The Fan Tan Players, page 35
It began to rain in the middle of the night. A dispassionate drizzle that thrummed against the wattle roof like falling blister bugs.
Iain’s fever broke in the early morning, just as the hillside trees became tinged with the colours of dawn. He drank some water. Afterwards, he slept for three days and nights. A nurturing, curative sleep. When he woke he thought he still possessed an arm because he reached out to touch Nadia’s face. She beamed him her brightest smile. It took him a moment to remember that there was nothing at the end of his elbow, that his hand had disappeared.
In the ensuing hours, they bathed him in the hillside creek, sponging him, leaving the stump of his arm dry. Once in a while his forearm would itch but when he went to scratch it, it wasn’t there. ‘‘My fingers tingle,’’ he said to Chung, bewildered, ‘‘as if a hundred ants are running about on my missing hand.’’
A week passed, then two. The pattern of life rarely changed. While Nadia held vigil over Iain, the guerillas went about their lives as per usual. They scythed grass for fuel, harvested rice and root vegetables for sustenance, collected jungle vines and bamboo and palm fronds for shelter construction.
The June rains came and went and all the while Nadia watched Iain age before her eyes; the trauma of the last weeks had weathered him; there were deep creases on his brow and his eyes were sunken. It almost seemed to Nadia that the bones of his face were now visible through his skin. He did, nevertheless, seem to enjoy the fuss that Nadia made over him. She wiped his forehead, soaked his bandages in watered-down disinfectant, fanned him when he was hot, shooed away flies, told him stories about Valentina, offered him handfuls of wild sage to chew to restore his appetite and generally gave him back his self-belief.
Because of the late planting the rice harvest was not ready in July, nor was it by August when a small typhoon swept across the peninsula. Yet, slowly, Iain grew in strength. With his one arm, everything seemed to him strange yet familiar. He found that his relationship with his body had changed. What used to be instinctive – tying a shoe lace, buttoning a shirt, cutting up food – now had to be thought through and planned out.
In time, he learned to do things with one hand, so that by the end of the summer months, he was almost himself again. And as he regained mobility, adjusting to his handicap, he found there was plenty to keep him busy. He contributed to the summer planting in the paddy fields, hoeing and seeding; he fed the long-legged village chickens; he even helped the guerillas restore a Japanese military motorcycle they’d found abandoned in a gully. It had a Kurogane sidecar with a pentagonal body, seating capacity for two, and a mounted 50 calibre machine gun. Listening to the distant sounds of Japanese artillery, Iain would eye the rusting weapon, hoping he would never have to fire it in anger.
Meanwhile Nadia befriended several of the local women, especially Lee-Phua and her sister Lee-Ping. Each morning, having placed fresh wild flower on Father Luke’s grave, with the mist clinging lazily to their clothing, they went digging for water chestnuts in the swollen marshlands at the base of the hills. Often they talked about their own children – their first words, what they liked to eat. But Nadia’s mind was constantly elsewhere. Time and again she thought about Father Luke – had he died as a result of saving Iain? Had it been too much of a strain on his heart? Would he be alive today if she had looked over her shoulder and seen him struggling up the path? Up that steep gradient? Had she pushed him too hard? The guilt gnawed at her. But another type of guilt ate away at her too: Valentina.
Every day she dreamed of her beloved daughter, her parents and returning home, but there was no way of knowing what was happening in the exterior. Occasionally, the guerillas came back with pockets of communication, and once in a while Pang, their leader, would talk of the Japanese laying down their arms. But with hardly any solid intelligence, there was no way of really knowing.
Often, late at night Nadia spoke at length to Iain about Valentina, who was going to turn three in September. They lay beside each other, listening to the cicadas, to the dark, distracting themselves with thoughts of home. She desperately wanted to be with her daughter and each time she thought of Valentina a sweet anguish filled her heart. She talked of feeling helpless, frustrated, stagnant even, like an idle kite left indoors on a windy day. ‘‘Is there any way of making it over the mainland to Macao?’’ she asked, but Iain said no, it was too dangerous. He told her they would have to wait for an armistice or at best Japan’s surrender. But the idea of travelling overland played in Nadia’s mind incessantly. As if a tick had crawled under her skin it itched at her constantly. Yet each time she brought it up Iain hushed her, telling her to be patient.
So, with no distractions from the outside world, they continued to live their day-to-day existence, waiting for the endgame. They slept rough, on lumpy sacks bagged with weeds and sedges and beard grass. They took their water from the stream and from a nearby well. With mud around their ankles, they performed their ablutions amongst the trees and bushes, exposed to the casual glances of their neighbours. Sheltering indoors during the heat of the day, they ate whatever Pang’s villagers offered them and sometimes sat around a table and played fan tan with the Lee-Phua and Lee-Ping.
And all the time Nadia’s frustrations grew like a spate river rising after week-long rains. It seemed to her that the spell of monotony would never be broken. That she would never return home. At length she fell into long periods of introspective silence. But then one morning in August, with the weather cooling, all the guerillas suddenly disappeared. Nadia woke to find the village quiet, deserted but for a few women and their toddlers and a squawking chicken shedding feathers and droppings along the footpaths.
What’s happened, asked Nadia. The old por-pors clacked their tongues. The guerillas had gone to fight, she was told. Rumours flew that with the Japanese on the verge of capitulation, the East River resistance had seized Yuen Long, Tai Po and some of the outlying islands. Nadia also found a note pinned to the door of her hut. It was from Lee-Phua. It wished her much happiness and luck for the future.
The following day a farmer arrived from a nearby village wearing a broad smile and a self-congratulatory air. He had the red flag of the Chinese Communist Party, with its yellow star and black hammer and sickle, draped over his shoulders. ‘‘Hirohito’s turnip heads have surrendered,’’ he cried, his feet stuttering excitedly across the ground. ‘‘The war is over.’’
Twenty-four hours later, after a tiring journey across land and sea, Iain and Nadia stood on the wharf of Queen’s Pier. Behind them, the bombed-out Victoria Harbour was deserted, hardly a junk or Walla Walla in sight, only a lone sampan bobbed on the water. They tried to find a hotel room, but instead, discovered that the city was gripped with widespread lawlessness and that most of the guest rooms were billeted with drunken Japanese soldiers. The war might have been over but the place was in a state of bedlam; bandits roamed the streets; infrastructure was non-existent; and instead of seeing victorious Union Jacks flying from window brackets, the roofs and sills were lined with Chinese Nationalist flags. There was a perilous sensation of insurgence in the air.
After questioning a pair of military policemen, Iain led Nadia to the former French Mission building where a provisional government was being setting up. The MPs, seeing them dressed in coolie clothes, gave them funny looks but allowed them through. Up on the first floor Iain found a few of his old comrades, recently released from Stanley camp, and asked them what was going on. They informed him that Hong Kong’s fate hung in the balance.
‘‘We don’t know who will receive Japan’s formal surrender,’’ Friendly told him. ‘‘It might be China, America or Britain. The airwaves are full of political jostling. The Chinese Nationalists are looking to claim Hong Kong for their own, but the Yanks won’t allow it. Truman wants the colony received by an American or British officer, you see, but Chiang Kai-shek’s standing his ground. Nationalist troops will be gathering at the border soon.
‘‘But knowing the Yank top brass, they’ll get their way. General Wedemeyer’s dead-set on getting here first. I just hope to God that Harcourt arrives here before him. Yes, we’re in America’s hands now all right, at MacArthur’s beck and call. Hell, we’re not even allowed to hoist the Union Jack unless we get Truman’s prior consent, at the same time the bloody Nationalists are flying their white sun flags all over the place. It’s mindless, I tell you, mindless.’’
Later he came across Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Hughes, the most senior Army officer left in the colony. Iain briefed him about his past and his relationship with BAAG and British SIS.
‘‘I just got out of Shamshuipo POW camp so forgive me, old boy, if I’m still trying to find my bearings,’’ said Hughes. ‘‘All I can tell you is that we’re desperately trying to set up a British civilian government. At the same time we’re scrambling to ensure that gas, electricity and water services are maintained. Bloody hellish, I tell you. Trying to restore order is nigh impossible. Even though the Japs have surrendered, their troops are still meant to be responsible for keeping public order, but some of the buggers’ve gone to seed. Kanazawa, their police commissioner, has promised to bring discipline back into the ranks, but in the meantime we’re forced to call on the local Triad outfits to act as auxiliary police units. ‘Course we’ve got nothing to pay the buggers with but that’ll change once the Treasury is up and running. Then there’s the problem of foodstuffs and supplies of course …’’ he trailed off. ‘‘If you’re going to hang around, we could use your help.’’
But Iain declined. He said he needed to find a boat to take them to Macao.
‘‘Careful. The waterways are thick with mines.’’
‘‘May I have your permission to requisition a Japanese coastal defense vessel? I can engage it in mine-sweeping duty along the Hong Kong-Macao sea passage and help clear the way for Harcourt’s arrival.’’
‘‘With your credentials, old boy, you certainly don’t need my permission. But what I can do is give you an authorization letter to employ the vessel and a crew of five beyond Hong Kong waters. You’ll need to gain Kanazawa’s signature too. Meantime, I’ll wire the British Consulate in Macao.’’ Hughes looked at Iain levelly, whilst taking in, as though for the first time, that he was missing an arm. ‘‘We’ve all been through hell, haven’t we?’’
‘‘Some more than others.’’
‘‘Tell me, why are you so determined to get to Macao?’’
‘‘My daughter will be three years old soon. I’ve never seen her. She’s waiting for me.’’
Hughes nodded. ‘‘Meantime I’ll arrange for you to meet the quartermaster and we’ll see if we can find you a billet and some proper clothes. We can’t have you meet your daughter dressed like a rice farmer, can we?’’
‘‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that.’’
He gave Iain a clap on the shoulder. ‘‘Just make sure you send the bloody ship back, old boy.’’
EPILOGUE
Everyone was running.
They rushed out of the house, hearts trembling: Mamuchka, Valentina, Uncle Yugevny, Izabel, and Mrs. Lo. Even Papashka, still in his cotton pajamas, was walking as briskly as his frail body allowed, plunging his twin sticks before him, as if some miraculous springtime agility had reinvigorated his eighty-year-old limbs.
Valentina was shouting, ‘‘Mammy, Mammy.’’
Nadia’s eyes were streaming with joy, alive with love.
When they reached Nadia they fell on her, engulfed her. Their voices leapt with laughter. Everyone apart from Papashka ended up in a heap, rolling about on the Largo da Sien, giggling wildly through passionate tears.
After several minutes they straightened up.
‘‘Iain,’’ Nadia said, laughing through her tears, smoothing the front of her dress. ‘‘This is Valentina.’’
Iain, dressed in a plaid shirt that was too small for him, looked at the little brown-haired girl and smiled. Her face was slender, slightly frowning. She had big blue Slavic eyes. Blue the colour of the sea. So blue they could have been cut from the sky.
Valentina stared at the man before her, wondering why his droopy left sleeve was pinned behind his back.
‘‘Hello,’’ he said.
Valentina wrapped her arms around her mother’s leg, hiding her face, shy at being confronted by this stranger; this stranger, her father.
Iain sat back down on the floor so that his daughter didn’t have to stare up at him. He noticed a little storybook tucked into the crook of her elbow.
‘‘What’s that book in your hand?’’ he asked.
‘‘Beeter Baan,’’ she said, quietly.
‘‘I like Peter Pan. He’s one of my favourite heroes. I like Wendy too.’’
‘‘What happen to y’arm?’’
‘‘My arm? Oh, a naughty alligator ate it.’’
‘‘Just like Capin Hook,’’ she beamed.
‘‘Yes, just like Captain Hook.’’ He stroked her cheek. ‘‘What about showing me your house and the room where you play, can you do that for me?’’
She nodded and smiled. Her smile melted Iain’s heart like chocolate warming on a stove.
Iain got to his feet and offered Valentina his good hand which she took a little shyly. Together they walked back towards the Tabacaria.
Three weeks after their return, it was Valentina’s birthday.
‘‘Come on now,’’ Iain said, ‘‘I want you all to smile.’’ He and Papashka were dressed up in pink-and-blue clown outfits. Uncle Yugevny sported purple robes and a crown cut out of paper. Valentina wore a thin muslin costume that made her look like a fairy, whilst Nadia and Mamuchka donned dunce caps with big cardboard ears. ‘‘This photograph is going out to all our friends.’’
The flash gun went pop and everybody jumped.
That evening, sitting at the bay seat and looking out into the dusk, Nadia felt a calm descend over her. Out on the Largo da Sien a few children were playing a game of hopscotch as the church bells rang in the distance. With the fragrance of cooking lingering in the air, she placed three candles on the dining table and moments later paused to count the number of guests on her fingers. She set out eleven crystal wineglasses.
Down the hall, Mamuchka and Mrs. Lo were in the kitchen, making sure to prepare everyone’s favourite things. Mamuchka had earlier pawned a gold ring to get her hands on the ingredients that she required. Despite the relative food shortage, there was a roasted duck served with pickled berries for Papashka, Iain and Nadia, cold chicken garnished with tinned apples for Valentina, dried codfish, pumpkin fritters and boiled potatoes for Izabel and her boys, and dark chocolate pudding (made from chocolate powder) for Costa.
‘‘What’s next?’’ Mamuchka asked, sliding the pumpkin fritters out from the oven and wiping her hands and face with her calico apron.
‘‘Bolo Rei,’’ said Mrs. Lo. ‘‘The birfday cake. It’s your specialty.’’
They worked the dough with their hands, forcing flour through a sieve. Carefully, Mamuchka formed a trough in the pastry and enhanced it with an egg, then she kneaded together butter, lemon zest, pine nuts and raisins, moulding it into a large pie shaped like a wheel. She drizzled warm butter over the top and sprinkled it with sugar, brushing off the excess into a cupped bowl. Finally, she inserted small coins into the sides of the dough before transferring it into the oven.
An hour later the Pereras came through the door bearing gifts, followed not long after by Mrs. Lo, Costa, Senhor Pinto and Anna Rodrigues.
‘‘Who ish a big girl now, eh?’’ said Costa, almost crushing his god-daughter with the force of his embrace.
‘‘Parabens!’’ Anna cried, giving Valentina a gentle hug.
Valentina tore open her presents as laughter swelled the house. After a few drinks, Nadia stood up and sang the opening verse of a Russian folk song she’d learned as a child. Singing was something she rarely did and when she finished, everyone applauded and Iain planted a kiss on her cheek. A few seconds later he excused himself and said he needed to take in some fresh air. She watched him slip out through the front door.
‘‘Where is he going?’’ asked Izabel.
Mamuchka and Nadia exchanged glances. ‘‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ said Nadia.
Nadia grabbed her coat and raced down the steps. She followed him through the old town along the cobbled streets. She cut through the back alleyways towards the mouth of the bay.
When she caught up with him they were both a little out of breath.
‘‘It’s through here, I’m sure,’’ said Iain. ‘‘Mrs. Lee used to live somewhere along here.’’
As Iain approached the place where he had come so often after Peter Lee’s death, he found that only a wasteground and a skeleton of rubble stood at the far end of the street. The ramshackle building behind the Praya Grande was gone, bulldozed to make way for a Red Cross refugee shelter. In its place was a wash of grease slicks and foul-smelling water leading to a black stone wall. All along the wall were sagging lean-tos, rusted metal drums and wooden shanties populated by roaches and weeds. By day the place was deserted, but at night it was seething, lined with hundreds of recumbent bodies crammed under the metal sheeting running over the shelter, covering every available inch.
Nadia turned to look at Iain.
‘‘I’m so sorry,’’ she said. Her voice was quiet.
‘‘I wonder where she’s gone,’’ he said, mystified. ‘‘I was hoping to bring her back to the party. I wanted her to meet everybody.’’
A moment later Nadia took his elbow and led him home.
‘‘Strange isn’t it,’’ said Iain. ‘‘The Lee family’s completely gone but here we are united at last.’’
When they returned home Senhor Pinto broke into a delirious song and Uncle Yugevny filled everyone’s glasses to the brim, Cossack-style. Shrieks of laughter and shouts of ‘slainte mhath!’ and ‘na zdorovje!’ echoed across the square. Costa raced outside and let off a firecracker, while Papashka entertained Anna with a little jig on his sticks. And when Mamuchka brought in the birthday cake with three candles burning at its centre, Valentina drew in a big breath and blew out the candles in one go.
