The Fan Tan Players, page 26
They stepped into the steamy night. ‘‘Where are we going?’’ Nadia inquired.
‘‘It’s a surprise.’’ They climbed into the back of a Foreign Office car and were driven through the western part of town, towards Sheung Wan district. Gradually, the architecture changed – gone was the colonial dignity of Victoria, instead a hive of low-rise, balconied shophouses mottled the streets packed tight with store-signs and decorations. There was the vibrant clatter of mah jong tiles, the undulating sound of Chinese opera, the loud cries of fruit vendors together with the throb of temple gongs and the clang of cooking utensils. Nadia saw the car approach a cul-de-sac lit by bulbous paper lanterns hung on poles, stopping close to the night market near Shek Tong Tsui.
Iain jumped out of the car and went round to open her door. ‘‘Here we are,’’ he announced.
‘‘Where is ‘here’?’’ she said, seeing only a condiment shop and a tea house.
‘‘It’s where we’ll be having dinner. And afterwards we’ve been invited to watch a Chinese ceremony.’’
‘‘A ceremony?’’
‘‘It’s called a Chinese bun ceremony, but more about that later. First we have to meet some friends.’’
They crossed Shek Tong Road and entered a brightly-lit Chinese restaurant with white ceramic-tiled floors. A sign said that they specialized in braised beef. In the centre of the room, scattered around a large round table, was Costa, Izabel and Carlos, as well as the two boys, Cristiano and Victor. They all stood to kiss her.
‘‘Izabel!’’ Nadia yelled. The two friends embraced. ‘‘You never said you were coming!’’
‘‘You know how I love surprising you,’’ beamed Izabel, wearing a stylish beret. ‘‘I tried to convince Mamuchka to come, but she decided to stay behind with your father and Uncle Yugevny.’’
‘‘Is she still sulking because I left Macao?’’
‘‘Oh, just a little.’’
After greeting everyone affectionately, Nadia felt someone’s hand on her shoulder. She looked around brightly. It was Anna. She wore a black Chinese mask over her eyes. Her hair was drawn back in a pony-tail and there was a pink linen scarf fastened round her neck, but it was still Anna. ‘‘Recordar-me? Remember me?’’ she said wearing a smirk on her face.
‘‘How could I forget,’’ said Nadia, her voice flat. She felt her joy suddenly stall, as if she’d been running happily along the beach, enjoying the sensation of soft sand under her feet, only to stub her toe on a rock. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’
‘‘I’m here to claim my prize, my Scottish dance lessons.’’
‘‘Of course, you are. How good of you to come,’’ she eventually said.
The highlight of the celebrations was a fifty-foot bun-tower; a bamboo pyramid draped in hundreds of sweet steamed buns. At the stroke of midnight teams of village men scrambled up the sides of the tower to snatch as many buns as possible, and the higher each man climbed, the better luck he brought to his family.
The crowd roared as a boy of fifteen reached the summit, simultaneously enormous paper effigies of Di Zhang, the King of Ghosts, were set alight, with buns and incense sticks handed out to everyone in attendance.
Nadia had been waiting for an opportunity to take Izabel aside, judiciously, to talk to her about Anna.
‘‘She’s rude,’’ said Nadia.
Izabel looked at her friend with an expression of incredulity. ‘‘I can believe Anna being unsubtle and mischievous and silly with her money, but rude? No, that’s not like her.’’
‘‘Well she is,’’ said Nadia her slim frame throwing shadows in the downlight. ‘‘You should see the way she acts in front of me. She’s just plain insolent.’’
Nonplussed, Izabel asked, ‘‘What exactly did she say?’’
‘‘She said my bathing costume was more suited for a younger woman.’’
Izabel looked confused. ‘‘She said this to you tonight?’’
‘‘No, of course not, it was at the picnic last month.’’
Izabel gave a little smile. ‘‘Sim, that does sound like something Anna would say. She can be brutally honest sometimes. She likes to speak her mind.’’
‘‘I also think she’s trying to steal my husband.’’
Izabel blinked, her thick eyebrows twisted. A few seconds passed as the words began to sink in. Then her smile broadened.
Nadia said, ‘‘I’ve seen the way she looks at him. I see it in her body language. Why are you grinning? I’m being serious!’’
‘‘I know you are being serious,’’ she replied, covering her mouth to hide her grin.
It started to rain. A steaming rain. The water began to splash against their shoulders, plopping in thick errant drops. Nadia removed her low-heeled satin sandals and held a shoe in each hand.
‘‘She’s after my husband’’
‘‘Isso e impossivel,’’ said Izabel.
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Because she wears her dress back to front.’’
‘‘What on earth is that meant to mean?’’
‘‘It’s a Portuguese expression. I’m trying to tell you that Anna is not what you think …’’
‘‘She’s a shameless home wrecker.’’
‘‘No, she’s not.’’
‘‘Stop defending her!’’
‘‘I am not defending her.’’
‘‘Yes you are!’’
‘‘Anna cannot be a home wrecker and she cannot be after Iain because …’’
‘‘Because what?’’
‘‘Porque e uma lesbica. Because she is lesbica. All right, there, now I have told you.’’
‘‘Lesbica?’’
Izabel spoke slowly, as if addressing a child, ‘‘Lezzzz-beee-kaaa. She likes only women.’’
Nadia mouth grew big and round ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Sim.’’
‘‘But …’’
‘‘There was a small scandal back home. She was involved with another nurse. The hospital she worked for in Barreira found out. There was much talk and, well, you know, it is a Catholic society. Too many people knew. She was asked to leave her job quietly, which is why she came to Macao, to get away from all the gossip. Fortunately for her the hospital gave her a good reference.’’
‘‘But why is she so friendly with Iain?’’
‘‘Just because she likes girls doesn’t mean she can’t be friends with the opposite sex.’’
‘‘You should have told me.’’
‘‘It’s not something one goes about telling, especially as she is family.’’
‘‘Oh no.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Now I see why she responded the way she did when I asked her about marriage. She said she wasn’t interested in getting married nor was she interested in doctors. She must have thought I was teasing her.’’
‘‘Oh, I think she enjoys it. She told me once that she liked sparring with you.’’
They were standing under the ornamented railings of the tea house, across the road from the Chinese restaurant. The rain spilled in billowing waves, dousing everyone and everything. ‘‘Maybe we should get back,’’ said Nadia, feeling as if a twenty-pound load had been lifted from her shoulders.
‘‘Yes, maybe we should.’’
‘‘But first I have to do something.’’ Nadia ran towards the night market, towards the bright red bulbs hanging in the flower stalls, her bare feet slipping on the wet ground. She returned a moment later with a blissful look on her face and a bouquet of peonies and blue delphinium in her arms.
They walked through the frenetic, clamouring throng. They saw a pageant of children dressed as godheads, some of them gliding above the crowd as though balanced on the tips of paper fans. After a few minutes Nadia found Iain and the others watching a Cantonese Punch and Judy show. Anna was standing with her young cousins under a canopy embossed with large red Chinese characters. Nadia approached her and draped an arm over her shoulder. She handed over the bouquet and Anna smiled, surprise and pleasure crinkling her eyes.
‘‘What’s this for?’’ she said, puzzled.
‘‘I should have done this sooner,’’ Nadia said. ‘‘It’s an apology.’’
‘‘An apology for what?’’
‘‘For everything. I should have been kinder to you when you first arrived.’’
Anna smiled and immediately something lightened between them.
‘‘Voce esta molhado. You’re wet,’’ said Anna, unfastening the linen scarf from her throat. ‘‘Dry your hair with this before you catch cold.’’
Nadia shook the water out from her hair and gathered her rain-drenched dress around her legs. A sensation of buoyancy entered her heart. The smell of the flowers grew sweet.
The days grew longer and hotter with the arrival of summer. The ceiling fan whirred overhead. Iain’s shoulder buckled as he rolled off Nadia. Their skin was slippery and florid. Perspiration gathered in little pools across their belly-buttons and in the hollows of their throats, tickling as it trickled down onto the bedsheets.
Iain raised his body up so that Nadia could rest her head on his chest. His arm remained curled round her waist, his muscles slack and spent.
‘‘Iain …’’
‘‘Hmmm?’’
‘‘I have to apologize to you about something.’’
‘‘What?’’ he said, sleepily.
‘‘I have to apologize about Anna. The whole thing was just a misunderstanding. It was silly of me. Very silly and I’m sorry.’’ He kissed the top of her head as she spoke. ‘‘And I think I’ve finally come to accept something,’’ she continued.
‘‘Accept what?’’
‘‘That I’ll never be able to have children.’’
Iain kissed her again. He had just cupped her face in his hand when the telephone rang. His eyes lifted over the pillows. Reaching through the narrow gap in the mosquito net, he stretched for the mouthpiece.
‘‘Sutherland,’’ he said in a voice still thick with coital froth. His face was hot from lovemaking, yet in spite of the July heat a chill ran up his back as soon as he heard the Oxford lilt on the other end.
‘‘The Marco Polo Bridge? Yes, I understand,’’ Iain said, sitting up, detaching his arm from Nadia’s hip. ‘‘When did the Japanese issue the ultimatum? I see. So they started to bombard the town with artillery soon after midnight.’’ Moments later he replaced the mouthpiece on its cradle and climbed out of bed. He took two steps towards the bedroom window and watched the deep blue shadow of cloud move against the moon.
‘‘What is it?’’ Nadia asked, almost asleep. She flopped her legs across the counterpane.
His skin looked as pale as candle wax in the moonlight. ‘‘There’s trouble southwest of Peking. Heavy fighting has broken out between the Chinese and Japanese Armies.’’
‘‘Who was that on the phone?’’
‘‘Somebody from the office.’’ He turned and looked at her. ‘‘He said this could be the start of something big. Nadia, if anything happens I want you to return to Macao, do you understand?’’
‘‘What do you mean if anything happens?’’
‘‘I mean if there’s a war. If Britain gets embroiled in this war.’’
‘‘Surely, I’ll be safer in Hong Kong. The British China Fleet is based here.’’
‘‘Look, don’t argue with me on this.’’ He came and sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the net aside as he approached. ‘‘Will you promise me you’ll go back to Macao if I ask you to?’’
She saw the determination in his eyes. Her throat trembled. The words welled up inside of her. ‘‘Yes, I promise.’’ she said, clutching a pillow in her small fists.
‘‘Good,’’ he mouthed, wrapping his arms round her and holding her tight, feeling a fear catch in his stomach. He closed his ears to his own rushing heartbeat, which bumped in his chest as though he’d raced up a flight of stairs; instead he caught his image in the nightstand mirror. In the reflection the pallor of his face had turned bone-white, there was a cold glean to his eyes; it was, he thought, as if he could suddenly see into the harsh, bloody future.
PART FOUR
1945
1
The man had been in solitary confinement for just under two weeks with his arms tied behind his back for eighteen hours a day. It was his punishment for being defiant to the Japanese sentries. During that period the guards had urinated on him and shoved glass shards into his mouth and nose. When, still, he refused to apologise for his show of disrespect, his tormentors tired of him and let him go.
As he staggered down the hill, away from the prison gates, a few fellow prisoners, stretching their shirtless bodies out of windows, shouted across and waved at him. He didn’t wave back; instead his hands felt the dressing by his mouth with clumsy fingers – the searing pain had lasted almost ten days, but now his chin and gums felt scalded, as though they’d been stung by nettles. There was a metallic taste in his mouth as though he’d been sucking on a greasy spoon. Gingerly, he pulled the bandaging off as he teetered down the slope. His feet felt like they were weighed down with ballasts, but it was his face he was more worried about – there was something very wrong, as if the muscles that he had once used for smiling had been removed. He watched the dirty, ochreous gauze unravel and drop to the ground. He tried to work his jaws. There was no saliva left in his mouth and his lips felt like they’d been glued shut. At his feet lay scraps of cloth. It was then that he had a terrible thought: perhaps they’d cut off his tongue.
According to Sergeant-Major Hamuri, detainee 6177 was released from the Gendarmerie twenty-four hours early as a show of graciousness, a fitting act to commemorate Emperor Hirohito’s 44th birthday, he’d said. To mark the occasion, members of the nearby garrison wore stiffly starched uniforms with high unyielding collars, and the camp commandant attached a chrysanthemum flower emblem to the rim of his cap. Field boots were buffed to a lush chocolate brown, bayonet frogs varnished, and Katana swords rubbed and cleaned with clove oil. Even the Sikh sentries, hoisting their laundry lines on the rocky points that looked onto Tai Tam Bay, decided it was high time to swap their soiled red turbans for fresh yellow ones.
During the morning an electric storm had rolled over Hong Kong, dropping lightning, cooling the baking earth with a Tsssssss of quenching rain. It had soaked the solid ground outside of B and C Block, turning it into mud. But three hours had passed since then and, with the day approaching noon, the April sun was out and the shorebirds and magpies were beginning to call again. It was the Emperor’s birthday. It was also the day that the flour allowance was stopped.
Under the stippled shade of a cassia tree, inside the ration store by the kitchens, a tall man called Friendly, with a frizz of brown hair, stood with his shrunken chest bare, wearing nothing but shorts made from rice sacks. Friendly had once been an architect with Leigh & Orange. By his side, the Yorkshireman, Stepney, a former restaurant manager, bespectacled and stooping with hunger, watched with ravenous eyes. On his shoulder sat Mr. Yorkie, his pet mouse. Stepney was born with a defect to his limbs; his right leg curved outwards at the knee, and his left leg curved inwards, which made him look like a cartoon character swaying sideways in the wind. The two men were smiling – between them they’d found an unlikely source of meat.
The interior of the kitchen quarters was dark, lit by a halo of tiny battery lights, its air stagnant, and the dragging heat stifling. There was the smell of something dank, like mildewed fur, a feral stink which seemed to cling to the men’s sweaty wrists. Friendly’s hand sought the back of the cat’s head, avoiding its teeth and raking claws. He gripped the animal firmly against the wooden block, pressing down with all his weight. Blunt shadows fell across the wall. Stepney was so hungry he brought a hand to his mouth, sucking his fingers with anticipation. The cat scratched and struggled as its hind legs were held firm. Mr. Yorkie shrank back from Stepney’s shoulder and hid behind his neck.
Moisture came off the back of Friendly’s neck as he thrust the cat’s face to the cutting board. Temples dissolved with perspiration, eyes withdrew into their sockets. ‘‘God’s sek, keep the bloodeh thing quiet!’’ hissed Stepney as the animal’s shrieks rang round the stone-slabbed cookhouse and reverberated off the ceiling, soaring over the crumbling, cracked beams and across the wooden work benches and deep, stone sinks.
Another voice, male and impatient, said, ‘‘Fucking get on with it!’’ It was Hoarde, the former sugar merchant, who’d once done trade with Japan – little but skin over bony shoulders. His small beard glistened with sweat.
Friendly with the frizz of brown hair lifted his cleaver and brought it down with a gasp. For a moment nothing happened. Then the struggling ceased and the cat’s head rolled away like a discarded trophy, a daydreamer’s far off look in its eyes. ‘‘Hurry,’’ said Stepney, his spectacles steaming up. ‘‘Fore anyone sees.’’ Friendly nodded. He hacked off the tail and feet. Red smears pooled on the yellowed concrete floor. Next, Stepney’s scraggy fingernails scratched at the loose fur by the neck stump. He pulled the skin away as he would the rind of an unripe grapefruit. There was a loud tear that sounded like tough fabric ripping, followed by a gurgling, bubbling sound which escaped from the animal’s flooded lungs.
Having pulled out the innards, Friendly began sawing through the shoulders and ribs. ‘‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves an extra two pounds of meat today, eh Stepney?’’
The Yorkshireman didn’t reply. He was looking at the pearl-dead eyes of the cat. They stared at him from the floor, unflinching. He wondered whether he ought to shut them. Instead, he looked away out of the window. Mr. Yorkie made a squeaking noise and appeared from behind his neck.
In the near distance, the edge of the camp was fringed with skeletal men and women lining up for a drink, faces tweaking with thirst, lunging forward as if pulled by nose rings. They drank stale water from cups cut from tin cans, their collarbones exposed and vulnerable, all warped knees and lanky shadows. Further away, others sat with their heads in their hands, their mouths so stiff it was as though they were windows that had been painted shut. They were all looking out into the horizon, searching, backs bent out of shape, hoping to see American planes in the blue yonder.
