The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov

by Carl Douglass

  The three children nodded.

  “I want you to be provided for well if the time comes that I can no longer provide; and I pray that day will never come. Or if hard times come, and you need a cushion to protect you from financial downturns. You are too young to remember the great recession—the “smellbourne” days–but it is possible that such a time may repeat itself. You can never tell about these things. So…what I am going to do is to set aside a large sum of money in a trust with people I trust. When you turn twenty-one you become the sole owner of your one-third of the money. You can do with it what you want, but I advise you to seek the counsel of the people to whom I have entrusted the money about using your share wisely.”

  Each of the children pondered her declaration for a few moments, then precocious Kyle asked—with the guilelessness of youth—“how much money, Mother?”

  Alexandra was not sure whether or not to give them that information. She had given the matter considerable thought.

  Finally, she said with complete candor, “250 million dollars each.”

  Kyle made her laugh when he asked, “Aussie or American dollars?”

  “Aussie. And don’t be greedy. I have an envelope for each of you containing instructions about who to see and when to make the effort to arrange transfer of the funds. You may be surprised when you read the information; but let me assure you that I consider these people my family; and I trust them with my wealth and my life. You should, too.”

  After the conversation, they went to the Victoria Hotel on Little Collins Street. By prior arrangement with the restaurant, the chef prepared meat pie made with rare roasted kangaroo spiced with fennel and sweet grass, a dish which was becoming less and less popular in the country but was delicious served in the traditional fashion by the traditional chef and accompanied by baby beets. They finished up with good English Grey tea and Chocolate Indulgence.

  “I’m choc a bloc,” said Kyle.

  “We’re all full, Son,” said Alexandra. “Remember this meal and this day.”

  Alexandra kissed them all goodbye and told them to be good and to be the best students possible. She told them she hoped to see them soon, something she had to manage her facial expression as she said it. Then she was away to Sydney.

  Alexandra had a single-minded purpose in Sydney; and as soon as she got off the train, she hired a Hansom Cab to take her to a five-story, typically Chinese, office building on the corner of George and Hay Streets, with which she was thoroughly familiar. It had the feeling of home and family to her. The familial feeling was more than a fleeting sense, of course. She climbed to the fifth floor. She knocked on the familiar door bearing the small brass plaque reading, “Wáng & Dau”. As Alexandra had hoped and expected, the door was opened by Wáng Caihong. Caihong’s face broke into a delighted smile.

  “How happy it is to see you, my Dear Sister,” she said.

  Alexandra responded, “How wonderful it is to see you once again, dear ‘rainbow in the sky’,” and the two women embraced as long separated sisters.

  “I presume this is not just a social call, Dear Sister,” Caihong said, getting to the point quickly as she always did.

  “No. I am very happy to see you as a sister and friend and the mandarin as a father; but I do have serious business to discuss with you and your father, if that would please you.”

  “He has had a boring day. You realize that he is most aged now and cannot get out. He decries his loss of independence and usefulness. It will do him good to be of service.”

  Mandarin Wáng Wen Sheng and head of the Wáng Family Tong had heard Alexandra’s voice and was enthusiastic to see her.

  Alexandra bowed low, and Wáng gave a small nod. He had aged significantly since she had last seen him; she reckoned that he was over a hundred by now. They chatted briefly about old times, about her ventures with the family in the shipping business, and about the encounters with pirates. Alexandra could see that he was getting tired; so, she edged the conversation to why she had come to Sydney.

  “Blessed Father, I have not forgotten that I am a member of the Wáng Family Tong. As I recall, you are still managing some investments for me.”

  “Yes, Dear Daughter. Have you come for a reckoning? Caihong, fetch my abacus if you would.”

  “No Father, I come as a daughter with an important request.”

  “Anything for one of my family.”

  “As you know—because you have spies everywhere, she chuckled—I have become quite wealthy. I have a problem to solve in another place, and I want to set aside funds for my three children, Irina, Kyle, and Margaret. I ask of you to arrange for my funds to be placed in a secure institution with the opportunity for my money to make money. I ask that the children be able to receive the money when they become of age twenty-one. Most importantly, Dear Father, I ask that you exert your influence to see that they are protected both financially and physically. You are well aware that we live in difficult times.”

  “It will be done as you wish. I am on the board of both the Bank of New South Wales, and of a yinhang [a silver institution] as we call banks–the Commercial Bank of China. Due to weaknesses of traditional Chinese law regarding money, our Chinese financial institutions have focused almost entirely on commercial banking based on close familial and personal relationships, and their working capital is primarily based on the float from short-term money transfers rather than long-term demand deposits. In my middle age, I saw the need for more modern English type banking; so, I worked my way onto the governing body of the government bank. Because of that, I can conduct business in secret as I do in the Sydney bank, and I can also arrange for you–as a member of my family and of the Wáng Family Tong—to be able to have a secret account with a long-term demand account. Would that suit you, my dear?”

  “Perfectly; and, as always, I am in your debt. Although we are family, I wish to do things the correct Chinese way. I wish to structure the arrangements in such a way that the Wáng Family Tong can receive ten percent of the profits of the account as payment for its management and to do so in perpetuity. Would you find that acceptable, Mandarin?”

  “You are a good daughter, Alexandra, and have a good business head. When things are done for no profit, they are usually not worth the cost, as the old proverb goes. Since I am getting on in years, and my eyesight is so poor, would it please you to have our Caihong handle all the complexities of the arrangement?”

  “Perfectly, Dear Father. I trust her with my wealth and with my life, and she can trust me to the same great degree. We must not over tire you, now. Caihong and I will get the work done. I thank you and wish you a thousand years.”

  In less than an hour, the documents were completed. Caihong was experienced, skilled, and industrious. Alexandra’s requirements were precise and fairly simple: The account was to be a secret known only the the necessary tong members, Alexandra, and her children. Accounting was to be made biannually or on demand with information going to Alexandra and Caihong who would determine who else should receive the information. Each child, upon achieving his or her majority should receive $250 million AUS plus accrued profits. Advice from the financial master of the family tong should be offered to the young Bradshaws and an invitation to become part of the Wáng Family Tong if they wish, but none of that was mandatory from either side.

  Alexandra left Caihong with a power-of-attorney to withdraw $750 million AUS from her Sydney accounts over the course of the next two years—the delay was suggested by Caihong to prevent unwanted attention to a transfer of such large sums in a short time. She took another Hansom Cab back to the huge Central Railway Station, located at the southern end of the central business district. She was back at Number 1-8, Collins Street in Melbourne before midnight.

  Erskin Place, Melbourne, Victoria Province, Commonwealth of Australia, October 23 to November 11, 1912

  Kyle Bradshaw’s diversion from his wife led to his immersion in the plight of striking workers and the plight of the poor in Melbourne. His gro
wing animosity towards the big end of town, the swells, the unfeeling government officials was fueled by a visit to Erskin Place with the head of the Dock Workers Union, Henry Clapham. Kyle had been like most reasonably affluent and educated Australians; he had looked away or walked on the other side of the street when approached by ragged beggars. He never did business or had any other reason to visit places like Erskin Place, a notorious slum. He and Henry had become fairly good mates during the dock strikes that had just been settled with a pittance of a wage increase and fantasy improvement in work conditions, as always. The strikers had been essentially starved into submission and pummeled by the government.

  By all Kyle had read or imagined, Erskin Place was beyond his ken. Ideally, a city’s housing should provide safe, orderly, secure, comfortable shelter if not actual luxury so that families can live reasonably healthy, productive lives. In the big end of town where Kyle and his wife lived the buildings were made with modern housing stock. They provided decent heating and cooling, had few major structural problems, and a minimum of problems with damp and mold. By contrast, Kyle noted in Erskin Place, bad housing made it much more likely for family members to get sick and to stay sick. He became determined to do something to improve the lot of slum dwellers.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  MISSIONS’ END

  Although the angels rejoice over the testimony you bore as a missionary, continuing your post-mission journey toward your life’s mission can involve unexpected challenges.

  —Wendy Ulrich and Dave Ulrich, lds.org

  National Archives of Australia, Victorian Archives Centre, 99 Shiel Street, North Melbourne, Victoria State, Australia, December 26 (Boxing Day), 2015

  It was a great day in Melbourne and all the rest of Australia—boxing day—and for the LDS senior missionaries. It was happily comparable to Christmas Day in the states, and the overpowering desire to share gifts made the last two weeks a special joy. There were special parties and joyful get togethers among the people who had become fast friends during their eighteen-month missions. It was not lost on any of them that in three days there would be no one left in the national archives who knew or cared about the hobby-project of researching the life of a woman named Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Bradshaw. It was not even really clear if she ever actually used the name of Bradshaw. Alexandra was apparently a secretive woman. When she left her husband, children, and presumably, Australia, sometime in the early 1915 to 1920 period, it was as if she had walked into another dimension.

  Elder Bradley, the most recent missionary to arrive from the states and his wife were not able to complete their mission—not because of any fault or infirmity on their parts, but because the church—in its wisdom and through revelation—had decided to have only Australian citizens do the archival work. That would give them enhanced commitment to both the work and to the church. He put the conundrum of working on the pet project succinctly for all of them.

  He quoted Winston Churchill—taking a few liberties: “‘Alexandra is an enigma wrapped in a riddle,’ and I fear that she will be our mystery woman until we all reach the celestial kingdom.”

  The oldest and longest serving missionary of the group, a retired dentist named Elder Worthy, said, “Pride goeth before a fall; speak for yourself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  THE AUSTRALIAN RIFT OF THE EARLY 1900S

  “It sounds plausible enough tonight but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”

  —The Time Machine, H.G. Wells, 1895

  Erskin Place, Melbourne, Victoria State, Commonwealth of Australia, October 23 to November 11, 1912

  Kyle and Henry trudged through the forlorn streets of Erskin Place in North Melbourne taking care where they planted their shoes since the streets were muddy and served as the sewer system for the slum. Children and emaciated dogs played in the mud without a care. Smoke billowed from the chimneys of the nearby factories making Kyle’s throat raw and his eyes to sting. Trams and horse-drawn carts moved helter-skelter through the rutted roads and alleys. The housing stock was of strikingly poor quality. Most of the dwellings had small—on average under 50 square meters– living space with separate living quarters, wash house, and privy. Those living quarters had no real bathrooms or facilities for sewerage. Bathing involved hauling buckets of heavily polluted water, often up several flights of stairs for a washrag once-over.

  Bathing was a luxury that required too much time and effort to accomplish with any frequency. In fact, the popularity of June as the month for weddings came about because for many slum dwellers the yearly bath took place near the end of May; so bodily odor was still under some control by June. The same water had to be used for drinking and cooking. Survival required straining the water through cheese cloth followed by prolonged boiling of the water and a good memory. Babies were bathed in the grey water left over from clothes washing.

  Erskin Place—like other slums throughout Australia—provided only a squalid existence with all houses facing back-yards or railways. The ramshackle housing, with leaky roofs and holes in the walls was the norm and not the exception; and the streets were woefully over-crowded and posed real risks to people’s health just as did the poisoned air and the appallingly filthy streets. Many streets were no more than narrow winding lanes lined with tiny weatherboard and brick houses—many of which had long since converted to boarding houses–that dated as far back as the 1850s. Horses rushing down such lanes were a danger to oblivious children. Erskin Place–like other housing areas for the poor—was homogeneous and unchanging. The denizens of such places were locked into a never-ending cycle of poverty, producing too many children for the family’s income, and crime.

  Disease was rampant and serious. Treatable diseases, fractures, and head trauma more often than not went untreated because the poor had insufficient means to afford to see a doctor or to go to a hospital. They suffered lasting disabilities and premature death from problems that the rich could either avoid or could receive preventative and curative care.

  Hank said, “Do you realize that as recently as 1901, an epidemic of bubonic plague struck here and killed several dozen people, most of them children and the elderly. There was not a single case seen in any family outside this fetid slum.”

  “I never heard of that. I guess not much news gets out about these places,” Kyle commented. “I guess no one really cares.”

  Hank nodded. Kyle was being rapidly converted to the cause of the poor without Hank even half trying.

  “Kyle, I want to take you to the home of one of my men from the dock. It will be the final way to convince you that something needs to be done. The more people like you that come in here, the louder will be the voices being raised to the government. You are a builder, a developer. Did you know that inner city developers have no obligation to contribute anything to essential public infrastructure; so, no kind of community facilities like sewer plants or affordable housing ever becomes obligatory?”

  “I didn’t know that either, Mate. It’s a bloomin’ shame, and I guess that’s why bupkis gets done.”

  “We’re here,” Hank said. “This here’s my boy, Fred Shine’s place. It don’t look like much outside, but wait ‘til ya have a Captain Cook at the inside.”

  Hank knocked on the door of the shanty; and after what seemed to be an especially long wait, the door opened. A young man opened the door a crack, and, seeing who it was, let the two men in. Kyle had his first Captain Cook [look] at the inside of a shanty scarcely fit for keeping pigs.

  “Hank, good to see ya. Come in. Sorry there ain’t no place ta set and its kinda a dog’s breakfast in here—hard ta get good help these days.”

  “And a g’day to yous,” Hank said, taking note that there was another man and two grimy tackers present in the room.

  Fred was right, there was no furniture; literally no place ‘ta set’. Kyle and Hank stood and looked around. Kyle was glad he did not have to sit down; he was afraid he might catch something. The tiny hov
el was built with three walls of corrugated iron, and an open side facing the back alley which was covered by a tattered sheet of canvas. The roof was made of old thatch with worn-out clothes stuffed into the holes. Kyle could hear the scurrying of little feet running about in the dirty thatch. There was only one room, and it was tiny. A baby cart was hanging from a rafter because there was no space on the floor. The single source of heat was a fireplace which held a three-inch thick layer of old soot and ash and gave out no heat. Two little children played with mud balls on the dirty bare floor; the room served as kitchen, bedroom, living room, and store room. There was barely space enough to stand.

  An older man whom Hank seemed to know was leaning against one of the walls holding cards in his right hand and a bottle of cheap Rutherglen Muscat red wine in the left. Evidently Kyle and Hank had disturbed Fred and his friend from their fascinating game of Swedish Rummy.

  “How’s it hangin’, Mikey?” Hank asked the red-faced bruce bloke with a gin blossom nose.

  “None too bad, Hank. You foine?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Any news on when there’ll be work? asked Mikey with a slur in his speech.

  “Any time now, I’m told,” Hank said although he knew no more than Mikey did about it.

  “So, we’ll be keepin’ on the dole for a while longer. Down-market blokes the like of us never do git a fair suck off the sauce bottle. Ain’t right, but it ain’t never gonna change, neither.”

  “Ya got that right, Mikey.”

  Having finished the scintillating conversation with the two drunks and taking in the depressing scene long enough, Kyle and Hank left.

  “Known those bruces long, Hank?” Kyle asked.

  “Too long. They’re both bludgers and are second or third generation dole grabbers. The strike could notta come at a worse time for blokes like them. They never seem to rise. A man can sorta understand what the big end ‘o town means when they say that all of us down at this end are worthless as a billabong fulla spit. You saw ‘em today. I never seen either of ‘em when they weren’t legless as any other drunk layin’ around in one the ditches in any of the slums.”