Dragons in Shallow Waters

by Kane, Clare

  In Nicholas’ room, every surface was already buried under volumes saved from the Hanlin, brought here by servants and sympathetic scholars. I placed a stack of books upon the desk beside a scattering of papers written in Nicholas’ sharp, authoritative hand. Popular religion has long held sway among peasants in the Chinese countryside, forming an important part of rural life despite official movements to install faith in organized religion. The Boxer movement has much in common with previous popular uprisings. The promise of religion imbues social unrest.

  “You are still studying the Boxers?” I asked.

  “It is a strange feeling,” he conceded. “When the subject you are studying begins to study you.”

  “You might say you were like a zoologist studying a tiger,” I agreed. “Never thinking those fangs would be turned against you.”

  Nicholas laughed and we stood together in amenable quiet, looking at the most valuable library in all of China scattered around our feet. I thought of mentioning Nina, but his bewildered expression silenced me.

  “If a book holds a house of gold,” he said. “One might say I live in a palace.”

  The evening was one of subdued acceptance. Pony meat, optimistically referred to as “French beef”, featured for the first time on the Fairchild dinner menu. Yet even Lillian ate her share without complaint; her work with the food committee affording her both perspective and lashings of Monopole champagne, which served to wash down the tough meat. I had also reconciled myself to circumstances; I must endeavor to speak with Nina, I knew, but until such an opportunity presented itself I ought not to take any unusual action that might imperil her further. And so, in the hopes that such an opportune moment might materialize that evening, I had returned to the house after finishing a dispatch about the Hanlin. I could imagine my editor’s reaction to the telegraph when received - how could the Hanlin be a hallowed seat of learning if he had never heard of it? - and still I recorded the tale of destruction, determined as my little world grew smaller and ever more endangered to document its unshielded existence.

  Talk at the table switched from the Hanlin to the latest attack upon Prince Su’s palace, which had been relentlessly assaulted that day, though by some miracle it still stood. The unending violence, the nightmare of living under siege, had rapidly become so quotidian that Oscar Fairchild’s guests spoke of atrocity as though discussing the weather. Types of weapon (“Cannon or gun?”) and death tolls (“I suppose ten is not so many”) filled those same spaces in conversation once occupied by shopping lists and forthcoming social occasions. The stench of decaying corpses was no longer confined to the streets, but entirely permeated the house. Death had met life, and the living bowed to its power. After dinner the remaining champagne was carried through to the drawing room where glasses were raised grimly, stoically to the day’s events. Nicholas spoke of his newly-acquired library, said he would contact universities abroad, promised to find institutions that could guarantee an afterlife for these volumes, a home where they would be frequently eased from shelves, their words devoured by new generations of scholars.

  My eye drawn unwaveringly to La Contessa, I determined to watch Oscar and Nina instead. Fairchild seemed circumspect, quiet, cowed somewhat by the attack on the Hanlin, but he continued to perform his official role, head nodding, lips smiling, hands dancing to the cadences of his voice. Nina spoke eloquently of her previous visits to the Hanlin, voiced disapproval of the Boxers’ thoughtless ruination of China’s precious canon, listened attentively when Pietro Mancini spoke of the Paris commune and the razing of the library at the Louvre. She possessed her habitual unorthodox charm; only the slight grey pallor to her skin signaled hardship. I felt her behavior a betrayal; how could she appear so unchanged? The only difference in her actions that evening was her decision to retire to bed early when usually she stayed reading alone in the drawing room. Tomorrow, I thought as she crossed the room, spine pulling straight as she passed Oscar. I would speak with her tomorrow.

  The twenty-fifth of June was a strange and memorable date. The morning began with the execution of two Boxers held prisoner in the Legation Quarter. I watched unfeeling as their breathless bodies were tossed over the wall into the Chinese city. The day was pockmarked with the usual fighting and panic and disputes between diplomats concerning which positions to reinforce and which to abandon. Yet as day slipped into night, we were shocked out of our resigned pessimism by the unexpected blare of silence. The air had been so long pierced with bullets, the rat-a-tat of firing had become so commonplace, that the nature of silence had been almost entirely forgotten. I was drinking at the bar of the Grand when Edward noted the quiet.

  “Something’s happening,” he said. Hilde, now inseparable from her gun, followed us out to the streets. There I discovered a young Chinese boy, loitering bow-legged in the street, and I asked him what the silence indicated.

  “The soldiers are leaving,” he said and pointed to the imperial army positions beyond the Tartar Wall, which were, just as the boy said, currently being abandoned by those who had held them. The uneasy silence was followed swiftly by a vigorous blast of Chinese trumpets. A crowd gathered around the North Bridge from where the sounds emanated, a stone’s throw from the smoldering Hanlin Academy, and I spied Nina and Lillian amongst the group. I wondered if La Contessa was there; she had not returned to the hotel the previous night and I had slept fitfully, desirous of her physical presence, yes, but wishing also that I might speak to her of Nina and Nicholas, poor, crestfallen Nicholas and his collection of salvaged books.

  Presently a group of imperial soldiers stepped up to the bridge, their silhouettes glimmering in the sunset. They held up a large white sign splashed with a series of bold Chinese characters. Its message was unclear; most of the foreigners could not read a word of the language. I called out to Nina, who was rapidly supplied with binoculars which she pressed against her eyes as she read the message.

  “It is an imperial edict,” she said, her voice resonant and unafraid in the crowd. Behind her Oscar Fairchild had appeared, his head cocked to one side as he listened to her. “In accordance with court orders the imperial forces are to stop firing immediately.” Nina lowered the binoculars and looked around her. The crowd remained quiet, but bristled with restrained celebration.

  “I don’t quite understand,” I ventured. “They are to stop attacking us?”

  “With immediate effect,” Nina said, her voice level. “They shall send another message later.”

  “We must respond,” Oscar said, taking up position at Nina’s side. “Miss Ward, perhaps you could help us to formulate a response.”

  “Naturally.”

  The crowd watched with begrudging admiration as Nina’s hand produced a line of dancing characters upon a piece of a paper.

  “I have simply said that we have received their message and understood it well,” she said, lifting her pen from the page.

  “That will do for now,” Oscar assented. “Until we know what to make of all of this.”

  The message was placed into the somewhat unwilling hand of a Chinese man who was dispatched to cross the bridge and deliver the message. Unsure, he made his way on trembling legs over to the imperial troops; their teasing calls eventually unnerved him so much it was all he could do to drop the message and steal back to safety on our side of the bridge, where he was returned with subdued applause.

  The foreigners immediately broke up into smaller groups, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Hilde placed a firm hand on my shoulder.

  “Let us look across enemy lines,” she said, eyes glittering at the prospect of freedom. Edward and I followed her to the very edges of the Legation Quarter, where we looked across the barricades to the fresh unfamiliarity of the old city. Imperial troops milled before us, their colors brilliant, their weapons held loosely by their sides.

  “I don’t quite believe this,” I said to the couple.

 
“No, and you shouldn’t,” Edward said. “Look, those soldiers appear to be strengthening their positions there. This war is far from over.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was, though?” Hilde said, taking her husband’s hand. “We might sleep the whole night, for once.”

  “Do you suppose the troops are close?” Edward said. “Perhaps Seymour and his men are within sight of the city. That would indeed be sobering for the Chinese, might give them pause.”

  “We can only hope,” I said.

  We turned back with optimism burgeoning but tempered, prisoners not wholly unwilling to return to their gaoler.

  I stopped by the Fairchild residence later, where I found the guests buoyed with animated chatter as they sat down to a late dinner. The Monopole champagne secured by Lillian had once again been produced for consumption, though this time there was something more to celebrate than paltry portions of pony meat.

  “I have no doubt,” Lillian said. “The troops are almost here, I feel it! Finally we shall go home.”

  La Contessa was also in high spirits, her eyes sparkling and round, her gaze defiant as she met mine over the table. Nina, I noticed, was gripped by a more tempered restlessness, her sentiments I imagined to be as were mine: positive, certainly, but restrained somewhat by the suspicions suggested by logical thought.

  “Mr Fairchild,” I said. “What are we to make of this?”

  Oscar cleared his throat and took a generous sip of champagne.

  “We know no more than you do,” he said. “My instinct tells me Seymour and his troops must be nearing. They are at least close enough to frighten the imperial government somewhat. Still, we have soldiers reinforcing our defenses tonight and they will continue to guard the Legation Quarter. One cannot be too careful.”

  “I agree,” Nicholas said. “As the Chinese say, once you ride on the tiger’s back it is impossible to alight.”

  “Enough!” Lillian said. “I am so tired of being careful, of being worried, of thinking I might never see another American sunrise. Let us enjoy this one night, please. A night free from gunshots, a night we can sleep peacefully.”

  “You are quite right,” I said to Lillian, feeling suddenly indulgent, heartened by the close presence of La Contessa. I thought only of when I might next catch a quiet moment with her, if I might seal the promise of that hopeful night with a kiss. I raised my glass. “To a good night’s sleep, if nothing else.”

  We drank a little too much champagne, eager as we were for change, we longed to try on our former selves for a time. The after-dinner talk in the drawing room was spirited, we spoke over one another, left our sentences trailing, unfinished and hopeful. Oscar Fairchild stood with his back to the fireplace and with a slender glass of frothing champagne in his hand held court over his guests.

  “We shan’t take any irrational action,” Oscar said. “The soldiers shall remain vigilant tonight and we will see what morning brings.”

  “The only sensible course of action,” Pietro agreed. “The imperial government, they cross us this way, that way. It is impossible to know what they shall do next.”

  “Miss Ward,” Oscar addressed Nina directly. “What do you think might occur now?”

  This surprised me, and I watched for Nina’s response.

  “I have been fortunate enough to experience little conflict in my life,” Nina said. She raised her head, her eyes meeting Oscar’s with a quiet audacity. “Nevertheless, I have learned something of the Chinese attitude to war from the books I have read. While I may not be a diplomat or a general, I recall something Sun Tzu said in the Art Of War. ‘Appear weak when you are strong and strong when you are weak.’”

  “So you mean to say this is a pretense? That the conflict is not over?” Phoebe asked.

  “Mrs Franklin, I have no idea. One action cannot reveal a person’s true intention, just as the sea cannot be measured in a bucket.”

  “Well, this is all rather philosophical for me,” Pietro said brusquely. “Though I deduce from her words that Miss Ward agrees with us that prudence is utmost in a situation such as this.”

  “It is just as Matthew said of sheep in the midst of wolves: be wise as serpents and innocent as doves,” Phoebe said. She excused herself then and I hoped that Pietro Mancini might also retire for the night, but he remained by his wife’s side. While Pietro addressed Oscar, I tried to catch La Contessa’s eye, aware that while Chiara steadfastly ignored my efforts, Nina had perceived my attempts to call Chiara to attention. The frown that passed over her face was sharp, sudden, knowing. Our misdemeanors are recognized most clearly by fellow sinners.

  Dispirited, I took my leave and walked back to the Grand through the uneasy quiet that enveloped the streets of the Legation Quarter. Blockades protected the foreign population from the city that encircled us, and those makeshift walls, erected to seal in our civilization, threw shadows across my path. Unnerved by the silence I turned constantly to look behind me until I reached the entrance to the hotel where I settled into a shallow sleep on that strange night of hushed tensions, of quieted threats, of stilled possibilities, until I was dragged unceremoniously from rest when the firing started once more. The entire Legation Quarter woke then with bitter hearts, with the exception of the Russian soldiers, whose liquid celebrations of peace had yet to cease. I pulled back the curtains to find to find the sky a hazy orange, the city’s old hellish backdrop restored. Reality blazed undeniably over us, and no secret might escape its intractable glare.

  VIII

  I am not a man of regret. Remorse, contrition, condemnation of the self, those are the pastimes of men who have relinquished life, who find the endeavor of existence so laced with danger that they have renounced it entirely, and instead torture themselves with the missteps of their own histories. I have travelled endlessly, I have worked constantly, I have progressed tirelessly by simply continuing to wake each morning and put one foot in front of the other. Nicholas could indubitably express this idea with more careful grace, calling upon the sages of the past, referencing Confucius’ admonition to till the land one basket of earth at a time, or recalling Lao Tzu’s simple observation that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but permit me, please, the indulgence to explain my philosophy in far plainer language: one must keep going. And yet the twenty-fifth of June, that strange day of silence and noise, of celebration and dread, robs me even now of sleep. Its moments unfurl themselves before me and demand justification. I am not a man of regret, but oh, if I might return to that day, if I might pull Nina to a quiet corner of the charred remains of the defeated Hanlin, if I might invite her to step out with me to the verandah of Fairchild’s home, if I might slip her a secret note, or tell her with the crease of my brow or the grip of my fingers upon her wrist: stop now. If I had sent Nicholas alone to build his own library of rescued volumes, if I had set aside my glass of Monopole champagne, if I had quelled for just one evening my desire of La Contessa’s charms both physical and spiritual, well, then I would not have lived the next day in its muted horrors.

  I did not sleep again once the firing began, and in the first blush of dawn eventually decided to go downstairs. Hilde, bustling and efficient behind the bar, served me warm, bitter coffee. I watched the refugee families wake slowly and with dread; they had slept peacefully through the firing, so inured was their sleep to exterior disturbances, and the news of renewed fighting leadened their movements and dulled their early morning talk.

  “Help me with these to the Su palace?” Hilde dragged three sacks of grain and rice across the floor. “I found them in the cellar.”

  “You are generous to a fault, Mrs Samuels,” I said, rising from my seat.

  I lifted two of the sacks, Hilde cradled one with impressive ease. The palace was not far, and even then my breath was ragged when we arrived. The prince’s former residence was thick with life, raucous and rank already in those early
hours, and the terrible conditions immediately dimmed any impressions of hardship we might have harbored at the Grand Hotel. The once luxuriously ample space swarmed from wall to wall with human bodies, sickly and thin, with bones that rippled under coarse skin. Hilde and I left the supplies in an austere store room, and I wandered Su’s palace then from end to end, marveling at the general good spirits of its inhabitants while recoiling from the stench of the place, the cloying musk of illness and degradation. In the central courtyard I confronted the brilliant blue of the sky and thought it a day for poets: an artist’s mind might see some caustic beauty in the promise of the warm, hopeful sky above us in contrast to those thick, unforgiving walls that bound and girded us; the walls of the mansion, the stern perimeter of the Legation Quarter, the Great Wall to the north of the city, and those endless confines that circled and hemmed, encroached and besieged us in Peking. But I am not a poet, and so that great open canopy seemed only a cruel joke, a celestial taunt to the wretched prisoners of the palace.

  Wearily I turned towards the building’s grand entranceway, desirous suddenly of the relative liberty of the Legation Quarter streets, and started at the sight of a ghostly figure walking towards me, an image so incoherent with my surroundings that I wondered for a moment if it were an apparition, if the heat and redolence of the place had finally defeated my rational mind. Silently she walked through the throngs of refugees in an immaculate summer dress of starched lilac, chin aloft and eyes unseeing. Her skin glowed translucently pale beside the earthy tones of the escapees’ hardened, weather-beaten complexions. They parted as she passed, stepped aside almost imperceptibly to allow the phantom visitor to continue on her path, and she did not regard them, did not acknowledge this consideration.