He nodded, smiling and animated. ‘Doorways, yes, exactly that.’
The heady perfume of jasmine came, carried on the breeze, and this pleasure in each other was the very definition of romance. Maybe they both rebelled because of it, but some time later they said goodnight without touching. Jishang made a small bow and one of the silent servants led the way to her room. Her clothes had been put away in the black varnished and inlaid wardrobe, her night clothes laid out on the bed. An exquisite bowl of blood-red peonies stood on the bedside table. Jishang was a man whose taste and sense of the moment were pitch-perfect. Stevie opened the window to the night. It was completely dark. The trees around the lake sighed in the light wind.
As she lay on the silk sheets, slippery and unpredictable, in that wooden house in the mountains of China, she wondered at the vastness of choice and experience. And more than ever she had wanted it all.
It was he who had challenged her to write something serious. And it was he who had made the Byzantine connections that led them to Hong Kong and to Madame Kung and to the possibility that she might get the journalistic coup of the decade.
The idea had emerged one steamy, frenetic Shanghai night. Or not strictly speaking night. More precisely it had come to them at that moment when night is becoming morning. There’s something about daybreak which inspires new thoughts and lacks the rationale that puts the brakes on the most outrageous ideas. And this had been an outrageous idea.
They had been slumming it in the Del Monte with its dance hall, wide veranda, large garden and Russian girls, most of whom had by that time of the night found company and retired professionally to the discreet rooms upstairs. Stevie was wearing her favourite dress – sleeveless pale-blue satin and a self-consciously tight waist. Jishang’s grey linen suit had been custom-made like all his others and he looked like the prince he perhaps was. The club was serving breakfast and they sat in the wicker chairs on the veranda with plates of scrambled eggs on the rickety table in front of them and watched the stars fade into the yellow dawn. Jishang had attracted some furtive looks even here, more curious than antagonistic, and they were so used to drawing attention that they barely registered the sideways glances.
They had started the night at teatime, as so often, at the Cathay Hotel on the Bund. Taking tea in the ballroom on the top floor with its view of the immense, filthy, river. They watched the sampans and merchant ships vie with each other for space in the estuary which was the end point of the mighty Yangtze, dangerously close to each other in their river dance. And then, as usual, tea had been followed by a cocktail, why not? Then they had strolled through the crowds of aristocrats and crooks, ignoring the shrill calls of the rickshaw men, and went in search of entertainment. God, how Stevie loved that city. It seemed to her carnal and suicidal, vital, strident and turbulent, the beginning and the end. They talked as they walked, she and her lover Jishang, past the vividly painted, fluttering banners outside the shops, their red characters competing with the night’s glittering lights. The whole city illuminated as if it were day.
They passed the dark recesses of the sailors’ bars in Blood Alley where little girls would service men behind dirty curtains for the price of a beer and Stevie tried to persuade Jishang to drop in at the Palais Café, but he had some business to do so she idled instead at a small table in a dark Chinese tea house in Hongkew while Jishang spoke in a low voice with three young men in traditional Chinese gowns at another table nearby. She had given up trying to get to the bottom of Jishang’s ‘business’. He was so irritatingly opaque when pressed that she had taken to gleaning what she could without his help. Jishang was a great gatherer of information. He seemed to be at the hub of various political and social worlds – and it was these which provided him with the material for the magazine. She didn’t in any way resent it. Rather, she embraced these quiet moments and felt in her aloneness that she was truly a part of the city of light. The night had then fallen into the habitual haze of drinks and dancing and an amorphous crowd of people they knew and many they didn’t, forming and dispersing as the hours passed. And then in the end they were in the dawn and in that dawn Jishang’s challenge didn’t seem daunting at all. It even made sense.
‘Why are you wasting your time writing about cricket matches and cabaret acts?’
‘Because that’s what they pay me to do. That’s what the great American public like to hear about.’
He snorted in contempt. ‘You should at least write something serious about the women.’
It was her turn to snort. ‘What about the women?’
‘My mother grew up in a different universe. She couldn’t have imagined this world.’ He indicated the empty veranda but she knew what he meant. ‘She couldn’t have imagined a world in which Madame Chiang Kai-shek is more visible than her husband.’ He took a sip of the lukewarm tea. ‘Her feet were bound when she was six years old. She hasn’t taken a step that wasn’t painful since then.’
Stevie already knew this. They’d had plenty of conversations about the barbarity of that particular tradition but reference to it was guaranteed to rouse her general sense of injustice.
‘Madame Chiang Kai-shek is hardly a typical little Chinese girl from nowhere.’
‘So? She and her sisters have all made a huge impression. They’re visible in a very new way. Internationally.’
‘They’re certainly visible. But it’s because they married powerful men. That’s not exactly a huge new leap in the empowerment of women.’
‘You know, they’re my cousins.’
She hadn’t known. ‘The whole of China is your cousin.’
There was a small silence as she felt the full impact of his challenge. She knew what he was thinking while he smiled his secret smile and took a mouthful of congealing scrambled egg.
He leaned across the table towards her. ‘You don’t want that, do you?’ And he took her plate before she could answer.
Chapter Four
It was anarchy in the narrow street. Rickshaws and bicycles vied with the pedestrians and the occasional bold car tried its luck, adding its horn to the riot of noise. Even at this time of the morning there was no room to manoeuvre. Harry loved it. He slid through the chaos, his uniform of no interest to the people he passed.
Eventually he was forced to stop by a bottleneck of people and, taking advantage, he groped in his pocket for the piece of paper with the address scrawled on it. Checking it, he glanced around him. There was no sign of any numbers on the tall buildings. Above him were cliffs of brick, overhung with brightly coloured washing and the occasional wireless aerial. He smiled his big, empire-soothing smile, full of confidence and authority, at the rickshaw-driver next to him, who was also at a standstill. He showed him the piece of paper. The rickshaw man pointed his chin to the building directly beside them and then moved on. The blockage had cleared.
Harry stood for a moment, an island in the sea of movement, looking at the decaying building. Battered red and gold ideograph banners were draped listlessly from it. Inside, he climbed the stairs two at a time. He stood back against the wall as a neat girl clattered down, tip-tapping in her high heels.
On the third-floor landing he pressed the bell by the door before he had composed himself. Then he noticed that it was slightly ajar. He waited another moment, then pressed the bell again. Nothing. Shrugging, he pushed the door open and took a tentative step inside.
‘Wu Jishang?’
His voice seemed incredibly loud. He had stepped directly into the living room of the apartment but it took him a moment to adjust to the gloom. The blinds were firmly drawn, casting shadows across the clutter. He saw crammed bookshelves, multicoloured cushions strewn on low divans, piles of papers, a dress hanging over the back of a chair.
Suddenly there was an inhuman scream.
Propelled by a rush of adrenalin, Harry ran across the room in the direction of the cry. He was brought to a premature standstill by a heavy flying object. Harry sprawled on the tiled floor while the monkey
that had launched itself at him squatted next to him, chattering its large teeth. A damp stain spread across Harry’s immaculate shirt front and he could smell the monkey pee as it pooled on the tiles.
A young and bespectacled Chinese girl squinted at him from the door to a bedroom. She looked deeply disapproving.
‘Oh my God, that animal is absolutely disgusting.’ Her tone was vehement.
Before he could wholeheartedly agree, another door opened and Stevie appeared in a dressing gown – tousled, hungover and angry.
‘Who the hell are you?’
A little later and Harry was sitting on the low divan. His long legs were splayed awkwardly in front of him and he was wearing a most fetching floral silk dressing gown, which, apart from anything else, was definitely too small for him. Jishang, elegant in a pale linen suit, sat by the window, holding a teacup. The disapproving young Chinese girl, introduced as Lily, who at a second look was probably seventeen or eighteen and not the child she had at first seemed to be – sat quietly at the table in the back of the room and Victor the gibbon had been banished to the bedroom.
Harry persevered. ‘Mr Wu, I’d very much like to hear your opinion on the state of affairs in Shanghai.’ He hesitated, an informal smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind my looking you up like this, but when I heard you were visiting Hong Kong I felt I couldn’t miss the opportunity . . .’
‘Not at all, Major Field. The honour is all mine. I’ve read several of your essays – especially your work on the colonial relationship between the Portuguese and the Japanese. Fascinating.’
Harry demurred, just enough to be polite because he was thrilled and a little suspicious. Nobody had read his academic work, he was convinced of that. After all, why the hell would they?
‘I’m only sorry to have received you in such an – unprepared way.’ Behind the convenient veil of manners, Jishang was mortified. Preparation was everything and it was a rare occasion when something or someone genuinely took him by surprise. He did not like it.
Stevie pushed open the door from their bedroom. Her dress clung confidently to the contours of her body. She felt instantly unclean in the full glare of the British officer’s glowing wholesomeness, hoping that there was no trace on her of the drama of the previous night. She looked away from Harry and noticed the almost transparent china cup in Jishang’s hands. So delicate, like paper.
Harry pulled himself to standing. He felt incongruous in the dressing gown and disconcerted by her beauty.
She glanced back at him.
‘I’m sorry about your uniform. Victor is extremely jealous but he doesn’t normally launch an attack like that.’
‘It’s perfectly all right. Really.’
Stevie laughed. ‘Just as well you’re British – so polite!’
Her gaze met his and for the longest time – a split-second probably – a web-thin thread seemed to vibrate between them.
Jishang’s interruption was cool and pointed. ‘I’ve translated your Happy Valley piece. The printer wants the proofs as soon as possible.’
Stevie flushed, the heat of humiliation rising in her. Jishang knew she was ashamed of the report from the racetrack. In a country at war, stories about social betting were ridiculous. She understood his warning.
‘Can’t it wait?’ As she spoke the humiliation was complete. She knew she sounded embarrassingly petulant.
Harry rescued her. ‘You’re publishing here? I thought Direct Debate was strictly a Shanghai enterprise.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference where we print the magazine. What matters is that it is read.’ An infinitesimal pause. ‘And who reads it.’ With a small bow of his head Jishang delicately put the teacup down on the low table. ‘You’ll excuse me, I’ll collect my papers and maybe you’d like to continue the conversation en route to the printer’s?’
Jishang went into their bedroom. As he closed the door, Harry averted his eyes from the glimpse of their rumpled bed.
Stevie leaned against the wall. It appeared to Harry to be an impossibly languid gesture. In fact, she was afraid she might faint. Not enough sleep and the nightmares of the darkest hours had left her frail and disturbed. She shrugged. Her words said, ‘Business as usual. Don’t you just hate it?’ Her tone said quite the opposite. There was a slight pause and then she swung a brittle smile at him.
‘And what exactly do you do, Major Harry Field?’
‘I’m the Japanese Language Officer for the British Army here in Hong Kong and Liaison Officer for . . .’
‘Oh good, you’re a spy.’
‘As I was saying, I’m Liaison Officer . . .’
‘Exactly. A spy.’
Utterly unused to being so shamelessly outed, he struggled for a moment. Caught on the verge of indignation, he furrowed his brow and shook his head.
Stevie watched him struggle and took pity on him. ‘I won’t tell anyone. Honest I won’t.’ She was having fun now. Disarming people was her absolutely most favourite thing to do. Harry looked right at her.
‘You’re very beautiful.’ It came without warning. She caught her breath – amazed at his boldness and looked at him with new respect, her turn to be disarmed. It was brazen and so far from a compliment that it made her feel like laughing. His hair was a halo in the dim room. He looks like a wild angel, she thought. Jishang’s voice cut through the game.
‘Is this dry enough?’ He was at the door with Harry’s uniform shirt folded over his arm.
They both turned to him, each strangely grateful in their own way for the interruption.
During the week the humidity rose. The air lay heavy and damp and seemed to penetrate her very bones. There was no respite from it. Through the high, narrow windows of the apartment, the afternoon light settled as a kind of mellow glow over the disarray. Stevie considered the manner in which she lived to be evidence of how busy she was and how many better things she had to do. In reality it was evidence of laziness. She was comforted by the chaos and quite happy to be told it represented the state of her mind. Yes, she’d say, my mind is full and there aren’t enough minutes in the day to pick up every thought or every stray piece of clothing as I go. So what? The people she lived with had to surrender or found themselves cast as housekeepers.
Lily, Jishang’s cousin in some tortuous, complicated way, wasn’t prepared to take on the role. She had come with the apartment. When Jishang had announced that he was arriving in Hong Kong for an indefinite stay, she had been sent by her mother to find a place for them to rent and she had driven a much harder bargain than the landlord had counted on. He had been taken by surprise by her negotiating skills, not expecting a child to be quite so canny. She was practised and thoroughly enjoyed the effect of her youthful looks on people who were quick to dismiss her. They rarely did so twice.
Lily’s great gift was stealth. She had quietly gone about doing exactly as she pleased all her young life. It was she who had decided to take the diploma at the Oxford School of Secretarial Skills in Central. It didn’t seem to have any connection with Oxford beyond its name, not even a European-educated teacher, but she had worked hard and passed every level without drama and now her diploma was framed and hanging on the wall in her parents’ house next to the household shrine. She and her friends were industrious and ambitious. They competed over the speed with which they could mimic the clothes and hairstyles of their favourite film stars. She herself favoured Myrna Loy but there was much discussion of the relative merits of the more highly strung and therefore feminine and fragile Merle Oberon. It never occurred to any of them to model themselves on Chinese stars, except perhaps Butterfly Wu, whose elaborate Western-style wedding pictures they had all pored over in the magazines and whose dimpled smile they tried to imitate.
Lily was proud of her Western assimilation and her British citizenship and impatient with her parents’ old-fashioned concerns. She was forward-looking and modern, and as her family lived in the New Territories she was happy to be in the city for a while. She was grateful to Jisha
ng and his strange, tall American girlfriend with her big teeth and messy hair, but she felt no obligation to play housekeeper.
Typing sounds came from Stevie and Jishang’s bedroom as Lily, by force of habit, lined up the cushions on the divan. The phone rang, startling her. She stood absolutely still. The typing noise didn’t falter.
Victor, the disgusting monkey creature, was curled up in a corner of the other divan. Lily looked at him suspiciously. He looked back at her from under his heavy brow. The phone rang on. Shrill and jarring.
Exasperated, Lily slipped past Victor on her way to answer the phone. ‘What’s the bloody point of you anyway?’ she hissed at him.
She picked up the sticky black receiver and listened for a moment. The voice of the woman on the other end was precise and businesslike. When she put the phone back in its cradle she shouted, ‘Stevie’.
The typing stopped.
Stevie’s voice came from the bedroom, irritated. ‘For God’s sake. What is it?’
Stevie stomped into the living room and was greeted by a rant. By now Lily was seething. It was really all too much, the unpredictable and late hours, the expectation of housekeeping and now telephone answering too. Her English was flawless despite her fury.
‘Answer your own telephone and clear your own table. I don’t understand what kind of people you are. Tell Jishang I can’t stay another minute. I’m going back to my parents.’
‘Wait, just wait a minute. You can read English as well as shout in it, right?’
Affronted, Lily sniffed. ‘Of course.’
‘Great.’ Stevie thrust the sheets of paper that she was holding into the younger girl’s hands.
‘Check these for me, would you? You know, proofread them. Thanks.’ She turned to go.
‘By the way, you might like to know – Madame Kung agrees.’
Stevie stopped in her tracks.
‘What did you say?’
‘That was the telephone call. Just now. Nobody answered so I did.’
The Harbour Page 4