Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘“No, Madam Olga.”

  ‘Just then the maître d knocked on the door. “May I see you, madam?”

  ‘“What is it, Yuri?” Madam Olga asked.

  ‘“The pianist – he’s drunk again, madam.”

  ‘“Throw him out – he’s rubbish! Nothing but trouble, that one!” Madam Olga said, suddenly furious.

  ‘“But tonight – the cabaret?” the maître d protested.

  ‘She sighed. “Can’t you sober him up?” she demanded. “It’s only seven o’clock – the first show is at nine.”

  ‘“I can try, madam, but he’s pretty far gone. The vodka’s gone to his legs.”

  ‘“He doesn’t need his legs, he sits down!” she said impatiently.

  ‘“Yes, madam, but last night he fell off his piano stool.”

  ‘“Do something! she yelled. “Must I do everything around this place!” She was suddenly aware of me standing there, sniffing. “What? You still here, girl?” she shouted. “I thought I told you to go!”

  ‘“I can play all the cabaret tunes, Madam Olga,” I said, shaking like a leaf.

  ‘“Don’t talk absolute rubbish, child. Now please go, I’m busy.” ‘I walked slowly from the office, Yuri, the maître d, stepping aside to let me pass. He’d spoken to me on several occasions in a friendly manner when he’d needed to translate something to one of the Chinese staff, but now he ignored me. He’d seen too many desperate refugees come and go and was probably clinging onto his own job for dear life.

  ‘I walked into the semi-dark club, where the air still carried the pungent smell of last night’s liquor and cigarette smoke. Small electric lamps with chintz shades sat at the centre of each table and provided the only source of light in the club, except for a red strip of neon across the top of the bar that spelled “The General’s Retreat”, the name of the establishment. When the cabaret came on, a spotlight worked across a small stage constantly changing colour, which was wholly unflattering to the performers.

  ‘Slumped sobbing over one of the small tables, with his head and shoulders caught in a circle of light, was the drunken pianist. I was too caught up in my own misery to feel sorry for him and started to walk towards the door, a lump in my throat. Then, on a sudden impulse, I turned back and walked over to the piano, a Steinway baby grand resplendent in brilliant scarlet lacquer. The club was deserted except for the barman, who was polishing glasses and arranging bottles, and the maître d, still in Madam Olga’s office. The hostesses usually came in around seven-thirty to do their make-up and change into their evening gowns in time for the doors to open at eight. It had been a while since I’d played but, like you, Jack, I have a good ear for a tune and it wasn’t exactly Mozart or Chopin. I sat at the piano and began to play, tears streaming down my face. I have no idea how long I played, but certainly for quite some time.

  ‘“That will be enough!” I suddenly heard Madam Olga say from across the floor. “You have the job.”’

  ‘Hey – dat good, Countess. Yoh got some luck,’ Jimmy said, happy for her. We’d both been hanging on her every word and I don’t know about Jimmy, but I was dead anxious she was going to have to take the job as a hostess. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan as a child prostitute was more than my imagination could bear.

  ‘I was just a tiny little thing and all the evening dresses I tried on in the various second-hand shops made me look laughable, like a child dressing up in her mother’s clothes. Eventually, Madam Olga consulted the redoubtable general. “Hmph, schoolgirl,” he grunted.

  ‘“You are a genius, Rudi,” Madam Olga exclaimed ecstatically, bringing her hands up to her large breasts.’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan sighed. ‘So they dressed me like an English schoolgirl in a very short gym frock, Panama hat, black stockings and a pair of button-over black shoes. They plaited my blonde hair and tied it with ribbons to match the colour of the Steinway. I was made to wear bright-red lipstick and a little mascara and kohl on my eyes, my pale cheeks slightly rouged. I suppose it was an improvement on the evening gown, but every time I glanced into the mirror I got a horrid shock and I’d scrub my face for half an hour before taking a rickshaw home in the small hours of the morning. Of course, at the time, I had no idea of the sexual connotations of my costume.

  ‘Anyway, the schoolgirl concept was sufficiently bizarre to take off in quite a big way. I was billed as “Little Countess, the Schoolgirl Maestro” and soon the General’s Retreat became one of the leading supper clubs in Harbin. I began receiving billets-doux, that is to say, love notes, from male patrons. These usually included a five- and occasionally a ten-dollar bill. Mexican dollars were the stable currency at the time in Harbin and Shanghai, the Chinese currency being practically worthless. One Mexican dollar was worth around thirty-five cents American, or two shillings in English money.’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan stopped and felt the side of the teapot. ‘Oh dear, it’s lukewarm. I’ll get some hot water.’ She rose and went into the little kitchenette adjoining her small office.

  Jimmy shook his head sympathetically. ‘Sheet, Brother Fish – dis sad, man!’

  I agreed, but I was also beginning to see where Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had acquired her practical sense of money and the need to look after it. While we didn’t know just how well off she was, and might never know, she lived a frugal life for someone seemingly so refined. She drove a little Ford Prefect, and while it was unusual at that time for a woman to own a car, hers was the smallest and cheapest you could buy – hardly ostentatious. While the letterpress printer that produced the Gazette must have cost a pretty penny, even second-hand, she certainly didn’t flash or throw her money around, and lived in a modest cottage on the cliffs facing out to sea.

  She returned with a jug of hot water and offered me another cup of tea and Jimmy another plunger coffee, and seemed disappointed when he refused. Taking her freshly topped-up cup to her lips, she sipped.

  ‘Ah, that’s much better. Now, where was I? Oh yes. I soon learned to respond to the overeffusive male patrons between sets. I would sit at the table of a patron who had been particularly generous with a larger-denomination note wrapped in his billet-doux and drink orangeade. The fact that I sipped on soft drink while coyly refusing their offers of French champagne seemed to further excite them. I was the real thing, forbidden fruit. I quickly learned to choose my mark – if the promise of a big tip seemed forthcoming I would sit on a patron’s lap, slapping roving hands away and pretending to be very cross to the point of tears if he dared attempt to take a liberty. This seemed to drive them mad with further desire and, if they were sufficiently inebriated, almost tearful remorse. Either way, it invariably resulted in a very generous tip, whereupon I would skip away to play my next set at the Steinway. It was dangerous posturing, but I didn’t know any better. I guess God looks after the young and naive.

  ‘My mother had always said that some day I would become a singer – claimed I had a pure soprano voice. So I began to add singing to my repertoire, at first some of the lovely Russian lullabies and folk songs I’d learned as a child. Then I included those contemporary songs that suited a young soprano voice. To a homesick Russian, songs about Mother Russia and songs he’d heard in the cradle created a sensation – grown men would often weep with nostalgia, which opened purses like nothing else.’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up with a smile, and Jimmy said, ‘She hustling, man! She da sugar chile!’

  ‘Indeed – the more lachrymose the display, the greater the forthcoming gratuity. By the standards of the time I was making a good living as a club pianist and singer. There remained only one setback. Even though we’d moved into better accommodation, two rooms of our own with a bathroom and kitchen we shared with three other couples, my father didn’t seem to be getting any better. His deep melancholy seemed to have become a permanent part of him and he would spend hours in bed hidden under the blankets or simply sit staring at the wall, occasionally protesting that he was useless and I would be much better off if he w
ere dead. I felt terribly guilty that I couldn’t spend more time with him – the nightclub would often stay open until four a.m. and I’d sleep from six in the morning until one p.m., then do the shopping. It had been suggested to me by the three couples with whom we shared kitchen and bathroom facilities that we jointly employ a cook and cleaning amah, and I had readily agreed to this. But my father then decided he couldn’t digest Chinese food and I was forced to cook Russian meals for him. This entailed tedious hours of shopping, and after I’d cooked his dinner I would have to be at the nightclub by seven in the evening to rehearse.

  ‘We could now afford a visit by Dr Chung, the doctor who “looked after” the girls at the club. I now realise what he looked after, as Madam Kolkoffski insisted that every girl who worked at the club must have an examination “down there” once a week. Dr Chung was a little man who wore spats resting on highly polished boots, argyle socks, beige trousers, and a mandarin jacket in black. It had the effect of making him appear half-Western and half-Chinese, which was exactly the look he wanted, having once studied at Guys Hospital in London. He was delighted that I spoke Cantonese and refused to charge me for the visit. He examined my father and then reported back to me. “He’s got the great sorrow that I cannot cure,” he confessed. “But I recommend the opium pipe – at least it will give him pleasant dreams, Miss Countess.”

  ‘“Will he get well again, Dr Chung?” I asked him.

  ‘“Sometimes, yes and sometimes, no,” he said, spreading his hands, his answer a typical Chinese response. Then he added sternly, “You must not take, you must not smoke opium – it is not for you!”

  ‘While I was aware of the dangers of opium, it could hardly have made my father any worse than he was. In fact, it sometimes appeared to improve his mood – and for an hour or so he’d be his old self again. Opium was readily available from the rickshaw boys who waited outside the club for patrons, and was not expensive. Many of the hostesses in the club had taken to using it to solve their problems. At one a.m. the hostesses were free to leave the club and those girls who had not managed to get a paying partner for the night would take it to go into a dreamlike state where they would forget their fall from grace and their misery.

  ‘Then fairly late one night four Chinese men entered the club, and soon it was buzzing with excitement. The girls hurried into the dressing room to adjust their make-up and straighten their hair. This was unusual – although some of the powerful Chinese businessmen occasionally came into the club, they were afforded no special treatment. If anything, they received slightly the opposite – many of the girls wouldn’t go near them. Yuri passed me in a terrible tizz, flapping a white table napkin. I continued playing the piano, but called after him. “What’s happening, Yuri?”

  ‘“Oh my God. It’s Yu Ya-ching and he’s with Smallpox ‘Million-Dollar’ Yang, Chang Shig-liang and Du Yu-sen, three French Concession gangsters, and we’re not supposed to know who they are – but all the rickshaw boys dropped to the ground as they arrived and the Chinese doorman, Wang Lee, nearly had a heart attack.” He said this almost in one breath. “I’ve got to go, Nicole. They drink brandy, and the stuff we serve at the bar is excrement.” He hurried off towards the office and passed me a couple of minutes later with the general in tow carrying a bottle of VSOP French cognac, no doubt of a suitably impressive age.

  ‘I was none the wiser, and on a whim I played and sang a folk song Ah Lai had taught me. According to Ah Lai my voice was ideal for Chinese music and she would clap her hands when I sang to her and say I had the intonation and timing just right. I followed the first folk song with another and then, thinking I might be reprimanded, reverted to a popular Noël Coward number. Soon afterwards Yuri came up to the piano panting with excitement. “They want you to sing the Chinese songs again,” he said breathlessly.

  ‘“I know several more,” I offered.

  ‘“No! Sing the same again! Mr Yu says he’s never heard the second song more beautifully sung.”

  ‘I had quite an extensive repertoire of Chinese folk songs Ah Lai had taught me. In the eighteen months I’d spent in her village I’d learned all the songs for the region, and several more. So I played and sang the two I’d already performed, then continued with three more.’

  ‘Did you know “The Fish Song”?’ I burst out, unable to contain myself.

  She laughed. ‘Yes, of course. It is known by fisherfolk throughout China, but there are different versions.’

  ‘But you never said!’ I cried, astonished at her admission.

  ‘That would have been extremely rude of me, Jack. “The Fish Song” belongs to both of you.’

  ‘Dat why yoh can trans-late dem lyrics for da governor daughters, easy as pie,’ Jimmy laughed.

  We were getting away from her story, and while it had been me who’d interrupted her flow I was anxious for her to continue. ‘You were singing the Chinese songs – then what happened?’ I asked, sounding perhaps a little rude.

  ‘Well, I’d hardly concluded the songs when Yuri arrived with a wine glass holding a hundred-dollar note. “This comes with the compliments of Mr Yu, who hopes you might join his table,” he announced. “Oh, you lucky, lucky girl!”’

  ‘Dat like he saying, “Girl, get yo’ sassy ass ovah der” – dis cat he a big-time gangsta, who got da bread he gonna spread!’ Jimmy filled in.

  ‘Well, something like that. Anyway, Mr Yu was a notorious Shanghai businessman and real Chinese big boss of Shanghai. The other three were known gangsters who, I was later to learn, were referred to as “The Three Musketeers of the French Concession”. They were known to be exporting opium, running the sing-song houses – the translated Chinese name for brothels – kidnapping, running gambling dens and various other illegal oriental enterprises, including “collecting taxes” from the coolie boats using the river port. This practice is known in China as “squeeze” and is practised by everyone, from the lowest-ranking house servant to the highest government official. Squeeze isn’t bribery as we know it in the West – it’s just skimming a bit off the top of everything that passes your way.

  ‘I have to confess I was a bit nervous approaching Mr Yu and his colleagues – I couldn’t imagine having to sit on Mr Yu’s knee. I brought my hands together and bowed my head in the accepted Chinese manner required when a woman of lower rank meets a dignitary. I was invited to sit down and did so, but not before I had filled their glasses from the bottle of cognac. When Mr Yu and the three gangsters with him realised that I spoke fluent Cantonese they were simply delighted, and we soon got on like a house on fire. “How old are you, Little Countess?” Mr Yu asked. I told him, not expecting any reaction. To the Chinese, a fifteen-year-old girl is already a woman, but Mr Yu knew this not to be the case in the West. “It is too young for a place like this?” It was both a comment and a question – which is very Chinese, as it allows one to respond either way, to ignore or react.

  ‘“I play the piano and sing. I am not a hostess, loh yeh,” I answered, using the Chinese for “my lord”.

  ‘“It is not usual for a westerner to speak Cantonese – even less, to sing Chinese music with a good voice and with all the right intonations?”

  ‘It was another open question. “My amah taught me,” I answered, giving little away. Yuri arrived personally with lemonade and placed the tall glass in front of me with some ceremony, adding a slice of lemon and placing a napkin beside it. “You will drink brandy with us, Little Countess?” Mr Yu asked.

  ‘“That would be unseemly, and not something a lady would do,” I replied, my eyes respectfully averted. He had a deeply lined yellow face with large purple bags under his eyes. Central Casting would have grabbed him for the lead in any feature film requiring an inscrutable Chinese gangster or war lord. But at that moment he was smiling, and had a surprising twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Quite suddenly, Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang stuck his finger into my lemonade and sucked it. “No gin,” he stated in English, smacking his lips.

&
nbsp; ‘Chinese manners are difficult to negotiate. A woman, even an equal in class (and as a despised Russian refugee I was certainly not his equal), must be careful how she behaves in front of a Chinese man of substance. I reached over and stuck my finger delicately into Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang’s brandy glass and brought it up to my tongue, trying very hard not to grimace at the ghastly taste. “French Cognac, VSOP,” I said in English.

  ‘There was a moment’s stunned silence. Then Mr Yu clapped his hands gleefully and broke into a spontaneous chortle, and two of the other Chinese men immediately followed suit, the exception being Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang. His wide, flat, severely pockmarked face clearly did not accept my return gesture as an appropriate rebuttal. Had it not been for the presence of Mr Yu, I fear I would have been soundly rebuked. However, Mr Yu was delighted. “You must come to Shanghai, Little Countess, and I will look after you!”

  ‘“I cannot, loh yeh. My father is gravely ill,” I replied. “I thank you nevertheless for the great honour of your patronage.”

  ‘“Some time,” he said. “You speak English?”

  ‘“Yes, sir – and French, my mother was French.”

  ‘“Cantonese, English and French – you will do well in Shanghai.” He hadn’t bothered to mention Russian, a language of no consequence in the life of the city. “When you come you have only to ask for Yu Ya-ching. I will not forget – you have a brave heart, and good manners.” He looked over to Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang, and then back to me, and said, “Your Chinese name will be ‘No Gin’. It will be good joss.” Joss, of course, is a Chinese concept of luck, fortune and destiny.

  ‘Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang broke into a broad smile, accepting the congratulations of the other two gangsters. Mr Yu had cleverly restored his dignity and at the same time he had gained face. I turned to the repulsive-looking gangster and bowed my head. “I am honoured to receive this name from you, Taipan Yang,” I said, thus giving him the credit for Mr Yu’s perspicacity.