Deep Night

by Caroline Petit

  The man’s arm was around the shoulders of a good-looking blonde woman in a silk blouse and grey trousers. He had a full head of dark hair, thick moustache and a large mouth. His hand toyed with the buttons of the woman’s blouse. The woman flicked his hand away. He flashed alarmingly white teeth in a disarming seducer’s smile as he said, “Ben, so glad to see a friendly face.Welcome to the dog and pony show.”

  “Leah Kolbe, please meet Ernest Hemingway and Martha Gellhorn,” said Eldersen proudly.

  “Enjoy the honeymoon?” he then asked Martha.

  Martha made a face. “Camping out on Chinese battlefields makes marriage a breeze.”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” beamed Hemingway.

  He sat up and patted the bed. Eldersen and Leah sat.Hemingway reached for a large bottle. “A present from the front,” he said. “Very handy on the battlefield. Cures everything.” He shook the bottle to show that the two curled dun-colour snakes inside were dead. “Don’t worry,” said Hemingway, “It wasn’t the rice wine that killed them.”

  “It tastes foul,” said Martha.

  “You have to drink from the bottle but don’t tilt it too much. You’ll swallow a snake,” said Hemingway and eyed Leah, daring her to drink.

  He had a flat, loud voice. Everyone in the room was watching him perform.Leah sniffed the wine. It had a dead smell. She tilted the bottle—the snakes remained coiled at the bottom— and took a good slug, her eyes on Hemingway’s, answering his taunt. Martha was bemused. Leah forced herself to swallow the bitter wine and handed it back. “The snake drank the best part.”

  Hemingway guffawed. “Glad to see someone has life around here. You want to try, Ben?”

  “Pass.”

  “Quite right, Ben. Don’t let him bully you,” said Martha.

  “The troops swear by it,” Hemingway persisted.

  “Rice would help more,” said Eldersen.

  “Yeah,” said Martha. “They were starving. It’s hard to fight on an empty stomach.”

  “They hate the Japanese,” said Leah. “With good reason.”

  “Leah was in Manchuria. We met there in late ’37, early ’38,” Eldersen confided.

  Hemingway’s big face reflected lively interest. “How was it?” he asked, his writer’s instinct aroused.

  Leah said nothing. The room was stuffy. If she turned her head even slightly, she would meet the staring faces of strangers who had arranged themselves along the edge of the bed, not daring to sit next to the chosen few. Despite the noisy babble that ebbed and flowed, the spectators could hear every word. “Cold,” she replied. “It wasn’t a good place for a holiday.”

  At first, she thought Eldersen was going to contradict her, but he seemed wary of the crowd of hangers-on and changed the subject, asking, “What did you make of Chang-kai-shek?”

  “Hard to say if the man is telling the truth. Still the good thing about the Sino Jap War is that it keeps the Japs tied up while the United States builds up its arms,” Hemingway pronounced like a god, then sank back onto a pillow to watch the partygoers’ reactions.

  Many of the spectators nodded in agreement. Angry, Leah said, “It’s not a prelude for anything for the Chinese.They’re the ones dying, being raped, having their land confiscated. Did you even speak to any ordinary Chinese? Of course not.You don’t, as they say, speak the lingo.” She looked to Martha for support.

  “You tell him,honey.Mrs Chiang-kai-shek is a piece of work.”

  “You going to write that?” asked Eldersen.

  Martha sighed. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t help the Chinese cause, would it?”

  “You Brits ought to supply the Chinese better.They’re tough fighters. Or at least dogged if futile,” said Hemingway.

  Leah understood it was a kind of game. He was teasing her, making fun of her. She blurted out hotly, “No one here cares. It’s all about England and how to maintain Hong Kong’s neutrality.”

  Martha smiled in friendly agreement. “Ben, this is a young woman who cares passionately. Don’t let her get away. Sign her up to write an article.” Martha dropped her voice, “Something is going on here. There are too many Japanese in Hong Kong. God knows what they’re up to.They have spies everywhere.You can’t bend over backwards for thugs.”

  Leah nodded. There were hundreds of Japanese in Hong Kong, including Mr Ito. Mr Ito would like this party, but he’d probably be asked to leave. Two days ago, she’d received a picture postcard from him. It was a photograph of a wide boulevard containing a dozen baronial houses in the German concession of Hankow. There were no people on the street, just the empty wide street and the enormous houses. He wrote:

  Dear Miss Kolbe,

  I will be returning soon.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mr. T. Ito

  It was a strange card to receive.Troubled by his need to communicate with her, she had torn it up and thrown it away.

  Hemingway gave a slow clap. “Isn’t she good?”

  Martha made a face. Leah thought she looked put out by Hemingway’s patronising words, but what did she know about marriage. Did they have secrets from each other? Hemingway appeared pleased to have a beautiful young wife. But what did Martha get out of it? An important writer,Leah supposed. Life was a bargain.

  “You want to become a stringer for Hong Kong, Leah?” asked Eldersen, not quite joking.

  “What?” said Leah, caught off guard talking to people she had only read about. “No, I have a job.”

  “Good,” said Martha. “There are too many writers in the world, anyway.”

  Hemingway flashed his large teeth.“Martha is very ambitious.”

  “So are you, darling,” said Martha and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  A giggling girl in a polka-dotted dress pushed through the worshipping crowd and grinned with adoration at the Heming-ways. “I’m such an admirer,” she gushed. “I’ve read all your books.” She thrust a book at Hemingway. “Please sign my copy.”

  Hemingway frowned politely. “I haven’t got a pen.”

  A flood of people began searching their pockets, opening handbags and slyly sneaking out their own books.

  Eldersen nudged Leah, “We’re in the way.”

  They moved to stand by the closed bathroom door.There was the sound of a toilet flushing.A man in a suit came out shaking his hands. “No towels. Best damn hotel in Hong Kong and no towels. Or they’ve been stolen.” He stared at the excited crowd. “They ought to charge, like the zoo to look at the monkeys.”Then he strode away and helped himself to a generous whisky.

  “He doesn’t mind drinking the monkey’s whisky,” noted Eldersen.

  “You’re full of surprises,” said Leah. “What other famous people do you know?”

  Ben scanned the room.Wedged next to him was a fat man with a large bald head haranguing a female in an electric blue dress about self-promoting American authors, stabbing the air to underscore his point.The man spilled his drink down the front of Eldersen’s jacket. “Awfully sorry,” the fat man apologised and daubed at the whisky stains with his pocket-handkerchief.

  “It needs cold water,” said Leah and led Eldersen into the bathroom, taking the fat man’s handkerchief with her. As she turned on the tap, Eldersen kicked the door shut. He watched Leah’s long fingers pat the widening stain.

  “Forget it, Leah,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I smell like a brewery. Part of the reporter image.” He took hold of her wrist. “Stay. I have to ask you something. In private. It’s important.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door.

  “In use,” called Ben.

  “But that poor man—” said Leah.

  “We know a Mr Ito visited you.”

  “Who’s we?” she demanded. “He bought a vase. He’s a customer. I don’t know him.”

  The doorknob rattled. “Come on, old man. I can’t make it across this crowded room,” a voice called.

  “He’s left Hong Kong,” she added.

  “He’ll be back.”r />
  Leah nodded slowly, her attention focused on Eldersen’s face, stern and insistent. “What do you want?” she asked. His nicotine-stained fingers tightened around her wrist. Her wrist looked small in his grasp. She didn’t struggle.

  “You want me to spy?” she said, amazed, feeling unsure and very young.

  “Ito is important. He knows a great deal about Japan’s arms C27 shipments, steel. The things that make war possible.”

  Gently, she unwound his fingers from around her wrist.“Can I think about it?”

  “There isn’t time. I need to brief you.”

  “It’s late. I’m tired.”

  “It’s war. You said so yourself. Or are you another armchair patriot,” he mocked, and reached for the door.

  “I meant what I said.”

  “Actions speak louder than words.”

  There were loud kicks at the door.“Steady on,” said Eldersen.

  “Come to the house tomorrow. It’s the best I can do. I just want one night to think about it. That’s not too much to ask.”

  “You’re going to say yes.”

  “Do you know me so well?” she teased and dropped a small swift kiss on his tobacco scented mouth.

  Before he could respond, she whipped open the door and a desperate man, his hands already fighting with the buttons of his fly, rushed past them, declaring: “You could have picked a more romantic place.”

  “Prig,” said Leah. Eldersen hooted.

  The Hemingways had left. The noise level was unbearable. Someone had switched on a radio. A few couples were dancing in a tiny space, bumping into people, while a few leftover men stumbled around humming and swaying and the rest were getting seriously drunk. A man appeared in the doorway and asked for quiet.Leah recognised the hotel manager,Mr. McIntyre. Those at the front shouted for silence; a dancer snapped off the radio in mid tune.

  “I’m sorry, to interrupt.There is a practice black out tonight. We can offer transport for those who require it. Alternatively, you may wish to be our guest for the night, only some may have to share rooms.”

  There were scattered drunken catcalls, followed by indignant cries. The partygoers trickled out as McIntyre thanked each guest and apologised repeatedly, saying, “It’s the war.”

  Out on the street, Leah invited Eldersen home. “You can stay the night. Jonathan can lend you pyjamas.We can talk in the morning.”

  Her invitation disarmed him. It was so matter-of-fact, no lying about why Jonathan was at her house, in her bed. It made him feel old. How ridiculous he would look padding about in Jonathan’s pyjamas. They were bound to be too tight. He was nearly forty and, despite his inadequate diet on the plains of Shaokwan, had a definite paunch. In the morning, he’d look worse because he wouldn’t have slept. He’d stay awake listening for the sounds of Leah and Jonathan having sex. Pathetic, but he knew he would lean against the wall eager to hear, or even more degrading, might attempt to loiter barefoot outside their closed bedroom door. Disgusting. In the morning, there would be the added indignity of Jonathan treating him like a disreputable uncle one has to humour, or at least lock the liquor cabinet against. “No, I’d best go back to my hotel. I’ll get you a taxi and see you in the morning,” he managed in a voice he hoped sounded normal and not collapsing under the weight of his futile desire.

  Leah let Eldersen talk on as they waited in the queue for a taxi, lost in a wave of conflicting emotions. She was under no illusions about what it meant to be a spy. She would be trading in secrets. Who knew where that might lead? Jonathan would never understand. She would have to build tight, new walls around her love.

  They moved to the head of the taxi queue and Eldersen opened the door. Leah blew him a kiss through the window.

  He caught it in his hand and watched the cab meld into the light traffic. He touched his cheek and started to walk towards his modest hotel in Shah Tin. At least the usual whores wouldn’t be hanging about. He might have been tempted tonight.

  3

  SHEEPISHLY, JONATHAN RAISED his head from the legal brief he was pretending to be absorbed in as Leah entered the bedroom. He felt guilty, caught out waiting up for her. “I was worried. The blackout. Thought you might not be able to get home.”

  “I’ve had fun,” she volunteered, “I went to a party. I met the Hemingways.Amazing. I liked them. Ben Eldersen is in town. He invited me.” He was looking at her so hard. Had he guessed something was amiss? What was he looking for? Signs of drunkenness or the kisses of other men?

  Jonathan laid the papers aside. “You could have called. I might have been able to come.”

  “Could you, darling? But I had no idea the Hemingways were going to be there. Ben surprised me. It was a lovely surprise.”

  She decided to let him play out his petulance. Part of the problem was Eldersen. He didn’t like him or didn’t trust him; or, perhaps it was an English schoolboy kind of snobbery. It was difficult to know.Whenever he saw Eldersen’s by-line, he made fun of it: It’s your friend again, getting mixed up in something he knows nothing about. Leah would defend Ben and then the conversation would screech to a halt.

  “Had a good time?”

  “Mmm.” She let her clothes fall in a heap on the floor, and got into bed. Nestling into the crook of his arm, she told him about the snake wine, how people had ringed the bed in awe. “It was like an audience with the Pope.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Hemingway bought the wine off a street stall at the night market. It must be hard to think of new gimmicks to impress the locals.”

  “He wasn’t interested in me. He’s got a new wife.”

  “Fool,” muttered Jonathan as they began to make love in earnest.

  Leah woke in the inky darkness and listened to Jonathan’s regular breathing. She ran a finger along his back and licked it. He tasted salty, slightly fruity. She resisted the urge to poke him in the ribs, wake him, and reveal what Eldersen had asked.What good would it do? He would be adamantly opposed and livid with anger at Eldersen. He couldn’t advise her. It was her life. Theo taught her to think for herself. If Theo wanted something, he went after it. Life is dangerous, he’d said. In the end we all die. As soon as Ben asked, she knew she’d do it. No one was safe anymore. The fan purred; Jonathan tugged at the sheet. Jonathan must never know. She tucked herself in against his warm back. Mr. Ito was the enemy. She’d get him.

  LEAH waited for Eldersen in the garden. It was her favourite place, lush green shrubs, and bright flowers framed by the moon gates.Tranquil and peaceful.All Theo’s doing. He had planned it meticulously, fussing over the views, where the pond should go.How he would loathe the deep trench that now ran through the lawn, a precaution against the rumours of war, somewhere to cower when the bombs fell. A ladder rested against its entrance. It made the garden seem makeshift, as if a fleet of workers were waiting at the gates with their wheelbarrows, rakes and shovels to demolish it and start over.

  Eldersen‘s eyes went straight to the gash when he arrived.

  “I hate it too.We were forced to do it. The servants might not make it to the shelters in time . . . I had to make provision.”

  “Sign of the times,” said Eldersen, trying to read her face, how she stood, to see if she would agree.

  She held up a blue notebook. “I’m ready.”

  Eldersen blinked at the swiftness of her decision. “You mustn’t write anything down. That’s a rule.”

  Leah took a seat at the bamboo table with its striped umbrella and gave Eldersen the notebook. He sat with it on his knees, riffling the blank pages with his thumb, feeling as though the end of the world had come. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “You’ve changed your tune.”

  “No, I just don’t want to think I bullied or tricked you into it.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “What about Jonathan?”

  “What about him?”

  “Nothing. It was a stupid question.”He bit his lip and turned away to pull out a pad of yellow lined pape
r from his battered briefcase.

  The top piece of paper was covered in doodles and a scattering of words. Leah couldn’t read them upside down. She remembered the first time she’d met Eldersen in the dining car of the train going to that terrible place now called Manchukuo by the triumphant Japanese. He had a notebook then, a tiny red thing, full of scribbles, held together by rubber bands and C33 stuffed full of God knew what. He referred to it jokingly as his little black book, pretending it held the secrets of all the women he had abandoned in exotic places. They both knew that was a lie. He was a lonely man, never quite at ease. He had a pensive look now, his thick eyebrows forming a caterpillar line across his forehead. On his chin was a shaving nick. As he spoke he rubbed the cut continuously, but it didn’t bleed.

  “It’s settled,” she said.

  Gravely, he nodded, pushing down a lump of regret.

  With a tray of tea and sandwiches, Huang fu trotted across the grass neatly side stepping the ladder.

  Not missing a beat, as though it was exactly what they had been discussing, Eldersen said, “You’re right. A fine day. Hong Kong is best in early winter. Cool and sunny.”

  Huang fu, his face smooth and polite, set the tray down. In Cantonese, Leah thanked and dismissed him.

  Eldersen waited for Huang fu to cross the lawn and shut the French doors noiselessly. He resumed their previous conversation asking, “When is Jonathan coming?”

  “He won’t be home for hours.He’s training with the Volunteers.”

  “Well, then,” he said in an authoritative voice. He peered down at his doodles. “Let me tell you about Mr. Tokai Ito.”

  Leah appreciated Eldersen’s clinical detachment. It was like examining Ito in a Petri dish: inert, pinned down, giving up his secrets.Unusual for his time,Tokai’s parents had made a love match; they were part of the small,but growing upper middle class.Japan was shedding its feudal past.They married while his mother was still at university. His father,Hiroyuki, was an engineer, a man of increasing substance owing to the country’s rapid industrialisation. Then tragedy struck: Ito’s mother died giving birth to him. Hiroyuki retreated from the world. His emotional reaction shamed his father.