’’ she said.
‘‘Och, she was a guid lady. Cannae really believe that she’s gone, tae tell you th’ truth, e’en though it’s bin nearly three months. Aam glad you’ll be with us fur th’ memorial service.’’
‘‘That’ll be on Sunday?’’ Iain asked.
‘‘Aye. Sunday.’’
Callum threaded through the crowd to fetch the car, a Hillman Minx. After securing the luggage to the roof, Iain climbed into the front with his brother, who was driving. Nadia sat in the rear.
Callum pulled the starter and the car moved off.
‘‘Fancy motor,’’ said Iain.
‘‘Aye, better than th’ sheep trailer ah usually get tae drive. Look,’’ he said taking both hands off the wheel. ‘‘Look hoo well it holds th’ road. Wish it were mine, but it belongs tae th’ estate,’’ said Callum. ‘‘Borrowed it fur th’ day. Our petrol allowance has bin cut tae practically naethin’ however.’’
‘‘You been keeping busy all the same?’’
‘‘Och aye. We hud a busy night with th’ steward and th’ ghillies, clearin’ up some ay th’ fallen trees around Badenloch. That’s why aam still in mah work clothes.’’
From her isolation in the back seat, Nadia watched avidly as the city panned out before her eyes: through the pillows of haze, she saw line after line of hunger marchers and picketers and boarded up mills, shop windows covered with newspaper, children scavenging in shoes without laces. An electric tram pushed drearily through the rain. Further ahead, Victorian tenement buildings, brown with soot and rusted metal, in various stages of ruin, reared up like neglected tombs.
