Miss Jill

by Emily Hahn

Jill stood very still for a moment and then sat down on a hall bench.

  “Have give key Master Lee,” said the boy, regarding her in a kindly, inquisitive fashion. “Master Lee give apartment some missy, missy move in today.”

  Botchan’s training stood her in good stead. She could feel it take possession of her limbs, so that she stood up straight, and her face, so that she smiled.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “That’s right. I just didn’t know he was going so soon. Thank you, boy.”

  She turned to go.

  “Missy,” called the boy. She waited. “You know Master Konya address in Europe? Plenty man wantchee. Comprador, shoeman, plenty man no catchee money, makee plenty walla-walla here. Too much trouble.” He wagged his head dolefully.

  “No,” said Jill. “No, I don’t know his address. Sorry, boy.”

  “Very sorry, missy.”

  She smiled again and walked away. At the corner, just in time, she found a ricksha to carry her home.

  They told her to wait a little before she made up her mind; that she might even yet hear from him. She pretended to believe them and pretended to wait. They kept quiet for a few days about the things they knew–the way he had been spending money and boasting, when he was drunk, that there was more money to spend, though Konya was too jealous of his good name ever to say outright where it came from. Annette even knew how much money there had been at one time or another in the bank account. It all came out in time, little by little. One could not expect Violet, for example, to keep quiet about it forever. She was only human, as she said herself, and this was too good a chance to give up of rubbing it into Jill. Besides, as she said, she had no idea the girl would take it so hard.

  Annette knew a little better than that, and she was reasonably considerate for several days. Then she decided it was time to snap Jill out of it.

  “You’re too sensible to go on moping,” she said. “After all, it was your own fault too. You spoiled him. I often said to myself you didn’t have any idea of how to manage that man, and you’re well out of it. Why you girls can’t have more sense is beyond me. You don’t need any manager, Jill; you’re very well off by yourself here. What good did he ever do you, I should like to know?”

  Jill smiled humbly.

  “The best thing that could have happened,” continued Annette, encouraged. “Far better find out now than go on and on, wasting yourself. I’ve seen his sort over and over again, and I tell you plain I’m glad it happened. Why, if the little yellow-belly hadn’t got scared of the war he’d have gone on hanging to you forever. Why you ever took up with him in the first place is beyond me, it is really. Look at the way he treated you, playing up the other girls right in front of your face.”

  “But you told me I was silly to make a row about that. You told me—”

  “Oh, I told you! I had to tell you something, didn’t I? I couldn’t have you girls making scenes all over my house, could I? Just the same I had my opinions, and I have them now, and I tell you you’re well out of it. You can do something for yourself now, Jill, you’re independent. A girl like you, with her life before her. So snap out of it, my dear. Come on down and have a game with me and Bob and then go in and make yourself agreeable in the drawing room.”

  Jill shrank back. “I don’t feel well enough. Not tonight. Please, Annette.”

  “Now what’s all this?” demanded Annette.

  Jill began to cry. “They’re all laughing at me. Everybody must know. Iris, Violet, they’re sure to have told everybody.”

  “As if they didn’t have something better to talk about! Why, if it comes to that, Violet’s had the same hard luck. You ask her; she’s not bashful, she’ll tell you. Come along now, kid.”

  Therefore, for the next few days Jill was visible again in Annette’s drawing room, smiling and pulling her baby act and going through her paces, though she seemed dispirited. A dreadful fascination made her cling to Violet during the day, and Annette, seeing the two together and hearing their voices as they lay about and talked by the hour, smiled grimly and was satisfied.

  Violet made Jill laugh. She told her about Market Street in San Francisco, where the girls watched each other jealously in regard to fashion. If one of them appeared in a white fox fur, the others all had to have white fox, too, or they were ashamed to be seen. If one walked out one day in smart colored sandals, all the other girls immediately rushed to buy colored sandals the very next day. As for their friends…

  “You think this little sawed-off runt of a count is the first guy that ever took a powder?” demanded Violet scornfully. “You ought to wait till you hear about my Tommy. Tommy ran me for three years before he got into trouble hisself. He was the damnedest guy–sour as hell when he wasn’t a lush, and beating me up when he was. Gave me a diamond as big as that, though, just before they got him for a smash-and-grab act in San Diego. So I waited for Tommy all the while he was inside. Came to see him every visitor’s day and saved up and never let another fellow manage me. `I can take care of myself,’ I told ’em. ‘I’m a lone wolf.’ And the minute Tommy gets out, what do you think? He takes up with some spick in Los Angeles who’s been writing him all the while he’s inside. Nobody never told me, and he let me pass up God knows how many chances. You needn’t think your Sanyi’s the only bastard in the world. They’re all the same. You’re better off on your own.”

  “But I get lonesome,” cried Jill.

  “Yeah, I know, but if it’s only that—”

  “But lots of the girls have their friends. Look at Margaret and Laurie and those two French girls who both worked for Gyppo. There must be something in it.”

  “Well, Gyppo’s different,” said Violet. “He’s a mean bastard, but he’s got a head, you see what I mean? He takes care of the girls he turns out; they know what he puts in the bank for them and it’s all on the up and up. He’s a real manager. And the way he handles them and keeps them from pulling each other’s hair out! Of course those French whores, they slay me. I don’t say I’d stand for it, but Gyppo’s another matter; he’s no Konya. Your Konya, he was just a amachure. Gyppo,” said Violet with respect in her voice, “now he’s a real professional. He don’t stand for no nonsense. A girl can respect him.”

  “He beats them up, though. Sanyi never beat me. Just a slap sometimes.”

  “Gyppo’s okay,” said Violet. “I don’t want no manager myself, not after Tommy, but Gyppo’s okay.”

  “I guess I can understand those French girls,” Jill said, half to herself. “They belong to somebody. They don’t have to feel all alone. They don’t need to feel lonesome.”

  “How you harp on that!” Violet’s voice was scornful. “If company means so much to you, why, then, make up your mind you’ve gotta pay for it. That’s the way your count figured. He thought his company oughta be worth something, I guess. You take my advice, stop looking back now. Start looking ahead. As for Sanyi, I never could see what you saw in him. And after all, I oughta know.”

  Docilely, then, Jill went on behaving herself. She was gentle and sweet with the company and gentle and sweet with Annette and Bob. In a week or two the girls even dared make jokes about Sanyi, and Jill took them very well. She always smiled, even laughed, and went so far as to speak with contempt of her own stupidity. It is true that she lacked a certain zest which was necessary to her type of beauty: when Jill was wan and silent she looked insipid. Her popularity waned during those days, and Annette had to call on all her reserves of patience not to scold her sometimes. Annette, however, knew her business. She was sure Jill would stage a comeback. In the meantime there was not the slightest use turning against her.

  No doubt everything would have gone just as Annette foresaw if it had not been for the North China Daily News, which paper all the girls read in turn at their noon breakfasts. They never paid much attention to the news columns, but the woman’s page was popular, and the society column had its readers, too, at Annette’s. The Sunday photographs were most in demand because of the photographs:
that was the way one identified those clients who gave false names. It was Iris who found the item which had special interest for them one morning about six weeks after Sanyi had disappeared.

  She cried out in amazement. Jill’s count, she announced, must have been a real count after all, for the North China Daily News, announcing his engagement, gave him his full title. Konya had made an appearance at last, it seemed, in Cairo, and his betrothal to the daughter of an Italian general had been proclaimed by various notices which he and his fianc$eGe sent to their friends in the Far East. “The young count met his future bride, as Shanghailanders know, here in our own city,” said the society columnist. “Their many friends wish them well.”

  It was foolish of Annette, who knew her job, not to keep more of a watch on Jill that day, but Annette was busy with other affairs and she felt she had bestowed enough time and attention on Jill. If she gave the matter any thought at all it was to reflect that at least the girl seemed to have got over it, so that this latest news would not have much effect on her. What with the imminent arrival of a new girl who had been invited from the house of a friend of Annette’s in Honolulu, and the sudden rush of business occasioned by a flock of newspapermen hunting for excitement in troubled China, she really could not be expected to interest herself more than usual in Jill’s state of mind.

  The girl went out that afternoon, saying she wanted to do some shopping, and nobody went with her. She probably got the veronal then. It was easy enough to find; Shanghai was not New York or London in regard to those things. What really vexed Annette when she had time to think it over was that Jill chose such an awkward time of day to drink the stuff: eleven o’clock, if you please, on a busy night. But that’s the way those girls always behaved. Anything to attract attention.

  VIII

  Whenever one of her girls attempted suicide Annette sent for the house doctor. He was an invaluable person in the business, whoever he might be–for Annette had found it necessary to change doctors more than once during her years in Shanghai. Shanghai was a great place for men in the medical profession, but they didn’t seem to remain there forever. They made their fortunes and retired, or they became so successful that they didn’t want to take care of Annette’s girls any more, or something more awkward happened to them, as for example with that clever doctor from England who was caught in an opium-smuggling scheme and had to run away.

  However, Annette always found another doctor. She had to, quite naturally, in her business. Something was always going wrong with the girls. They became pregnant, perhaps; Annette always made discreet arrangements about that sort of thing, though she refused to bear the expense of it. More often they became, as they called it, Sick. This was more serious than pregnancy from a girl’s point of view, because Annette was very particular about her house, and the minute a girl was Sick she had to stop work until the doctor said she was not Sick any more. It was hard on a girl, but it couldn’t be helped. The third important duty of Annette’s doctors was to treat such victims of hysteria as Jill. Treatments varied with the personality of the doctor as well as with the method of self-destruction chosen by the patient. Altogether one can see that Annette’s doctor carried a good deal of responsibility, but for all that, none of the professional men who were honored with her confidence seemed very proud of their work. They never boasted abroad of their patients when these were Annette’s girls. They made money out of the connection, but it wasn’t a very good thing socially. Whatever one did for Annette’s girls in the way of curing them or saving their lives against their wills, no matter how much skill might be involved, it wasn’t the kind of case that did a man any good.

  Of course it cut both ways. Unskillful treatment of a girl from Annette’s need not cause much excitement either. There was really no one, usually, to whom a bungler need answer. On the whole, however, Annette chose her doctors shrewdly and took every precaution to protect herself.

  The doctor Annette wanted that night for Jill couldn’t come. He was out somewhere on a case, and there was no telephone by which he could be reached. Annette chafed and bit her lip; the girl would probably be all right even if she had to wait a while for the stomach pump, but veronal, she knew, was a tricky thing. Sometimes one took too much, sometimes not enough, but once in a great while one took just the right lethal dose, and Annette was somewhat worried. Besides, it was demoralizing the house, the way Jill lay there. News had not reached the drawing-room clients, and the girls were all under orders to say nothing about it, but Iris was emotional at the best of times, and there were a few other girls there that evening, guests who knew Jill and were full of the story. Iris was showing ominous signs of breaking down in public, and no one knew better than Annette how quickly that sort of thing could spread.

  “She may have to go to a hospital,” said Annette to Bob. “Do you know some other doctor who can keep his mouth shut?”

  Bob thought he could look somebody up. He telegraphed a crony on the police force and triumphantly produced the name and number of Dr. Lionel Levy.

  “No, not a skin specialist,” he answered his mistress’s inquiring look, “but hell do. General practitioner.” As Annette still hesitated he added, “He’ll be all right. Refugee–Germany or Austria or somewhere.”

  “Oh,” said Annette, relaxing. “All right, get in touch with him.”

  That was how Dr. Lionel first came to Annette’s house. With his spectacles, his gravely learned expression, and his little black suitcase he had a calming effect as he mounted Annette’s polished stairs. The peering houseboys, the weeping amah, the idle women who hid behind their doors and watched him through careful gaps, all turned away, their fears allayed. They did not recognize this particular doctor, but it did not matter; the doctor had come, and Jill would be looked after. Whether or not she pulled through, the responsibility was now with the doctor. With one last threatening sniffle Iris calmed herself. Somebody turned on the wireless. Somebody laughed at a joke. The drawing room was itself again.

  In Jill’s room, after having administered the brutally simple remedy indicated, Dr. Lionel looked around him and smiled. It was this ironical smile which greeted Jill when she opened her eyes.

  “I feel terrible,” she said.

  “That is to be expected,” said Dr. Lionel. “I’m sorry.”

  He did not look sorry, Jill reflected. He looked as if he were laughing at her. She resented it. A girl who has tried to kill herself, a girl who has come near committing one of the greatest sins known to the Church, is entitled to a little sympathy. True, she did not quite remember why she had wanted to commit the sin of suicide, and an overpowering drowsiness of brain kept her from trying to remember, but she was not too sleepy to resent the doctor’s smile.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked. Her voice sounded faint to her ears, and she tried to say it again, louder.

  “So sorry,” said the stranger. “Nothing is really very funny, only—” He checked himself. “It would not interest you,” he added soothingly.

  “It would too. You’re laughing at me.”

  “Not at you, not at you. Now you must sleep. Don’t worry any more, just sleep.”

  With or without those orders Jill had to go to sleep. She dropped off before he finished talking to Annette beyond the bedroom door. She didn’t hear him saying, “Don’t leave her alone. I have looked carefully through her things, and so far as I can see there is no more poison, but don’t leave her alone.”

  She heard nothing of Annette’s reply or her grim promise that it should not happen again.

  “I think she will be all right now. Tomorrow I shall call, and if you think it necessary I shall come in again. Other wise—”

  “You won’t report this or anything, will you?” said Annette briskly. “I don’t see the necessity, do you? A little household incident…”

  Dr. Lionel shrugged and smiled. “I will not report it. There is nothing to report,” he said. “It is an accident to which one becomes accustomed these days.”
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br />   Other suicides which he had known, attempted and successful, crowded into his mind as he started up his car. Vienna, Munich, Tripoli … Dr. Lionel smiled. He had seen worse places than Annette’s, of the same kind. The little blonde was pretty, though. He wondered why she had done it. Oh well, with those weak features she might be foolish enough for any action, for any reason. To think, mused Dr. Levy, of all the people in Shanghai still preoccupied with personal affairs! An entire city, millions of people, still unaware of the world’s fate! It was positively refreshing. One could almost relax here-for a little while. A little while, repeated Dr. Levy, driving along Bubbling Well Road.

  The months that followed were saved from monotony by the ever-recurring Japanese excitement. B. W. came back from Peking with gloomy reports of conditions there; the Japanese were running everything, he said, and it was becoming more and more expensive to do any business at all, with so many of their puppets to bribe.

  “I am thinking,” he said, “that I must bring my family down to Shanghai. I am trying to find a large enough house.”

  He gave many luncheons and dinners during this time, often hiring Annette’s rooms for the purpose and showing less interest than he had done before in taking his Jill away from her surroundings. She could see that he was distracted by the Japanese situation; his brother was, too, and so were the other Chinese who dropped in at Annette’s. In other ways also Shanghai’s uneasiness was reflected. Once in a while newly arrived naval officers would come in to see the sights. Jill asked one of them about Konya.

  “I know his name,” said the officer cheerfully. “Who does not, along the China Coast? He is a very bad boy. They say his father is always having to pay his debts for him after he has stayed awhile in a city. But now it is his father-in-law who must pay; Konya married a rich girl. He will have to settle down now. Oh, he is a naughty boy, especially with the women. They say there was one poor girl …” Then the officer looked confused and changed the subject.