Once upon a time in Chinatown

by Robert Ronsson

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Malaya – Malaysia – to see the Kellie-Smith land. Find out what happened to it.’

  ‘Not until now. But since your phone call I’ve been thinking about that side of my family. Would my mother have wanted me to go there, to see the castle of her stories?’

  ‘It would cost a bit. To travel all that way. Could you afford the time?’

  He lifted his glass and studied the pale liquid as if it held the answer to my question. ‘I have no family. No commitments here. Okay, the detective business is not making me a fortune of money. I do some divorce business from time to time. I follow husbands. It’s enough. I live cheaply here. I have money.’

  I didn’t want him to think I was being pushy, ‘Well if you decide to go you’ll have to let me know what you find.’

  ‘I will think about it.’ He leant forward. ‘I have had another idea, though, my friend – my new cousin.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You should see your grandfather’s grave while you are in Lisbon.’

  He was right. I should.

  ‘I will come to your hotel in the morning. We can walk there. It is not too far.’

  It seemed that in Portugal’s capital city, everything was in walking distance. I wondered whether Luis had ever escaped. ‘Have you always lived here. When you served in the police force, was it in Lisbon?’

  ‘When my father came here from the country, he worked and lived in the shanty town area called Bairro Chinês. In the police force, after I made detective, I was assigned to the same area. It was the most lawless. Friday and Saturday nights were crazy with the drinking, the fights. If there was a murder in Lisbon it would have been in the Bairro Chinês…’ His voice drifted. There was silence except for thump of a nightclub’s music. ‘… When I left the police force and started in this business, I had no fancy ideas about where my clients would come from – Bairro Chinês. It would always be – how do you say – grabby?’

  ‘Grubby.’

  ‘Yes, grubby end of the market. I could see how my business would be like the private investigator in my favourite film Chinatown – Jake Gittes. Do you know it?’

  ‘I love that film. But, sorry. I’m being stupid; I don’t get the connection.’

  ‘You don’t see it? It’s a private joke for me. What was the name of the Los Angeles detective in Chinatown?’ He chuckled. ‘He gave poor old Jake Gittes such a hard time.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘You don’t know? It is Escobar!’ He tapped his chest.

  I shook my head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the other coincidence of the film and my life, do you see it?’

  ‘Sorry. You’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘Bairro Chinês, where I worked – in English you would say it Chinatown. Detective Escobar working in Chinatown!’

  I laughed.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’ he asked.

  I held up my glass still a third full. ‘Did it bother you working in Chinatown?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not so much.’

  ‘The reason I ask is you’ve just reminded me of a scene in the film – the bedroom scene. Do you remember it?’

  The booming disco bass flared louder for a few seconds as if the sound had escaped momentarily from a carelessly opened door. The lights on the elevador jostled each other more vigorously. The muffled beat resumed.

  Luis chuckled. ‘Faye Dunaway with no clothes on. How could I forget?’

  ‘I was thinking more about what Jack Nicolson said as Jake.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Faye Dunaway – Evelyn Mulray – says, “Why does it bother you to talk about Chinatown?” and Jake says, “It bothers everybody who works there.” When Evelyn asks why, he says, “In Chinatown you can’t always tell what’s going on.” Is that what it was like for you?’

  While I was talking, Luis had looked increasingly morose. He turned blank-faced searching over my shoulder for something in the past. I thought he might be wistfully picturing Faye Dunaway’s breasts, but he said, ‘Yes. That’s it exactly. In Bairro Chinês nothing was what it seemed.’

  Next morning, we walked up a hill to the west of the Avenida. It was cooler than the day before. The clouds bustled to obscure the sun with the regularity of London buses and their shadows were distinctly cold. Scented dust fell from the lime trees, thickening the air. I paused to remove my Panama hat and used a handkerchief to wipe my brow. Luis turned back, scarcely hiding his impatience. Clearly his liver was in a better state than mine. The dull headache I’d had since 6am, when I’d been woken by the need to pee, was now a full-fledged throb.

  He smiled sympathetically as if he understood how I was feeling. ‘It is not far,’ he said, pausing to light a cigarette and allowing me to catch up. He coughed, doubling up and chuffing out the smoke like a steam engine. He straightened up and stubbed his cigarette out with the sole of his shoe.

  We passed a row of antique shops and under an arch that used to be part of the old city wall. On the crest of the hill, blank slabs of pre-fabricated housing, with washing sprouting from narrow balconies, mixed with grander blocks of mansion-flats. These were clad in tiles similar to those at the rear of Luis’s office building; either that or they had even more extravagant art-nouveau or art-deco plastering that swept up the corners or filled the spaces between the windows.

  Another junction brought us to a wide and busy thoroughfare that stood between us and a lawned area about the size of a football pitch. The saltire of paths that joined the gates at each corner were bordered by exotic flower beds. The domes of a cathedral-like church on the far side dominated the right-hand frame of my view and, as I panned left, my gaze settled on the massive Christ statue in the far distance on the other side of the river. He held his arms outstretched in welcome.

  Luis led me along the pavement that followed a high wall. We turned in through open wrought-iron gates: The British Cemetery. The sound of traffic hushed. A blackbird greeted us like a child trying out a penny whistle for the first time. The sun had emerged from cloud behind us, its light bounced from the white façade of the small church. I put on my sunglasses. We followed the wide gravel path that led to the church doorway. There were narrower paths to each side lined by memorials of all styles: statues of angels – plain and overwrought; cherubs – vibrant and etiolated; crosses – ornate and simple; sarcophogi – brash and diffident; obelisks – tall and stumpy; and at least one skull and crossed bones; all were shaded beneath the vaulted branches of heavy-leafed trees.

  A sign pointed left to where we would find the grave of Henry Fielding but Luis passed the opening and turned right. He stopped by a tall Celtic cross that leaned into the embrace of a glossy-leafed bush. The grave that I stood alongside belonged to Amy Elise Hirst of Leith and I wondered whether this corner was reserved for expatriate Scots. Luis leaned forward, brushed a hand over the wording on the cross and I shuffled closer to him to read the inscription: In affectionate memory of William Kellie-Smith who was born at Elgin on March 1st 1870 and who spent thirty-seven years of his life in the federated Malay states and died in Lisbon December 11th 1926 aged 56 years. At rest.

  Did I feel at rest in that moment? I didn’t feel sadness. How could I feel sadness for someone I never knew? There was no rest for me here, only the turmoil of family. I was connected by blood to Luis, who had sidled away to leave me with my grandfather; to my aunt, whose grave Luis now knelt beside; to the man whose tilted headstone I stood before; to his widow buried somewhere in Scotland. All this made me part of a world way beyond the walls of the house in Aquinas Street. This is what I’d been looking for when I crawled around on the stained carpet of Mum’s bedroom. Tears flowed from my hungover-heavy eyes and tracked down my unshaven cheeks – tears of relief not of sorrow.

  8

  Luis was loitering outside the restaurant. His cigarette glowed in the dusk of late evening and as I approached, he ground it into the pavement with his toe. He nodded and led
me into a cramped, ill-lit room. It was more a bar than a restaurant. There were a few tables but they weren’t laid out for eating and each was encircled by a group of men and women, in their sixties and older, who had drinks in front of them. Clouds of blue cigarette smoke rose into the forest of grotesque, wooden mannequins, in the national colours of green, red and yellow that were strung between the beams. It looked like a mass hanging of Pinocchio and his pals. Guitars were stacked haphazardly in one corner.

  We climbed the narrow staircase at the back of the bar and entered the room above. It was no bigger than downstairs and already every table except one was occupied. The waiter intercepted us and he and Luis embraced. They conversed in Portuguese. Perhaps Luis told a joke because they both burst into laughter and clapped each other on the back. Luis signalled me towards the vacant table that was by the opening for the hatch to a dumb waiter. We sat down.

  ‘Is it allowed for me to smoke?’ Luis asked. He jerked his head back indicating that almost everybody else in the room was polluting the atmosphere.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘I hope you like rabbit. There is no menu. Tonight, we have rabbit – a stew. It is the best rabbit stew in all of Lisbon.’ He laughed. ‘In all of Portugal even. If you like rabbit you will like rabbit stew here, I guarantee.’

  ‘I like rabbit!’ We had to shout over the hum of other conversations.

  ‘Good! First we eat; then we listen to music.’

  The rabbit stew was everything that Luis had promised, juicy and with the distinctive taste of the meat tantalised by herb-laden, spicy sauce. The red wine, from half-litre carafes, arriving, like the rabbit, without being chosen, was robust and fruity. We were the last to be served and the last to finish and, as our plates were cleared, the room swelled with anticipation.

  Three of the ancients from the bar below appeared at the top of the stairs. They carried guitars and sat in a confined space by the banister. They started tuning their instruments and the conversations around the tables petered out. The lights dimmed, leaving the performance area in the arc of a single spotlight, and one of the guitarists embarked on a complicated riff – not a melody – using all his fingers on both hands to pick at the strings and strum seemingly at the same time. It sounded like two were playing but the others sat immobile, their heads bowed in appreciation.

  In a moment, the waiter who had greeted us and who had served our food was standing at the soloist’s side. The other guitarists joined in, playing chords, and the waiter delivered a song of desolation and longing communicated, not by words, but through the heart-rending sequences in the melody and the passion that the singer wove into the lyrics. When he came to a particularly plangent passage he wrought it so well that there were grunts of approbation from the elderly men at tables nearby.

  A succession of singers took us through the next two hours: a young woman whose voice was fresh but whose heart had only recently been broken; a grey-haired man supported by a crutch who had the demeanour of a retired street-fighter; a beshawled, older woman whose voice was cracked by smoking but who knew everything about love and desertion; and, most memorably, a timeworn troubadour, linked up to a gas cylinder that fed his nostrils with oxygen through plastic tubes taped to his face, whose body shook with passion as he sang his songs of longing and loss.

  The music entered my bloodstream; touched my soul. It was as if I was making discoveries about myself. Not about romantic love. No, my melancholy was about family. Not me and Mum. You couldn’t call us a proper family. We were damaged and unnatural when she fell ill and our roles reversed.

  No, the songs revealed an emotional void that should have been filled by familial love – from a father, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles – cousins even. I glanced at Luis. The Fado singers touched the absence that was now in the past – the hollow at my centre. I had shared the vulnerability inherent in their singing. I wiped my eyes hoping that Luis wasn’t watching me.

  ‘Where does it come from?’ I asked after the applause for the final singer had died and the guitarists had stumbled back downstairs.

  ‘From the heart,’ Luis said, chuckling.

  ‘Obviously. Seriously, what is its history?’

  He shrugged. ‘Fado, it means “fate”. They are songs from the waterfront. Sailors, fishermen, their wives and girlfriends – who knows?’

  ‘It’s very emotional… powerful… and I understood every word even though I… didn’t, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Of course. That’s Fado!’

  ‘That’s Fado,’ I whispered. It had triggered something in me. As if I had found my place in the world. I drained my wine glass and looked around the restaurant. I could envisage myself in the future as one of the old Fado aficionados murmuring ‘Bravo!’ This version of me, which I could assume with the ease of a man donning an overcoat, was there, waiting in the wings. If ever I wanted to renew myself, this city would be the place to do it.

  Luis clapped his hands together in a gesture of finality. ‘We finish our evening here. We must have one more sherry to nightcap.’

  ‘I’d like that. I leave tomorrow. It has been a great visit. I hope we will stay in touch. Perhaps you can come to London?’

  He raised his glass, ‘To our family!’

  ‘To the Kellie-Smiths!’ I said and took a gulp – it wasn’t an evening for restraint.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I might come to London, yes. Perhaps Scotland where our family came from. Your visit here has raised in my mind thoughts of my mother, her life in Malaya with our grandfather. I’ve never asked what happened there, what is left of the castle in a land far, far away – the plantations. You have made me think about these things – how much I don’t know. Maybe this is my next detective work. I think I will go to Malaysia, you know. Go to the castle to find out.’

  He looked at me expecting a response. Was he asking me to go with him? As much as I wanted to attach myself limpet-like to this new idea of family, was I ready to travel halfway across the world with a cousin I’d only just found? Such closeness so soon? Luis had welcomed me warmly but… ‘If anybody can find out what happened there, you are the man.’

  ‘But, what about you, Steve? You could go as well. Cousins together exploring our family history. Come with me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ As I said it, I realised that I was shaking my head. I had already dismissed the idea. It had been adventure enough for me to come to Lisbon. As much as the city’s vibrancy and the music of Fado had captivated me, I felt vulnerable at the prospect of more travel, like a toddler waking in a night-time bedroom. Deep down he knows the darkness holds no monsters but he dares not look under the bed nor open a wardrobe. He hunkers down under the blankets.

  The promise of a long-haul flight, the foreign-ness of a tropical country, the strange customs and food; logic told me that there was nothing to be afraid of, but my natural inclination was inaction – I too hunkered down.

  Instead of embracing adventure, I conjured up all the objections: the renovation and refurnishing of my house; the exciting plans for starting a new independent life. Give it a couple of months, I thought. Let Luis do the legwork. Wait and see what he comes back with. I clasped his hand and pulled him to me in a hug. It was out of character and theatrical but I wanted him to know how grateful I was that he had accepted me so readily. I would see Luis again. I would be able to recreate this sense of belonging, to him, to his city and to its music. ‘Yes, Luis. You should go. Go to Malaysia for both of us.’

  9

  My family then: a father who died in the war alongside my great uncle; my mother now deceased; an aunt on my father’s side who, like her father, had died in Lisbon; and a cousin, my cousin Luis. There’s no doubt about it, the Kellie-Smith’s weren’t great breeders. My grandfather, the man whose grave Luis had taken me to see, was top of the league. He had sired a son, my father, and a daughter, Helen, Luis’s mother. But you couldn’t call it unrestrained reproduction by the standards of his time.r />
  Both Luis and I were only children. This wasn’t surprising given his mother’s age when he was born. Perhaps she and Jose had been trying for years by the time he came along. My mother devoted her best years to me. Where was the time or opportunity to think about marriage and more children?

  Luis and I were both in middle age and single. Had we inherited a weak ‘breeding’ gene? After Mum fell ill, I accepted that my job was to look after her. Perhaps my readiness to adopt this role meant I wasn’t as highly-sexed as men around me. In the last thirteen years, one thing I didn’t need was the complication of a ‘relationship’.

  As for Luis, everybody knows that policemen make poor romantic partners; it’s the nature of the job. He could also have been scarred by his father’s mistreatment of his mother. Either way, he had his reasons for being single.

  When I was back in London, I briefly thought about leaving the UK and going to live in Lisbon. If I sold Mum’s house there would have been enough money for an apartment there and to cover my expenses until I was able to find work. However, the Chief Clerk of the London branch of Scotia Mutual Life, although it doesn’t sound like a big job, carried a certain responsibility, was paid well and promised a good pension. If, as had been planned, the company demutualised at the end of the year, I was in the right place, as both employee and bondholder, for substantial windfall payments. It made sense to stay put, at least for the time being.

  The house in Aquinas Street suited me very well. Its location south of the river may not have been ‘posh’ but it had never been subjected to the low-rent, multi-tenanted influx that had blighted other parts of London. Younger professionals were moving in and energising the neighbourhood and the leisure developments on the South Bank promised a new vibrancy.