The Fan Tan Players, page 25
‘‘Barreiro’s hardly up in the mountains, is it?’’
‘‘How should I know?’’
Nadia experienced the cramps again. Her monthlies usually made her feel nauseous and tired, but now she felt as though she was being stabbed from within. ‘‘I’m surprised you haven’t asked her. You seem very interested in what she does, writing little notes and …’’
‘‘Writing little notes? What are you on about?’’
‘‘You scribbled something on the dinner menu last week.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘What menu?’’
‘‘You like her, don’t you?’’
‘‘Oh, for God’s sake!’’
Nadia got up and flipped open a jar of pills and swallowed an aspirin, washing it down with a glass of water. Her heart was pounding in her throat. The blood felt thick and fevered behind her eyes. She went over and pulled the shutters closed.
Locking his hands behind his head, Iain stared at the wall for a few seconds. Then he switched off the light and turned on his side to sleep with his back to her. Usually, he liked to snuggle up beside her, his knees tucked in behind her buttocks. But tonight he slept facing the other way.
Neither of them said goodnight.
After a long silence, Nadia lay down and checked the towel-pad between her legs; she was beginning to ooze. Her breasts were tender, her insides continued to burn. She smoothed a dollop of wild yam ointment to her tummy and tried to rub the pain away. Surrendering to the darkness, she listened to the wind; the shutters rattled and sighed. The rain was still coming down. A minute later she felt an overriding urge to start cleaning things; she decided to go and scrub the kitchen floor.
6
The day of the ball arrived. The hardwood floors of the Bela Vista Hotel shone with polish and its crystal chandeliers shimmered with rich aqueous luxury. There were a dozen tables draped in linen and lace and set with Sheffield silverware and Baccarat glass. Surrounding each table were eight rosewood chairs, each with its own bright yellow damask cushion.
Nadia arrived early, dressed in a black silk evening gown with fitted waist and sleeves. Earlier, she had volunteered to oversee the seating plan, the flower arrangements, the party favours and the silent auction. She removed her new and rather uncomfortable shoes and set to work. First, she positioned a centerpiece of orchids on each table. Next she spread an assortment of paper masks and foil-wrapped chocolates amongst the tableware. And afterwards, having ensured that cigars from the Tabacaria were made available to guests, she set out the place cards according to the seating plan.
She put herself between a local hotelier and a man called Rodrigues, who was editor of one of the local newspapers. She sat Iain next to Izabel and the Governor’s wife, Senhora de Sousa Barbossa on Table 1. And she sat Anna as far away from Iain as the ballroom allowed, on Table 12.
With this done, Nadia examined her face in one of the tall gilt mirrors and smoothed the front of her dress with her hands. She looked at her watch. It was time to lay out the auction catalogues, which she placed on every chair. She ran her eyes over the first six lots. There was a small watercolour by the artist George Chinnery, donated by the Governor; two tickets to see La Traviata at the Dom Pedro V Theatre; a pair of jade-and-onyx cufflinks; a hand-crafted 3-ft long replica of a Chinese Imperial junk made from Philippine mahogany; a complimentary dinner for four at Foo Lum Noodle Cafe; and – this one made Nadia smile – a set of Scottish dance lessons to be taught by Iain Sutherland Esq.
Nadia placed a phonograph record, a 10-inch seventy-eight by Jimmy Mackay, on top of Iain’s bid sheet then went across the room to collect her shoes.
At six o’clock people started to filter in. They took their drinks from silver trays and stood on the breezy verandah overlooking the Praya, lit by the naked flames of garden torches. Women in stylish gowns brushed past each other; they emerged in and out of doorways exchanging handshakes and kisses, introductions quickly forgotten as they flitted from group to group like butterflies. Silk brushed against challis, batiste against tulle, flesh caressed flesh. Soon corks were pulled from bottles, wine swished and flowed and the bar was in full swing. At 6.45 the Jazz band started up.
The waiters ferried in a selection of canapés: oysters wrapped in bacon, fried baby squid, devilled quails eggs, miniature sausage rolls. And the room continued to swell with new arrivals.
Senhor Pinto spotted Nadia and thrust his short little arms high into the air. He pushed his way through a mesh of elbows and kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘How are you, my lovely?’’ he asked, needing to shout to be heard above the din.
‘‘I am well, thank you.’’
‘‘Fantastico,’’ he said, clasping his hands together. ‘‘This is quite a turnout, eh?’’ He shot her a Stan Laurel smile, scratching the top of his head.
From the verandah whoops of laughter shot through the air, spilling over like a river bursting its banks.
‘‘Perhaps we should go outside,’’ said Pinto. ‘‘To get some fresh air and join the fun.’’
They squeezed outdoors. Nadia found Iain deep in conversation with a burly man known in Macao society as ‘Grande Daddy’ – they were talking about football and the upcoming World Cup to be held in France. Nadia excused herself to see how the silent auction was progressing. She trailed her eyes along the console tables. So far an offer of 200 patacas had been made for the Chinnery watercolour and there were a total of nine bids for the jade-and-onyx cufflinks. She had just turned to make her way back outside when she noticed a name scribbled on Iain’s bid sheet. ‘Goodness,’’ she thought with a smile, ‘‘somebody’s actually put in a bid for Scottish dance lessons.’’
She inclined her head to read the name and amount.
Anna Lopes – 15 patacas
She felt her shoulders knot beneath her gown. Hastily, she grabbed the pen and marked her name down for 18 patacas.
Moments later, she went in search of Iain and found him and Costa deep in conversation with the Consul General of Japan.
‘‘I can assure you that Nippon hassa no indenshun to be aggor-essors towards China,’’ said the Consul General.
‘‘How can you say that?’’ Iain countered. ‘‘I have on good authority that the Japanese army has been conducting battle drills in Fengtai, near Peking. You’re preparing for war, don’t deny it.’’
‘‘Are you trying to porovoke me?!’’ the diplomat cried angrily.
‘‘No more than you’re trying to provoke China?’’
Nadia looked at Costa. ‘‘How are you?’’ she asked. ‘‘Busy at work?’’
‘‘Deus! I have never been so busy! With heem transferring to Hong Kong, Vermelho hash handed everything over to me. I have paperwork coming up to my eyeballsh!’’
The gong was struck and people took their seats for dinner. The appetizers were served within minutes. Rodrigues, the newspaper man to Nadia’s right, tucked into his baked prawns and citrus fennel salad.
At 8.00pm Senhor Pinto spoke on behalf of the orphanage’s board of governors, thanking everyone for their support and generosity. He urged the guests to enjoy themselves and called on them to reach deep into their pockets for the children.
When he sat down, Nadia heard a set of blunt footsteps echo across the dancefloor. She glanced round to see Anna, dressed in Katharine Hepburn inspired slacks and a crisp white blouse, making her way towards the console tables, heading for Iain’s bid sheet.
After a few moments, Nadia excused herself from Senhor Rodrigues’ conversation and rushed over to increase her bid to 26 patacas.
‘‘Are you all right, senhora,’’ asked Rodrigues when she returned to her seat, ‘‘you are looking a little flushed.’’
‘‘I’m fine,’’ she snapped.
‘‘I see that the Japanese Consul General has just left the party early. Is that what has upset you?’’
‘‘Bawzhemoy!’’ Nadia shook her head. She looked across to Iain on Table 1. There was a self-congratulatory smile on his face.
Ten minutes later she heard Anna’s brash, blunt stride sound across the dance floor once more.
Instinctively, Nadia picked up her dessert fork and started running the sharp tines along the back of her thumb.
‘‘Mmmgoy,’’ a voice announced behind her. ‘‘Perdoe-me.’’ Nadia pulled her hand away. ‘‘Galinha a Africana,’’ the waiter said, placing a dish of grilled spiced chicken with buttered carrots in front of her.
Nadia took a sip of wine and played with her food, eating just the vegetables.
When the main courses were cleared away Nadia excused herself again. Despite her new and uncomfortable shoes, she glided across the stage with her head held high. This time her bid was for 34 patacas.
Iain shot her a funny look as she passed his table. He got up and approached her.
‘‘Nadia, I can see quite clearly what is going on,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re playing a childish, and might I add costly, little game with Anna.’’
‘‘I don’t think it’s childish.’’
‘‘What are you trying to prove?’’
‘‘I’m not trying to prove anything. I want to learn the Highland fling.’’
‘‘I can teach you at home.’’
‘‘I don’t know what sort of fees you charge. At least here I know the money is going to a good cause.’’
‘‘Dear God, woman. You’re my wife. Do you actually think I’d ask you to pay me for a few silly dance lessons?’’
‘‘Well, you are Scottish.’’
She arrived back at her table with a smile on her face.
The little charade continued for almost two hours, until Nadia was called away by Izabel to help present Senhora de Sousa Barbossa with a bouquet of flowers – a scrumptious collection of tiger lilies, sweet peas, honeysuckles and long-stemmed roses. The Governor had just announced a donation of 2500 patacas to the orphanage in the name of the de Soussa Barbossa Foundation, resulting in a spontaneous outbreak of applause.
When Nadia returned to the console tables, the silent auction had closed. The winning bidder for Iain’s coveted dance lessons was listed as:
Anna Lopes – 100 patacas
She could have screamed out then and there.
7
A swarf of confetti fell from the sky, showering Hong Kong’s colonnaded Victorian buildings and boulevarded streets. Lines and lines of soldiers were standing guard along Des Voeux Road and all around them the pennants and bunting and banners swayed: shimmering granite balustrades were draped with coloured lights, ionic columns and colonial turrets were garlanded with red and gold ribbons, and huge bamboo standards were slung with flowers and paper lanterns. It was a hot Wednesday in May, the day of the King’s coronation.
A brass band in the uniform of the Middlesex Regiment played ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. There were flags and streamers and hundreds of people waving Union Jacks.
Amongst the clamour of firecrackers and car horns and the din of the crowd, Nadia and Iain stood on chairs at the back of the throng, waving at anyone and anything. Everywhere they looked, there was something to see. Dragon boats in the harbour let off Catherine wheels. Children banged on tin drums. People sang and laughed. Nadia heard the ding-dong bell of the trams as they passed, emblazoned with ‘God Save the King’ across their bonnets. By the clock Tower, acrobats travelled in troupes, tumbling and bouncing onto their hands. And by the pier, the silver dragon of the Fisherman’s Guild came to life when the governor’s wife, Lady Caldecott, dotted its eyes with black ink. Iain told Nadia that it was customary that a person of eminence should start the proceedings off by giving the beast its sight.
The dragon had an enormous head, the size of a wardrobe. And the lead dancers, dressed in silk leggings, had to keep it elevated with crosspieces, like tent poles. Its body must have been eighty feet long, thought Nadia, and decorated throughout with silver braids, exotic yellows and royal-blue brocade. It made Nadia think of the lion-dance she and Izabel had gone to see ten years before. She craned her neck as the troupe wound their way through all the little alleys – there were thousands of people following it, crashing cymbals and banging gongs.
When the dragon disappeared from view altogether, Nadia looked up at the galleries of the Court House building; she saw ladies carried parasols in one hand and fans in the other, while the men wore topees or had their heads bound in white handkerchiefs. Piebald, rheumy-eyed, they sipped gunpowder tea on their Victorian verandahs, passing round silver trays of dainty, hand-cut sandwiches.
Soon afterwards, the Governor, His Excellency Andrew Caldecott, stood on a platform near the mouth of the pier, surrounded by military and naval personnel in full dress uniform. He was costumed entirely in cream linen with an ostrich-plumed hat. He was greeting everyone and welcoming them to the historic occasion when someone shouted out, ‘What about the Japanese threat?’ Nadia felt the mood change a little after that. She knew very well that Hong Kong was the headquarters of Britain’s China Station Fleet. And even though the escalating tension between Japan and China was bringing prosperity to the colony, diverting shipping from Shanghai, and almost doubling the population in a matter of months as both poor and rich Chinese arrived from the mainland, everyone felt the tension.
Later, at a cocktail reception held at the military barracks, Nadia was introduced to several officers’ wives, all of whom regarded her with tepid disinterest. Some were so cold to her that she could have sworn that frost had beaded their mouths. Others stared her down with pitying looks. She was presented to a Lady Hoarde.
‘‘This your first posting, is it?’’ said Lady Hoarde, a large boned woman, of indefinable age, who looked like a pug in a floral dress. ‘‘Fresh off the banana boat, are you? Expect you must have sailed from Southampton.’’
‘‘Well, I …’’ she began.
‘‘Husband’s name?’’
‘‘Sutherland,’’ Nadia replied in her most pukka English accent. ‘‘He’s a senior administrator with the passport control office.’’
Lady Hoarde sniffed the air as if his position was of no particular consequence. ‘‘Never heard of him. Not to worry, we’ll have you settled in no time.’’ She snagged a waiter and demanded a gin and lime. Turning back to Nadia she barked, ‘‘We have a ladies’ tea party every Tuesday. Bridge night is Wednesday at the Golf Club. Of course you’ll have to be vetted first.’’
Nadia looked at her blankly.
‘‘Have you been allocated your household staff yet? We’re breaking in a new cook-boy at the moment. What a trial! Beans on toast is all he can manage it seems. And you wouldn’t believe his personal hygiene. Fingernails like a rotten old sailor’s. Lord only knows why I let him in the kitchen at all!’’ She looked Nadia up and down. ‘‘Who was it that recommended your cook-boy? Daphne Soames? Mary Willis? Oh, you really ought to try Mary’s sponge cake. Her little man Ah Wah’s awfully talented. Used to be a pastry chef for the Jardine family yonks ago.’’
‘‘We don’t have a cook-boy,’’ said Nadia, when Lady Hoarde finally stopped talking.
Lady pug widened her eyes with a sharp intake of breath. ‘‘Good Lord, why ever not? I suppose you’re going to tell me that you do all the kitchen work in the house.’’ She gave a nasty snigger.
‘‘That’s right, I do.’’
Lady Hoarde made a face. Her husband, a tall bearded man, came and stood beside her. He introduced himself as Sir Peter Hoarde, said he was in the sugar trade, before looking over her shoulder to see if there was anyone more interesting to talk to.
‘‘We’ve been given temporary housing in the Government quarters on Caine Road. My husband and I have recently arrived from Macao …’’ Nadia said, seeing Iain gravitate towards her. She reached out and took his arm.
‘‘Macao? What a God forsaken place! People there have no notion of proper behaviour. I’d be surprised if they’d even heard of bridge. How did you keep from going mad?’’
‘‘Actually, I ran a cigar shop – ’’
‘‘A seee-gar shop?’’ Sir Peter blurted.
‘‘You mean you worked for a living?’’ said the pug, taking a long swig of her gin and lime.
Nadia couldn’t recall ever meeting a more conceited old hag. ‘‘Lady Hoarde, some of us like to keep busy. There’s more to life than cocktail party gossip and bridge. Perhaps you ought to try it sometime.’’
‘‘Work in a shop … Why would any respectable English woman go and do something like that?’’
‘‘But your ladyship, I’m not English.’’ She waited a beat, deliberately giving the words time to sink in. ‘‘I’m Rrrrrussian.’’
‘‘Oh heavens,’’ said the pug, wrinkling her nose. ‘‘Oh, heavens, heavens, heavens …’’ She turned her back, took her husband’s arm and walked away.
Nadia glanced at Iain and shook her head. She rolled her eyes and made to leave.
‘‘Wait,’’ he said. Determined to have the last word, he took a step forward. ‘‘I say, Lady Hoarde,’’ he cried, loud enough to be heard across the room.
The pug turned to look at him sharply. She cocked her head with disdain. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘I just want you to know that you’ll be in good hands. That you’re not to worry. There’s no need to feel any embarrassment. People in the tropics catch intestinal worms all the time. My doctor will send over the proper medication for you first thing tomorrow. You’ll be cured of those writhing little parasites in no time. And if that fails he’ll give you a warm-water enema for the flatulence. All right? Cheerio for now!’’
The whole room seemed to pause in mid-sentence. All conversation stopped. Then a few people tittered as the lines of humiliation crept across Lady Hoarde’s face.
Iain took Nadia’s hand. ‘‘Okay, now that’s done,’’ he said to her. ‘‘How about we grab ourselves some supper?’’
‘‘Who are those dreadful people?’’ asked Nadia.
‘‘He’s a sugar trader who does a lot of business in Japan. He likes to think he has a special relationship with the Japanese because he sweetens their soy sauces and pickles.’’
