Deep Night

by Caroline Petit

  “It’s all lies,” Tokai shot back, not believing a word. The Admiral was his hero. He had masterminded the naval aerial bombardment of Pearl Harbour. He knew him personally.Well, not personally. They had met at a Tokyo reception and Tokai liked the man instantly. They had something in common. Yamamoto was western-educated, a Harvard man. They had-discussed the pleasures of Boston.Tokai had confessed his admiration for Yamamoto’s military successes.

  Yamamoto, smiling benignly, had responded in English. “For now, Japan will have many victories. But if the war continues with the US and Great Britain, I have no expectation of success.”

  At first Tokai had not believed his ears and grinned stupidly like an idiot. He’d even forgotten to bow deeply when the great man was whisked away by one of his aides. In his heart, Ito wanted to see his people victorious. It was a natural instinct, to want to win.

  Even here in neutral Macau,Tokai saw the war was not going to leave him alone. How could he compete with a man imprisoned by his people? Not for a minute did Tokai believe Leah was still in love with this Jonathan, but women were sentimental. They cried easily and wanted to believe they suffered from deep emotions. It was an act.They played at being devoted.That’s how they had been brought up. In Japan, it was art form handed down from mother to daughter. He’d had enough. “I’m going.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes,” she said in whisper. “And so do you.”

  He didn’t answer. He slipped on his shoes, picked up his briefcase and left without saying goodbye.

  Leah sank down onto the chair, her towel sliding to the floor. Naked, she sat and stared at Ito’s newspaper photograph. Now, what? Then it came to her.He still had his key. It wasn’t over yet.

  That night she slept fitfully in sheets smelling of Tokai. She dreamed of Jonathan, sunburned and wearing tattered shorts. He was talking to other British soldiers who stood in a tight-knit group. She was some distance away, jumping up and down to attract his attention. Angered by his lack of interest—he waved once—she ran to him and tugged on his thin, tanned arm. The scene changed. She was swimming at Repulse Bay. The water was warm and bluer than she had ever seen it. Jonathan was asleep on the beach. She must have stepped on something sharp in the water because there was blood all around, although she felt no pain. She called to Jonathan; he continued to sleep. She woke crying, trying to convince herself the dream meant nothing, but she couldn’t get back to sleep.

  She switched on the light and set the fan in motion. From her purse, she retrieved a clean POW postcard.Her first impulse was to scrawl love twenty-four times and then sign her name. But Jonathan would be confused when he read it, feeling that this excess of emotion signalled she was grasping at their love like a life raft. She reconstructed her earlier message, written in a frenzy of passion and longing, counting words frantically and discarding them. She had no idea when she might receive an answer. POWs were only allowed to write two postcards a year. Albemarle had shown her the English military liaison’s cable outlining the Japanese policy that at long last allowed correspondence. She had been overjoyed when she read the communiqué. Now, her twenty-five words rang false, leached dry of meaning.

  13

  WORK WAS A relief from her conscience, but Spencer plagued her.He was there in the corridor with papers under his arms after Leah met with Albemarle alone to discuss refugee pensions or who to invite to help construct a new form of colonial rule in Hong Kong once the allies were victorious.

  If there was a pause in her conversation with Albemarle, she was certain she could hear Spencer skulking just outside the consul’s closed door, his pale face florid with resentment. Leaving, he always raked his watery blue eyes over her clothes, searching for a wrongly buttoned blouse or smudged lipstick— any evidence of an affair.

  She tried being friendly, but this made things worse. He’d sneer and say “Aren’t we bright today” and then revel in telling her depressing war news, implying that somehow it was her fault the Germans had liberated Mussolini and were now firmly in control of Rome after killing 7,000 Italian soldiers.

  In front of Albemarle, he took digs at her, “Isn’t that right, Miss Kolbe? “Or, Miss Kolbe may have an alternate view?”Last week, he waited by the door and dropped the miserable news that Japan had advanced into middle China and might even challenge its national capital, Chunking. She retorted, “The Chinese will never surrender.”

  “Ha!” Spencer pounced, “I’ve heard that before. Their army is in tatters. The Americans are propping them up.”

  Sometimes, she thought he hated her. As a security precaution, he introduced a sign-in notebook for staff. The consul, of course, was exempt because, as Spencer cunningly acknowledged, the system was designed to protect him.No one should know his comings and goings. There had been another increase in anti-Japanese sentiment and the Japanese consul formally protested to Governor Teixeira. The Japanese paid people to rough up those who openly supported the allies. Albemarle headed the list.

  She resented Spencer keeping tabs on her.Often she scribbled any old thing in the book. Spencer complained. “Just make it legible,” soothed Albemarle. “Let Spencer have this one small victory. He is trying. He wants to feel needed.” He shook his head in despair. “I know he’s difficult. But he has a good heart.” Leah said nothing. Spencer’s heart was probably full of charts, graphs, numbers and black marks against people he disliked.

  She was late this morning and was annoyed to find Spencer rifling through her desk drawers. “Found what you’re looking for?”

  “I’ve lost my scissors.”

  She pointed. Her scissors were sticking up in her pencil holder.

  “Must have overlooked it,” he said unblinking. “I keep mine in the middle drawer.”

  “Next time, look before you search.”

  “Oh, I will,” he declared smugly.

  Albemarle walked in. He said good morning to both, but his face softened when he turned to Leah. Albemarle asked Spencer to leave. Abruptly, Spencer grabbed the scissors and gave them a nasty snick as he marched out.

  “Never mind about him,” Albemarle said, “I was rummaging through the post looking for letters from home and found this.” In triumph, he handed her a postcard, grinned widely, squeezed her hand and left.

  Jonathan.She recognised his handwriting.Her heart stopped. Across the top of the card printed in red ink were the words: Japanese Prison of War, Argyle Camp and a number of unintelligible Japanese official stamps. He had written in pencil.The writing had faded in spots on the cheap paper or, perhaps, the censor’s grubby fingers had rubbed at the writing in an effort to understand the abbreviated sentences. He wrote: Am well now. Huang fu great help.Have a vegetable garden. Received your package. Relieved you’re safe. Think always of you. All my love Jonathan.

  Tears ran down her cheeks. She rested her head on the blotter, watching her tears stain the paper in ever increasing circles. Struggling to decode his message further, she traced her fingers over his handwriting.What did it mean: Am well now? Had he been sick? How sick? Maybe he’d been injured in the battle for Hong Kong. But then, he would have written: have been injured, or have healed now. He might have typhus, malaria, dysentery, beriberi. Christ, it could have been cholera.How wonderful that loyal and kind Huang fu was helping. But mostly, she cried because he had survived without her help or love.

  There was a discreet tap at her door. Albemarle poked his head around, his eyes on the floor. “Go home, Leah. We can run this place for one day without you. I’m happy for you.”

  She motioned him to come in and he kissed her teary cheek. Spencer passed by and stared. Albemarle collected himself first. “Leah’s had the most wonderful news. Her fiancé is alive and well.”

  “Great news,” Spencer said without enthusiasm.

  “Go home,” said Albemarle. “Savour this moment. That’s an order.”

  Under the eyes of both men, Leah collected her purse and hat.
Spencer stood aside as she passed through the door. She had an uneasy sensation his eyes were drilling a hole in her back. To hell with him.

  With an overwhelming sense of relief and joy,Leah opened the door to her flat and stopped, open-mouthed. Lying on top of the white coverlet was Ito, dressed in a cotton kimono. On the floor was flat box elaborately wrapped in hand-made paper.

  “I wasn’t expecting you for another six weeks. How wonderful to see you.”

  “Here I am. You’re back early,” he said mildly.

  “Too hot. The fans stopped.” She put down her handbag and bustled around as if to tidy, getting out a cloth, removing the breakfast things cluttering the table. “I’ll go back later, when it’s cooler. Not much wine is getting through anyway. Business is slow.Why does Macau always feel hotter than Hong Kong?” On and on she rambled, unable to stop. “You look cool. Had a bath? The water was all right?”

  “I’ve brought you a present.” He patted the bed. She sat next to him as he plonked the box into her lap. “Open it,” he commanded.

  Flustered, she tore at the string.

  “Hey, take care.”

  Slowly, she undid the last few knots and smoothed out the paper. Inside was the softest, palest rose silk kimono. On the front and back were painted life-like white lavender and orange flowers. They hung off branches so artfully painted they appeared to be blown by a summer breeze.Near the hem, larger flowers bloomed. It was an exquisite apology for his leaving in a jealous huff two months ago.

  “It’s yuzen dyeing,” he explained. “It’s rare and beautiful. It reminded me of you.”

  She leaned over to kiss him, but he jerked away.

  “You’ll crease the silk.”

  His face was closed. Straight away, she was on guard. She watched his eyes as they moved over her, searching . . . For what? She played for time. “What’s yuzen dyeing?”

  “A technique invented in seventeenth-century Kyoto. We must go there after the war.”

  “After the war,” she echoed.Was he going to take her there as part of the spoils of war? Was he such a fanatic that he could see only victory? She stroked the silk, marvelling at its workmanship. “How is it done?” she persevered.

  He began to lecture, sitting on the bed, his eyes focused on the kimono. “The artist prepares a mixture of rice paste and soybean. He uses this to draw free hand on the white silk. After the paste dries, he paints the areas on both sides of the line with brushes using the colours he wants. The rice paste prevents the dye from seeping into surrounding areas. See how subtle the colour gradations are?” He touched the silk, pointing out the different rose hues. His voice hardened. “I knew you would appreciate it. You like subtle things. Put it on.”

  She stood and stripped off. She felt his eyes boring in as she slipped on the kimono. “Well?” she teased, sashaying about.

  “Stand by the window,” he barked. “There is more light.”

  She did as she was told.

  He circled around her, surveying the kimono’s drape. “You’re too tall.”

  “I love it. Length doesn’t matter. It feels delicious.”

  He slapped her face hard.

  She tore off the kimono. “Get out. Take it with you.”

  “You work for the British consul. All that shit about your Portuguese businessmen.What were their names? Oh, I know, Ricardo, Balboa, Braga. Did you get them off office signs? You’ve ruined me. Kennosuke knows. If the head of the Kempeitai in Hong Kong knows, then Sawa knows.You’re dead,” he said with satisfaction, glaring at her tits, as if they should be answering for her.

  “Go to hell.”

  “We’ll go there together.”

  “I’m a bloody glorified clerk.What can it matter?”

  “It matters. You have to do what he wants, or we’ll both be dead.”

  Was the kimono a shroud? Part of a bizarre Japanese funeral rite?

  “You passed on information,” he said, his eyes narrowing, his face rigid with suppressed anger.

  “We spent our time in bed.We don’t discuss the war here. Remember?” She threw the kimono at him.

  And that was what gnawed at Tokai as he picked up the abandoned gift, stroking it absently. He could never recall anything that passed between them, except their bodies together, the smell of her, the rush of his own desire and the sweet sense of holiday time, that what passed between them was no one’s business. Looking at her naked, his hunger for her was overwhelming. He grabbed her waist, enjoying the touch of her and how his fingers marked her flesh as he pulled her into an embrace. “Did you tell anyone?” he hissed into her ear.

  She wrestled against his grip, saying, “Do you think I would tell anyone I had a Jap lover?”

  For a moment, he hated her. He should kill her, get rid of this demon lover.Then, he remembered Kennosuke cold blood-edly, reading from notes, describing in graphic detail his relations with Leah.His hunger turned to ash. “You’ve got to help me,” he begged.

  “No.”

  “The Allies have mined the waters just outside Hong Kong harbour. Very little food is getting in. What does, goes to us, then the Chinese, and finally prisoners. They’ll starve,” he said full of spite.

  She got into bed, drawing the sheet up to her chin, wishing he would evaporate into thin air. “It’s not my fault. You started the bloody war.”

  “Well, now you are going to help us. We are running out of ships. There is one good gunboat in Macau.We want it.”

  “The Macanese are not going to declare war on you.”

  “Don’t be stupid.We are going to steal it.”

  “You’re crazy. I can’t steal a boat, can you?”

  “Shut up and listen. We want you to hold a party at the consulate. Invite everyone from the governor to Police Chief Luis De Rey and all the high ranking military men including those in charge of the African unit.”

  “The Mozambiques? Is this a joke?”

  “They fight well. Kennosuke is convinced the gunboat is helping the Chinese. It smuggles guns and other arms to China.

  “I don’t believe it. Beside the consul is not in a party mood. There is a war on.”

  “Guy Fawkes Day,November 5, suits us.” A ghost of a self-satisfied smile played around his hard-set face.

  “I can’t.”

  He ripped the sheet off her. “Kennosuke doesn’t know about your fiancé,” he threatened. She struggled to get away as his hands grabbed her breasts. She gasped with pain. He let go. “You’ll be denounced as a Japanese spy. It will be a living death for you. If your fiancé survives, I don’t think he will understand why you were a whore. I certainly don’t.”

  She sprang out of bed, intending to crush his head in with the chair. But he was fast and caught her upraised hand, unwound her fingers from the chair leg and set it down.

  She raged, “You don’t really believe you will win this war?”

  “I’m only human,” he glared.

  “Get out,” she said and snatched up the kimono.

  “Don’t hurt the silk,” he said. “Give it to me.”

  He caught it before it hit the floor, smoothed the silk out, then folded it into a neat package. Calmly, he said, “You’ll do it.” He stared at her, naked and panting. “Though I will miss fucking you.” He let go of the kimono, which billowed into a cloud of silk, then dug in his pocket for the key, dropping it on the ground at her feet with a hollow ring.

  He dressed in a rush, then slammed the door making the whole flat tremble.

  She stared at the key for a long time. Then she picked it up and vowed to get even.

  14

  LEAH BURBLED ON eagerly about her idea for a Guy Fawkes party. Albemarle thought it a brilliant idea, a morale booster, and inviting all the military brass and the police chief, a subtle slap in the face to the Japanese who had started another graffiti campaign blaming the West for the war. She smiled and nodded until she thought her face might crack and reveal the party’s traitorous core. She arranged a meeting with Chang, us
ing the bird, hoping he would agree to a counterattack.They were to meet near the fountain in Francisco Park, near the Military Club, a busy part of the city.Who would notice if she followed him up the footpath?

  On the way, she ran into De Rey outside the Military Club. “On such a beautiful day, it would be an honour to dine with a beautiful woman,” he said, gallant and a bit sheepish. Unable to produce any leads about Moy’s death, he had stopped coming to the consulate late last year. He repeated his invitation, but she begged off.

  “Just as well. The food is very limited since the blockade. I do miss the banquets we used to have. Twenty-five different dishes.When this war is over, you must promise to be my first guest.”

  She dropped a small curtsey. “It would be an honour.”

  A baby wailed. They turned to look across Rua de Santa Clara at a crying infant tied to the back of a young woman dressed in charity hessian. The woman stood in front of the Chinese Reading Room with its double stone staircase and little round tower capped with a pagoda roof—a melange of Portuguese and Chinese architecture—and held a sign written in Portuguese and Chinese. It read: ‘Need money to bury my father. Baby girl to a good home. Very quiet and good.’To escape the sad sight, people crossed to the other side of the road.

  De Rey sighed heavily. “Before the war, Miss Kolbe, you never saw this. Macau was a happy place.We will all be beggars before too long.The government is running out of money.”

  A group of four Japanese naval men came into view. “I must go. I don’t want to talk to them today.” He touched her shoulder lightly, gave a wan smile and left.

  Deep in conversation, laughing and smiling, the Japanese officers walked right past the woman hawking the baby. The woman picked up her sign and hurried off, the hungry baby still crying.