The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  Chang bowed. ‘It was an honour to serve my friend.’

  The big man studied him. His mouth was hard and his eyes shrewd. Chang could see no grief in them, but this man did not reveal his emotions lightly.

  ‘They would have cut off his limbs and scattered them, if you had not carried his body away to me. The Kuomintang does that to frighten others. It could have taken my son’s spirit many years to find them all before returning whole to our ancestors. For that gift, I thank you.’ He bowed his head to Chang.

  ‘My heart is happy for your son. His spirit will be pleased to know you offer a gift in return.’

  The black eyes tightened. ‘Name the gift and it shall be yours.’ Chang took a deliberate step closer and kept his voice low. ‘Your son gave his life for what he believed in, to open the minds of the people of China to the words of Mao Tse . . .’

  ‘Do not speak to me of that.’ The father turned his head away in a dismissive gesture, the muscle at the top of his jaw bunched and hard. ‘Just name the gift.’

  ‘A printing press.’

  A harsh intake of breath.

  ‘Your son’s press was destroyed by the Kuomintang.’

  ‘My word is given. The printing machine shall be yours.’

  Chang bowed, no more than a dip of his head. ‘You do great honour to your son’s memory, Feng Tu Hong.’

  Yuesheng’s father turned his broad back on Chang and strode away to the funeral banquet.

  He must take the fox home. She had seen enough. If she stayed, she would be discovered. The guests were no longer bowing their heads in grief but were tipping them back to drink maotai, chattering like pigeons. She would be noticed. He glanced over his shoulder to where she was tucked close behind him and wondered what would happen if he lifted off her wide straw hat. Would the fire spirits of her hair sweep through the great crowd of guests and burn the truth from their tongues: that they had offered no kindness to Yuesheng while he lived?

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  It was Kuan, his companion from the cellar. She appeared suddenly in front of him, dressed in black instead of white and carrying a satchel on her back. He had not expected her to come to the funeral, as her work in the factory gave no time off. He moved a few paces away from the fox girl.

  ‘Yes, I asked for the gift. He agreed.’

  Kuan’s dark slanted eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You are fortunate you still carry your head on your shoulders instead of in a bucket.’ She leaned close. ‘Did he warn you? Against printing more pamphlets and posters?’

  ‘No. There was no point. He despises us, as he despised his son.’

  She smiled gently. ‘Don’t grieve so, Chang An Lo. Yuesheng died doing what was right and he is happy now.’

  ‘He will be happier when we bring freedom to this shackled country of China,’ Chang whispered fiercely. He drew in a deep breath of scented air. ‘And Yuesheng’s father will help us bring that day nearer. Whether he wants to or not.’

  22

  ‘You look tired, old sport,’ Alfred Parker said, pausing to dig around in the murk of tobacco at the bottom of the bowl of his pipe. ‘A bit grey round the gills.’

  Theo ran a hand over his eyes. They felt gritty and raw. ‘Yes, I’m feeling a bit rough actually. Not sleeping well these days.’

  ‘Not fretting over the spot of bother with that Mason chappie, are you? I thought you said you’d sorted it out.’

  ‘Yes, I have. No problems there. It’s the end-of-term examinations, so I’m up marking papers till all hours.’

  Plus the fact that he’d spent much of the last three nights in wafer-thin boats bobbing around on the river. Staring out endlessly into blackness. Last night it had sheeted down with rain, but nevertheless the nighttime collections were going smoothly and Theo was surprised at how quickly his own share of silver at the end of each run was growing heavier. That could only mean one thing. They were growing bolder, trafficking in ever-larger cargoes, taking greater risks. They relied on his word. And he relied on Mason’s.

  No wonder he was looking grey round the gills.

  He and Parker were in Theo’s favourite teahouse in Junchow. Parker had wanted a meeting and agreed to join him there, overcoming his scruples about hygiene and correctness. Tea without milk was not Alfred’s idea of tea at all, but he said he was interested in experiencing a traditional Chinese teahouse to broaden his understanding of the natives. Theo had laughed. Alfred might be an excellent journalist on European matters in China, but he would never have an understanding of the natives. When the slender young girl in her high-necked cheongsam brought over the plain earthenware teapot and poured the red brew into their tiny cups, Alfred smiled at her so warmly that she shook her head and pointed upstairs. Theo knew it didn’t enter his friend’s head that she thought he wanted sex with her and was telling him the singsong girls were in rooms above, ready to offer the moon and the stars. For a fistful of dollars, of course.

  Around them the low bamboo tables buzzed with the erratic tones of Chinese merchants and bankers, even a few Japanese diplomats, well dressed and well fed, all men who were on the right side of the food shortages. The place was bright and colourful, fooling customers into a sense of good fortune. Crimson lanterns and golden lions and bright songbirds in elaborate cages soothed away irritations, while a girl with hair like a raven’s wing plucked a soft tune on the chin. The clack of mah-jongg tiles never ceased. Normally Theo found it peaceful here, but not today. Somehow he seemed to have lost the knack. Peaceful felt a long way away right now.

  ‘So, Alfred, why the urgency? What is it you are so keen to discuss? ’

  ‘You asked me to dig around in Christopher Mason’s past, remember? I know you said you’ve settled whatever your differences were with him, but even so . . .’

  Theo leaned forward. ‘Found any skeletons?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Just a few irregularities.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He’s not quite what he seems, for a start. His parents owned a small hardware shop in Beckenham, Kent. Not the import-export business he claims.’

  ‘Well, well, so Mason’s pater was in a brown-apron job. Interesting.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  Theo grinned. ‘Alfred, you are a first-class diamond.’

  Parker took a moment to relight his pipe. ‘His first job was in the customs and excise department in London. And word has it that he wasn’t above marketing some of the contraband goods he confiscated - French brandy and perfume, stuff like that.’

  ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘He eventually moved over to the planning applications department but only after there was a whiff of scandal about him and his boss’s wife. Seems she liked rough treatment . . . and he provided it.’ Parker was frowning uncomfortably. ‘Not the sort of thing a decent chap would do.’

  Theo was touched by his friend’s naïveté. There was something so defenceless about it. His own innocence had been swallowed up by a gunshot in an office in Kensington ten years earlier, and since then he had always expected to bump up against the bad in people. It just seemed to happen that way. Invariably. That’s why he liked teaching. Children were raw material; there was still a chance for them. And there was Li Mei, of course. Li Mei gave him hope. But Parker was an odd sort of fellow because the shiny edges were still intact, not dulled or chipped away by reality. Rare thing these days. Quite refreshing in its way. And there was something different about him today, something exuberant.

  ‘And,’ Parker lowered his voice, ‘he resigned from Planning after only eighteen months.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Rumours. Nothing definite, you understand.’

  ‘Get on with it, man.’

  ‘Kickbacks.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Money under the table. Buildings going up where they shouldn’t. That sort of thing. Resigned in the nick of time and shipped out to Junchow.
Lord only knows how he wangled a berth in the education department over here, but apparently he’s good at what he does, though not well liked by those under him. They wouldn’t say more. Frightened for their jobs, I suppose.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  Parker looked startled. ‘Of course not. Not if I saw corruption. ’

  The girl came just then with another pot of steaming tea, and she poured them both a cup.

  ‘Xie xie,’ Parker said. Thank you.

  Theo almost choked on the hot liquid. ‘Well spoken, Alfred.’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d learn some of the lingo while I’m here. Comes in useful in my line of work and anyway, you see, old chap, there’s someone I want to impress.’

  Theo watched his friend turn quite pink.

  ‘Alfred, you sly dog. Who’s the lucky lady? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, she is. The mother of one of your pupils.’

  ‘Not Anthea Mason, surely.’

  Parker looked put out. ‘Of course not. The lady is called Valentina Ivanova.’ Just the mention of her name painted a shy smile on his lips.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Alfred,’ Theo said sharply, ‘you must be mad. You’re asking for trouble.’

  Parker blinked behind his spectacles, taken aback by the unexpected heat of the response. ‘What do you mean, Theo? She’s a wonderful woman.’

  ‘Oh, she’s beautiful, I grant you that. But she’s a White Russian.’

  ‘So? What’s wrong with that?’

  Theo sighed. ‘Oh, Alfred, everyone knows those women are desperate to marry a European. Any European. The poor creatures are stuck here, no papers, no money, no jobs for them. It must be hell. That’s why half the prostitutes in the brothels of Junchow are White Russian women. Don’t look so shocked, it’s a fact.’ He softened his tone. ‘I’m sorry to burst your bubble, my friend, but she’s just using you.’

  Parker shook his head, but Theo could see his confidence draining away. The journalist removed his spectacles and started to clean them thoroughly with a virginal white handkerchief. ‘I thought you’d understand,’ he said gruffly without looking up. ‘You of all people. About all this love business. The way it makes a chap feel quite . . .’ He paused.

  ‘Ill?’

  Parker attempted a smile. ‘Yes, I feel ill.’ He replaced his spectacles and stared, immobile, at the carefully refolded handkerchief between his fingers. ‘I see her face everywhere,’ he said softly. ‘In the mirror when I shave, on the blank page when I type up my pieces, even on old Gallifrey’s desk blotter - he’s my editor - during deadline conferences.’

  ‘You’ve got it bad, old fellow. She has certainly hooked you.’

  ‘I thought you’d understand,’ he said again.

  ‘Because I’m with Li Mei, you mean? No, Li Mei is not with me for my money, I promise you that. For a start I haven’t got any, more’s the pity, and anyway she comes from a wealthy Chinese family that has turned its back on her because of me. So it’s a very different situation. I warn you, steer well clear of Valentina Ivanova. She’ll just walk away the moment you take her back to England.’

  Parker’s mouth was taut. He pushed aside his cup untouched. ‘I did wonder what a beautiful and accomplished woman like that would see in a chap like me.’

  ‘Oh, Alfred, get a grip on yourself. Like I said, you’re a first-class diamond.’

  Parker shrugged stiffly.

  ‘Look, why not just enjoy her company? Take her to bed for a few months and get her perfume out of your blood, then you don’t . . .’

  ‘Theo, you may possess a heartless heathen soul,’ Parker said without rancour, ‘but I do not. I am a Christian, you see, and as such I try to follow His commandments. So no, I won’t bed her and then abandon her.’

  ‘More fool you, my friend.’

  There was a silence between them. A girl came offering sugared dumplings on a tray, but they both waved her away. Behind them a man shouted in triumph as he won his game of mah-jongg. Theo lit a cigarette. His throat ached; he’d smoked too many recently.

  ‘Leave her now,’ he said quietly, ‘before you get in too deep. I’m saying this for your own good. And don’t forget there’s the daughter as well. Not easy, that one.’

  Parker ran an uncertain hand over his high forehead, trying to hold his thoughts together. ‘I don’t know, Theo, maybe you’re right. It seems to me that love is such a destructive force. Love of a person, love of an ideal, love of a country. It just wipes out everything else and causes havoc. And as for the daughter, don’t even mention her to me. That girl is beyond help.’

  23

  Chang stood in the dark. Still as stone. They were there, all around him. He could hear them. The rustle of a sleeve, the brush of thigh against wall, the scrape of shoe on gravel. It had been a risk. To show himself at the funeral. It meant they would track him down, he knew that. But it would have brought dishonour on him if he had shunned Yuesheng’s final moment. Yuesheng was his blood companion and he owed him respect, especially as it could so easily have been Chang’s own body lying dead in the cellar that night when the Kuomintang attacked. So now the Black Snakes were here. Death lay in the shadows, awaiting its feast.

  He was in a cobbled square in the old town, his back pressed to a studded oak door, inset under an arch. Black figures flicked from one street to another, crouched and coming fast from all directions. Movement in doorways. Sharp eyes seeking him. No moon to highlight the blades in their fists but he had no doubt that they were there, hungry for blood.

  He counted six of them in all, but could hear more. One was standing tight against a wall no more than ten paces to his right, guarding the entrance to a narrow hutong, an alleyway that led deep into the maze of back streets. He had a harsh way of breathing. With a silent leap and an upward slam of his heel, Chang put an end to it, but before the body had even touched the ground, he was into the hutong and running, low and lithe. Above him in an upstairs window a light flooded on and a shout sounded from behind, but he didn’t turn.

  He moved faster. Ducked into deeper darkness. Feet skidding on rotting filth. He led them on through the alleys, stringing them out as they fought for speed, so that when the fastest man found himself at a crossroads twenty feet ahead of his companions, he had no idea what flew out of the shadows and thudded into his chest, snapping ribs like twigs, until it was too late and he couldn’t breathe.

  Chang swept through the darkness. Winding and twisting. Ambushing. One man lost the use of a leg and another the sight in one eye. But a nighttime honey wagon, the cart piled high with human manure and the stench enough to choke a man, blocked his path and he was forced to swerve left down a slope that led nowhere.

  A death trap.

  Sheer walls on three sides of a rough courtyard. One way in. One way out. Six men spread behind him, breathing hard and spitting venom. Three of them carried knives, two wielded swords, but one held a gun and it was pointed straight at Chang’s chest. He said something guttural and a sword carrier stepped forward. He came at Chang and the long blade sang through the air. Chang stilled his breathing, drew on the energy racing through his blood, and in one fluid movement swept a leg under his attacker. A sting of pain skittered down his side, but he took three rapid steps and leaped into the air at the back wall, struggled for a fingerhold, slipped, caught again, and then swung his heels over his head in a full arc. On the roof but not safe. A bullet tore past his ear.

  A howl of anger down in the courtyard and the man with the gun seized the swordsman’s weapon and sliced it down in a blow that disembowelled the sword’s owner. The wounded man fell forward to his knees, clutching at his writhing innards as they spilled from his body, a high wailing scream rising from his mouth. A second blow from the sword silenced the scream and sent his head rolling into the gutter. The gun pointed once more at the roof. But Chang was gone.

  Lydia had time to think. The stretch of twenty-two yards at the centre of the pitch was wearing thin, bu
t around it the turf spread out like a shimmering lake of green. The grass was trimmed with precision and treated with a respect that baffled her because the men seemed to pay more attention to its welfare than they did to their children’s. But she loved to watch cricket. She liked to imagine this same scene taking place on the other side of the world in England. At this very moment in every town and village the weekend was being besieged by men in white flannels strutting around with pads and bats, knocking hell out of a small hard ball. It was so wonderfully pointless. Especially in this heat. Only people with nothing to do all day could think up a game so bizarre.

  Men in white.

  To one nation it means a game. To another it means death. Worlds apart. Oceans adrift. But what happens to someone caught in the middle? Do they drown?

  ‘More tea, dear? You look miles away.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Mason.’ Lydia accepted the tea, drew her thoughts away from Chang An Lo, and helped herself to another cucumber sandwich, which she added to the plate balanced on the arm of her deckchair.

  Polly’s mother was wearing heavy sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with roses from her garden, but neither quite hid the bruise around her left eye or the swelling on her cheekbone. ‘I tripped over Achilles, Christopher’s lazy old cat, and banged into a door, silly me,’ Lydia had heard her laugh to the other wives, but it was obvious from their expressions that no one believed the lie. Lydia looked at her with new respect. To come here today for the match and face up to this humiliation with such a firm smile and a steady hand as she dispensed tea, that took courage.

  ‘Mrs Mason,’ she said in a loud voice, ‘that is such a pretty dress, it really suits you.’ It was frilly and floral, the kind of dress only an Englishwoman would wear.

  ‘Why, thank you, Lydia,’ Anthea Mason said, and for one ghastly moment Lydia thought she was going to cry, but instead she popped a smile on her face and an extra sandwich on Lydia’s plate.