The Harbour

by Francesca Brill

  ‘It’s all right, Mommy.’

  ‘It was nearly finished anyway.’

  ‘I know.’ And he squeezed her hand.

  Being comforted by him was too much and she turned away, pretending to look for the familiar doorway.

  ‘It’s somewhere here, right, Hal?’

  And Hal confidently led the way between the parchment scrolls and the birdcages to the dark painted door of a decaying building. They climbed the sunless, damp tenement stairway to the third floor. Stevie waited for Hal, who refused her hand and pulled himself up by the banisters. She let him knock on the apartment door. A pause and then the door opened into a narrow hallway, light coming from a room at the end. The stocky Chinese man nodded at her and Hal ran towards the light.

  The room was small and overburdened with Chinese antiques. Madame Kung, poised and refined, incongruous in this cave, sat just so on the brocade day bed. Hal jumped into her arms and was engulfed in a ladylike embrace. Her two bodyguards loomed large next to the inlaid cabinets. Stevie waited for Madame Kung to indicate a black chair, decorated with mother-of-pearl, before she sat.

  ‘He is too skinny. You are not feeding him.’

  ‘He eats all the time, Madame, if he ate any more he would actually become a cake.’

  The older woman turned to the child in her arms. ‘Is this true?’

  Hal, torn between politeness and truth, whispered, ‘I had a pretzel but I dropped it.’

  She smiled and put him back on his feet. ‘So go find the sweeties.’

  Hal glanced at Stevie and then ran out of the room, followed by one of the huge men. This was a familiar ritual. The two women looked at each other, history heavy between them.

  Stevie’s voice was low with trepidation. ‘They announced his death again.’

  ‘Yes. I heard.’ Madame Kung’s long earrings glittered as she shook her head.

  ‘It’s not true?’

  ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘He’s still in the camp?’

  ‘That’s what I hear, yes.’

  Stevie exhaled her relief. But Madame Kung’s low voice stopped her.

  ‘The Communist boy you helped –’

  ‘Chen?’

  ‘He was killed.’

  Stevie clutched at the slippery pillow beside her on the chaise. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘You can’t help the stupid.’

  Stevie thought about the last time she saw him. She remembered his insolent expression and his unruly hair but also the way he seemed to be carrying a new gravity. He had been unshakeably convinced of the righteousness of his cause. It was a marked and potent passion in him. Now he had died for it. She whispered, ‘Where? When?’

  The earrings caught the light again as Madame Kung shrugged. ‘Some time ago. I noticed his name in a report the other day. He was mentioned as having been particularly fearless during a failed assault on a town in the south-west a few months ago.’

  ‘Anything from Lily?’

  Again the earrings glittered as Madame Kung shook her head.

  Stevie had been trying to reach Lily since she had arrived back in the States. She had written to every address she knew in Hong Kong and on the mainland. It was part of her weekly routine: letter to Lily, letter to Harry, letter to Jishang. There had been nothing in return. Nothing from Lily. Nothing from Jishang. And, most painfully, nothing from Harry. It was if they had all disappeared off the face of the earth. Sitting here with the street cries of Chinatown floating through the heavily curtained window, Stevie felt the familiar remorse. ‘I should never have left her there.’

  ‘You did what you had to do.’ A pause. ‘We all did.’

  ‘Did we, though? Did we really? I can’t get away from the thought that maybe there was something more I could have done. Something else.’

  ‘And you don’t think that is the human condition? Always knowing there might be something else? Don’t waste time with such thoughts, it’s the path of madness. We can only be responsible for our personal actions, after all.’ Stevie was surprised by the forceful tone.

  ‘Well, that’s not always the case. Surely we all share some responsibility for the world we live in. I mean it’s all cause and effect. If the context had not made it possible for the war to happen things might be very different.’

  This was the most political conversation they had ever had and immediately Stevie regretted it. Madame Kung drew herself up.

  ‘That is too naive, Stevie, even for an American.’ There was a pause and when Madame Kung spoke again her voice was thick with emotion. ‘Do you really think that a human being can bear the weight of guilt that the necessary betrayals and compromises of life bring with them? Do you? I do not. A life lived in a village, maybe, with no thought beyond the seasons passing. But even in such a small life, the little shifts of fate require compromise. Every decision carries with it the shadow of the choice not made. It’s unbearable. No – I am not responsible.’

  Stevie looked at the fierce figure on the chaise and understood that the dark corners of her conscience, where her husband’s rapacious regime had laid waste huge tracts of her homeland, would not survive scrutiny in even the faintest light.

  Madame Kung brushed an invisible crumb from her lap.

  ‘Li Chen was a politician. You can be sure that your Lily was under his protection and will remain so. There is, I gather, honour among some of those thieves.’

  ‘There was a boy, Ping Wei – Chen couldn’t protect him.’

  ‘That boy was betrayed. We none of us have weapons against betrayal by friends.’

  Stevie frowned. ‘What are you saying? You know who betrayed them?’

  Madame Kung was silent for a moment. Then she spoke slowly, choosing her words with even more care than usual. ‘I know about the incident. That is all.’

  She signalled to one of her men to bring hot water for the teapot.

  Stevie struggled with her impatience. ‘Madame, what are you saying to me?’

  ‘I’m saying we none of us are safe from those who know us best.’

  Stevie let out a strangled groan of frustration as she leaned back against the chair.

  ‘More tea, perhaps? And by the way, my dear, did you notice in the market today there’s an absolute glut of tomatoes?’

  Later, Stevie and Hal tumbled out into the broiling day. At Hal’s insistence they stood a couple of blocks away from the Empire State Building and watched the men at work, already rebuilding the damage to the seventy-ninth floor. At this distance the three-week-old hole in the side of the tower looked like a gash in a painted backdrop. It was hard to imagine the reality of an aeroplane flying directly into the building. Stevie saw it as a metaphor for the fragility of the state. It had been a fog-bound mistake made by a confused pilot, and she chose not to think about the office workers burning.

  They were weaving through the crush of people on the concourse of Grand Central Station when an announcement over the public address system snared Stevie’s attention. There was an abrupt change in the announcer’s tone of voice and she had broken off in the middle of the departure of the three fifty-four to Georgia from platform seven to clear her throat. Something about her tone slowed the entire crowd until it came to a standstill. The only movement came from a flock of pigeons, swooping and fluttering above their heads.

  ‘An hour ago, today the 15th of August 1945, in a radio broadcast the Emperor of Japan ceded victory to the Allied Forces in the Pacific –’

  There was a stunned moment of absolute stillness before the shrieks and whoops and tears of relief filled the enormous concourse. Stevie picked up Hal and held him tight. The young woman next to them wept as she hugged them both, then, looking into Stevie’s face, she gasped.

  ‘You’re Stevie Steiber – I don’t believe it. I can’t tell you how much I admire you.’

  But Stevie didn’t hear her. She didn’t hear anything. All she could think was that now Harry would come home. He would come home. She stayed there, absolutely st
ill, while the world moved on and Hal held tight to her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  September 1945

  The announcements and lists and rhetoric washed over her for weeks. Rumours sprang fresh every few minutes but it was all so much background noise to Stevie. Her vision was as pure and unchanging as it had been for the years before the peace. Harry was alive and he would find her.

  In her book-infested living room Stevie hunched low over the unwieldy keys of her typewriter. The clutter had multiplied while she wasn’t looking and it now threatened the small space that was left on the desk for her elbows. Frustrated, she brushed a pile of newspaper clippings away. They fluttered to the bare floorboards in the breeze created by the slow-whirling fan. They seemed suspended longer than was naturally possible before they skipped over the dusty boards. She leaned back in her chair, her hands on her head. Let them lie, she thought. She noticed the faint sweat stains under her arms and dropped them. There was no one to see them but she had hoped to wear that blouse for at least another day.

  Through the open window the distant sounds of traffic drifted in. A siren cut through the dense heavy air. Stevie shivered now and, sighing again, she set herself back into the hunched work position.

  Her fingers poised. Nothing came.

  She glanced again at the ghetto of papers and photographs, at one photograph in particular: a Shanghai party before the war, an international mix of people with drinks in their hands, much fun being had by all. Or nearly all. Squinting suspiciously at the camera out of the corner of his eye, Jishang, slim and immaculately tailored, scowled at the invisible photographer. Stevie covered the picture with an open notebook. Now only his long fingers could be seen encircling the stubby glass. Suddenly irritated, she slammed her hands on the keys. She muttered to herself as she pushed her chair back and stood up. The rusty metal legs dug more scars into the wooden floor.

  She walked across the room. She didn’t look at the pile of unopened cellophane-wrapped bouquets of flowers that lay where they had been left by the several delivery boys who had had to make the long, hot journey up the narrow stairs to her door, only to be met by ungracious snarls.

  Stevie reached up to the small electric fan on top of the filing cabinet and switched it on to the highest setting. She stood for a moment letting the sluggish warm air blow across her face. She closed her eyes and leaned into the breeze.

  Hal’s voice came through the apartment door letterbox.

  ‘Monkeys have willies, you know. They do. I saw.’

  Stevie laughed as she walked to the door, lighter now in herself. The frenzy of little-boy limbs and hot breath on her face made her weak, as it always did. She had never grown used to the beauty of it and she had to fight for a second the feelings of fear and wonder. What could this miracle of vitality possibly have to do with her?

  Her son climbed over her, obscuring her view, and Declan’s light, Irish voice had to work at being heard. It didn’t help that he was leaning against the door-jamb half out of breath from the stairs and laughing.

  ‘Tell Mummy about having an ice cream.’

  Hal, forthright, warmed to his theme. ‘They’re pink. I saw one.’

  Stevie lost herself for a moment in the feel of her lips on Hal’s lovely cheek. She didn’t answer until Hal slipped out of her grasp and marched on chubby legs deeper into the room.

  ‘They are too.’

  Declan laughed and, catching his eye, Stevie remembered how much his lightness meant to her.

  ‘Thanks for taking him.’

  ‘I take all my hot dates to the zoo. Get any work done?’

  ‘Not much, no.’

  Declan leaned his broad shoulders away from the door and handed Stevie the small pile of letters he was carrying. They were warm from his touch.

  ‘Can I have a rabbit?’ Hal said. ‘It could live under my bed.’ He picked up a particularly fat and interesting-looking package from among the cellophaned bouquets. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Stevie was still on her knees; she could feel the gap between the floorboards cut into her skin. ‘It says Hal Field. Now, who on earth could that be?’

  ‘It’s me. It’s me!’ It was impossible not to be infected by Hal’s delight.

  He sat down, his legs splayed out, and began to prise the package open with great care. Declan took a step closer to Stevie. His voice was quite different, low and anxious.

  ‘You saw the paper?’

  Stevie avoided his sympathetic eyes. She pointed at the pile of drooping bouquets.

  Declan’s voice dropped even further. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s no more true this time than it was before.’ She said it with fierce conviction and knew she sounded as though she was protesting too much.

  ‘Stevie – you’re going to have to face it, you know, sooner or later. I’m sorry but you are.’

  Her laugh was so inappropriate that even Declan, long-practised in Stevie’s unpredictable responses, was taken aback.

  He went on. ‘The lists of all surviving prisoners of war have been published and ratified by both sides. He’s not on it.’

  ‘It’s not just me. Madame Kung’s intelligence people say he’s still alive.’

  ‘That old goat. Why is her word God?’

  Stevie tried to ignore his tone. ‘Her information is always good. You know it is.’

  ‘What’s she doing holed up in Chinatown anyway? Pretending she’s down on her luck; it’s laughable when everybody knows her husband stole the entire wealth of China.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to like her.’

  There was a shout of triumph from Hal. Stevie bent down to him but not before Declan had seen the shadow of doubt cross her face like a flinch. Hal leaned into the cardboard box, the discarded peel of wrapping pushed aside.

  He pulled a face. ‘Look, it’s smelly.’

  The turd lay, ugly, in a corner of the box. Dark patches stained the sides where it had moved around on its journey from the anonymous bigot right into Hal’s infant world.

  Stevie let out a noise, somewhere between shock and fury, and pulled the box away. She thrust it into Declan’s hands and bent down to Hal.

  Declan turned his head away from the box in his hands. ‘My God, who would do such a thing?’

  Hal was crying now. He did not know why exactly but he knew something was wrong. Maybe he’d done something wrong.

  Declan knelt down too, the box still in his hands. Hal was silenced by the unexpected oddness of it. Maybe Declan was being funny to make him forget the crying. But Declan’s voice was strangely wavering and passionate.

  ‘Stevie, marry me. Please.’

  She was gentle with him. ‘Don’t, Declan. Not again.’

  ‘Why not? We’d have a great life. You know we would. And I loved you before you even met Harry.’

  Stevie shook her head but Declan couldn’t stop.

  ‘What’s so wrong with having a husband? The moral people would bugger off and I wouldn’t get in the way of your work. I’d support you whatever you wanted to do.’

  Stevie got up. Hal clung with his legs around her waist like a monkey. ‘That’s enough. Stop.’

  ‘All right, maybe you don’t need a husband but what about Hal? He could do with a father.’

  He knew he’d gone too far.

  Stevie’s voice cracked. ‘He’s got a father.’

  And of course Declan wished he’d said nothing because by then the damage was done.

  A week or so later she was standing among the small huddle of reporters outside the Japanese Consulate waiting for another announcement on the progress of negotiations. There was no sign of life from inside. Her lungs burned reassuringly as she inhaled her cigarette.

  ‘Hey, Bette Davis.’ Declan had pushed through and was next to her, leaning close. ‘No story here. Not even a janitor to give the low-down on their last supper. I got a tip, Vivien Leigh’s at the Hilton.’ He borrowed her cigarette and took a dee
p drag.

  ‘I think I’ll stick around here a little longer.’

  He shrugged, passing the cigarette back to her. ‘Wanna give me the keys? I’ll get dinner.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I might be done before you. It makes sense, one less thing for you to think about.’ There was a plaintive note in his voice.

  She tried to swallow her irritation. She shook her head. ‘No.’ She didn’t have the patience for this, for taking into account how badly he wanted to please her. ‘Listen, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ His insecurity was unbearable, his face so naked and vulnerable.

  She felt very old. In a flush of shame she tried to back-track. ‘Vivien Leigh at the Hilton with who?’

  ‘With whom. What’s up? Spit it out.’

  Declan had his hand on her arm and was pulling her away. They stood a little distance from the others.

  ‘So?’

  Playing for time, she leaped on to her high horse. ‘I just don’t think you should assume my apartment is yours.’

  ‘I assume nothing. I’m a reporter.’

  ‘Look, it feels like you’re kind of moving in.’ She took a breath. ‘I’m grateful for everything you’re doing. You’ve been a great friend to both of us and Hal loves you, obviously.’

  ‘It’s been years, Stevie. Years. And we make sense, you and I.’

  Her voice broke. ‘If I could I would. Believe me. It’s not you. It’s – listen, I’m only saying this because I can see it’s not fair on you, I’m sorry. I just can’t.’

  A cloud of cold anger shook him. ‘I know you can’t. But what exactly are you thinking? You think Harry is going to come back from the dead, like Odysseus, shiny and undamaged and claim you for his own like in some cheap romance? That can’t be it.’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ She was close to tears. ‘I don’t know.’

  Declan’s voice was sharp with misery. ‘Take it from me, it’s the damn, fucking hope that kills you.’

  He walked away so fast that he was a blur. Or maybe it was her tears that did it. She stood for a while, numb, before peeling away from the bantering group of newsmen and walking aimlessly until, with a jolt, she realised she was late to collect Hal.