White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  Betty told Ada to cut her hair and have waves. “Or you look like a Chinese laundry girl.”

  Betty, Martha and Klim didn’t care about Ada’s talents. She felt like gold under the feet of the blind.

  2.

  Before dawn, Portuguese seamen arrived in the Havana. They drank wine and danced a lot. Ada earned sixteen tickets dancing with the same guy who had the most putrid, almost decayed fingernails.

  Ada shivered when he touched her. I hope he’s not infectious?

  The seamen left. Waiters put the upturned chairs on the tables.

  Tousled Betty arrived from upstairs. She threw the keys at the manager. “Happy now?”

  She did that sometimes: would take a dragon upstairs and exhaust him totally. It cost a lot.

  Betty came up to Mario, the only paid male dancer in the Havana. “Dance with me.”

  Mario’s nickname was Bolshevik because he never paid for himself. He had a job in the Small Appliances and Musical Equipment shop, but still regularly came to the Havana. Dancing was his life.

  Carlos Gardel, the greatest Argentinean singer, was blaring from the gramophone Mi Noche Triste, My Sorrowful Night.

  Ada sat resting her tired hands on the table. She watched Mario and Betty dance the tango in the dim light. Beautiful animals, Ada thought, hating and admiring them at the same time.

  “Is your husband picking you up today?” the manager asked.

  Ada started. “He’s not my husband. He’s just—”

  “Whoever is keeping you.”

  “You mean Klim?” Ada interrupted. “It’s me who’s keeping him!”

  “Well, the pimp then—”

  In the Havana, no one knew about love. Money was the only concern.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE AMERICAN JOURNALIST

  1.

  For several weeks, Klim floated around. Martha was right: if one is not an engineer, builder or an opera singer, one is bound to be unemployed in Shanghai. Who’d needed a reporter with half-baked English? Klim could speak it, but to write it was a completely different matter. Without documents, no one would even look at him.

  Klim couldn’t recover his passport lost during the civil war: China and Argentina didn’t have diplomatic relations. The closest Argentinean consulate to him was across the Pacific.

  All his old friends had moved on. Marc Donell, the owner of a tea company where Klim used to work, was his last hope. Klim thought he’d eat humble pie and tell Donell how right he was about Jie Jie.

  Donell lived at the Palace Hotel: it was a cheaper and more convenient option for а white bachelor who didn’t want to worry about meals and cleaning.

  Klim entered the brightly lit foyer. Reputable customers waited for the luggage dispatch, clustered on a lush carpet.

  “Mr. Donell left to Japan yesterday,” a receptionist told Klim.

  This was such bad luck.

  “Did he transfer his business to anyone?” asked Klim.

  “No, he didn’t. He had some misfortune: he sold a horse to the son of the military governor, Lu Yongxiang. The mare threw the boy over and stomped on him. The animal was shot, of course. Lu swore he’d kill Donell. He believes that the poor guy sold him a bad-tempered beast on purpose. You know the Chinese, they see conspiracies everywhere. It’s a bad idea to mess with the governor’s son, so Donell decided to get out of the city before it was too late.”

  “Thank you. I understand,” said Klim.

  “I’m sorry, are you Russian? I noticed your accent,” said a red-haired lady sitting in an armchair. She wore a checkered suit and heavy bracelets on her wrists. The third button on her blouse was undone.

  Klim nodded, “Yes, I am.”

  The lady stretched out her hand. “My name’s Edna Bernard. I work for the English-language newspaper, the North China Daily News.”

  Klim bowed, “Klim Rogov, of the newspaper Commune of Nizhny Novgorod and other remarkable titles.”

  “Are you a journalist?”

  “You said it. And you’re an American?”

  “You caught my accent too?” the lady laughed. “I’m from San Francisco.”

  A hint of pink lace shone for a second between the buttons on her blouse.

  “I need to write an article about the refugees who arrived on the Stark’s ships,” said Edna. “How they live and what they’re hoping for? Unfortunately, I don’t speak Russian. We agreed to meet with one fellow, but he didn’t show up.”

  Klim’s heart pounded. “I can tell you everything and about everyone.”

  2.

  At university, Edna used to be the chairlady of a dozen student committees and the editor-in-chief of a liberal magazine. She was always the first to debate furiously for women’s voting rights and would take frequent trips to Washington where she would stand with placards, demanding freedom, equality and the end to war.

  “But it’s so…unfeminine!” her boyfriends would exclaim.

  Edna laughed in reply. Her tactless friends wouldn’t be able to keep from smiling back. It was difficult to accuse her of a lack of femininity. Edna was as elegant and graceful as an elf from a children’s book. Red-haired, freckled and loud—she knew twenty times more than other girls. She was bound to have unusual views and opinions.

  A world map hung above her desk. On her table were books by Darwin and an autobiography by Emmeline Pankhurst, a British political activist and suffragettes’ leader.

  Edna came to Shanghai to visit her sister. To Edna, the city resembled a pre-historic monster’s egg, miraculously preserved for modern times. People were riding people. A plaque at the entrance to the public garden read: The Gardens are reserved for the foreign community. Dogs are not admitted, which meant, thereby, Dogs and Chinese Not Admitted. The world beyond the egg shell couldn’t bother the white people inside.

  Edna wrote to her mother:

  Men here kiss dames’ hands. No handshakes. They seem to have caught the Chinese attitude of despising women. Of course, they don’t lock them inside or bind their feet, but it is considered that an ideal spouse is a well-mannered lady who likes children and can run a household.

  No one would even consider education or any other intellectual development. Dames think they have to work only if they are not lucky with a husband. They breed children and give them away to nannies, then spend their time in clubs playing cards and gossiping about each other. That’s how our dear Lissie spends her time.

  “I can’t believe you’re not homesick here,” Edna said to her sister.

  Lissie smiled mysteriously in reply. “You’ll get used to it soon. In America, only Mother believes you’re special. Here you’re special only because you’re white. There are not many of us—only several thousand in the city of millions—but the world is revolving around us. If servants want a day off, they tell a tale that one of their non-existent relatives died. They feel ashamed to have their own businesses. Chinese convent pupils ask you for an autograph to keep as a memento from a higher race.”

  Edna decided to leave on the next steamer. But, at a ball in the British Consulate, she met Daniel Bernard, the owner of a tea company, a brilliant orator, a person of keen intellect, a sportsman, a collector of rarities, and a first-class businessman. After meeting him, Edna could not even think of returning to America.

  The wedding was organized at great speed; they didn’t have time to invite their parents as Daniel needed to return to Europe on business.

  With her husband away, Edna soon became bored. Endless loaders crammed the house with wedding gifts from all Daniel’s Shanghai friends. She had to send a Thank You card to every single one: for two weeks Edna labored to write them all.

  “Put scrolls in the storeroom; plant geraniums in the copper basin,” she ordered her servants.

  The housemaid was horrified. “But, Missy, it’s to bathe your first child!”

  “I don’t want children.”

  “Why?”

  The servants were alarmed and watched the mistress with
concern.

  Edna was bored to death. Her sister was never interested in her feelings. Lissie had just received a fresh issue of some fashion magazine and couldn’t think of anything but dresses à la pharaoh.

  “Can you imagine, they just found some kind of royal tomb in Egypt,” she chattered. “I don’t remember the name of the king—Tutunkhamon or Tutankhamen, something like that. It’s the discovery of the century, and they say the Egyptian style will be the most trendy this season.”

  I need a project or I’ll go mad, thought Edna.

  In two weeks time, she’d published her first article in the local newspaper.

  3.

  The office of the North China Daily News astonished Edna. It was different from the hustle and bustle of freethinking university papers. Here they valued talent the most; professionalism was viewed as having a good knowledge of theory, the ability to form a conflict, the skill to create a flow and compose headlines. It was a whole science!

  “I thought you’d have something like a provincial notice board here,” Edna confessed to the editor-in-chief, Mr. Green.

  He laughed. “We’re the best paper in this part of the world.”

  He was flattered by Edna’s excitement. “Start with articles for the Events column,” he advised. “Stay away from analytical stuff for now. If a pianist cannot play scales, he won’t cope with a serious piece. But if you go step by step, then in time, you’ll become quite good.”

  Edna had to overcome her inner resistance: she didn’t want to write about typhoons and the flooded basements of fabric factories. She was captivated by politics, diplomacy, social flaws and the hidden control mechanisms of the colonial world. But Mr. Green was right: every art needed to be mastered from the basics up.

  Edna madly envied Michael Vesborough, the best Shanghai journalist. They often played tennis together. “I’ve a hobby,” he said after the sets, “I collect my articles that were published without my consent in the Chinese press. This is a true sign of success: if the material is good, it’s snatched straight away.”

  Edna sent money to her mother and talked about her plans, “You’ll see, one day, I’ll receive a Pulitzer Prize. Slow and steady wins the race. But I’m determined to find a shortcut to be the first to the finish.”

  Edna rushed around the city to find the material for her newspaper. She worked carefully, weighing every single word, even in such trifling articles as those about paupers’ scuffles. She learned to play with words and lamented the time she wasted running around.

  Klim Rogov had become very handy for her. He spoke Russian and Spanish fluently, good enough English, and even could communicate decently in Shanghainese. He had a bit of experience working as a journalist—exactly what she needed. If he could provide her with the news, she would advance much faster. Plus, she liked his personality: he was charming and smart.

  When Edna started showing him the ropes, it turned out that Klim knew as much about newspapers as Mr. Green did. Moreover, he had information about other papers in Shanghai: what circulation they had and which printing companies they used. He knew the names of editors- in-chief, leading editors-at-large, and who was competing with whom.

  All this did not match up with his shabby appearance and obvious lack of money. Edna thought that, if he could write in English and had some recommendations, he wouldn’t spend a day without a job.

  “They didn’t even let me into your editorial office,” confessed Klim. “Well…nor at any of the other papers.”

  “Bring me the materials on your Russians, and we’ll see what can be done,” Edna said. She suddenly realized she wanted to help him.

  CHAPTER 8

  RUSSIAN REFUGEES

  1.

  On Avenue Edward VII, an antique dealer told Klim that Shanghai pawnshop owners were making a killing off the Russians. The refugees kept pawning their valuables: wedding rings, fur collars, even icons and baptismal crosses.

  “They’re really struggling,” the old man said shaking his head. “The other day, a woman smashed the shop window of my neighbor’s pastry store. He called the police, and it turned out this dame had two little children. They hadn’t eaten for three days. The mother saw cakes and grabbed a brick.”

  Stench and dirt smothered the enclosure around the Church of the Holy Epiphany, the only Russian temple in Shanghai. A soldier from an Orthodox charity squad was ladling soup from a large barrel. A queue stretched across the church yard, disappearing up the street.

  “There are thousands of Russians here already,” an elderly cavalry captain said. He pulled a spoon out of his boot and gave it a wipe on his shirt. “Every day, there are more of our people coming in by train from the north.”

  The refugees would eat their food sitting on the ground, sharing hopes and news.

  “They sent a telegram to Australia asking to ship us over there,” said a nurse in a white headscarf.

  “In your dreams, sweetie,” the captain replied. “Aussies have special immigration laws: those who cannot support themselves are not allowed entry.”

  The refugees used a chemist’s scales to weigh bars of laundry soap: one tiny piece per person. There were queues for everything: to use a bucket and to dry laundry on the washing line.

  A cart drove up to the fence and a neatly dressed fellow jumped out. “Ten people needed at the slaughter-house for loading guts. Anyone keen?”

  “Me! Me! I am!” clamored many voices at once.

  2.

  The situation at the Russian Consulate was no better. Mothers with children, unattended wounded in dirty bandages, tired Cossacks—all crammed into the building and yard around it. Going upstairs, Klim ran into a disheveled receptionist.

  “The Consulate is closed!” she shouted to Klim. “We haven’t received any money since 1917. We help where we can.”

  Noticing two soldiers entering a lavatory, she roared, “No! Where are you two heading? Don’t you dare wash your foot wraps in the sink! Or I’ll put a lock on the door!”

  The soldiers dropped their heads low. “We just wanted to wash our hands.”

  “Don’t you dare wash your hands in our lavatory! It’s not a bathhouse here!”

  The receptionist ran away.

  “What a mean little thing,” a priest said, resting on a windowsill. “Cannot spare water for Christians.”

  “Father Seraphim?” Klim exclaimed. “You’re here, too?”

  The priest’s robe was battered and his boots agape.

  “We’re cursed in Shanghai. I saw our bishop, Simon, and asked him whether I could serve. I’m desperate and need the work. But all he could do was to sign me up as a priest on-call, which is totally useless. Oh, I’d do anything: plumbing, electricity—whatever—just to earn some money.” Father Seraphim began to cough. “I went to cut wood yesterday— without even a bishop’s blessing. They said they’ll give me some bread with tea for it. But it started pouring with rain, and I caught a cold.”

  “How is your Matushka?” asked Klim.

  “Healthy, thank God. She found a nanny job and looks after children: two- and three-year-olds. I’m so happy my Natalia found a place. They pay her a salary; she even has her own room under a stairway.”

  “Where do you sleep?”

  Father Seraphim just waved his hand. “There’s a printing house nearby. They pile waste paper at the back yard, and I dig myself in there.” He started coughing again.

  “Come with me,” said Klim. “You can’t sleep on the street—you’re sick.”

  3.

  Using the heel of her shoe, Ada punched two nails into the wall. She stretched a wire across the room and hung an orange curtain to stake her area. Now, she had her personal world there: her books, dried bread on pieces of paper, and a pillow with a portrait of an Argentinean singer Carlos Gardel. She’d found the gorgeous pillow in a Chinese market and spent all her tips to buy it.

  The letter to Auntie Claire was on its way to the States, and Ada was looking forward to the reply. The aunt
ie would confirm Ada Marshall was a real American by her father; she would invite her to visit and send some money. And Klim would be stuck in the House of Hope forever.

  The hatch in the floor flew open. Ada heard Klim’s voice, “Climb up here, Father. I will get a samovar going.”

  She pulled the curtain. “Are you having guests?”

  Dirty Father Seraphim, his beard tangled, said, “ Hello little one.”

  Klim offered him a seat on their floor mat. “It’ll work out. You’ll have a proper rest and get healthy. Ada, he’ll sleep here tonight.”

  Ada couldn’t kick Klim out: he just wouldn’t leave. He commanded her life and her money. He brought in strangers without asking her. She was just an empty space to him.

  “I’m the one who pays for the room,” she shouted. “Great! Let’s bring all of them in here! The whole street!”

  Father Seraphim sniffed. “I’d better go.”

  “Stay, Father.” Klim pressed firmly on his shoulder. “Where will you go with a fever? Ada, stop it! Don’t be silly.”

  “I will not allow you to treat me like that! I pay for your food and your—”

  The floor hatch jumped from a kick. It was Chen knocking from beneath with a broomstick.

  “Mr. Klim, please, beat your woman! Her screams annoy neighbors!”

  Ada drew the curtain closed, cried her little heart out, then washed her face and changed into her dancing dress.

  “I don’t need your company,” she snapped when Klim started to get ready to see her off. “I’ll get there myself!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  They walked out strangers. Ada was silent, her hands stuffed deep in her pockets. But she was the first to cave in. “Father Seraphim eats like an elephant. Who’s going to feed him?”

  “I’ve found a job,” Klim replied. “Tomorrow I’ll bring some money.”

  “Have you thought where you’re going to sleep? The Father takes up half the room.”

  “Listen to this story,” Klim interrupted. “Once upon a time, there lived a wealthy merchant. Half of his income he spent on his neighbors: he would buy a horse for one, fix the house for another. One day a king called for him and asked, ‘Why do you give away your money? It’s only a loss for you.’ The merchant answered, ‘If I’m rich all by myself, then my neighbors will steal from me. But if everyone around is fed and happy, then there’s no need for theft. Moreover, my lord, with the other rich, I can do business, but what can I take from the poor?’”