The silence unnerved her. If the Fongs meant to kill her, surely they would have done it by now. She rubbed her throbbing temples. Hadn’t Theo drummed into her,Don’t anticipate, only deal with things as they are? She should be grateful. She was safe, lying on the deck, listening to the water break against the boat. At last, she allowed herself to be rocked to sleep.
In the grey dawn, Leah awoke to a distant shadowy Macau and her misgivings evaporated in the fresh salt air. She smiled at Fong. He smiled back, gesturing toward Macau. She sighed with relief. She had been a suspicious fool.
As they neared the harbour, Fong towed the skiff to the side of the junk. “I come too,” announced Mrs. Fong as she rounded up the smallest boy to bind him to the mast so he wouldn’t fall overboard. Then she tied a gourd to the older boy’s back so he would float if he fell into the water. Impassively, the daughter stood and watched.
“What about your daughter?” asked Leah.
Mrs. Fong shrugged. “Girl.”
Leah frowned. Reluctantly, Mrs. Fong knotted a gourd around the girl. Mrs. Fong cackled her annoyance. The loss of a son was a tragedy; a daughter, a blessing—no dowry to pay.
The woman was a devil and her husband, a scoundrel.Leah pictured the flat-faced Mr. Fong and his bulky wife wandering around Macau, bargaining hard with a pawnbroker to get the most cash for her jewels.
Mrs. Fong grasped Leah by the wrists and dangled her over the side; Fong’s strong hands caught her around the waist.Then, Mrs. Fong planted a wide foot on the rope and slid down into the skiff with a heavy plop. The boat wobbled, then steadied. Mr. Fong sat on Leah’s suitcase in the bottom and allowed his wife to pole them toward the harbour. From the rough wooden seat, Leah kept her eyes on Macau.
A hundred yards from shore, Fong stood up and flung the suitcase into Leah’s back.Leah pitched forward against the side of the boat, banging her knees hard. Stunned, she whipped around, but Fong was quicker and shoved her up to a standing position.Leah grasped the side of the boat, her feet planted wide apart, trying to steady herself. She shouted, Stop. Ignoring Leah’s pleas, Mrs. Fong smacked Leah on the head with the bamboo pole as Fong’s strong hands grabbed her by the ankles and heaved her into the sea.
The water was so cold. She flailed her arms and sunk under the murky brown water, twisting and turning. She couldn’t breathe.To die like this. No. She kicked furiously, desperate to right herself. She exploded out of the sea: coughing, wheezing and kicking, her throat on fire. She took in more seawater and spat it out. Somehow, she got her arms working and turned to glimpse the Fongs briskly poling back to the junk.
Mrs. Fong threw something high into the air. Her shoes. They arced, then plummeted. She hadn’t the strength to retrieve them. For a moment, she saw her shoes ride a wave and then they were gone. She turned, kicking out her legs and slicing the water with a determined, bloodthirsty stroke, and swam to Macau, cursing the Fongs all the way to shore.
She heaved herself onto the sea steps and stood dripping and shivering. She peeled off her sodden jacket and stared up at the broad avenue, gawking at the imposing houses with their wide verandas and fairy-tale colours—turquoise, lemon yellow and faded rose. From one of the houses, she saw a pair of hairy male hands open a pair of second storey shutters. A dark-haired man stuck his head out the window and inhaled deeply. He gazed at the harbour and the junks bobbing serenely on the water.He couldn’t see her standing below the sea wall like a drowned rat with rivulets of brown water pooling at her feet. He smiled at the rosy morning, promising a sunny day, and was gone.
She let out a yelp of loss. A woman on one of the bobbing junks looked at her curiously, but offered no help. A terrible burning itching sensation swept over her. She pulled at the buttons on her blouse to stare at her chest covered in small red blotches. Sea lice. Scratching made them burn. Her legs hurt too; irregular bruises were beginning to puff and darken on the backs of her legs. She moaned softly, afraid she might collapse on the stairs, another bit of flotsam and jetsam washed up on the shores of Macau. She forced herself to move, dragging her aching body up the steps to the street and stood barefoot and bereft, unable to decide where to go.
In a faded soutane, a thin priest with a large nose raced towards her, calling out consoling phrases in Portuguese. The priest opened his arms. She nestled in. In a singsong voice, the priest said “Eu vi-o. Terrível Eu vi-o. Terrível.” I saw it. Terrible. I saw it.Terrible. He patted her back, oblivious to how wet she was and how bad she smelled. Afterwards, smiling and gentle, he motioned her to follow.
Carefully,Leah picked her way, head down, afraid bits of loose stone or glass might cut her feet, avoiding the curious glances of strangers. At last, they came to the door of a large stone building with a sculptured Mary over the archway looking sad and C73 doleful.The priest knocked hard. A young Chinese girl in a clean white blouse and dark blue skirt answered. Her face registered shocked surprise as she stared at Leah, bruised and battered, reeking of the sea, and her blackened bare feet.The priest coaxed Leah inside. An old nun draped in heavy white linen, an enormous rosary with a crucifix looped around her waist, glided sedately like an ocean liner towards them. Leah tried to explain in Cantonese what had happened. The nun and the priest shook their heads, not understanding a word. The Chinese girl hesitantly translated Leah’s words into Portuguese.Finally, the Chinese girl said in Cantonese, “The Mother Superior says you can stay for now. But first, you must bathe. You smell.”
Leah murmured her heartfelt thanks. The priest beamed, blessed them all and left. The Mother Superior issued an order in Portuguese. The Chinese girl tugged at Leah and led her down a long hallway with pictures of saints, their eyes wide with religious fervour.
The girl opened a large cupboard to extract a clean towel and clothes. She led Leah to the entranceway of a large tessellated tiled bathroom.Leah turned on the taps and watched with satisfaction as hot water gushed out. In the bath, Leah used the nun’s harsh yellow soap and scrubbed hard at her skin as if through washing she could rid herself of the thieving Fongs and her murderous thoughts. Exhausted from scrubbing, she lay in the warm water and worried,What now. The water grew colder. She tried the taps. The water wouldn’t heat up. Perhaps the nuns only had a ration of hot water and she had lavishly used it all. Chilled, she eased her bruised body out of the tub. The sea lice rash on her breasts had disappeared, but the bruises on her legs were blossoming into large purple patches. Her heart sank as saw the clothes the girl had brought in. It was either a mended mission dress decorated in swirls of green or a faded outfit like the Chinese girl’s. There was also a set of sturdy underwear—thick cotton underpants and a sensible bra. They would chafe. She changed into the nun’s uniform. It was less depressing than the hand-me-down dress. The black lace-up oxfords with thick heels were too big and flapped like clown shoes, echoing down the stone hallway as the Chinese girl escorted her to the refectory.
The nuns stood in two quiet lines in front of long wooden benches. They looked normal, except for a certain shiny cleanliness that Leah associated with never having worn makeup, a life without mirrors, and purity. The Mother Superior sat at the head of the table next to an old woman in everyday dress, Señhora Ricardo, who welcomed her and said the priest had asked her to come because she spoke English.During the long prayer,Leah salivated over the real bread rolls, butter, and sugary coffee. For a while, no one said very much. Perhaps it wasn’t allowed.
With a look for permission at the Mother Superior, Señhora Ricardo began speaking. “Macau is only free because there is a large Japanese community in Brazil. Portugal threatened to freeze the bank accounts of these wealthy Japanese. Japanese officers are crawling over Macau.They swagger about like they own the place.We are still afraid they might blockade Macau or take us over. You can’t trust the bastards,” she said fiercely. Then she translated what she said. The nuns paled and blessed themselves.
Leah smiled at the word bastard. Señhora Ricardo looked like a nun without a habit: unlined f
ace, no makeup and short square nails on her stubby hands.
“I must work,” said Leah.
“European women don’t work in Macau, except for teachers. I am a lay teacher. They think we must live like nuns. You can’t exist on your salary. I live with my brother and his family. You must learn Portuguese first.”
“I need to work. I have nothing.”
Señhora Ricardo thought about this and spoke to the Mother Superior. Finally, she said, “We think you must go to the British consulate.They may be able to help.After all, you’re one of them.”
Yes, she was one of them, but would they claim her? She held a British passport, or rather, had it stolen. Did new rules apply now? Could one just turn up, declare oneself British, and expect a handout? She had no choice and asked for directions. She would make her way there tomorrow. She was too defeated to do it today. It would be an excuse to leave the cloistered walls and see more of Macau. She had been in Macau before, spending her time in a gambling den and a pay-by-the-hour room. After Cezar died, she had blanked his memory out. She believed firmly in Theo’s dictum: What’s done is done. That was how she would run her life now she decided, looking at the soft-skinned women, who believed in goodness and mercy.The time of happiness was past.
The nuns gave her Sister Eulalia’s old room. It was tiny and quiet. The Sister had been recently appointed to head a new mission in Angola. In the middle of the night,Leah awoke from a menacing dream. The actual events she couldn’t remember, but what terrified her was Jonathan. He wasn’t dead, but she couldn’t fill in his face, the contours of his body, the smell and touch of him. In despair, she turned on the light and stared at the crucifix on the wall: the gashes on the chest, the blood, the pain in the eyes. She got up, unhooked it from the wall and hid it, face down. Back in bed, with the lights out in the coffin stillness of the convent, she reconstructed Jonathan piece–by-piece. A lightning stab of lust overcame her and she touched herself until she came, and was calm. She fell asleep wondering if she were defiling Sister Eulalia’s bed with such human desires.
AFTER two wrong turns and asking directions for the third time, Leah found the icing pink British Consulate on Travessa do Paiva behind the old hospital. A thin, bald man with the white skin and freckles she associated with redheads sat behind a handsome wooden desk. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes were the palest watery blue. He had almost no eyelashes and white blond eyebrows. He must live like a mole, never daring to go out, because he would be horribly burnt by the sun, she thought. The man eyed her novitiate outfit. She asked to see the consul. The man asked if next week suited.
“Next week does not suit. I am Miss Leah Kolbe. I’ve escaped from Hong Kong, been robbed and nearly killed. I live on Victoria Peak. I need assistance now.”
The man stood up and stammered an apology. “Well, the truth is Mr. Albemarle is His Majesty’s sole representative now in the entire Pacific. He’s been working day and night, but I’m sure he will want to see you. I’ll just go inquire,” and he pointed to a reception room through an arched, open doorway. “Please wait there. It shouldn’t be long.”
Sitting on a chintz-covered chair,Leah flipped through three dog-eared copies of Country Life. The most recent issue was dated December 1940. On the wall was a portrait of King George VI. The picture hung in every colonial office in Hong Kong. Its presence was oddly reassuring; the king didn’t seem to mind losing Hong Kong to the Japanese. An hour passed before the bald man reappeared and solemnly conducted her to the consul’s cream-coloured office with gold-framed paintings of thatched cottages and English country scenes. It was another world here, she realised.
Stephen Albemarle rose to shake Leah’s hand. He was a middle-aged man, with silver grey hair. His eyes were red with tiredness. He apologised for keeping her waiting.The pale, thin man hung around the door
“Mr. Talbot is my right hand,” said Albemarle. “He’s been here for fifteen years. Knows everything.
“Can you send these telegrams, please?” he requested.
An angry flush crept up Talbot’s skinny neck as he realised he had been put in his place and dismissed. He left, fanning the papers in disgust.
“Now, Miss Kolbe, let’s talk about your situation.”
Leah’s heart sunk. Her situation? Her situation was terrible. At first all she could speak about was the battle for Hong Kong, how she had been cut off from news and hardly knew how it was going. He took copious notes. He was going to use what she said in his report. To Leah, his note taking was an excuse to not look at her stricken face. She stopped and couldn’t go on.
“I haven’t got anything,” she confessed. “The Hong Kong banks are closed. There were such terrible rumours about the Japanese.” She saw him studying the novitiate costume. She fumbled: “The nuns have been kind. I thought a letter of credit might help to establish my bona fides.”
The consul looked uncomfortable. “We haven’t planned that far ahead.”
“How am I to live?
He chose his words with care as he watched her face. “We are discussing a system of small allowances for people in your circumstances, without papers.” He shrugged. “Governments like things to be clear cut, all the boxes ticked. You understand. I could advance you a personal loan.”
“I don’t want charity and I couldn’t pay it back.” He was going to hide behind his rules. Here she was, penniless and needy and he wanted to advance her a bit of money, while he lived in his government provided residence with servants, food and the officious Mr. Talbot to do his errands. Arguing wouldn’t help. He was her only hope. He must be good for something.
She spoke with emotion, not caring what he thought. “I’m engaged to an Englishman, Jonathan Hawatyne. He’s a solicitor . . . That is, he was in the Volunteers.” She heard her voice crack; she was going to cry. Awful to show this stranger how vulnerable she was, how out of control, her emotions seesawing from anger to despair. “Do you have information about the Volunteers? It was terrible to leave, not knowing . . .” Her voice faltered. She pressed her hands together and blinked hard to keep from breaking down.
“Tea,” the consul announced as he responded to a discreet knock on the door and a polite servant bearing a tray of tea things entered.
“Thank you, Moy,” said the consul.
Moy left as silently as he had come.
Albemarle poured and handed her a fine bone china cup. “Milk, sugar?”
Unable to think how she could ever force herself out of this chair and wander back, empty-handed, to the convent, she stared.
The consul stirred his tea and said in a sad voice. “I have no information yet. Not even rumours. They have to abide by the Geneva Convention.”
”Do they? We were to be married on the 23rd of December.”
“It’s an awful time to be young,” said Albemarle, shedding his diplomatic shell.
Leah started to cry. He was kind. It was so unexpected after the rules, the statement of the risks, the note taking, the sipping of the tea.
Albemarle yearned to do something. He didn’t want her to walk out the door and then, later, see her on the street or hanging out in the casino seeking the protection of a man who would use her and, when he got tired, throw her away. It was a real possibility. There were no jobs fit for British girls. And Macau was as corrupt as could be. He knew it and he knew what Whitehall thought about Macau. A clever British journalist had written a diatribe against Macau in one of the quality broadsheets a few years ago. Some wag had sent it to him, with an unsigned note: Thought you’d like to know. He remembered it word for word: ‘Macau is an obscure fishing village, slowly rotting away under a crust of filth, stench and rice punctuated by the baroque splendour of half a dozen cathedrals, living off gambling and prostitution. There is a massive amount of money circulating around the gambling tables.’ He’d torn it up before his wife, Mildred, could see it. His posting was so hard on her. He wished he could have consulted with Mildred.That wasn’t possible. Mildred had returned to Engl
and with the children and now they were getting the hell bombed out of them. He was baffled by his sudden overwhelming need to discuss this young woman with his wife. Mildred did not have opinions. Or rather, she had opinions and they were all negative. ‘You’re the diplomat,’ she always said with a bland expression on her face. They both understood it was a dig at him for his backwater postings. Still, he missed her and the children. He felt miserable, telling this beautiful young girl she was to go and mix with the sordid low lifes of Macau.War corrupted everything.
“Can you type?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Macau is going to be squeezed by the Japanese and by refugees.They’re going to flood in and we are going to be inundated with work. At the moment the staff consists of Mr.Talbot and me.We won’t be able to cope. I can offer a small salary.”
“Yes,” she cried. “Thank you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he responded, getting up and walking to a window. He snapped up the blind with a bang and Leah jumped. He pointed at the window of the building facing them. “That’s the Japanese Consul Nagotchi’s office.We used to be friends. Life here is going to become unpleasant. Still want to join us? They don’t play by the rules.”
“Yes. I hate them.”
Albemarle continued to stare into the empty office. A man in a Japanese naval uniform entered the room. He saw Albe-marle staring in. The officer jerked the curtains closed, his face laced with contempt.
“A carpenter is coming tomorrow, Miss Kolbe.We’ll get a little less fresh air, but we adjust.”
“Yes,” agreed Leah. “We adjust.
“We start work at eight. I’ll sort out an office with Mr. Talbot.” A shadow of doubt crossed his face, then he brightened saying, “I look forward to working with you.”
Leah pumped his hand and said, “Thank you, sir. I am so grateful. I will do my best.”
Albemarle smiled. He had chosen a superb candidate. Mildred would have been pleased.
Deep Night Page 7