“Smart lad. Europe, especially our own dear motherland, has spent the last hundred, two hundred years ensuring that this country needs us. We can’t let China hoard all its riches to itself, can we? So we did terrible things to the people here. Yet even now, the Chinese continue to play the game we invited them to, and smile as they do it, because in today’s modern world, you can’t just shut the rest of the world out.”
I finished my ham sandwich and moved on to a fruit tart. Victor took some too and surprised me by asking, in English, “Is there custard?”
“No custard,” I said. “But there is some clotted cream.”
“No custard,” Victor repeated sadly, but he reached for the cream nonetheless.
I looked back to Mr. Jackdaw. I had been concentrating hard, trying to follow what he said. “So I suppose China is doing the right thing by dealing with all the other countries. If you can’t shut the world out anyway.”
Mr. Jackdaw was enjoying a scone in the style of cream tea. “Hmm, difficult to say. China did some clever things. It gave us foreigners these ports to play in, to build our hotels and our churches and our gentlemen’s clubs so we can pretend we’re at home. Like the little slice of England we sit in today.
“Now, for the most part, we stay in these little cities and don’t cause trouble. And when the Empress Dowager found herself on the wrong side of the Boxer Rebellion, she escaped from Peking and hid herself away deep in the heart of the country. Sensible to keep that division, I think. Nevertheless: defeat after defeat, in an age of empires and conquest—the country looks weak. Today, the Empress Dowager is gone, and on the throne is a small boy. And that’s where Shanghai becomes a snowflake.”
I paused with a macaroon halfway to my mouth. “Another country is going to take over?”
“No. The keg of gunpowder lying under all this is Chinese pride. The Xuantong Emperor and his handlers bow to foreign powers while the men toil in the fields and factories, all so that debts from old wars can be paid. What do you think happens next, young Master Diplexito?”
“Well, you said they were proud . . .”
“And so?”
“They fight the foreigners?”
“They tried that and failed. So what other choice is there? If the people can’t fight the foreigners, who else do they hold responsible for this mess?”
“They have a revolution, like Mr. Scant says.”
Mr. Jackdaw smiled. “And as far as we can, we at the Yard want to stop that happening. Now why don’t you and I go and look at the view?”
As the dining room was on an upper floor, the windows afforded pleasant views of the surrounding city. I could see the bridge where Mr. Scant was meeting the mysterious criminals, and then beyond the river, the gradual change of the city from large Western-style buildings to small and intricate wooden ones—the start of the Old City that Mr. Jackdaw had mentioned.
Mr. Jackdaw spoke again. “Last year, you fought against a society that wanted to control a government from the shadows. Here, those same societies mean to become the government. Can you imagine that in England? Well, that’s what you and your dear tutor have stepped into.”
“We just want to find Mr. Scant’s niece. But thank you for explaining things. You know an awful lot about all this.”
Mr. Jackdaw’s smile was almost bashful, but as artificial as ever. “It is rather my job, you know. And whether in France or Zanzibar or China, I’m still just reading different chapters of the same story. I abhor chaos, but at this stage, I don’t think it can be avoided. So our interest now is in ensuring that whatever happens, however this country changes, Britain does not become China’s enemy.”
“I don’t want that either.”
Mr. Jackdaw smiled. “So what do you want, young Master Diplexito?”
“It’s all very complicated. But I feel bad that China has been bullied for so long. I want them to be able to stand up for themselves.”
“That’s a good way to put it,” Mr. Jackdaw said. “But for my part, I feel rather as though the playground bullies don’t realize that they’re kicking not a helpless schoolmate but rather a sleeping bear.”
“I’d like to hear from some Chinese people about it.”
“It’s refreshing to hear that. Here, most of us insulate ourselves against the local language and culture.”
“Is Mr. Scant safe?”
“Safe? Oh no, none of us is safe.” He took a deep bite of his scone and chewed thoughtfully. “But one thing I can tell you for certain, you’re both much safer here than you were in France.”
IX
A Pursuit
Scant’s face was as dour and inscrutable as ever as he climbed the stairs to meet us. “Let’s keep walking,” he rumbled when he was close enough for us to hear. We walked over the large iron bridge, where the wind from the sea scythed and whistled above us. Here, he decided to stop and look out to the water, as Mr. Jackdaw simply stood aside, grinning his strange grin. After a time, Mr. Scant spoke.
“The long and short of it is that the Star and Stone Association has a special deposit in the Peking-Shanghai Bank that only a ‘white ghost’ can withdraw, going through a special contact.”
“And you got the name of this contact?” said Mr. Jackdaw.
“Not a name, only a rather lifelike sketch,” said Mr. Scant. “I don’t see the harm in showing you.”
He produced a drawing of a mousy-faced older man who looked more like a geography teacher than a criminal, though I supposed if you could tell at a glance someone was a criminal they wouldn’t be very good at the job. Mr. Jackdaw nodded, still grinning, but said nothing.
“We’ve been given a time and place to find him tomorrow,” said Mr. Scant. “I would prefer that we leave it to you, but they took great pains drawing my likeness too, so I assume I have to do this as well.”
“We’d very much appreciate it,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “I’ll give you everything you need over dinner.”
“This is going beyond what we bargained for.”
“If only you’d manipulated them into not using your likeness . . .” said Mr. Jackdaw, with a sad smile this time.
“What actually happened in there?” I asked.
“As Mr. Jackdaw explained, the Star and Stone Association is not so very different from our own dear Woodhouselee Society. Its members call themselves shadow rulers and used theatrics to leave an impression on me. Smoke and costumes and strange muffled sounds. But under it all, the thing that matters most to them is money. They told me they would use these weapons to steal from the banks here in the city, to better fund the wider revolution. But that may have just been the impression they wanted to give to Mr. Welles.”
“Who is Mr. Welles?” I asked.
“The man I was impersonating, who I assume Scotland Yard has somehow arranged not to be anywhere near Shanghai just now.”
Mr. Jackdaw didn’t reply to that, but instead said, “I’ll brief you again about tomorrow before I take my leave this evening.”
“Take your leave?” I said. “Are you going somewhere? What about the meeting with the man at the bank?”
“Alas, I can only ask that you do this for me and support you from afar. Recall that the Yard must not be involved in any way. And I do have a number of other tasks I must see to, but I will not be far away, and of course I need to give you the information you seek.” When nobody had any answer for him, he grinned again, held out his arms, and said, “For dinner, I think some Hong Kong–style dim sum.”
Hong Kong–style dim sum turned out to be small savory dishes, served hot in the same baskets as the xiao long bao. Mr. Jackdaw picked out mysterious-sounding foods from trolleys pushed around the restaurant by smiling waitresses. Unlike the other establishments Mr. Jackdaw had taken us to, this one was busy, every table occupied by Chinese patrons. One even raised his cup of tea to me when I met his eye, smiling warmly in a way that deepened the wrinkles all about his friendly face, wrinkles all in entirely different places from Mr. Scant’s. I raised my
teacup in return and tried one of the dumplings, which was delicious.
Mr. Scant now regarded Mr. Jackdaw with constant suspicion, and Mr. Jackdaw clearly enjoyed that fact. When Mr. Scant asked when his side of the bargain would be considered completed, Mr. Jackdaw raised a finger as though to admonish him.
“Tomorrow will be the end of it,” he said. “Do believe me, if this goes badly, I’m the one who’s in the most trouble.”
“I wonder about that,” said Mr. Scant.
After enjoying a few particularly fluffy white buns filled with sweetened meat, Victor pulled my sleeve and pointed to the old lady who owned the restaurant, who had waved at him and gestured for him to come over. While Mr. Scant and Mr. Jackdaw discussed how to find the place where Mr. Scant would meet the bank contact tomorrow, Victor dragged me over. Although he and the restaurant owner each spoke in their own language, without a shred of shared comprehension, somehow Victor managed to exchange his Indian cap for a kind of pointed Chinese hat with a black sheet hanging down from the back, like a small cloak. It was too big for him, but he put it on his head undeterred.
After the meal, Mr. Jackdaw bade us goodnight with a rather exaggerated bow, and we withdrew to our rooms in the clubhouse. As Mr. Scant helped me prepare for bed, Victor stood squarely in front of me.
“Where is Julien?” he asked. He was picking up English quickly, but I wasn’t sure he could understand my answers.
“We don’t know,” I said, slowly. “Tomorrow, we look for a man. Then we find a girl. Hopefully she will know about it.”
“I want Julien.”
I corrected him—“‘I want to find Julien’”—but he went over to his bed to flop onto it. I wasn’t sure if he was only pretending to cry, but after seeing him lying there in my old clothes, I looked back at Mr. Scant.
“Do we know his brother is here?”
“No,” said Mr. Scant. “He says he overheard men saying that’s where young men would be taken, and it would be quite the coincidence if there is no connection. But certainly this trip could end without us ever finding the lad.”
“What would we do then?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Scant. “Some lessons in life are truly hard.”
Victor was soon asleep, so I took off his outer clothes and put him into the bed, then settled down to read the book about Chinese history Mr. Scant had read before me. Though the exploits of great Chinese explorer Cheng Ho were fairly gripping, my eyes grew heavy as I read, and when I had to check if he had really given a giraffe to the emperor as a gift or if I had dreamed it, I decided it was time to sleep.
The next day, Mr. Scant woke us late. We ate breakfast in the French style in the clubhouse restaurant, and I said to Victor that he must be happy to see French food, but he frowned at his croissant. “This is French?” he asked, in English, and I realized he had probably eaten very few buffet breakfasts in his life.
Mr. Jackdaw had left a map for us to follow. Our destination was a little way into the Old City, through the rather ramshackle city walls. From above, I had seen how the city changed from one thing to another over a surprisingly short distance, but walking into the Old City, I realized the difference was far greater than shifts in the styles of the buildings. The people, the sounds, the smells, the very air itself all seemed different as we walked into the Shanghai its own people had built.
We passed some very beautiful buildings with perfect miniature gardens, as well as a temple the size of a village church. A large burner outside the temple exhaled fragrant incense, like a steam train with all but its chimney buried in the ground. At the same time, not everything in the old city was beautiful. The straw underfoot was sodden, we passed more than one dead animal that I tried to prevent Victor from seeing, and many of the denizens we passed plucked and pinched at us and had to be driven away by Mr. Scant. I positioned Victor in front of me and held on to his shoulders, while Mr. Scant stood very close, looking this way and that warily.
“Oh!” I said, as our destination came into view.
“The Willow Pattern Tea House,” said Mr. Scant.
At home, Mother had some chinaware with the famous Blue Willow pattern on it, and before us was a grand old edifice that looked rather like one of the buildings from that design. It stood two stories high, topped by pretty roofs that resembled the heads of immense flowers. Each corner of the eaves rose up like arms held high in exultation, and the walls were carved in intricate patterns. White paper covered the windows, as though the whole building were a great floating lantern. Indeed, as if to enhance this impression, the whole structure stood on stilts in a little lake, with a zigzag bridge stretching out to meet it. This probably would have given a more pleasant impression had the water not looked and smelled like a swamp, with various unsavory things floating in it.
“Is it really the place from the Blue Willow pattern?” I asked.
“I’m told that the local guides will say it is,” Mr. Scant said, “but in truth, it only bears a pleasant resemblance. Shall we go?”
The bridge was pretty to regard, but at each corner sat a beggar, holding up palms or bowls, speaking words I could not understand. One particularly sad-looking girl of about my age could only whisper at me, and I wished I had some of the local coins to give her. I recalled the bonbons from Mr. Jackdaw that I had meant to give to Victor, and deciding the girl’s need was greater than mine or his just now, I gave them to her. She looked delighted for a moment, before she was beset by the others on the bridge and took to her feet to scramble away. I was not sure the chocolates would be entirely good for her, but they would fill her belly, and perhaps she could exchange some for better food. Victor watched her go indifferently, then looked up to me and said, “Maybe friend.” I remembered our first meeting had been very similar.
Inside the tea shop, the mood was very different. A little old Chinese man, who looked like he too had been carved from wood, came to greet us. “Welcome, welcome,” he said with a thick accent, then pointed delightedly at Victor’s hat. “A scholar! Very good! Come sit. Tea? Tea.”
“Yes, please,” said Mr. Scant. I could only assume he had been given some of the local money by Mr. Jackdaw or had it exchanged at the clubhouse. The interior of the teahouse matched the exterior, with numerous little wooden stools and square tables carved into the angular shapes so popular in China. Most of the numerous patrons were Chinese, their clothes neat and clean, all of them with their hair in queues or under tight round caps, but three or four groups included Westerners. I heard English spoken in strange accents I had never heard before, and wondered if I might be hearing an Australian or Canadian or even a South African for the first time.
Tea was served by a bored-looking young woman, and though Mr. Scant poured it, the steam suggested it was much too hot to drink, so he did not distribute the little squat teacups. All the while, he was looking around the room.
“Is he here?” I said. “The man from the drawing?”
“He’s here,” said Mr. Scant, busying himself with the cups.
The teahouse was a noisy place. The table next to us had noticed Victor’s hat as well and found it very amusing, waving to him repeatedly. He enjoyed the attention and waved back. “Good hat,” he remarked to me, and put his chin on the table happily.
When the tea was cool enough to drink, I did not find it a particular delight. It had been served without milk or sugar and tasted rather like the water that sometimes got in your mouth after a particularly vicious rugby tackle. The old man brought over little baked tarts of some sort, served with jam, and presented them to Victor, saying, “For scholar! No charge!” He waited for Victor to try the treat and shuffled away contentedly when Victor grinned.
“Custard is . . . the good,” said Victor, as he offered the rest of the treats to Mr. Scant and me. “Most good.”
“The best,” I said, and tried the little tart.
“Oh my,” said Mr. Scant, chewing his portion. “Very sweet.”
“I like sweet t
hings,” I said. “I think you’re the only one here who doesn’t.”
“ ‘Sweet’ I can tolerate,” said Mr. Scant. “But I think I have lost all feeling in my mouth.” He took a sip of tea and swilled it about. I laughed, and so did Victor.
I wasn’t sure how he did it, but Mr. Scant had been watching his charge so closely that he ordered our bill a mere moment before the same request was called by another table. Mr. Scant paid in coins, which I had read were called tael, and we stepped out into the warm early-summer’s day just as the party of English and Chinese men behind us were settling their bill. If anything, it would have looked as though they were following us. I tried to surreptitiously look for the mouse-faced man from the sketch, but Mr. Scant did not even glance behind us. Victor got a pat on his scholar’s hat from the owner as we left, which pushed it over his eyes, and he pantomimed being blind. Playing along, I could look back quite naturally as we again traversed the zigzag bridge. At the end, Mr. Scant led us off in the direction of the river.
“Don’t we need to be behind him to follow him?” I asked.
“Walking ahead is a much better way not to arouse suspicion.”
Our walk back toward the Bund took us past a large racing track, which I thought was a park until I saw the enormous grandstand. Only a few yards behind us, some of the men said their good-byes and left the group there, but we didn’t pause. We simply walked on without waiting, and I had to trust Mr. Scant had ensured the mousey man was not one of those who had left the group. Finally, we came to the river. Victor was complaining of the heat by then, so we stopped for a time and went to buy shaved ice with berries from a nearby vendor. Pausing to eat that, we let the man and his remaining companions pass, and then continued after them. I caught sight of him for the first time, with his rounded cheeks and pointed nose.
We kept a cautious distance until the man was alone, which happened while he was on the Bund, near a big clock tower with plentiful gothic ornamentation. As we pressed closer, I made a point of staying close to Mr. Scant, grateful that Victor, energized by his shaved ice, made no complaint when we increased our pace.
The Shanghai Incident Page 10