Deep Night

by Caroline Petit

  A shiver of satisfaction ran up Leah’s spine. She was responsible. She could hate herself less.

  “Benefit concerts do not win wars,” Chang said sourly and held Leah’s wrist tight. “We must meet. The beach on the island of Coloane is good. There are . . .” His eyes flicked toward the animated crowd and back to her. “Tell the consul you need the weekend off. I’ll be in touch.” Chang tipped his hat and walked away, skirting the happy crowd.

  Abandoned, she crossed the road to wait for the bus that would take her home. She knew she would lie awake all night with a wet facecloth on her forehead, unable to stop thinking about the past and cursing the fact that Chang was her network. It was a sick joke that she had escaped occupation and certain imprisonment, only to be trapped into making deals with the devil. There were all kinds of war.

  Arriving home, Leah saw a man’s shadow underneath the banyan tree. She called out in Cantonese, “I haven’t got any money and I have a knife in my hand.” She heard a low chortle. Tokai Ito stepped out from under the tree’s sheltering branches with a large box and a briefcase.

  “I surrender, Miss Kolbe.”

  “That’s not funny,” she snapped.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time. May I come in?”

  “It’s late.”

  “I’ve got news about your fiancé,” he said quietly.

  Jonathan was alive, unhurt, in Shamshuipo Prison Camp at North Point. Unable to control her tears, she collapsed onto the bed.

  Ito remained standing, uncertain whether to stay and comfort her, or leave and return after she had time to digest the news. She was sobbing to the point of hysteria like a tortured kabuki ghost. Sitting down at the table, he opened his briefcase, took out a bottle, poured himself a whisky, and waited for the storm to pass.

  For Leah, time had ceased to exist. She was back somewhere. The light played on his golden hair, the weight of his leg felt good on her back as he lay sleeping, she rubbed her fingers along his arm and inhaled his musky scent. Then she saw him hollowed-eyed, propped up on a narrow bed, his blue eyes clouded by sorrow. Tears were useless.

  Ito came over with the bottle. She took several pulls. “Sleep,” he insisted and wiped her snotty, doughy face. She lay back against the lumpy mattress and fell into a dazed sleep. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Ito removed her shoes.

  Leah awoke to Ito slumped in the chair, his head pillowed on his arms resting on the table, snoring softly. She got out of bed and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Startled, he cried out and sat up.

  “I think you should go.”

  He nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I almost forgot,” he said thickly and pulled the light cord. Blinking in its glare, Ito untied the string on a long white box. Inside, lying cradled in cotton wadding, was a white slip dancer dressed in a tight bodice and a high-waisted pleated skirt that fell to her feet. Her graceful arms were raised as if holding a shawl overhead. There were still traces of red and ochre paint on the skirt.

  “Remember,” he said. “I told you about it. You can’t tell if the dancer is dancing for the pure pleasure of dancing, or to please someone else. It’s such a self-absorbed pose.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He kissed her, pushing the hard statue against her breasts. His lips were firm and his mouth tasted of sleep.

  “I can’t accept this,” she said, pulling back.

  “Smile,” he ordered.

  “I can’t.”

  “Please.”

  Her lips moved a little.

  He nodded. “You have the same secret smile.”

  Liar. He’s trying to seduce me with his gift. Yet, he looked so sincere and there was such longing in his eyes. She placed the dancer on the table. Such a mysterious being, rescued from the grave like Persephone rescued from the Underworld by her mother.The dancer was looking at her, as if she could see straight through her. Tokai came over asking, “May I?” and arranged Leah’s arms into the dancer’s pose. “Not quite right,” Ito judged and tilted Leah’s head to the side. “Perfect. Please dance a little for me.”

  She danced a small mournful waltz and came to a halt in front of Ito. He kissed her arms, the nape of her neck. She allowed his hands free rein, aware of the outcome and her growing desire. In between his kisses, she murmured, “Perhaps the dancer is dancing for herself and someone else who isn’t there.”

  Gently, he twirled her around to fold her against his chest. “Please,” he pleaded as he pulled the light cord and the darkness embraced them. Together, with tenderness and lust, they went through the intimate ritual of taking off each other’s clothes.

  Just before Leah opened her legs, she said, “I wouldn’t be doing this if Jonathan were dead.”

  He studied her face in the shadowy darkness. She was wide-eyed and serious and the smile was hidden.Why should he care about her English lover? He kissed her sad mouth. The Englishman wasn’t here; he was, and rock hard he entered her.

  AFTERWARDS, Leah snuggled against Ito’s smooth chest, amazed at what she had done. “I didn’t . . .” she began and stopped.

  “Don’t. Don’t pick things apart. It was good. I’m happy.” He grinned.

  “I need to sort this out.”

  He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know her motivation. He had plotted his seduction like a military campaign and he wanted to enjoy his victory, the afterglow of sex with a woman he had desired from the moment he set eyes on her in a dusty blue smock. He ran his hands over her white body and pulled her on top. “Enough analysis.”

  She propped herself up her elbows and traced her fingers over his diamond-slanted eyes. “I have to say this. There is no war here. Here, there is just you and me.”

  He let out a long sigh of satisfaction. She kissed him and this time they made love slowly. He was quite unlike Jonathan as a lover, more probing, more open. How differently they fitted together.

  In the dark, squeezed against Leah’s long limbs, listening to her quiet intake of breath, Tokai was happier than he had been for a long time. Here, it was like before the war when he revelled in being a modann boi—a modern boy—free from the straightjacket of Japanese conventions, safe from his father’s designs.Tokai hated Tokyo. His father had become a militarist, banning European books, speaking only Japanese, denigrating the time they had wasted in the West. He was consumed by his devotion to the Emperor. He was addicted to his war work: plotting the expansion of his steel mills, buying small factories, cutting deals with the zaibatsu, conducting intrigues and lining the pockets of civil servants to be appointed to serve on important industrial boards. Swept away with military fervour, the only thing they did agree on was that this was not the time to cement allegiances by a strategic marriage for Tokai. His father was building an empire and the girl chosen had to match his ambitions. Until those ambitions were realised, Tokai was free.

  The lie he told Leah didn’t bother him. He had tried to find out about the fiancé and it had cost him dearly. Calculatingly, he had become a drinking pal of Colonel Noma Kennosuke, head of the Hong Kong Kempeitai. The colonel was a tyrant with a vicious temper and a fetishist’s love for the pearl-handled pistols he wore strapped to each thigh.Tokai spent hours buying drinks at Heer Grau’s Tokyo Club to establish a friendship with a man most people avoided. Kennosuke was a thug, a thug with power. Once on patrol, the colonel discovered a poor Chinese family illegally foraging for food on the Peak. Kennosuke ordered his men to kill the family on the spot. Enraged at his men’s hesitation to commit murder, Kennosuke shot the family with his pearl-handled revolvers, then ordered his men to cut off their heads. It had a salutary effect on the Chinese. More left. In a strange way, Tokai admired the man’s ruthlessness. He had no illusion about war. Still, the man was an animal.He should have been more cautious.

  When Kennosuke and Tokai drank together—Tokai paid— he was amazed at the amount of whisky the colonel consumed without passing out. During the early drinking phase, Kenno-suke talked exclusively about his m
ilitary exploits. After half a dozen whiskies, Kennosuke became maudlin, extolling his primary school friends, his mother’s cooking, the beauty of Tokyo. It was in his nauseating sentimental stage that Tokai had dared to inquire innocently about imprisoned British soldiers. An instant change came over the colonel. There was a wary narrowing of the eyes and a hardening of expression. Tokai was thankful the lighting at Grau’s was dim. He must have looked ashen when Kennosuke pulled out one of his revolvers and pointed it at him growling, “Prisoners should be killed. They have no reason to live.” Then he shouted Bang. Tokai nearly wet himself as Kennosuke howled with laughter.

  Charming Grau, the owner of the Tokyo Club, wandered C109 over and invited them to dine with him, on the house. “You’ll have to put the gun away. It puts the customers off,” the tall German advised, indifferently. Like a lamb, a grinning Kenno-suke complied.

  Tokai had absolutely no memory of the dinner or even how he had gotten home. In bed he vowed never to ask Kennosuke any more questions about POWs . . .Now, it didn’t matter.The fiancé might be alive, but prisoners often sickened and died. It was natural.Who could face such a disgrace and want to continue living? He had done the right thing.Everyone lied to prisoners. It was expected. He cupped Leah’s breasts and fell into a tranquil sleep.

  In the afternoon, the flat became a hotbox. Tokai coaxed Leah into going to the Camões Gardens to stroll its leafy, shady paths. “In the heat of the day,” he said, “it will be empty.” Recklessly, she agreed.

  It was cooler. It was pleasant to sit in this secluded spot, thigh to thigh and breathe in the fragrant air. In the distance, she watched an ancient Chinese man in a sunhat shuffle along with his caged canary. The canary fluttered its wings and twittered. The man spoke to the bird as if it were a person, telling the bird how lucky it was to require only a little seed. The old man walked past them, stared for a moment and then hurried on.

  “Do you think,” began Leah.

  “He’s half blind,” said Ito. “I love the gardens here. Peaceful.”

  They talked about gardens: Leah about Theo’s scholar’s garden and Tokai about the aesthetics of Zen ones. It was lazy lover talk, time away from their lust.

  Back at the flat in the cool of early night,Tokai complained about the plague of cartels and bureaucratic red tape he had to endure. He was leaving Hong Kong at the end of the month and might be away for several months because he had to visit munitions sites in China.

  Leah complained about being alone again for so long, not knowing where in the world he would be.Letters were out.They both agreed it would damage his career if, God forbid, his father found out about them, or his competitors.Without thinking, he rattled off all the boring places he had to visit and how he disliked many of the managers his father had appointed, mentioning them by name.They didn’t dare countermand his orders, but he could tell most were only going through the motions and couldn’t wait for him to leave. Leah was very sympathetic. He promised to return as soon as possible. Leah pulled Tokai onto the uncomfortable bed. Afterwards,Tokai left happy and pleased with himself.

  From the doorway, she watched Tokai walk away with a jaunty rolling gait, his briefcase in hand. Here was a man who still wanted Japan to win at all costs, despite everything. And she was going to tell Chang the location and the name of every Japanese munition plant in conquered China.With any luck, many would be destroyed. Only why did she feel so awful and whom had she betrayed most: Tokai? Jonathan? Herself?

  10

  HÁC SÁ BEACH was deserted. In the hot sun, Leah sprawled in a faded canvas deckchair. She wore a floppy straw hat, dark glasses, loose cotton trousers and a silk-printed midriff top. The beach was poor, the sand brown and gritty. She had expected more after Albemarle’s enthusiastic endorsement.Wistfully, he’d said, “Mildred and I used to take the children there.” He made it sound fun. Then, he’d added, “All the beaches in England are cordoned off.That’s the way things are now.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to his sadness and settled for a head bob, acknowledging that everything changed in a war, even the relationship between boss and employee. He didn’t ask any questions or volunteer how to catch the ferry to Coloane Island. Clearly, he didn’t want to know anything.

  As she stared at the fishing boats far out in the calm water, she fantasized she was actually on the beach at Repulse Bay. She had come early to escape the happy families arriving later, dragging their rugs, thermoses and picnic baskets. But the image wouldn’t stay. This beach was too bare and there was no place for a hotel or obliging waiters. Still, she appreciated the longed-for quiet and the cooling breeze that came off a stand of scraggy pine trees. Soon she would drag her chair under the pines to avoid sunburn, but now it was too much effort and she simply sat and gazed at the low flat horizon, the seagulls and . . . She looked harder at the lone man walking over the sand. Chang. She recognised him by his height, his determined quick step and how he held his arms close to his body, alert to danger and the need to protect himself. Despite the heat, she felt cold. Already, she pictured him looming over her, exerting his will. She scrambled to her feet and waded into the water.

  He stood at the water’s edge and called, “Enjoying yourself, Miss Kolbe?”

  Leah waved and smiled. “The water’s warm.”

  “Enjoy it while you can. The Japanese want to claim Coloane Island.”

  “What on earth for? There’s nothing here except fish.”

  “They have plans. They want to dredge it and make it into a deepwater port to rival Hong Kong. The British are worried. The Portuguese government is easily bullied or tempted. Everyone has their price.”

  “But they have Hong Kong.” She wadded further into the sea, her wet trousers clinging to her legs, feeling the gritty sand give between her toes.

  “But for how long, Miss Kolbe?” he asked, his voice rising to reach her. “Come back. I’m tired of shouting.”

  She trudged back through the warm water, allowing her hands to make little ripples. A school of tiny black fish darted away in fright. She wrung the water out of her pants legs. “Do you swim,Mr. Chang?”

  “That is what boats are for, Miss Kolbe.”

  “Swimming saved my life.”

  “Most fishermen can’t swim. They only go to sea to earn a C113 living.They don’t have an affinity with water.” He paused, looking at her and then out to sea.

  She felt the conversation was strange, that she was indeed in dangerous waters. He didn’t go in much for Chinese politeness. He was very direct. She wondered if she were being hooked and, resenting his power, asked, “What do you want, Mr. Chang?”

  “Do you think we can win this war?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Take off your sunglasses. I want to see your eyes.”

  “Is it right to have one law for Europeans, another for the Chinese?

  “It will be different in peace.We will be better people,” she declared, noting how peace left no taste on her tongue and how her words were empty rhetoric.

  He made a gun with his fingers and pressed his thumb down like a trigger. “Pow!” he said like an American gangster. “And what will you sacrifice for this peace? Allow Chinese merchants to buy a house and live on the Peak? Offer to sell them your house? Give it to coolies as reparations?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “May I?” he asked and took her sunglasses and stared up at the sun. “Japanese colonial rule in Manchuria is no different from British rule in Hong Kong or the Portuguese in Macau.”

  What was he getting at? He wanted something.Whatever it was she knew she would hate it.

  “Albemarle wants to establish a government in-exile-for Hong Kong, to assert the British right to it.”

  “I know nothing of this. I type and deal with humanitarian relief.”

  “How good you are.”

  “Listen, I have all the locations of the munition factories and the names of the managers in most of China.”

  “Let’s sit,” he o
ffered, friendly and cordial, motioning toward the deckchair as he sank onto the hot sand and sat with his arms around his legs, as if he too were on holiday and they had been engaged in banter.

  She sat with her damp legs outstretched, feigning ease, acutely aware of her wet trousers clinging to her legs and the itch of drying sea salt. She repressed the urge to scratch.

  “All right. Tell me,” he said, lighting a clove cigarette and smoking it down to the stump, unresponsive as she rattled off the names. Afterwards, he leaned in and casually dropped a photograph in her lap. She examined the fuzzy photograph of Ito and her sitting on the stone bench in the Camões Gardens. Their faces were in shadow, but they were recognizable. At Ito’s feet was his briefcase. She didn’t remember him bringing it. It made the picture sinister.They were facing each other. She had her hand out, gesturing, as if accepting something Tokai was saying. Objectively, it didn’t seem compromising. She was a spy. Spies consorted with the enemy. Eldersen had instructed her to use Tokai. In a court of law, she could defend herself; against the tide of gossip in Macau, she was helpless. Or, she shuddered, Chang would sell the photo to the Japanese. They’d be very interested. Sawa would not hesitate to order Ito’s death through the shadowy network of his Kempeitai agents. Certainly, she would end up dead. Forcing a disinterested tone, she said, “The lighting isn’t good. What are you going to do with it?”

  He took the photograph back. “Keep it. Such things have value. Mr. Ito looks very relaxed.”

  She watched his smug face, the shape of his thin-lipped mouth as he spoke, the sun pinning him down, and his long shadow lengthening. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “We must have Hong Kong back. The Americans want to return Hong Kong to China. Put a stop to colonialism. The British want their empire.We must know what is going on.You will keep us informed.”

  “How are the communists going?” she shot back. “The East River Guerrilla Gang in the New Territories is doing well. Maybe they will claim Hong Kong for the Communists.”