Trembling, the boy got out of the water. Felix motioned to the remnants of the bowls, “Take your stuff. What did they want from you? Money?”
The boy looked at him wide-eyed, not understanding a word.
A whistle sounded from the other side of the stream and, in a minute, Chinese policemen entered the crowd. “You! White one! Hands up!”
Felix was so surprised that he forgot all his English words. A moment later, he was handcuffed and pushed to go forward, “Move!”
The gathered crowd cheered Felix as he was led away. Suddenly, a stone struck him on the back of the head.
3.
Felix was transported to the police office in a black van with trellised windows. The working day had already started: couriers scurried and phones buzzed. Two huge badgers were wandering between tables, snorting and tucking their noses under people’s knees, probably begging for food.
The offenders rounded up over the night were crowded behind the bars. Along with Felix, the hefty policemen shoved in a tall Chinese dressed in an expensive suit smeared with blood, a countrywoman of unclear origin and a Korean girl with the white powdered face.
After a sleepless night and the blow, Felix’s head felt like it was splitting apart. He squeezed his temples, resting his elbows on his knees. Drag me wherever you please, do what you need to do. A Chinese guard appeared and motioned to Felix, “Come.”
Behind a dirty screen with scraps of embroidery, a man sat at a desk. It was the same guy Felix had seen at the Three Pleasures, the grim person in a checkered cap and wrinkled coat.
“Sit down,” mumbled the man in English and raised his eyes to the on-duty, “What’s with him?”
“Here’s the report Mr. Collor.”
Collor glanced through the paper. “What’s that? Hurled laymen, especially the Chinese, so that they fall onto each other and moaned. When are you gonna learn to write a report properly?”
The guard hastily explained that he had nothing to do with the crime and that Felix was brought here by other people who wrote the report.
“Go away!” rumbled Collor.
He stood up and pulled his braces with his thumbs. “Those narrow- eyes deserved every bit of it. So, why did you fight with them anyway?”
Dull pain made Felix speechless.
“Because of a gal?” Collor asked.
Felix shook his head.
“Okay, you don’t have to tell me. I know those scumbags, they cover each other all the time. They try to rob a white person and if he fights back they call their friends in the police. According to the papers, it’s you who started the fight.”
Collor tore the report to pieces, pulled a key out of a drawer and opened Felix’s handcuffs.
“Let’s go have a drink,” he said. “I had a night shift and haven’t had a drop in my throat since last evening.”
Not believing his good luck, Felix followed him. The office staff eyed them balefully.
“Gawk as much as you want, people,” Collor sneered. “I’ll be at Peter’s establishment,” he barked to the on-duty’s face. “In case of emergency, send someone over.”
Collor took Felix round the corner, where in a dark basement was a bar with a battered counter and tall bar stools. He sat down, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped first his hands and then the counter in front of him.
“Beer for two, but only out of bottles,” he ordered.
The bartender nodded, his white over-sleeves flashed and in a blink of an eye a big frosty mug appeared in front of Felix. Collor shoved his nose into the foam of his own drink and drew air in with his nostrils.
“I love this smell most of all, no rose can beat it,” he said. “But when it comes to beer, mate, it has to be out of a bottle. They always stir crap in kegs.”
Collor swallowed beer greedily and his Adam’s apple moved up and down. Having quenched his thirst, he again looked intently at Felix.
“What’s your name?”
“Cadet Rodionov.”
“Russian? … What brought you to those slums? Hey, more beer!” shouted Collor, without waiting for an answer. “I hate those night shifts. People are idiots: one will lose his broomstick, another has a canary bird that stopped singing, and all of them need to call the police.”
Felix smiled. “I also don’t like night shifts,” he said, carefully choosing his words in English.
Collor pressed his cheek to his palm. “What’s your service?”
“Watchman.”
“Lousy stuff. At least we never get bored at our place. So you were coming back from work and a couple of narrow-eyes started harassing you. They thought, white man probably from the dances, probably drunk…but you kick the crap out of them, right? Show me your fists.”
Collor examined Felix’s hands as a connoisseur would examine a horse’s hooves. Feeling embarrassed, Felix didn’t know where to look. Collor jumped from one subject to another as he talked. First, he told
Felix about apartment burglaries, then changed to the badgers that live in the police station. Police Commissioner McEuen had brought them from his hunting trip when they were tiny and just left them at the office.
“Mister Johnny Collor!” A Chinese courier rushed into the bar. “Mister Johnny Collor! A robbery—they just called.”
Collor jumped to his feet. “Peter, write it on me! Come,” he commanded to Felix. “I like the cut of your jib. I’m not allowed to hire you full-time, but you can be signed on as an informer—you’ll get some beer money.”
CHAPTER 24
DON’T VOTE FOR AMERICA!
1.
Martha planned to receive the rest of the sum from her old friend Robert Wayer. She had arranged to meet him at the stables since stacks of hay, harnesses and sawdust put him in his most enthusiastic mood.
The grooms usually talked to white gentlemen with a mixture of politeness and loathing, but they considered Mr. Wayer a person who actually understood what life was all about.
Robert would listen to their stories about ponies’ life, about herds from Mongolia and corrupt horse traders, and then asked his chauffeur to get a sack of apples out of a car. He would walk to every horse stall cutting apples with his pocketknife. “My big-eyed beauty,” he would whisper, stroking a warm mare’s cheek.
All the ponies in his stable had names after heads of the foreign states: Lenin of Russia, Harding of the United States, Ebert of Germany and so on. There were not enough female names for mares and he called them Italy, Spain and Japan. When they won at the races, Robert would jokingly make political forecasts. His gentlemen friends from the Shanghai Club laughed so hard that tall wine glasses clinked hanging over the famous Long Bar, the longest in Asia.
After galloping three miles, Robert walked into the stables, hot and exited as if he’d just won a fist-fight.
“Gosh, Martha! You’re here already?”
She hugged him, but didn’t get to business straight away giving him time to share his riding accomplishments.
“I’m so impressed with the stamina of this breed,” Robert roared. “My Lenin only weighs seven hundred and fifty pounds, but he can drag a person of my physique through two chukkers a day, three to four times a week. And he’s still as strong as an ox. Do you know where they breed Mongolian ponies? In Mongolia! There’s a steppe there and nothing damn else. All the local horses eat is dry grass and sticks. And when they bring them here, the poor things need four months to get used to proper hay.”
Martha listened to him and smiled. They’d known each other since Robert was a curly-haired young man with pink cheeks. He was so awkward and shy that he didn’t dare choose a girl when he first came to her brothel. But Martha noticed his expensive pants with cuffs and the trendiest Santa Cruz-style collar—she could smell money on him. And it was also obvious no one cared for Mr. Wayer: his hat didn’t match his coat and his gloves were of the same color, but of a different style. He had a wonderful English umbrella with a redwood handle, but it was in shocking condition
with one tip of the rib out of its socket and the fabric covered in rusty smears as if the owner never dried it properly.
Martha nursed Robert as a nanny would care for a child. Following her orders, her girls were particularly tender to him: they talked to him, smiled and stroked his shoulder, without making him too excited.
Young Wayer began to feel right at home at Martha’s. He would discus business, women and Mongolian ponies with her. When Robert got married, Martha did him a priceless favor. His dumb wife, a young American, had no idea what her husband was up to at nights and for two weeks after the wedding, she would kiss Robert on his cheek and wish him good night, locking herself in her bedroom. Robert didn’t dare ask Lissie for any intimacy. Her mother stayed in America, so Martha was the only person who could give a bedroom education to his wife.
One day, he brought Martha to his house, introduced her to Lissie as an old acquaintance and left on some pretext. Martha watched Lissie: this young lady was exactly the type of woman whose husbands would flock to her brothel, leaving their huge icy houses for her warm and jolly Havana.
In an hour, Martha became good friends with Lissie.
“My dear,” she said to Mrs. Wayer, “a man wants more than starchy shirts from a marriage.”
“Yes, I know,” Lissie nodded, “he likes when his wife can cook. But I consider it unnecessary when a house is full of servants.”
Martha decided on a different approach. She pulled a bottle of whiskey out of her bag and made Mrs. Wayer so drunk that poor Lissie fell on a sofa barely conscious.
Martha put on her hat and poked her head into the other room where Robert was waiting, chain smoking.
“Go, have your treasure,” she said.
Martha knew Robert wouldn’t stay in Lissie’s bedroom for long. In a month, he was back in the upper rooms of her establishment.
“I’m thinking of taking Italy to a polo match,” Robert said, stretching his hands forward so the groom could pour water on them. “If she fails, I’ll sell her to Aulman. She’ll throw him off in no time. What a laugh that would be!”
Martha gently touched his elbow. “Robert, I need your help.”
It turned out, he hadn’t heard about the fire in the Havana. That day he had received a new pony and spent all his time with it. He hadn’t even read about the accident in the newspapers.
“Burned to the ground?” exclaimed Robert. His eyebrows frowned and his neck became crimson. “This is horrible, Martha! Why didn’t you come straight to me? Where do you live now?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Martha pulled a piece of paper out of her bag. ”Look here, I have all the calculations: premises, renovation and kitchen. I don’t want you to risk too much on me, so I’ve already got half the sum. I know you’d probably need to ask your father and somehow explain it all to him. Forty percent of the income will be okay for you?”
Robert squeezed her hand. “You should have come to me right away! I was in town, and you knew where to find me. Don’t you trust me at all?”
“I just love you,” Martha laughed. “Those who you love, you try to keep from all this.”
“My God! Don’t worry about my father—I’ll use my ponies as collateral. He won’t know anything.”
Martha gasped, “You’ll pledge them for me?”
“Those who you love, you must help.”
2.
Captain Hugh Wayer, the Deputy Police Commissioner, entered his son’s house at exactly eight in the morning. A maid hanging around the gates noticed his safari helmet and her urgent calls alerted the house. There was a sound of heavy heeled boots on the porch, and a tall, straight silhouette in a uniform covered in medals flashed in the corridor mirror. Submissive hands took his helmet and cane.
“Breakfast,” Hugh commanded as he threw open the doors to the dining room. “And tell the masters to come here immediately. I’m waiting.”
This caused a frightened rush in the kitchen. In ten minutes, sizzling fried eggs, sunny-side-up, two strips of bacon and fried tomatoes with potato cakes appeared on the table. Coffee was served in a patterned pot. Everything was perfect, so Hugh wouldn’t be upset.
While waiting, he called his son’s butler, Shao, and asked him about Brittany. The servant trembled and tried to avoid the old man’s eyes. After Hugh learned his granddaughter loved her new Russian governess, he made a wry mouth and cracked his knuckles. Shao bent even lower—most apologetically.
“All is play for them,” mumbled Hugh. “They are going to make a flirt out of the girl, just like the mother.”
Shao agreed, but in such a way that neither the guest, nor his mistress could reproach him afterwards. At last, his turmoil ended as Robert entered the dining room.
“Ah, finally, here you are,” shouted Hugh. “Who are you going to vote for today? America or Japan?” He was keen to discuss the upcoming meeting on foreign affairs at the Shanghai Club. “It has to be Japan; that’s our partner in the Far East!” He slammed his palm on the table so hard that the lid on the coffee pot jumped, and Shao sucked in his tummy even tighter.
Robert didn’t mind Japan. He smoked his cigar peacefully, his face showing genuine respect.
“America is just hiding its uselessness through Christian mercy and wants to give Shanghai to the Chinese!” roared Hugh. “Great! Give everything to the narrow-eyes. In a month, there won’t be a stone left in the city—it’ll become a zoo. I’m just wondering where the Americans are going to sell their goods?”
The British government couldn’t decide which ally to choose to bring the Far East mess to an end, and the Shanghai Club decision could become a serious political turning point, supporting either a pro-American or pro-Japanese party.
Lissie appeared in the doorway, opened her fan and fanned herself for a long time, watching the Captain with disdain.
“Are you okay with the fact that your beloved Japanese are to some extend narrow-eyes as well?” she asked.
The Captain’s jaw twitched as if he was attempting to bite on something hard. He pretended that he didn’t hear his daughter-in-law. “We should not ally ourselves with sneaky socialists, but with an empire capable of showing the Chinese what for,” he continued. “We’ll give the North of China to Japan, and Great Britain will get the center and South.”
Lissie sat sideways on her chair and put one leg over the other. Her embroidered shoe rocked on her big toe. From time to time she would yawn, adding more fuel to Hugh’s fury.
After breakfast was finished, Robert made meaningful glances at his watch and said he was needed at the office, but would definitely come to the committee meeting at two.
“So don’t vote for America,” Hugh growled again. “If you do, I’m not your father anymore.”
“Please, vote, or I’m not your wife,” said Lissie, with a sweet sneer.
When Robert was gone, she ordered more coffee. A soundless battle began between her and Hugh: who would stay longer at the table without speaking?
The Captain was the first to break the silence, “I think you should know that yesterday I rewrote my will.”
Lissie didn’t even move her head.
“A piece of land in the French Concession, shares of British American Tobacco and Bentley Motor Limited,” enumerated Hugh, relishing each word, “a stable of thirty heads, two sires-champions…”
He carried on for quite a while naming everything he had managed to amass. His wealth wasn’t incredible, but substantial.
Hugh watched Lissie out the corner of his eye. But without his glasses, he couldn’t really tell the effect his words were making.
“In London, I have a house of forty apartments, the profit of which is invested into six percent silver obligations monthly.” And then he drove in his last nail, “But from all of this, you, my dear, will receive nothing.”
Lissie stretched across the table and took a gray hair off Hugh’s uniform. “You’ve started to lose your hair,” she said good-naturedly. “Drink more milk—it could help.”
/> “Don’t palaver me!” Hugh snapped, but still managed to regain his calm. “You know, my dear, I am a kind-hearted and fair man. While I’m alive, I’ll look after you as your poor Robert doesn’t have a penny. But unfortunately, neither he, nor you, nor my granddaughter Brittany will inherit a thing. And it’s entirely your fault.”
Lissie took an apple and bit it with a loud crunch. “You know what your problem is, sir?” She continued with her mouth full, “You live in a very poor fantasy where you think everything can be bought. You come here in the morning with a prepared speech, all primped up with your medals, like a poodle at a dog show. And what can you buy in exchange for all your riches? My respect? Or maybe someone’s love? You’ll die and the only person who’ll grieve over your bright smile will be your dentist. Oh, and by the way, don’t use him anymore, your dentures creak as if they’re rusted.”
Hugh stood up. “I apologize, but I have to tell you honestly: you must see a doctor and then go to a spa resort. I’ll talk to your husband.”
He walked out the dining room faster than was appropriate.
3.
Hugh Wayer spoilt everything. When he came around, everyone felt restless and uncomfortable as though he had fed them rotten fish. Only once he’d gone did Ada have the courage to go downstairs and take her purse from the coat rack. Meeting Hugh eye-to-eye was a huge fear of hers.
Through a narrow window at the doors, she noticed a man rushing to the porch. He wore an elegant suit and carried a cane under his arm.
Ada opened the door. “Good morning, sir. How can I help—” she stopped half–sentence. It was the same gentleman who had carried her out of the burning Havana.
Occasionally, she thought about him, when she wanted to dream about someone strong and fearless, someone who was ready to run into the flames to save her. But it was unlikely her savior would think romantically about Ada Marshall. Surely, he believed, he’d saved a prostitute who didn’t deserve a minute of his attention.
White Shanghai Page 18