He recalled noticing her earlier when she walked into the chamber behind her mother, very upright and remote. She knew how to walk, that girl. Like she was queen of the jungle in her leaf-green dress and pelt of shining copper hair. He glanced across the aisle and found her. She was staring stiffly down at the pale green gloves on her lap and picking at their fingers with sharp little tugs. Her hair was draped forward but did not quite hide a long scratch beside her ear. She had clearly been in a fight in that jungle of hers.
Theo leaned back in his seat and risked closing his eyes. Instantly he was swept away in a world of sampans and swaying decks and yellow teeth. As clear as day he could see Christopher Mason adrift on a raft in the wide mouth of the river, covered in snakes devouring his eyes and crawling into his ears.
Theo smiled and started to snore. ‘What do you think, Theo, old chap? Pretty damn decent I’d say, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s a fine house you’ve rented, Alfred.’ It was at the eastern end of the British Quarter near St Sebastian’s Church, tucked away in a leafy avenue. ‘You and your beautiful bride should be very happy here.’ He didn’t mention the daughter.
‘I think so too.’
They were standing on the terrace looking out over the extensive garden that even in the bleak grip of winter managed to look well cared for. Smoke from their cigars spiralled up into the still air and the brandy snifters were almost empty. Theo was desperate to leave. His eyes ached and his skin prickled painfully. It felt as if a rodent were wriggling around under it, gnawing at the nerve ends. Behind him in the drawing room the buzz of voices enjoying themselves rose steadily as the wedding party made the most of the food and drink. Music drifted out, something by Paul Whiteman’s band. The sound of it scraped like razor blades in his ears.
‘Off soon?’ he asked.
‘Anytime now.’ Alfred checked his pocket watch. ‘The taxi is coming to take us to the station at three-thirty. Then it’s a whole week at Datong. Just the two of us. On honeymoon. Valentina and me.’ His smile was so broad, Theo thought it would split his face in half.
‘You’ll love the Huayuan temple.’
‘I’m really looking forward to seeing it. Valentina too.’
‘I bet she is. What about the girl?’
‘Lydia?’
‘Yes. Staying here is she? Or with . . .’ Theo’s mind went blank. What was the little blond girl’s name? Sally? Dolly? Polly, that was it. ‘Or with Polly?’
For the first time that day Alfred’s beaming smile faded a fraction. ‘She’s chosen to stay here. There’s the cook and his wife living in, of course, as well as the houseboy and gardener coming in each day, so she won’t be on her own.’
‘No need to worry then.’
‘Well, I can’t say I’m happy about it. She refused to go to stay with the Masons, even though she was invited, and won’t hear of my employing a respectable woman to live here with her as a chaperone while we’re away.’ He removed his spectacles and polished them thoroughly. ‘It’s only a week,’ he muttered to himself. ‘And she’ll be seventeen this year. What trouble can she get into in a week?’
Theo laughed and looked down at the damp grey stone under his shoes to shield from the glare of lights flickering inside his eyes. ‘Don’t fret, dear fellow, that girl knows how to take care of herself.’
Alfred looked at him solemnly. ‘That’s what worries me.’
‘What is it that worries you, my angel?’ It was Valentina, come to join them on the terrace.
‘Ah, I’m worried that it might snow again and make our train late.’
‘Nonsense, even the weather is on our side today. Nothing will go wrong.’
She laughed and stepped up close to her husband, so close she could lean her body against his as she stood beside him. Alfred beamed at her. He slid an arm around her waist and she turned her face up to him in a manner that made Theo think of a flower turning toward the sun. He could see his friend aglow with pride and such naked love that there was something vaguely indecent about it. Theo feared for him.
It was bitterly cold on the terrace and Valentina was wearing only the creamy chiffon dress that floated around her as she moved. He noticed her nipples harden under the flimsy material. Whether from chill or from lust, he had no idea. Theo much preferred the vivid red clothes, red for happiness, that the Chinese wore at weddings instead of the pallid shades of white favoured by Westerners, but even so, he had to admit she looked lovely. Dark hair and eyes shining. Around her long neck hung three strands of pearls, as pale as her skin. Aware of his eyes on her, she turned and held his gaze for a beat longer than was strictly polite, then she smiled up at Alfred again.
‘Angel, do come back indoors. It’s freezing out here and Mr Willoughby is looking very pale.’
‘By Jove, she’s right, Theo, you are a bit on the peaky side. Trust a woman to notice.’
‘Indeed,’ Theo said and headed indoors with the intention of taking his leave.
As the newlywed couple entered the drawing room arm in arm, a cheer went up and everyone joined in singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow . . .’ and followed it with ‘For she’s a jolly . . .’
Raised voices at the front door broke through. The singing ceased abruptly. A deep roar of anger barged into the room with a native houseboy fluttering with birdlike chirrups in its wake. Theo wondered for a moment if it was one of his hallucinations. It was too bizarre to be real. A huge man, mean and vicious and obviously drunk, had forced his way into the midst of the wedding party with a barrage of Russian curses. He wore a curly black beard and a ragged eye patch, and his clothes looked and smelled as if he hadn’t been out of them since the Bolshevik Revolution. But others were also staring in alarm at the intruder. Bizarre or not, it must be real. The room itself seemed to shake and dwindle in size as the massive creature stumbled forward, growling, swaying, and swerving out of control.
‘The man’s drunk.’
‘Wish I had my gun with me.’
‘Call the police.’
‘Keep back, Johnnie, or someone will get hurt.’
Theo stepped into his path. He wasn’t quite sure what he intended to do, maybe pull the short knife from his ankle scabbard, which he always carried these days. Or maybe the flashing lights in his head had made him invisible and he could smash his fist into the fellow without being seen himself. That crazy thought did cross Theo’s mind. All he knew was that he didn’t want his friend Alfred hurt. Not on his wedding day.
The single black eye swept over him and instantly a massive elbow came crashing toward his face. A fierce yank on Theo’s arm sent him tumbling to one side, and the blow landed on his shoulder instead of destroying his cheekbone. A pair of amber eyes peered into his and he saw the Russian girl’s hands still clutching his arm where she had pulled at him. Then she was gone.
Through the pain that was hammering on his brain and the light blinding his eyes, he tried to make sense of what he saw. The tu-fei, the Russian bandit, charged at the wedded pair. Alfred, mild-mannered and calm Alfred, threw himself forward with an animal cry of fury to protect his beloved, but the great paw knocked him aside with barely a flick of a muscle. Alfred was on the floor, blood on his head.
Screaming. Someone was screaming.
Valentina Ivanova - no, Valentina Parker - was yelling at the big man in Russian. She slapped his face. Not once, but three times. She had to reach up high to do so and looked like a kitten playing with a lion’s muzzle. Yet he didn’t touch her. He growled and roared and shook his great furry head from side to side. He staggered and swayed, too drunk to stand firm, and still she screamed at him.
‘Poshyol von. Get out of here, you stinking Russian pig. Ubiraisya otsyuda gryaznaya svinya.’
‘Prodazhnaya shkura,’ he bellowed and then in English, ‘You whore.’
Theo got himself over to Alfred and helped him to his feet.
‘Stop it, stop it. Prekratyitye.’
It was the girl. She seized hold
of the man’s massive arm and pulled him to look at her. His black eye was slow to abandon the bride’s face but eventually shifted to the girl at his side.
‘Poshli, come,’ she said urgently. ‘Come with me. Quickly. Bistra. Or you will be shot like a dog.’
Then it was over. The shouting stopped. The man was gone. Alfred was rushing to Valentina. The girl disappeared. The last thing Theo could recall was the sight of her small figure dragging the big bandit from the room and the odd thing was that he went quietly, tears rolling down his cheeks into his thick beard. The old woman with the vast bosom was standing, arms outstretched, in the middle of the room, gazing up at the ceiling and declaiming in a heavy Russian accent, ‘You shall pay for this. God will make you pay for this.’
Theo wondered if she meant him.
33
Lydia had to run. Even though he had been drinking, Liev moved fast on his great long legs, as if there were a demon inside him.
‘Damn you, Liev Popkov,’ she swore. ‘Slow down.’
He halted, studied her blearily with his one eye. He seemed surprised to find her at his side.
‘What,’ she demanded, ‘was all that about? Why did you break up the wedding party? O chyom vi rugalyis?’
He shook his head and lumbered on, at an easier pace this time. It was raining now, but cold enough to turn to snow again at any moment. Lydia was in the wrong clothes. The green beaded frock was not meant to keep out the Chinese winter. She had seized her coat from the cupboard in the hall on her way out, the old thin coat, not the bloodied new one - she hated that one - but she was wearing silly satin shoes and no hat. She took hold of his arm and gripped it hard. Her fear that the violent confrontation with her mother would cause him to abandon her made her dig her fingers in tight and concentrate on seeking out the right Russian words.
‘Why did you do that to my mother? Tell me. Why? Pochemu?’
‘A Russian must marry a Russian,’ he grunted and lowered his head into the rain. He would say no more.
‘That is nonsense, Liev Popkov.’
But she left it there. Her Russian was not adequate to the emotions she was struggling with. The sight of her mother’s beautiful face so twisted with anger and the sound of the Russian words pouring from her mouth too fast for Lydia to grasp had shaken her. It had stolen something solid from her world. Why would Liev barge into the house? None of it made sense.
She guided the big bear past the railway station and down to the docks. He seemed to have no care for what direction he took, unaware of where he was going until a singsong girl in a bright yellow short cheongsam that showed off her legs reached out and touched his cheek with a hand whose nails were as green as dragon scales.
‘You want jig-jig?’
He brushed her aside. But his head came up and he looked around, saw the tall metal cranes and the gambling dens and the chain gangs of porters. For the first time he noticed the rain. His bloodshot eye turned to Lydia and frowned.
‘I have a plan,’ she said in Russian. ‘I found a man. He knows my friend, the one I’m searching for. This man I found is . . . dead now. I did not understand his Chinese words but he said the name Calfield. I think it is here. Somewhere.’
‘Calfield?’
‘Da.’
She knew she hadn’t explained it well, but it was hard to find the words in his language. Her impatience got the better of her. She pulled him toward the buildings overlooking the quayside and pointed to the names up on their frontage. Jepherson’s Timber Yard and Lamartiere Agence. Across the road Dirk & Green Wheelwright next to Winkmann’s Chandlery. All jumbled up among the Chinese businesses.
She gestured to Liev. ‘Calfield? Where is it? You must ask.’
Understanding dawned. ‘Calfield,’ he echoed.
‘Yes.’
It had taken her hours. Lying awake last night, trawling through the nightmare of yesterday. Again and again she came back to the knife disappearing into Tan Wah. His soft hoarse cough. The blood. How could there be so much blood in one so thin? She wanted to scream aloud No, no, but she had made her mind go back, further back. To the wood. When she first asked Tan Wah about Chang An Lo. His chatter of words meant nothing to her but she went over them. Remembering. Listening. Seeing his floating eyes. His hairless face, already a skeleton. His teeth, yellow and chipped.
Words. Sounds. Unfamiliar and alien.
Just as the folds of the dividing curtain turned from black to grey, the start of their last morning in that attic room, one word stepped out into the front of her mind from all the meaningless sounds. Cal-field. Tan Wah had definitely used the word.
Calfield.
She gnawed at it like a bone. He had been taking her to Chang, that much was clear. Then he had waved his bony hand toward the quay and said Calfield.
It was a business or trading company of some sort, she was sure of it. Calfield was an English name and no Englishman lived down there at the docks, so it had to be a business. She had planned to seek out Liev Popkov the second her mother and Alfred left for the station, but his intrusion just made it happen earlier. The honeymooners would set off anyway and probably not even notice she wasn’t there in all the excitement. They wouldn’t miss her.
‘Lydia Ivanova.’ It was the bear. His voice was steadier now, his words less slurred. ‘Pochemu? Why you want this friend so bad?’
She glared at him. ‘That is my business.’
He growled, literally growled. Then he reached into the greasy pocket of his long overcoat and pulled out a stack of banknotes. He took her hand in his great paw and placed the money on her palm, curling her fingers around it to hide it from jealous eyes.
‘Two hundred dollar,’ he said in English.
A wave of sickness hit her stomach. The return of the money was so final. He’d finished with her.
‘Don’t leave. Nye ostavlyai menya.’
He said nothing. Just removed the long woollen scarf from around his neck, draped it over her wet head, and wound it around her shoulders. It stank of God-knows-what filth and stale sweat all mixed up with tobacco and garlic, but something in the gesture stilled her fear. He wouldn’t leave her. Surely.
But he did.
She felt betrayed. There was no reason why she should, but she did. It was a business arrangement, nothing more. Two hundred dollars of protection, that’s what she’d bought. Liev had more than earned it already, risked his life time and again during her search in this dangerous place for no more than Alfred probably paid for her new coat. But now he had returned the money. All of it.
She didn’t understand.
Nor did she understand why she felt so hurt by it. It was business. Nothing more. She watched him walk into a kabak and knew he would not come out this time. He was there to drink. She wanted to shout after him. To beg.
No.
She pulled the scarf as far over her face as it would go and scuttled along close to the wall, keeping her eyes on the ground, seeking no contact of any kind with the faces and bodies that milled around her. She knew she was in danger. She remembered the moon-faced man who had tried to buy her and the American sailor. She fingered the two hundred dollars in her pocket and was tempted to cast it away, knowing it increased her risk, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. To throw money away would feel like slitting her wrists.
What she needed to do was to go into one of the European companies and ask. Simple.
A hand touched her shoulder, a black-eyed smile leaned toward her face. She jumped away and hurried for the first door she could see that bore an English sign above it. E. W. Halliday. Maybe the smile meant well. She would never know. She pushed open the door and was instantly disappointed. The place was nothing like she had been expecting. It was a long and low-ceilinged room that even in daylight remained dim because the window was so small and grimy. A handful of Chinese workers were busy stacking cardboard cartons onto pallets against the wall, but an unpleasant oily smell seeped in from behind large double doors that led t
o what appeared to be a factory behind.
A Chinese man at a desk near the door raised his head. He wore tiny steel-rimmed glasses and a thin ribbon moustache that made him look almost European, and his desk was littered with thick ledgers. A tall black telephone was ringing, but he ignored it.
‘Excuse me,’ Lydia said, ‘do you speak English?’
‘Yes. How may I help you, miss?’
‘I am searching for a company called Calfield. Do you know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In Sweet Candle Yard.’
‘Could you direct me there, please?’
At that moment the double doors swung open, breathing a gust of hot air into the front office and giving Lydia a brief glimpse of a kind of purgatory taking place behind. Dozens of matchstick figures were leaning over great vats with long paddles, pushing something down into a steaming liquid that scalded their faces a raw and blistered scarlet. As the doors swung shut they disappeared back into their own daily hell.
‘You go down Leaping Goat Lane and over to the godowns. Calfield is there.’
The man waved a hand in a vague direction, bowed a dismissal, and picked up the telephone to stop its jangling. Lydia left, the oily stink still in her nostrils. Outside she stared at the numerous streets and alleyways running off the quayside. Leaping Goat Lane.
Which one?
All the signs were written in Chinese characters. She could be looking straight at Leaping Goat Lane and not know it. A rickshaw raced past and water splashed from its wheels, drenching her in slime. Her satin shoes were ruined; she was wet through and shivering.
‘Leaping Goat Lane,’ she said aloud and climbed up on the low ledge of a stone trough in front of a water pump where the water had dripped into a frozen tear. At the top of her voice she shouted out, ‘Can anyone tell me which is Leaping Goat Lane?’
Several of the heads hurrying past turned to stare at her with interest, and she saw two thin men in bamboo hats swerve from their path and shoulder their way toward her. She swallowed. It was a risk, but time was running out for Chang and she was desperate to find him. Suddenly she was whisked off her feet. Something seized her, whirled her into the air, and shook her like a rag doll. Her eyes rattled in her head. She kicked out. Punched the side of a face. Bit some thing.
The Russian Concubine Page 34