China Seas

by John Harris

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The bank, sir.’ Kee frowned, puzzled. ‘Are you suggesting I invest some of it with you?’

  Willie shook his head. ‘No, George, I’m not. I’m wondering in fact, if I ought to invest with me. Do you ever hear rumours about the city? Among the Chinese, I mean. Do they want to take us over?’

  Kee laughed. ‘A lot of them would like to, sir. The students talk a lot about it. But most of them are Communists and see their party or the Kuomintang as the only way for China ever to run her own affairs.’

  ‘If they did, and you had your money in a Shanghai bank, George, wouldn’t there be a chance of you losing it all?’

  Kee frowned. ‘I suppose there would.’

  ‘George, I seem to sense a different atmosphere lately. My son, Edward, noticed it more than me because he’s not been here for many years. It’s like not noticing your own children growing because you see them everyday, while other people’s, whom you see only occasionally, seem to shoot up. George, I’m going to transfer some of my funds abroad.’

  ‘Are you suggesting, sir, that I transfer my small capital abroad also.’

  ‘I think perhaps you should, George.’

  Kee left Willie still sitting at his desk, staring through the window at the roofs of the business houses along the bund. He could see the Glen Line building, Butterfield and Swire’s, Jardine Matheson’s, the Yangtze Insurance Building, the Yokohama Specie Bank, the Bank of China, and the tower of the Cathay Hotel. There were a lot of banks, he thought suddenly. Had Thomas’ friend, Chou, been giving him a warning? Were things not quite as solid as some people seemed to think. There was always instability in China and the students were always calling strikes and intimidating people into joining them. Was he wise to keep all his eggs in one basket?

  Perhaps he ought to think more about his business, he decided. Perhaps he was too old now for wandering. He’d been doing it ever since his early twenties – Russia, Japan, India, Korea, Malaya, French Indo-China, Burma. Back and forth across the China Seas, his business had taken him everywhere and he had enjoyed travelling, being part of a ship, smelling the hot engine oil and feeling the ship’s heart beating as it came alive and curtseyed through the waves. The smell of the Eastern ports – Tjilitjap, Bali, Batavia, Samarang, Cheribon, Deli in Sumatra, Macassar, Soerabaya, Malacca and Rangoon – was like wine to him. It was the smell you caught everywhere east of Suez – foetid streets, teeming populations, temples, joss sticks, tropical sun on rotting vegetation, palm oil and patchouli, sandalwood and copra, dried fish and all the thousand and one abominations that made up the whole.

  He knew what a tropical night at sea was like – dark, not the unfriendly dark of northern climates but a warm encircling shadow under the pervading monotone of the ship’s screw. He knew what it meant to keep a calendar to mark off the days to the end of a voyage, he knew the pornographic wit of the forecastle, the smell of unwashed clothes, of tobacco and cockroaches, and newly greased oilskins. He had even done his stint in the engine room, and been aboard the Sivrihisar when she had almost sunk, the boilers amok, scalding ash everywhere, and a ladder coming down in a shower of nuts and bolts.

  He had never passed on to Abigail his love of the sea because he was afraid she might demand that he stop risking his neck and stay at home. But being a shipowner to Willie didn’t mean sitting in an office. That could be left to George Kee. It meant getting out and looking round, searching for cargoes, seeing the deep dark river of Samarang; the purple trees and dark branches of Calcutta; Honolulu, where you could smell the flowers miles out at sea; Samoa, Papeete, Chittagong and Haiphong, Saigon and all the other ports of the China seas.

  Surely, he thought, it was finished now. The war was over and a period of peace had returned. Even in his own family life some stability had arrived. His marriage had survived the difficulties of the war and his own peccadilloes. He should sit back now and enjoy approaching middle age.

  He was to be unlucky. The next day’s post brought a letter marked ‘Personal’ that was dated five months back. It had been posted in Tientsin and seemed to have travelled via Harbin, Tsingtao, Peking and Hong Kong. He stared at the envelope for a long time, wondering who had sent it, then, reaching for a small silver dagger he used for opening letters, he slit the envelope. There was nothing inside except a pasteboard card which he recognised as his own. His name was printed on it with, underneath, in his own scrawl, the words ‘If you need me, here I am.’ There was nothing else save a scrawled message. ‘I need you, Nadya.’

  Seven

  ‘George! George! Come here!’

  Willie’s shout brought Kee running into his office.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘When did this come?’

  Kee eyed the envelope Willie held up. ‘Today, sir.’

  ‘Has it been held up in the office?’

  ‘No, sir. Today’s post.’

  ‘It’s been a bloody long time in transit, George. The postmark’s Tientsin and it seems to have been posted five months ago.’ Willie stared from the window. The warm weather had vanished and sleet from an overcast sky was tapping at the window.

  ‘I’m going to Vladivostok, George,’ he said and Kee gave him a surprised look. Willie had never told him anything of what had happened in Vladivostok, but Kee was a shrewd man and he had his suspicions. His employer was good-looking, strong, dark and intelligent and Kee had heard of more than one woman who was interested in him.

  ‘It’s late in the year, sir. I’d have imagined you’d had enough of Russian winters on your last trip.’

  Willie looked round from the drawer he had opened. As he straightened up, Kee saw he was holding the big Russian revolver he took everywhere with him and guessed that something desperate was afoot.

  ‘I did George.’ Willie shivered. ‘Enough to last a lifetime. But I’ve had an appeal for help and I’ve got to go.’ He paused, feeling a faint hint of betrayal. ‘George,’ he went on, ‘this is between you and me. Understand? My wife mustn’t know.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘If anyone asks – anyone, understand, and that includes my wife, George – I’m going to Tsingtao. Got it?’

  ‘I’ve got it, sir.’

  ‘Right. Lady Roberts. What Chinese crew does she have?’

  ‘They’re all Chinese, sir. Except Captain Roper, whom you know.’

  ‘I want Roper sent on leave. Reassure him his job’s safe. Then I want you to find me a Chinese captain who knows the coast and the route. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then see Yang and Co., and arrange to have the Lady Roberts’ holds filled with cheap coal.’

  Kee nodded, asking no questions as Willie went on.

  ‘As soon as she’s loaded, have her anchor well away from Yang’s and have her name painted out and replaced with a new one – a Chinese one.’

  ‘Very good, sir. How about Simbang? Simbang was the ship set on fire and sunk by pirates earlier in the year in the Yellow Sea. Registered at Tientsin.’

  ‘That’ll do to stop questions being asked. She can have the same owners.’

  ‘I’ll arrange that, sir, and see the necessary papers are prepared.’

  ‘She’ll need a Chinese flag, George. She’ll he carrying the coal to Vladivostok.’

  ‘Have we got a customer?’

  ‘No. We might not even find one, in which case we’ll bring the coal back. But we’ll need an excuse for going there.’

  ‘Vladivostok’s an open port, sir. It still has a pronounced international character.’

  ‘For everyone except the British, the Americans, the French and the Japanese, who sent troops up there to fight against the Reds. That’s why the Lady Roberts will become the Simbang and why I shall be on the ship’s register as the second mate. Name of William Kee, of your address, George. You’ve acquired a brother.’

  Kee smiled. ‘So I have, sir. But it occurs to me that my brother, having been educated in England, doesn’t u
nderstand Chinese as he ought and it might be a good idea if I were to accompany him in case of difficulties.’

  Willie stared at the young man with his handsome Chinese features and English smile. ‘Thanks, George,’ he said. ‘I think you might be right at that.’

  It was fortunate that Abigail had disappeared from the scene for a matter of two months – three months if things turned out as she wished and Polly was happy away from the side of young Wissermann. It was her intention to visit the Wissermann relations in San Francisco and anything could happen.

  But Abigail’s absence gave Willie time. A week to Vladivostok, a day there to accomplish all he needed to do, a week back. It gave him ample scope to settle again into his routine so that nothing would seem to have happened by the time she returned.

  It wasn’t hard for him to pass as a mixed-blood Chinese. There were thousands like Kee, with a Chinese mother or father, who spoke both English and Chinese and possessed the attributes and instincts of both nations. He and Kee could almost have been brothers because they were of much the same size and both possessed black hair and swarthy complexions. Kee’s passport was in perfect order and any doubts about the one he produced for Willie could be explained by the fact that his ‘brother’ had gone to sea as a boy and had never had a settled home in any city or port.

  Kee had found a master, a Chinese first mate called John Yeh. ‘He’s good,’ he said, ‘and he has all the necessary sea time and experience. He’ll do it without question, especially if we make his fourth stripe permanent.’

  ‘Tell him if we pull it off, he’s got a job for life.’

  Yeh was a burly, blank-faced young man who took over the ship without requiring explanations, moved Roper’s belongings ashore, ordered the repainting Willie had demanded, and made a point of laying in half a dozen Chinese merchant marine flags.

  There was a snowstorm blowing and it was cold enough to sting the nostrils as they made their way into Vladivostok. The sea was ice-blue under the leaden sky and the dock area seemed bleak and almost deserted. There were huge piles of timber stacked ready to be loaded aboard ship, and mountains of coal. Carts waited, their horses drowsing in the harness, but there appeared to be no fishing craft and very little in the way of shipping, while the dockside cranes were motionless, like great gallows hanging out over the water.

  Leaving Kee on board, Willie went ashore alone. Fading posters edged in black were on all the fences and telegraph poles, announcing that the local soviet of workers and soldiers had replaced all former administrative and other authorities. Finding a telephone in a bar near the docks, he tried to contact A N Kourganov’s, but the telephone system seemed to be operating only fitfully and he couldn’t get through. The snow was still falling as he left the bar, eyed all the time by the occupants, hard-faced men in fur caps and greasy coats.

  The harbourmaster’s office seemed to be empty and with no sign of staff. An old woman, wearing a garment cut apparently from a worn carpet, lived in the basement. On the wall behind her she had pinned a row of epaulettes, emblems of the now-dead Tsarist army. The Refugee Control Office, which had existed during Willie’s last visit, had vanished as if the refugee problem had ceased to exist with the closing of the frontiers.

  There seemed a great shortage of transport. Trams were still running, but they were few and far between and, after trying to board three of them and being turned away because they were too crowded, Willie gave up trying and set off walking. It didn’t surprise him to pass a body in the street stripped to its underclothes, its feet, hands and face blue.

  The office of A N Kourganov was still functioning, but it looked shabby and the staff seemed lethargic and indifferent. When Willie entered for Nadya they informed him that she hadn’t been in for some time. The man who answered his questions said he was the staff representative for the office and that he was in charge.

  ‘Who does the business then?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What about Mademoiselle Kourganova?’

  ‘She is still titular head of the firm, but she is no longer very active.’

  ‘I see. Then to whom do I apply to do business?’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Coal. Indian coal.’

  The man sneered. ‘We have better coal in Russia. Indian coal is a product of Imperial Britain and it is soft and of no use for railways or shipping.’

  ‘It’s very cheap, and I think there would be a very good bargain for whoever handles it.’

  At the hint of a bribe, the man eyed Willie shrewdly. ‘I’ll need to think about it,’ he said. ‘But there are problems. I have to get in touch with the Ministry and that takes time.’

  ‘Do you mean there’s no one with initiative who can produce money to buy coal cheaply which he can sell at a great profit?’

  The shrewd look came again. ‘It might be possible.’

  There was a discussion and an exchange of addresses. The man seemed satisfied with Willie’s credentials and promised to go along to the ship and check the cargo. The greed in his face was clear.

  Leaving the office, Willie ate a meal in a shabby restaurant where most of the diners seemed to be officials. The street outside was full of beggars, but no one took the slightest notice of them.

  The Marizliyevskaya, where Nadya Alexsandrovna lived, seemed to have changed its character. The big houses had filled up with refugees and people from the working-class districts, whole families crowding into single rooms. As he reached Nadya’s house the door was opened by a bearded man in a greasy leather jacket.

  ‘V I Kursin,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m the man on duty.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Every able-bodied man has to take his turn. I lock the doors and open up, and when the Cheka want to know a thing, they come and ask me. I’m in charge.’

  Willie had heard of the Cheka because reports had found their way south to Shanghai. It was nothing else but a secret police and existed to fight counter-revolution and sabotage. Its policy of terror was considered necessary for the survival of the new republic and it had the power of censorship, security, arrest and even execution.

  ‘Does the Cheka often come here?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s been known.’

  The house seemed to be teeming with men, women and children, all of them starved-looking and dirty, and when Willie asked for Nadya, Kursin gestured.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ he said. ‘She’s nobody now. Why do you want to see her? You’re not Russian.’

  ‘No. I’m from Shanghai.’

  ‘Then you’re Chinese?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You don’t look Chinese. But some Russians don’t look Russian. We admire the way the Chinese are trying to get rid of the Imperialists. What do you want with her?’

  ‘I’m here to do business. I’ve always traded with A N Kourganov’s.’

  ‘She doesn’t run the firm now. The party are keeping a watch on it.’

  It was as Willie had thought. Nadya had been dispossessed.

  She answered the door warily, opening it gradually until she saw Willie’s face. He saw her eyes light up, but she was wary because Kursin was standing by Willie’s side.

  ‘I’m from Yang and Co., Shanghai,’ Willie said slowly. ‘I’ve come to do business, but I’ve been told you’re no longer running A N Kourganov’s.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She was fighting to keep the delight from her face. ‘A N Kourganov is now under new management. Perhaps you’d like to come in and take a glass of tea, and I’ll direct you to the new owners.’

  Willie smiled at Kursin who scowled back at him and shuffled off. Slipping inside Nadya’s room, Willie slammed the door and she flung herself into his arms and clung weakly to him. Eventually, she stirred and touched his face with her fingertips as if to convince herself he was real.

  Then she recovered herself. ‘Tea,’ she said. ‘We’d better have tea in case he comes back. Sometimes he does, though nowadays I
never have visitors.’

  She made the tea as he waited and he saw that she was paler and thinner and that she’d cut her lush reddish-brown hair. She looked ill, too, and she told him that she’d had ’flu.

  ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she admitted, ‘but one of the women from the other rooms took pity on me. Even under the revolution there’s still room for compassion.’

  ‘Nadya, what happened?’

  ‘They took over all the houses when the Bolsheviki arrived here,’ she said. ‘They insisted that the poor had as much right to a roof over their heads as anyone – which I suppose is true. But they pay no rent because everything belongs to everyone and nothing to anyone in particular.’ She drew a deep shuddering breath, as if trying to control her emotions. ‘Things have changed. There wasn’t a lot when you left, but there was a little laughter. Even that’s gone now.’

  The room had the iron coldness of a refrigerator and he stared about him at the few items of furniture she had crammed in there.

  ‘I thought you were going to be all right under the revolution.’

  She gave him a sad smile. ‘Oh, they’re not accusing me of deviation,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that. Just of having money. I didn’t allow for the fact that commissars might well have ambition. The commissar here is a man called Chelynin. He was my chief clerk and he fancied A N Kourganov’s. He knew the firm was profitable so he simply took over. When I protested, he reported me to the local soviet for exporting goods against the orders of the Supreme Soviet. It didn’t need much more for me to be denounced as a traitor to the cause. I was lucky not to be imprisoned. As it is, I have no rights, no property, no opinions, nothing. I had to send to you for help. It went against the grain to intrude again into your life, but I had no alternative.’

  ‘Where’s this Chelynin now?’

  ‘Harbin. We had timber there. He’s gone to claim it.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s been gone some time. It could be any day.’

  He took her hand. It was ice-cold. ‘Look, Nadya, I’ve got a ship here. I can get you away.’