Ito held up a pot, declaring, “Late K’ang-his reign.”
“No. It’s earlier. A true example of the Golden Age.”
They argued. She was amazed at his encyclopaedic knowledge, a brilliant amateur.
“It’s the metallurgist in me,” he explained. “The invention of monochrome porcelains intrigues me. So subtle, each so different. So evocative, the glaze names—peach blossom, tea dust, clair de lune. It must be difficult to part with them.”
Shrugging, she said, “They will be safe at the Freer. I mean . . .” Her words trailed off.
“The times we live in,” he said as his eyes settled on an exquisite celadon vase.
Leah saw the lust to own it flicker across his face.
“I must have it,” he declared. “Name your price.”
Leah apologised and explained it was the star of her collection. The Freer had asked for it especially. “I’m sure I could, given time, locate a similar one.”
His greed overcame him. “But I want this one. I’ll pay in Swiss francs.”
There was something obscene in his wanting it so much. In his hands, its graceful neck and slender body, glazed apple green looked both tempting and sullied. Already, she liked it less.
“It’s the lines that appeal so much. Simple, but speaking of centuries of craftsmanship.Others might not see what I see in it. I would appreciate it more than curators with their dry desires or with the idle curiosity of museum goers. It belongs with me.”
Under pressure from Ito’s desire and his ready cash, Leah’s resolve melted. The vase might never reach the States. Jonathan had patiently explained that her insurance would be worthless if the ship were bombed and sunk. It would be an act of force majeure, an act of war. Insurance companies didn’t pay out for acts of war. She wasn’t surprised. A figure jumped into her head. It was astronomical. She lowered the price by ten per cent. She didn’t want him to think she was a complete bandit. Though why she should care what he thought, she couldn’t say. Though he was very un-Japanese.
“Eighteen hundred Swiss francs. Cash. I don’t know how I’ll explain this to the museum.”
He winced, but didn’t haggle. Hurriedly, before he could change his mind,Leah wrapped the vase. She watched him pull out his billfold and count out the money. It made a thick pile on top of the tea chest.
When he finished, he said breezily, “Don’t bank the money.”
“Why? Is it counterfeit?”
He laughed, his brown eyes dancing with good humour. Then he was serious and cold, all business. “Of course not. But these days, cash in a good currency is always useful. The Hong Kong dollar fluctuates so.”
He meant that the Hong Kong dollar went into steep dives when rumours of war heated up.What did the charming Mr Ito know?
“It’s just good financial sense,” he said lamely, as he saw her withdraw to hold the packaged vase as a barrier between them. “I look forward to doing more business with you on my return. I won’t be away for long.”
He made it sound like a promise. Leah was surprised that she was glad. She handed him the vase.
His face glowed with acquisitive pleasure. “Thank you.The world would be a better place if there were more trust.”
Leah was taken aback. It was such an odd thing to say. “I feel I’ve betrayed the Freer.”
“No,” he declared. “You have simply found a safer place for an object of beauty.”He dazzled her with a smile. “I’m sure the Gallery will understand.”
He had a female understanding of the effect of his handsome face when he showed his delight. She had never seen a man wield this kind of power before. It had its desired result but she met his gaze.
Ito bowed goodbye as Leah extended her hand.Awkwardly, he shook it. His hand was dry and his grip strong. Then he bowed again, as if wanting to make a point about customs and goodbyes. He placed his Panama hat firmly on his head.
Leah watched him walk down Hollywood Road with the vase tucked snugly under one cradling arm, his other hand in his trouser pocket. He had a rolling gait, slim-hipped, jaunty. A boulevard stroll. She doubted he had been raised in Japan. She was relieved to see he didn’t bother to look into the windows of the other antique and curio shops that crowded the street. He had what he’d come for
AT the customs office the next morning, Jonathan and Leah rechecked the paperwork for the Freer Gallery.
“You have to sign here,” said Jonathan, “and attest to a witness, that’s me, that the list of objects is accurate.”
Leah scanned the paper. Her hand hovered over the listed apple green celadon vase. No, she wouldn’t cross it off. Things got stolen in transit all the time. Probably, the director would C13 write to apologise and offer payment. And, of course, she would have to accept the cheque with reluctance. It was the honourable thing to do. She imagined Theo’s broad smile on his large face. He would have been so pleased that his training was being put to such good use. Everyone cheats; cheat first had been his precept.
“It’s all in order,” she declared, teasingly holding up her right hand as if she were in court.
2
THE FOREIGN AUXILIARY of the Chinese Red Cross was housed in a squat nondescript building on the outskirts of Chinatown, not far from Narrows Road.To Leah, the headquarters looked furtive, as if the Europeans inside were ashamed of their support for the Chinese army dying to save China. Socially prominent colonists volunteered for the International Red Cross near Central, staffed by paid workers. On principle, the International Red Cross refused to give desperately needed medical supplies and aid to the Chinese army, proclaiming its aim was to help only Chinese civilians. Leah sighed as she entered the Auxiliary. She was becoming a boor about the Sino Japanese War.
At parties, or dancing at the fashionable Gripps Room atop the Hong Kong Hotel, she complained bitterly about the colonial community’s lack of support for the Chinese. Men, who she knew would willingly sleep with her, crossed to the other side of the room to avoid her harangue. And Hope declared in her high-pitched, fluting voice she used to score points: “Leah, stop nagging. No one is interested.”
Unrepentant, Leah retorted, “Hope, it’s the Chinese army that is keeping Hong Kong safe.”
Hope sniffed and turned to Charles for support. “Isn’t she a scream? Everyone knows the Chinese make terrible soldiers.”
Then Jonathan, for the sake of peace and because his firm was representing Charles, diplomatically ordered more drinks and asked Leah for a dance.
On the dance floor he whispered, “Darling, they’re impossible. Don’t argue with her and that fool Charles. They’re not worth it.” He pulled her against him, his arm tight around her back, their legs deliciously intertwined.“The Government should be giving money directly to the Chinese army. The Japs are at our back door. Hope is an idiot.You’re doing a wonderful job.”
But Leah knew her motives weren’t pure. After her first refusal to evacuate to Australia, she had to find a war-related reason to stay. Joining the Auxiliary was the solution. Sometimes, she resented having to spend two days a week in its rundown rooms, sitting in battered uncomfortable chairs, sweating as the squeaky fans failed miserably to push the air around.Then there were the boxes, boxes of prized medical supplies that made the place seem more like a chaotic post office than a workplace, and her antique business was suffering from her absence. But it was the maverick women—women, who scorned the usual female pursuits of bridge and gin and cared about what might happen—that made the place bearable. She liked many of them and admired tall, angular Delia for her ruthlessness. Delia would stop at nothing to aid the Chinese army.When Delia discovered she could speak and write Cantonese, she was pressed into composing endless begging letters to wealthy Chinese.
If they failed, Delia invited the would-be donor to dinner. The Chinese businessman accepted because Delia’s husband, Carrington, was high up in the Colonial government. It was an honour to be invited. It was also gruelling. Delia was merciless, stopping at nothing to
obtain a donation. Cornered, the man would agree to donate hundreds of Hong Kong dollars to the cause as Carrington nodded, implicity promising future government favours, and Leah flirted and praised. Later, after the cheque had been cashed, Leah wrote to thank the benefactor for his generosity and discreetly tucked in her business card: Miss Leah Kolbe, Proprietor, Asian Objects D’Arts for the Discerning.The benefactor would either go himself or send an assistant to her shop and acquire a treasure he didn’t necessarily want. It was how business was done in the Colony. The donor understood this; Leah capitalised on it; and Delia let it pass because the coffers of the Auxiliary were increasing exponentially.
Today, Delia’s hawk face was wreathed in smiles as she greeted Leah and propelled her toward the back room. “See, the sulfa medicines have arrived. They need to be labelled in Chinese. And our generous Mr.Wo is coming this afternoon to have his picture taken with them for the South China Post. I want you to emphasise to Mr.Wo how many lives will be saved.”
“Delia, not me, please. I don’t think Mr.Wo has forgiven me for ruining his suit.”
The Wo dinner party had been awful.Wo was so wealthy that he didn’t bother with normal courtesies and growled commands that everyone obeyed. He worked day and night, his money talked. He kept a string of concubines who were always fighting amongst themselves. During dinner, under the table,Wo had stroked her knee.Torn between her desire to wheedle as much money as she could from the old tyrant and the urge to slap his wandering hands, she’d knocked over a glass of wine. It stained Wo’s elegant suit.Wily Mr.Wo realised it wasn’t C17 quite an accident. Nonetheless, to save face, he pledged five thousand Hong Kong dollars. Leah wrote to thank him for his generous donation, apologised effusively for spilling the wine, and included her business card.Wo sent his son to Leah’s shop.The younger Mr.Wo bought a trinket, an elm tree pen stand containing inferior brushes. The son knew this token purchase was beneath his father and kept his head down. Leah was not looking forward to seeing the senior Mr.Wo again.
Delia laughed. “He deserved it. He’s a scheming old dog. But I do want your face in the picture. A pretty face always helps.”
Leah ignored the dig.At school, her teachers hid her beauty in the back row of the tall plain girls or cast doubt on her looks. Some focused on her high cheekbones and grey eyes, demanding to know if she were British. She lied and said yes. Why should she have to explain about her long dead White Russian mother or American Theo? Others, smug in their bluestocking ugliness, sneered: Pretty is as pretty does.
Now, she said, “I’ll be wide-eyed and beautiful.”
“Wonderful,” Delia declared as a note of regret crept in. “Use your power. I was always the plain girl, the prefect. I would have given it all up to be the pretty one.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Leah. “You like power.”
“Do I? Who knows?” She gave Leah a sharp-eyed stare.
Delia had ugly hands, large, with big knuckles, and ungainly, bunioned toes, peeping out from her sandals.Leah pictured Delia in her petticoat staring into a closet full of unbecoming print dresses that bagged over her bony chest and did nothing for her sallow skin and asked too quickly, “Do I have time for the labelling of supplies?”
“Gathering public support is important,” Delia admonished. “An English reporter is coming.He’s going to interview you about our Chinese war effort. Hands across the border, that sort of thing.”
“Shall I put the bite on him?”
Delia grinned, her large teeth visible. “Appeal to the snobs,” she said savagely and handed Leah a pen with a thick nib. “The India ink is in the cupboard.”
THE late-afternoon heat made Leah drowsy. She had to concentrate to remember how to write ‘sterile’ in Chinese characters. She was blowing on the ink to prevent it smearing, when THE Benjamin Eldersen walked in, glowing with delight. He scooped her up and held her to his chest. She relaxed in his arms and kissed his cheek, muzzy with the familiar smell of stale cigarettes. She pulled away and examined him. It must be three years since she had seen him. His fingernails were now permanently stained nicotine yellow and his hair was thinner, hanging lank around his ears. He needed a good haircut. The lines on his face were deeper.There were purple pouches under his eyes and his slouch was more pronounced. Apart from that, he was about the same: rumpled suit, badly ironed shirt, cheap tie, hatless.
“You arranged this, didn’t you? You’re the wire services reporter.”
“Wanted it to be a surprise. Take you unawares.”
“You could have written.”
For a moment, his face dropped and he looked guilty. “Wasn’t sure of the assignment . . .” He shrugged as if he could dismiss the half-written desperate letters he had begun in too many Asian cities. “Lately, I’ve been covering the 7th Army on the plains of Shaokwan. Bad postal service,” he joked.
“You should have written. I see your by-lines and think of you. It’s no way to treat an old friend.”
Delia strode in with Mr.Wo and a very young, overawed photographer, who barely had the nerve to raise his camera as he backed into a distant corner.Without prompting, Mr.Wo draped his arm over Leah’s shoulders, gave a hard smile, and ordered the photographer to proceed. In the flash of the bulb, Mr.Wo’s hand sneaked toward Leah’s breast, then the pressure was gone and Delia rearranged them in another pose.
Finally, the photographer ran out of bulbs and Delia ran out of suggestions. Delia said in a rush, “The board of the Red Cross is expecting us. The car is ready.”
Mr.Wo held out his arm to escort Leah to the car.
Delia shook her head, “Sadly,Miss Kolbe won’t be joining us. She has kindly agreed to be interviewed for our British fundraising campaign.”
Wo snarled his displeasure to Leah in Cantonese and said in English, “Another time?”
Leah smiled as if this might be possible.
Delia laid her hand on Mr.Wo’s arm and Wo was forced to escort her out.
“You shouldn’t do that,” cautioned Eldersen, “you’ll end up as his fourth favourite concubine.”
“Don’t you mean his first?”
“Without a doubt,” he said, his eyes full of admiration.
“Don’t look at me like that.” She could feel herself blushing.
“At least the old reprobate has taste.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“Sorry. How’s Jonathan?”
“You’re well informed.”
“Hong Kong is a small place.”
“Small-minded. Shouldn’t we get on with the interview?” She sat down and patted the chair next to her.
“Let’s forget the interview.”
“The Auxiliary needs the money.”
“Conscientious. Gotten new clients for your shop?”
“The Chinese deserve our support and you have become even more cynical.”
“Guilty,” he said and fumbled around in his jacket for matches and a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and spoke in a funny radio broadcast voice: “The pretty”—he stopped, reconsidered— “make that the ravishingly beautiful Miss Leah Kolbe is a staunch supporter of the Chinese army war effort. She well understands that China’s fight is our fight and to fight well, troops must be equipped . . . That what you want?”
Leah clapped. “But truly, Ben, you don’t need to include the beauty part . . . it makes me sound like an empty-headed debutante. I believe in China.”
“You once told me beauty was very important.”
“I was talking about art.”
“You’ve grown into your beauty.”
“Have I?”
“Don’t fish. I want you to meet some good friends of my mine. They’re at a party.”
Why spend the evening here? She had almost finished labelling the boxes. Jonathan was working late and she didn’t fancy dinner alone on the Peak. She liked Eldersen. He was the perfect companion: clever, witty and full of accurate news about the war. So what if he looked like an old shoe, old shoes were
very comfortable. “I’d love to.”
ELDERSEN led the way, searching for room 315 down the thick-carpeted hall of the Peninsula Hotel.Through a half-opened door, they heard female laughter and a jumble of male voices. A woman could be heard above the din, “Hong Kong is the safest place to be.The Japs don’t want war with England.” A man hooted in reply, “They don’t want to fight Europeans.Wouldn’t stand a chance.” There was a peal of drunken laughter.
“The natives are restless,” said Eldersen, putting a firm hand around Leah’s waist to steer her through the room. He attempted to cut a path to the double bed where a couple lounged. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Leah couldn’t place him. Midway, a uniformed waiter with a loaded drinks trolley and demanding drinkers blocked their way. Bottles clanked ominously as the insistent crowd called for whisky with soda, straight whisky, gin and bitters, sloe gin.
“There is a queue,”declared an irritated major in full army dress pushed beyond his endurance by people stepping on his toes and thrusting out their hands insisting on being served before him.
A young woman in a bright green dress elbowed past to grab a bottle of gin. She poured half a glass then added a splash of tonic. “Help yourself,” she said, slurring her words.
The waiter blanched and stood still as eager hands snatched full bottles and began pouring drinks for friends. The military man handed the distraught waiter ten Hong Kong dollars and said, “I’ll sign for it. Leave the trolley.” The waiter bowed deeply and left as the crowd cheered.
Eldersen parted people with a polite “Pardon me” and thrust Leah towards the couple on the bed. Leah stared at the man.
Eldersen whispered, “They’ve just come back from the Chinese front.”
Deep Night Page 2