by David Peace
But Jones just laughed and, for the second time that day, said, ‘Welcome to Shanghai, Ryūnosuke. Welcome to China …’
‘Thank you,’ said Ryūnosuke. ‘But I refuse to believe Shanghai is China.’
‘Perhaps not yet,’ said Jones. And then, suddenly, he sneezed.
3
Feeding charcoal to the fire, we speak of the foetus …
In the Banzaikan, in his room, in his bed, Ryūnosuke awoke suddenly from a terrible dream. A twisting knife under his ribcage, a stabbing pain in the side and lower part of his chest. Ryūnosuke sat up in bed and coughed. But the pain was real, the pain intense. Spreading from his abdomen, crawling along his shoulders, tightening around his neck. Again Ryūnosuke coughed, again the pain. Shooting through his chest, digging into his shoulders. He was shivering, he was burning. Ryūnosuke collapsed back onto his pillow. It was cold, it was damp. Ryūnosuke lay sweating on his bed. He cursed his ill luck, he waited for the maid. And then the doctor.
The diagnosis was dry pleurisy. Ryūnosuke would need to rest in the Satomi Hospital, on Miller Street, for two weeks, maybe longer. Dr Satomi would personally administer a shot to him every other day.
Helpless and in despair, Ryūnosuke feared he would have to cancel his trip. He dictated a telegram to Osaka. The reply came quickly: Get well soon, but take your time. Then continue as planned. We await your reports and travelogue as soon as you are fit again.
On his back, in his bed. In the room, on the ward. Jones or Murata visited every day. From time to time, baskets of fruit and bunches of flowers from unknown admirers also arrived. After a while, in a row, by his head, there were so many cans of biscuits that Ryūnosuke did not know how he would ever dispose of them. Luckily, Jones always brought a voracious appetite with him. Thankfully, he also brought books: the stories of Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué, the essays of Herbert Giles and the poems of Eunice Tietjens.
Ryūnosuke was grateful for any distraction. His fever did not easily subside, his mind constantly stricken. In the daylight, he was certain sudden death was just around the corner. In the twilight, he took Calmotin to spare him the terrors of the night. But Ryūnosuke was always awake before the dawn, repeating the line from the poem by Wang Cihui: ‘Imbibing medicine with no effect, leads only to the recurrence of strange dreams …’
A vaudeville performance back in Tokyo; on the stage, a hanging screen, a magic lantern show, scenes from the Sino-Japanese War: the Battle of Weihaiwei, the sinking of the Dingyuan, Captain Higuchi directing his troops with one arm, protecting a Chinese baby in his other; all around him, a large crowd was cheering the Japanese flag, screaming at the tops of their lungs, ‘Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!’ A hand grabbing his sleeve, the hand gripping his arm, squeezing it tighter and tighter, the hand of a woman, a woman he recognised; a woman he once lusted after, a woman he now loathed, the woman laughing now, the woman saying now, ‘Sa-ikō …’
Above his head, a Chinese lantern, through the window, a Chinese balustrade; in a courtyard, a locust tree, through the gates, a city burning; at a station, on the platform, a baby charred, its mother dead, its arms outstretched, its mouth open in a scream, a silent scream; that woman now, that same woman, smiling now. ‘See for yourself, Ryūnosuke. That’s all that’s left now. Nothing but a wilderness now …’
Half-light, grey-light, daylight on a hillside. That woman, that same woman, walking towards the gates of his house, his family house in Tabata, his wife darning some cloth at the kotatsu, the woman pausing by the stone lantern in the garden, his wife singing to their son, the woman sliding open the doors to his house, his wife kneeling before her in the genkan, the woman holding out her newborn baby towards his wife, his own son crying, the baby screaming, his wife crying, the woman screaming, his wife turning to look for him, on the futon, in a Chinese-patterned robe, on his chest a Bible open, his wife shaking him, his wife shouting at him, pleading with him, screaming at him, ‘Wake up, wake up …’
Feeding charcoal to the fire, we speak of the foetus …
For twenty-two nights, for twenty-three days. On his back, in his bed. In the room, on the ward. In the hospital, on Miller Street. Mongolian winds banging on his window, yellow dust blocking out the sun. The sun fighting back, the spring now arriving. His fever finally subsiding, the pain now relenting.
Dr Satomi smiled and said, ‘Good news, Sensei. You are recovered. You are well enough to leave …’
4
Down a busy street, sitting in a carriage, driven at great speed. With Mr Yosoki, the distinguished poet, as his guide. Ryūnosuke had no more time left to lose. The afternoon rainy and already dark. Through the showers, through the gloom, the passing shops –
Dark red roasted birds, hanging side by side, catching the lamplights, illuminating and reflecting, shop after shop, silverware and fruit, piles of bananas, piles of mangoes, hanging fish bladders and their bloody torsos, skinned pigs’ carcasses, suspended hooves-down, on butchers’ hooks, flesh-coloured grottos with vague dark recesses, sudden white clock faces, their hands all stopped, a shabby old wine shop with a worn old sign, written in the style of the poet Li Taibai.
A wider avenue now, then around another corner, and another, into another alleyway –
The heart of the Old City, the heart of the Real Shanghai, once encircled by walls, walls built to repel Japanese pirates, the Dwarf Bandits from across the sea, the walls now gone, the heart of the Old City now open, open and beating, beating and welcoming, welcoming him –
Out of their carriage, into a second alley. The pathway precarious, the cobblestones crumbling. Stores selling mah-jong sets, stores selling sandalwood goods, sign after sign, one on top of another, ordinary Chinese in long-sleeved black robes, bumping and banging into each other, but with no words of apology, yet no words of anger, no words at all.
At the end of the alleyway, the entrance to the Yu Gardens, and a large ornamental lake. The lake covered with thick green algae, carp hidden in its waters, crossed by the Bridge of Nine Turnings, lightning flashes zigzagging this way and that, built to confuse evil spirits, devils unable to turn corners, and in its centre the Huxinting Teahouse. Dilapidated, forlorn. A ruined stone wall around the lake, before the wall a Chinese man. In blue cotton clothes, his hair in a queue. Pissing into the lake, oblivious to the world; Chen Shufan could raise his rebellious banner in the wind, the Anglo-Japanese Alliance could come up for renewal again, nothing would disturb his nonchalant manner as the serene arc of his urine poured into the algae-choked lake before this famous old pavilion and its bridge. A scene beyond melancholia, a bitter symbol of this grand old country –
‘Please observe,’ chuckled Yosoki. ‘What runs over these stones is Chinese piss and only Chinese piss …’
One whiff of the overpowering stench of urine in the late-afternoon air, and all spells were broken –
The Huxinting Teahouse was nothing more than the Huxinting Teahouse. And piss was only piss. One should not indulge in careless admiration, thought Ryūnosuke, on his tiptoes, tottering after Yosoki, past a blind old beggar sat on the ground; so many beggars, beggars everywhere. Dilettante beggars and hermit beggars, professional beggars and genuine beggars. Dressed in layers of old newspapers, licking their own rotting knees. On the cobblestones, before this beggar. His whole miserable life, written out in chalk, in calligraphy better than Ryūnosuke’s own: Aching, longing for something you can never, never truly, truly know. That must be Romanticism …
‘Come on,’ called Yosoki. ‘Come on. No time to be daydreaming with the beggars of Shanghai, Sensei …’
Back in another alleyway, lined with antique shops. Their Chinese proprietors, water pipes in mouths, among clutters of copper incense burners, clay horse figurines, cloisonné planters, dragon-head vases, jade paperweights, cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl, marble single-leaf screens, stuffed pheasants and frightful paintings by Chou Ying. But at the end of this alleyway, there stood the Temple of the City God. The old focal point of the
town, a venue for entertainers and a site for fairs. And here dwelled the City God –
The Lord of Old Shanghai.
Many years ago now, Ryūnosuke had bought a postcard of this legendary temple. He had used it as a bookmark, often preferring the picture to the words he was reading, dreaming of the day he would stand here before the City God –
Amidst the smoke and the noise, thousands of people, coming and going, paying their respects, offering up incense, burning paper money, bills of gold and silver, hanging from the ceiling, the beams and the pillars, covered in dirt and grease, the judges in Hell seated on both sides – pictures and statues evoking illustrations from Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio or The New Jester of Qi; magistrates from Hell who killed thieves who terrorised towns, clerks from the netherworld who broke elbows and chopped off heads – the red-faced City God himself towering, rising into the evening sky, before Ryūnosuke, Ryūnosuke entranced, Ryūnosuke overwhelmed, loath to leave here, reluctant to follow Yosoki –
Back out among the stalls; sugar-cane stock and buttons of shells, handkerchiefs and peanuts. Here among the crowds, a man in a bright suit with an amethyst necktie pin, an old woman in shoes only two inches long. All around him, Ryūnosuke could see characters from The Plum in the Golden Vase or The Precious Mirror of Ranking Courtesans. But Ryūnosuke could see no Du Fu, Yue Fei or Wang Yangming; the new China was not the old China of poetry and essays; rather, it was the cruel, greedy and obscene China of fiction …
Back along the lake, into the deserted teahouse, deafened by the sudden screeching of an invisible shower of birds, birdcages hanging from the beams of the ceiling. So many cages, so much shrieking, their eardrums bursting as they fled from this horrible teahouse of screaming birds, their hands still over their ears in the street, yet more birdcages hanging in every shop, as Yosoki shouted, ‘Please wait while I buy a bird for my children …’
Down a quiet side street, before a shop window, Ryūnosuke was looking at a picture of the famous opera singer Mei Lanfang, but thinking of Yosoki’s children waiting for him to return home, and of his own son, waiting in their house, back in Tabata, back in Tokyo.
‘Come on,’ said Yosoki again, a bird in a cage in his hand. ‘As the locals say, the sun sets on the old city and rises on the Concessions …’
5
Mr Sawamura had arranged for Ryūnosuke to meet and interview a number of important Chinese intellectuals. Mr Nishimoto, the editor of the weekly magazine Shanhai, had kindly agreed to accompany and interpret for Ryūnosuke. In a study in the French Concession, their first appointment was with Zhang Binglin. A philosopher and a scholar, a leading political figure during the various revolutions and recent upheavals, Zhang Binglin had been imprisoned, then had spent time in Japan. Now the man welcomed Ryūnosuke into his study; a tiled room, a cold room, with no stove, with no rugs, only books. In a thin serge suit, on a cushion-less wooden chair, Ryūnosuke stared at a large stuffed crocodile mounted flat against a wall. The skin of the crocodile offered no comfort, the cold of the room piercing his own skin. Ryūnosuke was certain he would catch his death of cold.
In a long grey official gown and a black half-length riding jacket with a thick fur lining, on a fur-draped wicker chair, with his legs outstretched, Zhang Binglin seemed oblivious to the cold. His skin almost yellow, his moustache very thin, his red eyes smiled coolly behind elegant frameless glasses as he spoke. ‘I am sad to say that contemporary China is politically depraved. You might say that since the last years of the Qing dynasty, the spread of injustice has reached immense proportions. In scholarship and the arts there has been an unusual stagnation. The Chinese people, however, do not by nature run to extremes. Insofar as they possess this quality, communism in China is impossible. Of course, one segment of the students welcomes Soviet principles, but the students are not the populace. Even if the people were to become communist, at some point would come a time when they would dispense with this belief. The reason is that our national character – love for the Golden Mean – is stronger than any momentary passing enthusiasm for fireworks …’
On his hard chair, Ryūnosuke desperately wanted to smoke, but just nodded along, Zhang waving long fingernails as on he went –
‘So, what would be the best way to revive China? The resolution of this problem, no matter how concrete, cannot emerge from some theory concocted at the desk. The ancients declared that those who understood the requirements of the times were great men. They did not deductively reason from some opinion of their own, but inductively reasoned on the basis of countless facts. This is what it means to know the needs of the times. After one has ascertained what those needs are, then and only then can plans be made. This is ultimately the meaning of the dictum of governing well according to the times of the years …’
Ryūnosuke nodding along, his eyes wandering to the crocodile again. The rays of the spring sun, the warmth of the summer water, the fragrance of the lotus blossoms: once you knew them all, but now how lucky you are to be stuffed. Have pity on me!
‘The Japanese character I detest the most’, declared Zhang abruptly, ‘is the Momotarō of your favourite fairy tale, who conquered the Land of the Demons, and which you tell to all your children. I cannot suppress a feeling of antipathy for the Japanese who love this Momotarō.’
Ryūnosuke had heard many foreigners talk about Japan, holding up Prince Yamagata to ridicule or praising Hokusai to the skies. But until now, Ryūnosuke had never heard any of those so-called Japanese experts utter one word of criticism of Momotarō, the boy who was born from a peach. Zhang’s words contained more truth than all the eloquence of those experts.
Now Ryūnosuke looked at Zhang Binglin; now Ryūnosuke knew he was in the presence of a true sage.
6
In the Public Garden that was not public. No Chinese allowed, only foreigners here. The nannies and their charges, the sycamore trees with their budding leaves. It was all very pretty, but it was not China. It was the West. Not because it was advanced; it was no more advanced than the parks of Tokyo. It was simply more Western. And just because something was Western did not necessarily mean it was advanced. It was the same in the French Concession. The doves cooing quietly, the willows already budding. The smell of peach blossoms in the air. It was all very pleasant. But Ryūnosuke did not care for the Western houses. Not because they were Western, just because they seemed somewhat unrefined. Like the Japanese who insisted on wearing only Western clothes, putting on their thick socks and tight shoes, stumbling up and down the Ginza or the Bund –
‘Hypocrite,’ laughed Jones. ‘You yourself actually prefer Western suits to Japanese clothes. You also prefer to live in a bungalow rather than a traditional house. You always order macaroni instead of udon. And you prefer Brazilian coffee to Japanese tea …’
Ryūnosuke shook his head and said, ‘No, no. For example, I admit that the Westerners’ cemetery on Temple Street isn’t so bad …’
‘It’s nice enough,’ said Jones. ‘But, personally, I would prefer to be buried under a Buddhist swastika than a Christian crucifix. I don’t want angels and whatnot leering over me in my grave, grimacing and proselytising. You just mean you are disappointed by Shanghai and are not interested in the Western things here …’
‘On the contrary, I’m very interested. But as you said, in one sense Shanghai is the West. And so, for better or for worse, it’s fun to be able to see the West. Particularly because I’ve never laid eyes on the “real” West. I’m just saying, even to my ignorant eyes, the West seems out of place here.’
‘Really,’ said Jones, feigning disbelief. ‘I actually think it’s a match made in Heaven. Or should I say Hell …?’
This City of Evil, this Demon City Shanghai. Ryūnosuke had heard the horror stories of rickshaw pullers turning bandit by night, slicing off women’s ears for their earrings –
‘The worst are the Chaibai Gang,’ whispered Jones. ‘Luring women into automobiles, stealing their diamond rings, and then stra
ngling them, inspired by the movies. Those cloak-and-dagger ones that are all the rage here …’
At sunset, outside the Green Lotus teahouse, the Wild Pheasants flocked. Surrounding both Ryūnosuke and Jones, speaking both Japanese and English. Other girls hanging around in rickshaws, waiting for fresh crumbs, all wearing dark round glasses –
‘All the rage,’ said Jones, again.
Inside a building, an opium den. In the stark white light of a bare electric bulb, a bleached, lone prostitute lay puffing ‘Western Medicine’ on a long pipe with a foreign customer.
Ryūnosuke had seen so many strange foreigners in Shanghai, male and female, many of whom seemed to have migrated from Siberia. Even in the Public Garden, a Russian beggar had kept haranguing Ryūnosuke and Jones. ‘It’s not so bad really,’ Jones had said. ‘The Municipal Council is actually very strict these days. Such shady cafés as the El Dorado and the Palermo have disappeared from the Western parts of the town. Now you have to go out to the suburbs, to places like the Del Monte …’
In the opium den, under the harsh light. Ryūnosuke shook his head again and said again, ‘But this is Shanghai –
‘Not China, Young China …’
7
Ryūnosuke and Murata were on their way to meet Li Renjie. Li was twenty-eight years old, a representative of ‘Young China’ and a socialist. Through the windows of the trolley, the avenues of verdant trees, summer was on its way. But Ryūnosuke and Murata were not talking about the foliage or the seasons. In low voices, they were discussing Chinese public opinion concerning Japan and the formation of the new foreign consortium. A strange thing had happened to Ryūnosuke: he had succumbed to a weird fever in which all he ever thought and talked about was politics, and never art. Ryūnosuke blamed Shanghai: the peculiar atmosphere of this peculiar city which had nurtured twenty years of problems to think and talk about.