The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  ‘Henry!’ From far, far away he heard Helen Frances’s voice calling him. ‘Stop it. That’s enough.’ He felt soft arms pulling at his shoulders. Wildly, he turned his head, and saw Helen Frances and Fan Yimei, their imploring faces. He groaned, and threw the gun aside. Wearily, he allowed the women to pull him to his feet. He staggered forward, and fell into the armchair, panting, spent. Helen Frances was kneeling beside him, pressing her head to his breast. Tears were running down her cheeks. ‘It’s over,’ she kept repeating. ‘It’s over, Henry, it’s over.’ After a while, he nodded.

  He looked to where Lin was groaning on the floor. Lao Zhao stood over him covering him with the Luger. ‘Fan Yimei,’ he whispered, ‘pick up that map. Give it to him. Tell him to get out of here, and never come back.’

  He leaned his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes. Helen Frances kissed his face, his lips.

  ‘You can’t just let him go, Ma Na Si,’ Lao Zhao was protesting. ‘Let me take him out to the well. No, a simple drowning’s too good for him. Let me beat him up a bit more first and then drown him,’ he pleaded.

  ‘No, Lao Zhao.’ Henry smiled. ‘Just give him the map. It’s over now. Finished.’

  Grumbling, Lao Zhao pulled the recumbent man to his feet. Lin swayed unsteadily, clutching his broken jaw. In his other hand he held the map. Lao Zhao kicked him towards the door. He stumbled forward, his rags flapping.

  Fan Yimei was standing by the sofa, her eyes downcast. As he passed her, Lin paused. He was incapable even of a crooked grin now, but he could spit, which he did, in her face. His lips spattered blood. ‘Whore,’ he snarled.

  Lao Zhao raised the gun. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ he shouted. ‘Be gone, you bag of toad piss!’

  Lin hovered for a final moment by the door. His eyes surveyed the room and rested on Manners. He lifted the map. ‘China thanks you,’ he said, with some difficulty through his broken teeth. ‘That whore,’ he added, pointing to Fan Yimei, ‘I give her to you.’ They saw his other hand move quickly into the folds of his shirt. He appeared to pull something out and throw it. And with that he disappeared through the door.

  It all happened so quickly that at first they did not understand why Fan Yimei was staggering. She seemed to be peering curiously at an object that protruded from her chest. With a low moan, she sank to her knees.

  ‘Ta made!’ shouted Lao Zhao. ‘He’s knifed her.’ He ran out of the door in pursuit.

  Henry and Helen Frances were by her side, supporting her. She was coughing, delicately, although blood was dribbling down her chin. She looked in some bewilderment at the two concerned faces beside her. Gently they laid her on the floor. Henry put a pillow under her head. ‘Helen Frances, can you do anything?’ Henry muttered. ‘When you were with the doctor, did you…?’

  Silently, Helen Frances shook her head.

  Fan Yimei lifted her hand to touch Henry’s cheek, but it was too much of an effort. It fell, and she began painfully to cough. After a moment her sad eyes focused again. ‘Ma Na Si,’ she whispered, and smiled when she said the name. She frowned. She was making a great effort. ‘Ma Na Si, will you promise…?’

  ‘Yes,’ choked Henry. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Ma Na Si, will you promise … promise me … that you will forgive Lin Fubo? You will not … you will not … seek revenge?’ The last word came out as a sigh.

  ‘What’s she saying? What’s she saying?’ Helen Frances asked urgently.

  ‘She’s asked me to promise not to take revenge on Major Lin,’ said Henry, dully.

  Fan Yimei could no longer speak, but her eyes begged him.

  ‘Promise her, Henry.’ Helen Frances’s wide eyes bored fiercely into his. Her voice was shrill. ‘For God’s sake, if you love me. For everything I mean to you. Promise her, Henry.’

  Henry looked at her wildly. He turned frantically to Fan Yimei, whose mouth was moving, although she could not speak. He grabbed her hands. Tears ran down his face. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  Fan Yimei smiled. The taut muscles in her cheeks relaxed. Her eyes lingered on Henry’s face, moving slowly over his features, as if she was storing a last impression to keep with her for eternity. The soft brown irises examined his forehead, his nose, his lips, and moved upwards to take in his eyes again, and there they stopped moving, and remained fixed, slowly losing focus, glazing.

  Lao Zhao came in quietly. He took in what had happened, the two kneeling figures with bowed heads by Fan Yimei’s body. ‘I lost him,’ he muttered. ‘I lost him in the sidestreets.’ He threw the Luger onto the floor.

  ‘Henry,’ wailed Helen Frances, ‘I can’t take any more. I can’t, you know. I want to go home.’

  * * *

  It was a hurried farewell. The Airtons arrived late at the platform, and then there was all the business of getting their luggage on board. The engine was steaming and the guard’s whistle was blowing.

  The doctor and Henry shook hands. Airton still found it difficult to look Henry in the face. He stumbled over his words. ‘Mr Manners, I don’t know how to … I’ve not yet…’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Doctor,’ said Henry. ‘We’re parting as friends—and don’t worry, you haven’t seen the last of me. I’ll come one day and drink some of your whisky and you can tell me all about Scotland the Brave.’

  Nellie embraced him, unable to hold back her tears. ‘You will visit us in Shishan?’ she asked him urgently.

  ‘You’ve really decided to come back, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, we’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Someone had better try to undo all of that damage. I’ll be expecting you,’ she said, as she climbed into the carriage.

  He gave his last presents to the children. ‘Chinese kites,’ he said. ‘I want you to think of me when you’re flying these from the top of Edinburgh Castle.’

  ‘Coo, it’s a dragon,’ squealed George.

  ‘And mine’s an eagle. Thank you, Mr Manners.’ Jenny was growing up now and conscious that she had to be polite.

  He kissed Catherine, and watched as the amah carried her into the train—and found that he was left alone on the platform with Helen Frances. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her softly.

  ‘I thought nothing could hurt me again,’ she answered. ‘I was wrong. Why, Henry? Why? She was so good. So fine.’

  ‘Pritchett says he’ll alert the military police. They won’t find him, though.’

  ‘You’ll remember your promise,’ she said.

  ‘I will,’ he said.

  ‘You must, you know. You owe her that.’

  ‘I owe her a lot more than that,’ he said.

  ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘Us parting like this—and all we can think about is another woman.’

  ‘Will you write to me?’ he asked. ‘You can always get a letter forwarded to me via my club.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘to hear about Catherine. And you, of course. How you get on.’

  ‘There won’t be much to write about me. I intend to do nothing for a very long time.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

  ‘And you, Henry? What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll find something. Always have. I’ll keep myself amused, somehow.’

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she whispered.

  The guard blew his whistle again.

  ‘Goodbye, Helen Frances,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’m going now. I don’t like staying to the very end.’

  Abruptly he turned away. She watched him limp down the platform, his back erect. The engine driver pressed the lever to blow steam out of the cylinder cocks, and Henry became insubstantial, finally disappearing altogether in a cloud of smoke.

  Twenty-three

  Green shoots burst from a rich, wet soil. My wife scolds, but one day I will tell my son of his father’s brave deeds.

  10 April 1902

  As the train arrived, Arthur Topps stuck his head out of the window and excitedly to
ok in the first impressions of his new posting. The large sign above the wooden platform read ‘Shishan’ in three languages: Russian, English and Chinese. The neat white fences, the flowerbeds, the smiling faces of the porters reminded him of a rural station in his own native Lancashire. He saw a large bird alight among the daffodils. Could it be a cuckoo shrike? He would have liked to look then and there in the beautifully illustrated book on birds he had bought in Liulichang on a shopping excursion with the Dawsons, but it was out of reach at the bottom of his bag.

  Arthur had only a small trunk with him: the rest of his luggage had been sent on ahead. The black-bearded Russian stationmaster arranged for some porters to put it onto a trolley, and asked about his journey in broken English as they walked side by side along the platform. ‘Train early,’ he said, showing Arthur his fob watch. ‘Wait with me in office. Have samovar,’ he offered. ‘Have nice tea cup. Mr Brown come soon.’

  ‘Mr Brown?’ asked Arthur, a little perplexed. ‘I’m expecting to be met by a Mr Lu, our partner,’ he said.

  ‘Come. Have samovar,’ boomed the stationmaster cheerily, patting him on the back.

  At that moment two figures could be seen hurrying down the platform towards them: a young Englishman with wavy blond hair and an almost invisible moustache was calling, ‘I say, are you Topps? I’m Brown. Sorry we’re late.’ Behind him Arthur saw a serious-looking Chinese, neatly dressed in a merchant’s grey gown with a black silk waistcoat.

  He bowed gravely as he came up to Arthur. ‘Tuopasi Xiansheng,’ he said, formally. ‘Jiu yang. Jiu yang. You are warmly welcome to Shishan. I am Lu Jincai. I have had the honour of working with your esteemed company for many years.’

  ‘Mr Lu? Of course,’ said Arthur, trying to remember the proper response. ‘It’s—it’s I who should be saying jiu yang, Mr Lu. What you’ve done for Babbit and Brenner these last two years is much appreciated, even among the directors in London. You’re—well, famous,’ he added, a little flustered.

  The man who had called himself Brown laughed. ‘Come on, Mr Topps, there’ll be time for all this later. Let’s get you and your kit into the cart—no fancy traps here, I’m afraid. We’ll talk on the way to town. I should introduce myself. I work with Dr Airton at the medical mission.’

  Soon the pony-cart with them all aboard was climbing the hill. Arthur took in the breathtaking view—the little station and beyond it the rolling plains, the wide river and the train that was now steaming across an impressive railway bridge. The railtrack gleamed in the sunshine as it disappeared off north, towards a horizon of blue sky.

  ‘Ah, you’re admiring the Russians’ great pride and joy, the Nicholas Bridge,’ said Brown, lighting his pipe. ‘Actually, they only finished it, they didn’t build it. It was begun by the British, well, a German actually. He, poor fellow, was one of the victims of the Boxer madness. Before my time.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about that,’ said Arthur. ‘We lost two of our chaps in the massacre. In fact, I’m coming out to replace them, now that Mr Lu’s got our business up and running again.’ He smiled at the Chinese gentleman, who was driving the cart.

  ‘You’re referring to Delamere and Cabot, aren’t you?’ asked Brown. ‘Airton won’t talk much about those times. In fact, everyone here just wants to forget all about it. Even Nellie—that’s Mrs Airton. You’ll meet her—even Nellie’s a bit closed-mouth about those days. Didn’t Cabot’s wife have a child in Mongolia or somewhere?’

  ‘She did,’ said Arthur. ‘I met her in England before I came out. Oh, I quite forgot,’ he said, turning to Mr Lu, who had been gazing ahead as the two young Englishmen spoke in their own language. Arthur switched to Chinese. ‘I bear you the greetings of Mrs Cabot,’ he said. ‘She asked particularly that I pass on to you her warmest regards.’

  Lu smiled. ‘The fox lady,’ he said. ‘I remember her very well. Her father was a great man and a good friend of mine. De Falang was extremely proud of his beautiful daughter and so happy when she came to Shishan. I have often wondered what became of her.’

  ‘Well, she’s still very beautiful,’ said Arthur. ‘Lovely, actually, and her little girl’s adorable. She was about to get married again when I met her.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ smiled Lu. ‘To Ma Na Si Xiansheng perhaps?’

  Arthur looked puzzled.

  ‘No, Mr Lu, to a Mr Belvedere, actually. He works for an insurance firm in the City. But just before I left I heard that the whole thing was off—there was a bit of a scandal apparently—and she was packing up to go on holiday to Japan or somewhere.’

  Lu Jincai nodded silently. He smiled, and whisked the reins as they passed over a pothole.

  ‘Ah, then perhaps she has gone to find Ma Na Si, after all,’ he said, with a touch of smugness in his tone.

  ‘If you say so, Mr Lu,’ said Topps, now very bewildered indeed.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Brown confidentially. ‘He’s talking about a chap called Manners. Friend of the Airtons. He came here once, about three months ago, on a hunting trip. Stayed a couple of days. Odd, supercilious sort of character. Didn’t like him, to tell the truth. He was also here before and during the Boxer madness. There were—how does one put it?—rumours that he and Mrs Cabot … It’s all nonsense, of course, but the Chinese believe there was something going on between them. You’ll find that these people, lovable though they are, are the most dreadful gossipmongers. Always getting the wrong end of the stick. I wouldn’t think very much of it, if I were you. Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, raise this topic with the Airtons. They get very upset. My goodness, they do.’

  ‘No, no, I certainly won’t,’ said Arthur, looking a little alarmed.

  They drove on for a while in silence. The willows on either side of the road rustled in clouds of fresh green leaves.

  ‘How long have you been in Shishan, Mr Brown?’ he asked.

  ‘Dr Brown, actually. I’m a medical missionary and a minister, but just call me Brown. I’m sure we’ll be friends. I’ve been here just under a year. Arrived in June of 1901, a couple of months before the Airtons returned from home leave. The society thought they could do with a bit of help in rebuilding the mission. A pair of younger hands, you know. They’d had quite a terrible ordeal one way and another.’

  ‘Was there—was there much to rebuild?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘I’ll say. Place was a shambles. For a start the mission and the hospital had been burned to the ground. Pretty tense, too, with all the Russian soldiery about. There were executions, and the poor Chinese, most of whom had nothing to do with any Boxers, were scared for their lives. What do you expect with brute Cossacks allowed to run amok? Everyone was a Boxer in their eyes, and most of the time all they wanted to do was plunder. It was all rather shameful. One of those occasions when we white men did not set a good example.’ He switched to Chinese. ‘Mr Lu, we’re talking about the period after the Boxers, when I first arrived in Shishan. Didn’t the Russians give you some trouble too?’

  ‘They were not happy times,’ said Lu. ‘It is better not to think about those days.’

  ‘Cossacks went into Lu’s home,’ said Brown, in English again. ‘He doesn’t like to talk about what they did. They executed—well, murdered, actually—one of his best friends, another merchant called Jin. The man was entirely innocent. Oh, yes, you’ll hear plenty of stories of that kind round here.’

  ‘But what the Boxers did here was unforgivable,’ said Arthur. ‘Surely some justice was in order after the massacre?’

  ‘Of course you’re right,’ said Brown. ‘But who do you punish? Apparently they got some ringleaders. A few days after I arrived, they executed one notorious brute in the public square, some bandit with the rather quaint name of Iron Man Wang, whom they’d just captured after a big battle in the hills. They hung his body on the city gates in a cage where it rotted for months. Apparently he really had had something to do with all the atrocities. Even the Chinese say so—but the others? Well, who was a Boxer? Nobody will ever admit
to being party to all of that, you know. Most of them, anyway, were just peasant boys. They emerged out of the fields, and now they’ve disappeared back into them. These days, it’s fashionable to be a Christian, of course.’ He laughed.

  ‘Really?’ said Arthur in surprise.

  ‘No, I’m exaggerating,’ smiled Brown. ‘But it has been heart-warming to see the steady increase in conversions in recent months. Tell you the truth, I’m kept rather busy, though I’m helped by some very good Chinese lay pastors who I’ve trained. You must come to our next service—we have a proper church now on the site where the Airtons’ old house used to be. The Catholics are here in force, of course. They’re becoming a bit of a threat, to tell the truth, with quite a following. They’ve taken over an orphanage that used to be run by some Americans who were killed in the massacre. Dr Airton goes there quite often to help out on the medical side.’

  ‘I heard a little about Dr Airton when I was in Peking,’ said Arthur carefully.

  ‘You probably heard a whole lot of rot,’ laughed Brown. ‘Oh, yes, I know the stories—but it’s all malicious tripe. I’ve got to know him over the last year, and I can tell you there’s nobody more courageous or downright decent on this earth. He’s something of a saint, in his way. It’s all one to him what denomination anyone is. He doesn’t get too much involved in the missionary side of the work at all any more. As a matter of fact, he leaves that to me. He concentrates on what he’s good at, which is healing people—but I’ll tell you, more people have come to my door to ask about Jesus after being healed by him, or just having met him and been impressed by him, than any I could convert on my own account. He’s exceptionally modest, selfless, unsparing of his time, doesn’t live for anything except his healing work, and some of the cures he’s made, why, if I didn’t have the scientific basis to understand what he’s doing, well, actually, I might think they were miraculous.’