The Blue-Eyed Shan

by Becker, Stephen;

  The general glanced once more at his footlockers, for comfort, and yielded suddenly to exhaustion. “Take him to An,” he instructed Major Wei. “He is to be cleaned up, fed and watered, and the bullet removed if possible. No brutality. No revenge. Then I want a report on fuel, not omitting the power plants, and on rice. Then send the colonel to me.”

  Colonel Prince Nikolai Andreevich Olevskoy had entered China through the roof, so to speak, and was still angry. He had been angry for thirty-three years. A third of a century. Christ’s lifetime. He had fought his way to the Amur and across into Manchuria in 1920, eighteen years old and a veteran of pitched battles, forced marches, murdered horses, rapes (active partner), frostbite, village massacres, train robberies and—he would never understand God’s ways—a late attack of mumps that angered him more than all the rest, the piercing ache of his testicles and the fear, fortunately erroneous and unjustified, of impotence.

  Now he swayed, resentful and indolent but sharp-eyed, in the back seat of an American jeep racketing down Yunnan Great Street toward Lu Han’s compound in the heart of Kunming. He preferred the old name, Yunnanfu, perhaps instinctively, as he preferred St. Petersburg to Leningrad. He wore gleaming leather cavalry boots, whipcord jodhpurs, Chinese-officer’s-issue battle jacket, white silk scarf and American helmet. In his cartridge belt were cartridges, cellophaned packs of Antelope cigarettes, a short bar of soft silver to be shaved or sliced for currency, and a capsule of cyanide against capture by the Red Bandits.

  “Drive with the wheel as well as the horn,” he admonished his second driver of the day, Hu, or Fu. He risked a glance behind: the second jeep trailed them at twenty meters, and he saw with minor satisfaction that his two marksmen were nested head to tail like pigeons, one scanning the avenue ahead, the other covering their rear.

  The city was not ablaze and crackling, not panicky, not even normally noisy. Olevskoy gripped his carbine in anger, not fear; his first driver of the day, Fu, or Hu, had lounged at the curb in the parked jeep sucking smoke like any taxi driver, and been picked off by a sniper. Fool! Chinese scurried along the road, glancing up anxiously at this towering armed foreigner and dodging away like alley cats. Olevskoy noted them casually, barely distinguishing men from women, old from young; he would sense the enemy when necessary and was indifferent to the others. He recognized, acknowledged, his immediate subordinates and all who outranked him; the rest of Asia was a faceless throng that did not require his direct notice.

  Above Kunming the sky seemed flat, gray and hostile, yet the city was warm even in December. Olevskoy preferred northern skies, clear, frosty, blue, wedges of geese and kettles of hawks. Here, in the south, skies hung heavy, often yellowish or greenish or muddy. It was a long way from Sobolyevo to Yunnanfu.

  A long way from fifteen square kilometers comprising three villages and five hundred peasants, who his father assured him had been better off as serfs, healthier and harder-working, and at least the Olevskoy forebears had protected the vacant-eyed dolts and their well-marbled womenfolk.

  A long way from the accommodating bosoms of Russian peasant girls to the slim Chinese maidens he fancied now.

  A long way from his father’s infinite river of rubles to the paper pay of a colonel in the Chinese army.

  Shop signs and street signs streamed past his eye. Fish Alley, a market street. Fish, here? River fish, perhaps. Or saltwater fish up from Haiphong. He hoped the general intended to run south, to the Tonkin border, the French army, the Legion, French food, Frenchwomen. A temple: Buddhists here, many. A policeman, black uniform, blue sunburst, saluting. Olevskoy touched one finger to his helmet.

  The jeep backfired. Olevskoy’s grip clenched on the stock, then relaxed. He missed horses. Jeeps! Monsters.

  And now this Lu Han. Another monster. Olevskoy was not impressed by provincial governors, most of them little better than warlords, enriched by squeeze, tax rake-offs, false army rolls, opium sales, a high turnover of war material. Olevskoy cared not a whit whether Lu Han lived or died, but General Yang’s orders were explicit, and Olevskoy obeyed as he expected obedience. Before Lu’s compound the jeep clattered and screeched to a halt, and Olevskoy took a major’s salute. In 1939 Olevskoy had ordered an entire platoon, including its lieutenant, flogged for not rising when he entered their hut. Olevskoy’s men now observed the niceties. “Armored cars, Major Ho?”

  “Two, sir. In place.”

  “Light machine guns?”

  “A squad at each of the four gates, sir.”

  “Infantry?”

  “Road blocks twenty meters down each street or alley. With permission, sir.”

  “What is it, Major?”

  “Lu Han will not break out. The hare prefers a warren to a tiger in open country. We are guarding the exits when we should be defending the approaches. If the Red Bandits come in force—”

  “We’ll be long gone. Just keep them penned in for now.”

  “They lack food, sir.”

  “Good. Let them nourish themselves on a taste of things to come. They won’t starve to death in forty-eight hours.”

  “So soon!”

  “So soon. You’ll want to pull the infantry back first. I’ll give you the rendezvous when I know it, and the order of retreat. No need to shell the compound or burn it down; just clear out. Make your dispositions well ahead of time, and rehearse your officers. The object now is to survive.”

  “We are all tossed by the same flood,” Major Ho said.

  “The same flood. Waters rising many years now.” Olevskoy liked this Major Ho: plumpish, with red cheeks, no hitch to his trot and a larcenous gleam in his shiny brown eyes. “Were you ever a sergeant?”

  “For far too long, sir.”

  “Had you a nickname?”

  Ho was visibly pleased by these attentions. “‘Finds-the-pig,’ sir. My men never went hungry.”

  “I like that. And have I a nickname?”

  Poor Ho froze. His eyes pleaded.

  “Oh, come now,” Olevskoy said.

  “I dare not,” Ho managed.

  “It is a direct order,” Olevskoy said lightly.

  “Yes sir,” Ho answered immediately. “The men call you ‘Russian mink.’” He stood at rigid attention, eyes front, and swallowed once.

  “Mais c’est bien gentil,” Olevskoy murmured. “In Hopei they called me ‘Knout.’ Major Ho!”

  “Sir!”

  “Never fear to tell me the truth.”

  “No sir! I am—that is—”

  “Speak, Major.”

  “I rather like women, myself, sir.”

  “Ah, you fornicator! Good for you, Major. Now stand at ease. The crisis is not over: I must inspect your dispositions.”

  Shortly he announced, “Good. You restore my faith, Major Ho. Have your men eaten?”

  “A good breakfast, sir.”

  “Cold rice, no doubt.”

  “And tea, sir. We left a chit.”

  “Quite proper. The Generalissimo will certainly honor it when the Red Bandits have been driven out for good.”

  “As you say, Colonel.”

  Olevskoy clambered aboard his jeep. They were really too small for long men. “I’ll send relief at eight. Lu Han won’t stir. I wish we could hang the bastard. I despise turncoats.”

  Major Ho saluted; Olevskoy waved it off and prodded his driver. Behind them the convoy of jeeps barked to life. They growled away from Lu Han’s yamen and swung wide onto an avenue. Olevskoy scanned the windows, the shadowed façades, and shrugged. Not much to be done, really, about snipers, agents, fifth columns.

  Half a mile from Lu’s compound he ordered his driver to halt. Behind them their bodyguard skidded to a stop. Olevskoy vaulted out, felt a good surge of blood, a flow of muscle, the solid jolt as he landed. He rolled his neck and shoulders like an athlete, a wrestler, and tightened his buttocks. “Go home,” he told his driver Fu, or Hu. “Go home. All of you. Now!”

  At a beetle’s pace, as if the vehicles themselves were str
uggling to comprehend this bizarre command, the jeeps crawled off. Olevskoy slung his carbine and took several vigorous strides, which accelerated to a trot and then a sprint. The thud of his heels, the jar to his spine, the stretch of his lungs brought joy to his soul. His blood pounded. A light sweat broke. When he spied a ricksha he cut across the avenue and hailed its somnolent puller. The scarecrow hopped to his feet; he wore rags and was barefoot. He gestured with both hands: In, in, good sir.

  Olevskoy hopped aboard and said, “The best brothel.” Again the man gaped. Olevskoy groaned. “A willowy lane.” No response. “Night chickens, night chickens!”

  A toothless smirk split the wrinkled face, a screech of laughter followed. The man hopped between the shafts. Olevskoy settled in, cradling the carbine. “The best,” he said. The man might or might not understand. “None of your clapped-up crones.”

  “No clap!” the man shrieked. He leaned into his work.

  “Clean women and young,” Olevskoy said.

  “Little sisters!”

  Olevskoy remembered then that he had not set a price for this ride. Surely the man was joyful and would now overcharge him, prepared to create a noisy scene if Olevskoy resisted. He gave way to a sour smile. He had bought a roll of toilet paper on the black market in Kueiyang, and had calculated that thanks to inflation he had paid out more thousand-dollar bills than there were sheets in the roll. How princely—he could economize by wiping himself with thousand-dollar bills. He remembered Yuri Nikolayevich Malko lighting a Havana cigar—thirty-five years ago!—with a hundred-ruble note. Malko had nothing on Olevskoy.

  Pedestrians stared at him. He waved amiably. Cities were bombarded, besieged, ignited, and hawkers went on hawking, weddings were solemnized, beggars solicited. He wondered if he would find a party in full swing at his destination.

  The ricksha halted, the puller stepped aside. He named his figure. Olevskoy set his face in grim lines and stepped out, the carbine at port arms. The man shrank but stood his ground. Olevskoy had no notion of exchange rates these days, but the figures seemed to come to three or four cents American. “You robber!” He let his hands mask the money and counted angrily, stripping the bills away. “Thief, pirate, gangster!” He gave the man three times the amount asked and said, “Wait here, you turtle’s egg, or I will have you hanged.”

  “I wait, I wait,” the man cried. “I wait, my lord. A year if need be!”

  Olevskoy shoved at a sagging wooden gate, entered a courtyard, skirted the spirit wall and barged into a deserted parlor. He recognized the setting at once: armchairs, a stone bed, faded wall-hangings, a winsome maiden in slit brocade beckoning from a calendar advertising Yunnan Dragon and December. Even blind he might have been sure from the faint, oily scent, compounded of tea, cheap perfumes, tobacco, perhaps opium, and years of sexual effuvia male and female. He pounded a table, calling, “Hey, the house!” Upstairs, footsteps, a scuttling. He watched the wooden staircase and recognized the madam too, about fifty, running to flab, with lipstick, weary eyes and probably a gold tooth. She grimaced a welcome. “You bring honor to my house.” She wore a plain green gown and black cloth shoes; early in the day, nothing fancy. Early in the day and late in the war.

  “I bring money to your house and I am in a hurry.”

  “Unseemly,” she protested. “No haste, no haste. Whisky? Yellow wine? At least be seated. My house is yours, and pleasures should be tasted slowly.”

  “Business, not pleasure. I come to buy, and I cannot stay. With the world in ruins, you may omit the elegant preambles.”

  “You come to buy and cannot stay? That makes no sense.”

  “Listen now,” he said. “In two days you will all be Communists and not whores. Your girls will be planting rice or weaving baksets or cultivating silkworms. Or they will be imprisoned with others like them and taught to carry loads of earth. Or they will be scrubbed clean and issued one gown and required to memorize the poetry of Mao Tse-tung. Or they will be executed as playthings of the imperialist foreigners. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I understand. But what is it you want?”

  Olevskoy told her.

  At the Grand Hotel of Kunming and of the Center of the Universe, no sentry dared even a snicker. Olevskoy ignored them anyway. With princely indifference Olevskoy went AWOL or, amid whole regiments, ejected two or three post-adolescents from his tent in the misty dawn, shortly emerging himself, natty, boots glassy and scarf snowy, to take the duty officer’s report before salt fish and tea with his general. Now he said, “Corporal. There is a ladies’ room on the first floor up. You will show this lady to that room and be sure she has soap, hot water and a towel. You will post a guard so that no man molests her. Is that clear?”

  “Sir!”

  The girl gazed timorously at her own feet. Olevskoy patted her head. “No one will harm you and you are for me alone.” Of the three girls remaining to the old madam one had dyed her hair orange; Olevskoy rejected her out of hand. The second was an urchin who fled when he threatened slow death in revenge for venereal disease. This one was far the best: shy, good teeth, large and well-defined nipples, a deep navel, fine and downy between the legs. Fifteen, he had guessed. He and the madam had haggled, the madam had brought scales and Olevskoy had shaved silver. He had treated the old bitch to a valedictory vodka from the brothel’s skimpy bar.

  The corporal led her off, this young one. Olevskoy took the steps two at a time and strode into General Yang’s suite, knocking for the sake of form as he flung the door open, tossing a salute as he reported, “Lu Han is under lock and key, General.”

  “Colonel. Nice to see you again,” said General Yang. Major Wei sat in hostile silence.

  “Passing through,” Olevskoy said, in high spirits. “On my way to the cellars. Full of loot, these grand hotels.”

  “Go with my blessings,” Yang said. “When you can spare a moment, we have work to do.”

  “I love my work. Won’t be a moment,” Olevskoy promised, and left them.

  Yang heaved another sigh. “Sorry, Major; but would you be kind enough to close the door?”

  Obliging, Wei said, “I cannot like him, sir.”

  Yang said, “It hardly matters. This is such a charade! And every chance that we shall all be eaten by savages within a month.”

  Major Wei was startled: “In Tonkin?”

  “What remains of us,” the general went on, ignoring the question. “Two months ago we had a full regiment and two colonels. Now a company and a half and two majors. I ought to promote you. The lowliest private should be at least a lieutenant.”

  “With the Order of the Tripod, third class.”

  “And sunburst. Those quitters on Taiwan will believe anything. Ah well,” he said wearily, “we’re all deserters now.”

  Later a knock interrupted their review of stores, fuel and ammunition. Again the major played his doorman’s part. A private stood, approximating attention, straining under the weight of a wooden crate.

  “But that’s whisky,” the general cried. “These princes have a nose for the commissary. I tell you, Major, if we’d had the colonel in charge instead of that—well, instead of the high command, we might have won this miserable war. From each according to his ability, to each according to his thirst. Over here, man. Set it down.”

  “Orders of Colonel Ou, sir,” the private panted.

  “Natürlich. Out, now.”

  The private snapped to, and saluted.

  General Yang sighed. “You will salute only when covered.”

  Blankly the private repeated, “Covered.”

  “Only,” the general explained carefully, “when wearing something on your head. A hat, for example. You know which part of you is your head?”

  “Head,” the private repeated, baffled.

  “This part.” General Yang patted his own gray hair. “You understand?”

  “I understand, sir!”

  “Good. Dismissed.”

  “Sir!” The private saluted.


  “Drive him out of this room,” the general groaned.

  Major Wei gestured sharply. The private trotted away, leaving the door open. Before the major reached it, Olevskoy marched in. “Voilà du vrai,” he said. “Johnnie Walker rouge. Crates of it in the basement.”

  The general flung his arms wide in hopeless admiration. “So now we have defeat and whisky. What more can the superior man ask?”

  “What indeed?” Olevskoy exclaimed. “Step in, child, step in.”

  General Yang said, “O by the gods! Again?”

  The girl wore a simple blue gown and was plainly frightened. “A consolation in time of retreat,” Olevskoy maintained.

  “We are not retreating,” Yang said. “We are withdrawing in good order.”

  “An improvement,” Olevskoy said. “Until now my whole life has been a retreat. Withdrawing in good order is like a victory.” He rummaged in the crate. “Cups, we need cups.”

  “Will you excuse me, sir?” Major Wei was stiffly correct; Olevskoy scarcely noticed; Yang was amused. “There is that matter of fuel.”

  “Yes, dismissed,” Yang said to the major, who left immediately. Yang turned to the girl. “Please be seated. There, yes, go ahead, no one will harm you. I am General Yang.”

  The girl sat like a doll.

  “Poor Major Wei,” Olevskoy said. “How he dislikes me! Well, General, what’s new?”

  “We’re resupplying, using Lu Han’s treasury. I’ll give the men forty-eight hours for rape and pillage. We’re all exhausted. If Lu Han had a bow and arrow we’d be in trouble.”

  “He hasn’t. That Major Ho is a fine officer.” Olevskoy sniffed at the open bottle. “The real thing. A few cases won’t slow us up. The basement here is like a department store. I bashed in a door and there it was. American leftovers somebody forgot to sell off.”

  “No champagne, I suppose? A hamper of cold chicken and a few bottles of Mumm’s. A picnic at the border, while Lin Piao sulks because he wasn’t invited.”

  “I always preferred Bollinger,” Olevskoy said, “about five years old. Never trust a champagne over ten or twelve years old. Here we are. And one for the whore.” To the girl he said, “Whisky. You know whisky?”