by Buzz Harcus
Finally Mr. Helmstrund called a halt over the PA system. The allotment for Shanghai had been unloaded. The hatches could be replaced and secured.
The men cheered at the order. Quickly the huge, bulky hatch covers were replaced, secured and made watertight. It was 1600 when the last hatch was secured. On the dock, the last truckload of grain slowly disappeared through a gate as it headed into the city.
A hungry band of men descended upon the galley where, true to her word, Osa had prepared fresh sweet rolls and fresh coffee, a treat for them when the work was done.
"Attention," the loudspeaker blared across the galley and throughout the ship. " Ve haf been given special permission by der port autority for der personnel of der Nurad to go ashore in Shanghai. Dose members vishing to go ashore vill please report to der bridge immediately for passes."
A loud whoop rang out as a scramble of bodies rushed for the exit. Harry laughed at the mob scene so reminiscent of the Marines aboard Breckinridge when they heard they had shore leave in Shanghai. Older now, and, hopefully, much wiser, he decided to take his time. He sat back and slowly devoured the last jellyroll, then washed it down with coffee. The room had quieted. Glancing about, he saw he was the only one there. "I guess now is the time to get your pass, Martin," he told himself. Wiping his lips, he dumped his dirty cup and headed for the main deck and then the bridge.
The corridor was jammed with chattering, laughing, happy crewmembers returning from the bridge flashing their passes. Osa passed him talking to a couple of men, telling them of the many purchases she wanted to make in Shanghai.
Harry felt he could have been invisible. She stared right past him as though he didn't exist. "Shit," he exclaimed as he stepped on deck. "I won't go into town. It'd be my dumb luck to run into her."
He walked along the deck finally coming to a stop, resting against the railing, admiring the commanding view he had of the city. The sun was setting lower. Evening clouds were moving in, bellies dark and heavy laden with moisture. It might snow tonight, he thought. Down along the dock, laborers were scurrying about. He smiled as he watched them. What was that old saying, they all look alike? From his vantage point, they did.
The lights of Shanghai were beginning to blink on. Harry breathed deeply, his nostrils assailed by a variety of odors. Shanghai's air was so different, a blending of various scents: oil, smoke from ships and chimneys, from small cook stoves on sampans, from a thousand different homes, shops and restaurants and the pungent fragrance of mysterious wares housed in the many warehouses along the teeming shoreline. The scents tantalized, enticed. It was the same Shanghai of thirty years ago. He recalled the excitement that flooded his very being at that time, the same excitement coursing through his body right now.
"Hell!" he exclaimed slapping the railing hard with his bare hands "You only go around once in this old world, Martin. You may never get the chance to walk the streets of this damned city again. By god, you're going ashore! Look out, Shanghai, Harry Martin's coming ashore!"
Mr. Helmstrund was just leaving the bridge as Harry arrived.
"Got any passes left?" Harry grinned.
Sigmund shook his head no but the grin starting to break across his face was a dead giveaway, much to Harrys' relief. "Yah. Just vun left. I vas going to bring it to you. I know you vanted to go ashore."
"Thanks, Sigmund. I appreciate it. I guess I've still got the spirit of adventure burning in me, got to see what the old city's like today, thirty years later."
"Haf a good time, Harry, but behafe yourself."
Harry grinned. "You bet." He took the pass and skipped down the steps heading for his cabin and a shower, shave and dressing for a night on the town. Thoughts of laying a beautiful, dark- eyed, black haired Chinese whore blocked out any thought of Osa the iceberg.
Chapter 46
LIBERTY IN SIN CITY
Harry inspected himself in the mirror. After all these weeks at sea it was hard to believe the clean-shaven, well-groomed man looking back at him was really him. It felt different being reasonably dressed after living in work clothes for so long. He checked out his black dress slacks and black flannel shirt again. Even his dress shoes felt light, awkward, after heavy workshoes. He looked down several times to assure himself he was wearing shoes.
Flaring the collar of his shirt, he held up the heavy gold pendent to his neck, then hesitated. Naw, he thought after a moment, with a subtle shake of his head, Sandy would have liked it. Maybe he was getting a little too old for pendants and bracelets. He'd let it pass for now. Dropping the pendent back in his dresser drawer, he reached beyond it to a pair of rolled up socks. Unrolling them, he took out a roll of bills. Peeling off four fifties, a couple of twenties a few ten spots and several singles, he balled the rest back into the socks and stuffed them to the back of the drawer. Good old American greenbacks ought to pay for a hot night in Shanghai.
Slipping on his old leather jacket, he grabbed a pair of warm leather gloves, stuffed them in his pocket, picked up his pass from the desktop and headed for the main deck humming to himself.
Evening was the nicest time of the day, he thought, as he watched the late slanting rays of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover, reflecting off the dull, dirty windows of several taller buildings. He shivered. It was chilly. Hurriedly, he made his way down the gangway and headed for the guardhouse by the main gate. He showed his pass to a Chinese soldier with a burp gun casually slung over his shoulder and was waved through.
Harry stood just outside the gate and looked about him. No rickshaws? Not even a pedicab. What gives, he wondered. The street was crowded with people, and as he looked at them closer, he saw they all seemed to be dressed alike in blue and black Mao jackets, even the women. No chatter, no hustle, no "Hey, sailor, no momma, no poppa, need money, can get you a deal, got my sister Nothing. And not one damned rickshaw in sight! He'd have to hoof it up to the Bund on foot. And any action, he thought, well, just looking at the female population wrapped up tight in high-collared Mao jackets was not really a turn on. Hell, there had to be a place for action, even in Communist China. Sin couldn't have been outlawed; where there was a will, there was a way. He was sure of that.
Thirty years, and a lifetime earlier, he'd taken a rickshaw to the Enlisted Men's Club in Shanghai. That turned into a hell of an experience when the screaming rickshaw boys suddenly surrounded him asking for more money. Thankfully, an MP Sergeant had come to his rescue, beating his way through the crowd with a billy club. This time he wasn't the "boot" Marine wet behind the ears. No. He was ready.
It didn't bother him that most of the crew had headed ashore an hour earlier. The last time he'd been in Shanghai, he'd felt really rushed tagging along with his buddies, having to see as much as possible, to get to the Enlisted Men's Club, the shops, everything before liberty ended. This time he planned to shop, to look around, to enjoy himself, not rushing helter-skelter through the city. If Shanghai hadn't changed too drastically under Communist rule, he might even find himself enjoying sexual gratification in the arms of a dark-eyed Chinese whore. The thought excited him. Shanghai; he mulled the name several times. It was exciting to be here.
He started off walking at a fairly brisk pace making his way through the teeming crowds, watchful for pickpockets, inhaling the smell of garlic and onions, dodging a sea of bikes, older model cars and the press of people as he made his way along the Bund. Before long, he headed in toward Nanking Road. Here, he took time to windowshop, to browse in several small, obscure shops, stopping to check the prices on embroidered jackets, carved ivory, jade and native made bric-a-brac. Pickings were slim. Although the gates to China had been open for a while, there was still a limited supply of "touristy-type" goods.
He wandered along listening to the sing-song sound of the Chinese thronging the streets, occasionally recognizing a familiar word, smiling back at the faces who smiled curiously at him. For the most part, the people were dressed in the traditional, distinctive, high-collared blue and black jackets
and black trousers. He noticed that the younger men looked at his dress with a twinge of envy, wanting to get out of the traditional look and into something modern. American, English or even French or Italian.
Most women had the short-clipped haircuts, unattractive clothes, and unattractive shoes. They wore a bored, beaten down look, seldom glancing up, never smiling. Harry caught an occasional one who would look up at him. He’d smile, wink if she was attractive. She might offer an embarrassed smile in return but kept on going.
After several blocks he heard the distinct sound of English spoken, profane though it was, it was still English. The profanity came from inside a small building. He poked his head inside. A bar! Several people were seated at the bar, a few more scattered about the room at run-down tables. It was a mix of Asians, a couple of tough-looking sailors speaking in Russian, but no females. Harry settled in on the one empty stool at the bar. A bleary-eyed older man glanced up as Harry sat down. "'What'll it be mate?" he asked. "Old Cheng Wang just got himself some good old American beer. Millers."
"Millers," said Harry. "Good beer." The old Chinaman behind the bar quickly popped the top on a bottle and set it on the bar.
It surprised Harry that they had Millers. Trade's improving, he commented to himself. The beer tasted good. The last time he could recall having a cold Millers in China was in Peiping at the Wagon Litz Hotel on a hot, sultry July day back in 1948. It was just as good now as it was then.
"You off that damned big Swedish grain ship?" the bleary-eyed one asked.
"Yes," Harry replied.
The man looked askance at him for several seconds. "You speak good English for a Swede," he grinned, taking a swig of beer.
"I'm American. Signed on for the trip."
Again, the man looked at him for several seconds, and then asked, "Ever been to Shanghai before?"
"Yeah. Thirty years ago. Marine Corps," Harry replied taking a deep swallow of beer.
"Marines? Hey, I was a Marine once, back in the thirties. Got busted from Staff Sergeant down to buck private. I had my time in so I got myself discharged here, worked for a big oil company. Pensioned out here." He waved his hand around indicating the room. "Names Johnson, Algernon P. Johnson. Call me Al." He reached out and shook Harry's hand. "Stupid place to retire. Sad. Japs. Nationalists. Communists. I been through all that crap. Even got re-programmed by the Commies. Hell, I should write a book about all the crap I've been through in the past thirty years. Pure crap!"
"Harry Martin," Harry offered. "What happened to all the rickshaws? I can't find one, not even one."
Al looked at him, and then smiled showing terribly stained teeth, a couple broken off. "An you ain't gonna find any in town either. The Commies eliminated them, said it was a rich man's burden on the proletariat. How about that?"
"Sounds like the town is buttoned down tight," Harry said. "What do you do for action?"
Al grinned. "Hell, I've got me a Chinese wife, five kids and twelve damned bratty grandkids running around. I got action, even at my age.
"The good old days are gone," he said with a deep sigh. "Back then we hung out at Jimmy's Place, swing band, lots of girls, good looking white Russians and slick Chinese, the old Imperial Club, the racetrack, all gone. Commies came down hard on sin. Now, if yer looking for action," and he leaned closer, breathing a whiskey breath in Harry's face, "ya gotta know yer way around this town. Underground, we call it."
Harry leaned back taking a deep breath. "What's the underground?"
"You got to know who's working the action. Now, I could get you a couple of whores if that's what you want," Al said kind of sizing Harry up, "but I think you want the good stuff. There's a hotel down the street, big old British run joint and I understand they've got some pretty good stuff, pretty pricey, though."
Harry listened, not saying a word. The guy was probably stringing him along, maybe going to put the touch on him.
"From one Marine to another," Al said. "You go to that hotel. Good food. Great girls. I know for a fact the local bigwigs are getting paid off under the table not to screw up the deal for the British. Those damned Englishmen have already made great inroads into trade with China. Locals don't want to upset the apple cart." He winked at Harry. "If you know what I mean."
"Thanks," Harry said, and slugged down the rest of his beer. He threw a tenspot on the counter. Al grabbed it, stuck it into his pocket and threw several wrinkled Communist notes on the counter. "Enjoy. Semper Fi!" Al called after him.
One thing became notably apparent as Harry continued his walk; no pimps hawking. By now he should have been accosted by no less than twenty pimps selling their sisters, wives, aunts, mothers, cousins, you name it, and all for a modest price. Tonight there hadn't been one pimp. The thought crept into his mind that the Communist government might have really cracked down hard on prostitution to the point of eliminating it. Damn!
His stomach growled. He had to find a place to eat. But this time, he wanted to find a restaurant that was different, ornate, old-fashioned, harking back to the pre-war period of the late thirties and early forties, the sophistication of the international settlement, and the rich foreigners with all their money. It had to be something that he could fondly recall in later life as one of the highlights of his last visit to Shanghai.
As he turned a corner heading down one of the narrow streets lined with quaint shops, he heard an argument taking place in one of the shops. He started to pass by, but there was no mistaking one of the voices: Osa. He stopped to listen, amused. She was pleading with someone about the price of an article of clothing. It was obvious
by the tone of her voice that she was losing.
Harry poked his head in the shop door. "Need help?" he asked, not wanting to because of who it was, but compassionate to a fellow crewmember.
Osa whirled around, a look of exasperation on her face. At seeing it was Harry, she wailed, "Oh, Harry, vot should I do? I vant to buy dis silk blouse und nightie set but he vants too much money. I von't pay tirty dollars. No!" Her eyes wore a pleading look. "Vot should I do?"
Harry noted the silky garments she held before her, but his gaze was more directed to Osa. Under her open royal blue, fingertip coat she wore a smartly tailored powder blue suit accentuated by a white blouse with a flared collar, and offset by a strand of expensive pearls. High-heeled pumps accentuated her long, slim legs, but he knew they weren't worth a damn as walking shoes in this town.
"Vot should I do?" she implored.
"Haggle," he replied. "That's the way you buy in the Orient. "You haggle."
"Haggle?" she asked, confused. "Haggle?"
"Yeah. Haggle." He stepped inside the shop moving next to her. Taking the items from her he turned to the shopkeeper who had been standing, watching. "How much?"
"Thirty dollars American," the shopkeeper replied with a toothy grin. "Good deal."
"Too much!" Harry said with a shake of his head. "I'll give you five dollars and no more."
"No!" the merchant said with a sharp shake of his head, the smile suddenly gone. "Is worth much more."
"No they aren't," Harry countered holding up the material. "Pretty, yes, but skimpy, won't last long. Hell, it'll probably fall apart after the first wearing —"
"No! Is good material, finest silk. I buy myself. Is very good material."
Harry held the material up to the light. The silk was practically transparent, a white long sleeved blouse and wispy little white nightie and matching panties. "Seven-fifty for the whole lot - blouse and
nightie," Harry said dropping the items in a heap on the counter. "Seven-fifty."
The merchant hesitated. Osa watched wide-eyed.
"Twenty dollars," the merchant countered, the inflection of his voice changing, aware that he was up against a seasoned haggler.
Harry sensed victory in his grasp. He turned to Osa and winked. "Open up your purse and show me your money," he said.
She hesitated, perplexed at his request.
"Do it if you wa
nt those items," he commanded in a whisper.
She opened her purse and dug out her wallet, opened it and showed the contents to him.
Harry shook his head turning back to the merchant. "You might as well forget the sale. All she's got is an American ten dollar bill and carfare back to the ship." He pushed the two items across the counter. "Sorry," he added, a regretful tone to his voice.
"Harry -" Osa started to protest, but he froze her with a sharp glance.
"No. American ten dollars is fine, ten is okay," the merchant beamed. "For our American friend and his lady, I cut my price. Ten dollars. Okay?"
Harry shrugged. "I'll ask the lady." He turned back to Osa winking at the flabbergasted woman. "Is ten dollars okay?" he asked.
"Y-yes," she stammered.
Harry reached into her billfold carefully slipping out a ten dollar bill from between two twenties, and handed it to the merchant.
"The lady is happy with her business transaction," he said. The merchant beamed his toothy smile as he took the money, examined it, and quickly stuffed it in his pocket. He placed the silky material in a rice paper bag that had the shop's name boldly emblazoned on the side, taking time, as he did, to slip one of his business cards in as well, an added gesture of friendship.
"Thank you. You have made the lady very happy," Harry commented, returning the smile. He picked up the package and handed it to Osa.
"Yes. Tank you," she said to the shopkeeper, "und you, too," she added turning to Harry, but he was already walking out of the shop.
Helping Osa was not on his itinerary of things to do in Shanghai. He was getting hungrier by the minute. He started down the street at a quickened pace. Somewhere in this town there had to be a place, a unique, different place where he could partake of a sumptuous meal and revel in its grandiose atmosphere.
"Harry! Vait! Please," Osa called after him, running to catch up. "Tank you so much for, how you say it, haggling for my clothes."