‘Darling,’ Valentina said and smiled. ‘What a silly you are.’
‘Mama.’ She wanted to cry with relief.
Her mother held her close and Lydia breathed in her perfume till it cleared her head, so that when Valentina released her she was able to sit up straight and accept the cup of tea with a steady hand. She looked directly at Commissioner Lacock.
‘Commissioner, there was no face at the window the night the necklace was stolen.’
‘What are you saying, young lady?’
‘I made it up.’
‘Now look here, there’s no need to back out just because you’ve seen a roomful of rough rogues who have put the fear of the devil into you. Tell the truth and shame the devil, that’s . . .’
‘Mama, tell him.’
Valentina looked at her and made a little grimace with her mouth that Lydia knew meant she was annoyed.
‘As you wish, dochenka.’ She lifted her head, sending her hair rippling in a dark wave around her shoulders, then turned serious eyes on the chief of police. ‘My daughter is a lying little minx who should be whipped for wasting police time. She saw no face at the window. She makes up such stories to get attention. I apologise for her misbehaviour and promise to punish her severely when I get her home. I had no idea her stupid tale would be taken so seriously or I would have come and told you before now not to believe a word of it.’
She lowered her eyelashes for a moment in a display of maternal distress, then looked up slowly and fixed her eyes on Lacock’s. ‘You know,’ she said softly, ‘how silly adolescent girls can be. Please excuse her this time, she meant no harm.’ She turned her dark gaze on her daughter. ‘Did you, Lydia?’
‘No, Mama,’ Lydia murmured and had to bite back a smile.
‘I mean it. I’ll give you a good whipping with Mr Yeoman’s horsewhip tonight.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘You are a disgrace to me.’
‘I know, Mama. I’m sorry.’
‘Where in God’s name did I go wrong? You are a wild thing and deserve to be locked up in a cage. You know that’s true, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘So.’ She stood in the middle of the pavement with her hands on her hips and stared at her daughter. ‘What am I to do with you?’ She was wearing an old but stylish linen suit the colour of ice cream, and it made her pale skin look like silk. ‘I’m so pleased the commissioner gave you such a telling off. Good for him. He had every reason to. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Suddenly Valentina burst out laughing and gave Lydia a quick kiss on her forehead. ‘You are wicked, dochenka,’ she said and rapped her daughter’s knuckles with her clutch bag. ‘Take yourself off back to school now and don’t you ever give them reason to drag me to that police station again. You hear me?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Be good, my sweet.’ Valentina laughed and stuck out a hand for a rickshaw. ‘The offices of the Daily Herald,’ she called to the coolie as she jumped in, leaving Lydia to walk up the hill to school.
She didn’t go back to school. She went home instead. She was too rattled. It frightened her that she had so nearly pointed to Number One, the man with the hard eyes, and said, He’s the one. That’s the face I saw at the window. He’s the thief. It would have made everything so easy, and Commissioner Lacock would have been happy rather than angry.
She sat in the shade on the paving stones in the little backyard and fed Sun Yat-sen strips of a cabbage leaf she had scrounged from Mrs Zarya. She scratched the bony top of his head where he liked to be rubbed and ran her hand over the silky fur of his long ears. She envied him the ability to find total happiness in a cabbage leaf. Though she did understand it. Valentina had brought home a box of Lindt chocolates last night, a big white and gold one, and they had eaten pralines and truffle cones for breakfast. It had felt like heaven. Alfred was certainly generous.
She tucked her legs up tight against her chest and sank her chin onto her knees. Sun Yat-sen stood up on his hind legs, rested a soft front paw on her shin, and twitched his nose in her hair while she traced a finger down the long line of his spine and wondered how far a person would go to have someone to love. Alfred was in love with her mother. Oh, any fool could see that. But how did Valentina feel about Alfred? It was hard to say, because she was always so bloody private about what went on in her head, but surely she couldn’t love him. Could she?
Lydia thought about that till the sun had disappeared completely behind the roof ridge, about exactly what it meant to be loved and protected. Then she wrapped her arms round the rabbit and held him close, her cheek tight against his little white face. He never seemed to mind how much she squeezed him; it was one of the things she adored about him, his squashiness. She kissed his pink nose and decided to let him roam loose in the yard and hope Mrs Zarya wouldn’t notice, before she ran up to the attic and snatched a knotted handkerchief from under her mattress.
The handkerchief lay heavy in her pocket as she made her way across to the old Chinese town, and her footsteps quickened at the thought that she might bump into Chang somewhere in its narrow cobbled streets. But all she encountered were cold hostile stares and the hiss of words that made her want Chang at her side. It annoyed her that she had no idea where he lived, but she’d never yet felt able to ask him outright, to tear aside that strange cloak of secrecy he hid under. But next time she would. Next time? Her heart gave a little clatter under her ribs.
Glass lay scattered across the cobbles of Copper Street and no one was doing anything about it. A young man carrying a yoke pole around his neck hobbled past Lydia, leaving an imprint in blood at every step, but most people scuttled against the opposite wall and kept their eyes averted. Only the rickshaw runners were forced to cross the glass. Those wearing straw sandals were lucky; those with bare feet were not.
Lydia stood and stared in horror at Mr Liu’s shop front. At where it had been. It was now a naked gaping hole. Everything was smashed into thousands of pieces; his glass window, his red latticework, his printed signs and scrolls, even the door and its frame lay twisted on the ground. The shops of the candlemaker and the charm seller on each side of it were untouched, open for business as usual, so whatever or whoever had done this had aimed it just at him. At Mr Liu. She stepped inside what was left of the pawnbroker’s, but it was no longer dark and secretive. Sunlight strode in, exposed the packed shelves to any passing gaze, and Lydia felt a sharp tug of sympathy for the place. She knew the value of secrets. In the centre of the room Mr Liu sat still as stone on one of his bamboo stools, while across his knees lay the long blade of the Boxer sword that used to hang on the wall. There was blood on it.
‘Mr Liu,’ she said softly, ‘what happened?’
He raised his eyes to her face, and they were older, much older. ‘Greetings to you, Missy.’ His voice was like a faint scratching on a door. ‘I apologise that I am not open for business today.’
‘Tell me what happened here?’
‘The devils came. They wanted more than I could give.’
Around his feet the jewellery display cases were crushed and empty. Lydia felt a lurch of alarm. The shelves didn’t look as if they had been touched, but the really valuable stuff was gone.
‘Who are these devils, Mr Liu?’
He shrugged his thin shoulders and shut his eyes. The world blocked out. She wondered what inner spirits he was calling on. But what she couldn’t understand was why nothing was being done to clear up the mess, so she went over to where the inlaid screen used to stand, now trampled into the floor, and set his kettle on the little stove at the back. She made them both a cup of jasmine tea on a tray and carried it over to him and his sword. His eyes were still closed.
‘Mr Liu, something to cool your blood.’
A faint flicker of a smile moved his lips and he opened his eyes.
‘Thank you, Missy. You are generous, and respectful to an old man.’
Only then did she rea
lise the oiled queue that used to hang down his back had been chopped off and was lying on the floor, and his long tufty beard had been hacked back to grey stubble. The indignity of such an act overwhelmed her for a moment. Worse than the attack on the shop. Far, far worse.
She pulled up the other stool and sat down on it. ‘Why doesn’t anybody come to help?’ People were passing in full view of them, but their faces looked the other way.
‘They are afraid,’ he said and sipped the scalding liquid with indifference. ‘I cannot blame them.’
Lydia stared at the sword, at the blood turning brown. The attack must have happened only shortly before she arrived because part of it still glistened on the blade.
‘Who are these devils?’
A long silence settled in the shop alongside the dust and the shattered glass while Mr Liu started to breathe deeply in and out, long and slow.
‘You don’t want to know such things,’ he said at last.
‘I do.’
‘Then you are a fool, Missy.’
‘Was it the Communists? They need money for guns, I hear.’
He turned his black eyes on her, surprised. ‘No, it was not the Communists. Where does a foreigner such as you hear of those people?’
‘Oh, around. Word spreads.’
His eyes were sharp. ‘Take care, Missy. China is not a place like others. Here different rules apply.’
‘So who are the devils who make up the rules that say they can destroy your shop and take your money? Where are the police? Why don’t they . . . ?’
‘No police. They will not come.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they are paid not to come.’
Lydia felt cold, despite the tea. Mr Liu was right; this was not her world. Chinese police were not like Commissioner Lacock. The chief of police in the International Settlement, whom she had loathed so passionately only a couple of hours ago, suddenly appeared to be a reasonable and honourable figure. Respected and reassuring. She wanted his monocle and his authoritative voice to storm up here and sort out this mess. But this was not in his jurisdiction. This was Chinese Junchow. She sat in silence. Nothing was said for so long that it came as a slight shock when Mr Liu lifted up the sword in one hand, pointing it straight out in front of him, and said, ‘I cut one.’
‘Badly?’
‘Bad enough.’
‘Where?’
‘I sliced the tattoo off his neck.’ He said it with quiet pride.
‘Tattoo? What kind of tattoo?’
‘What is it to you?’
‘Was it a snake? A black snake?’
‘Maybe.’
But she knew she was right. ‘I’ve seen one.’
‘Then look away or the black snake will bite out your heart.’
‘It’s a gang, isn’t it? One of the triads. I’ve heard about these brotherhoods that extort money from . . .’
He held a hooked finger to his lips. ‘Don’t even speak of them. Not if you want to keep your pretty eyes.’
She slowly placed her tiny cup on the enamelled tray on the floor. She didn’t want him to see her face. He had frightened her.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
He brought the sword crashing down onto the tray, slicing it neatly in half and making Lydia leap to her feet.
‘I will pay them,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I will find the dollars somewhere and pay them. It is the only way to put food on my family’s table. This was just a warning.’
‘Can I help you sweep up the glass and . . . ?’
‘No.’ It was harsh the way he said it, as if she’d offered to chop off his feet. ‘No. But thank you, Missy.’
She nodded. But did not leave.
‘What is it, Missy?’
‘I came to do business.’
He spat viciously on the floor. ‘I have no business today.’
‘I came to buy, not to sell.’
It was as if a key turned. His dull eyes brightened and he found his shopkeeper’s smile. ‘How can I help you? I’m sorry so much is damaged but . . . ,’ he glanced to the rail at the back of the shop, ‘the furs are still in excellent condition. You always liked the furs.’
‘No furs. Not today. What I want is to redeem the silver watch I brought last time.’ She slid her hand into her pocket where the handkerchief lay. ‘I have money.’
‘So sorry, it is already sold.’
Her small cry of dismay surprised him. He studied her face carefully.
‘Missy, today you have been good to an old man when no one of his own kind would even look at him. So today you have earned a kindness in return.’ He walked over to the black stove and lifted down a brown glazed pot from the shelf that held the lacquered tea caddies. He opened it and took out a small felt package.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘How much did I pay you for the watch?’
Not for one moment did she think he had forgotten.
‘Four hundred Chinese dollars.’
He held out his frail bird-claw hand.
From her pocket she lifted out the handkerchief containing the money and placed it in his palm. His fingers closed quickly around it. She took the felt package and, without even looking at it, put it in her pocket.
He was pleased. ‘You bring the breath of fire spirits with you, Missy.’ He watched her for a moment, and she tucked a copper strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. ‘You take risks coming here, but the fire spirits seem to guard you. You are one of them. But a snake has no fear of fire, he loves its warmth, so tread carefully.’
‘I will.’ As she picked her way out through the debris, she looked back over her shoulder. ‘Fire can devour snakes,’ she said. ‘You watch.’
‘Stay away from them, Missy. And from the Communists.’
The mention surprised her. On impulse she asked, ‘Are you a Communist, Mr Liu?’
His face barely changed, but she felt the door slam down between them.
‘If I were foolish enough to be a supporter of Communism and of Mao Tse-tung,’ he said in a louder voice, as if talking to someone out in the street, ‘I would deserve to have my head rammed on a stake on the town wall for all the world to throw filth at.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
He bowed to her, but not before she saw the smile.
20
He could be dead. For all she knew. Chang could be dead already. The words clanged in Lydia’s head like one of their goddamn brass bells, its vibration chipping pieces out of her. They could have hunted him down and struck. Like Mr Liu. But worse.
She raced back through the old town, her eyes scouring this time for the brand of the Black Snake among the noisy crowds that tramped the narrow streets. On one corner she stumbled across a storyteller in his booth with his audience perching, entranced, on wooden benches around him, and one of them looked up at her with narrow eyes that seemed to know her. She had never seen him before, she was certain. His neck was wrapped in a loose black scarf and she wanted to tear it off to look underneath. Would she find a snake? Or blood from Mr Liu’s sword? His silent gaze seemed to follow her down the street. She ran faster. Out under the ancient arch and up the Strand into the Settlement.
The library. Cool in there. Safe in there. No Chinese allowed inside.
She was out of breath by the time she reached the ornate stone building with its gothic windows and arched entrance. It stood right in the centre of the International Settlement, straddling the main square, and she only just remembered to say a polite ‘Good afternoon’ to Mrs Barker at the desk. She dashed into one of the dozens of long and dim aisles lined with shelf after shelf of books right up to the ceiling, and she hurried down to its far end, like a fox going to earth.
She breathed deeply. It was a struggle. Everything out of control. Her lungs didn’t want to fill up and her knees were shaking in time to the racketing of her heart. Chang An Lo, where are you?
This was panic. Blind panic. Just the thought annoyed her. That helped. Annoyance.
It began to elbow out the frantic thoughts of snakes and swords whirling around her brain and she felt clear air open up in there, so that she could think straight.
Of course he wasn’t dead. Of course not. She would feel it if he were. She was sure she would. But she must find him, warn him.
Of course the man listening to the storyteller wasn’t one of them. Of course not. He’d stared at her just because he didn’t like Foreign Devils in the Chinese town. That’s all.
Of course. Of course. Don’t be absurd.
She sank down to the cool tiled floor, her head leaning against the good solid English rack of books stacked behind her. She had no idea which ones they were but liked the contact with them. They comforted her in some strange way she didn’t understand. She shut her eyes.
‘Time to go, Lydia.’
Lydia opened her eyes. She blinked in the overhead light and jumped to her feet.
‘Dozed off, did you, dear? I expect you’ve been working too hard.’ Mrs Barker’s face was kindly with big freckles like raindrops on her nose, and she sometimes saved a toffee in her desk for Lydia. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes.’
‘I’ll be quick,’ Lydia said and hurried into another aisle.
Her head felt like lead. Her thoughts were still snatching jerkily at scraps of violent dreams that had haunted her brief sleep, but she recognised the man in front of her instantly. He was reaching for a book on a high shelf, unaware of her presence, and she caught sight of the title. Photography: The Nude Figure: Female.
‘Hello, Mr Mason. I didn’t know you were interested in photography. ’
He jumped; she saw his fingers nearly slide off the book, but he gathered himself well and turned his head casually. His expression was friendly, but his dark suit made him look authoritative and remote.
‘Well I’m blowed, I didn’t expect to find you here, Lydia. Shouldn’t you be at home doing homework?’
‘I’m just finding some books.’
‘Run along, then. Mrs Barker wants to close.’
‘Yes, I will.’ But she twiddled a finger idly over the spines of a row of poetry volumes in front of her and waited to see if he would put the book back. He did.
The Russian Concubine Page 22