Julia Paradise

by Rod Jones

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite see—’

  ‘She’s a virgin, Ayres. She was and she still is. We’ve never been together in our marriage. Not once.’ Willy Paradise took the pipe out of his mouth and blinked back at Ayres with dignity.

  Ayres said, ‘Tell me about her father. You did meet him?’

  ‘I knew him well.’

  ‘What kind of a man was he?’

  ‘A man of entirely impeccable character.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘As far as I am aware. Longevity runs in the Kohl family.’

  ‘Kohl, did you say?’

  ‘Julia’s family name. Her father’s name is Johannes Kohl.’

  ‘Not Joachim?’

  ‘Of course not. Who is Joachim?’

  ‘He is a farmer? In North Queensland? But at the same time he is—what shall I call him—a man of science?’

  ‘A man of science! No. Well, in a manner of speaking he is a man of science. He’s a dentist, Ayres. You mustn’t mind if I seem puzzled by all these questions.’

  Ayres ignored him and went on, as though irrelevantly, ‘Can you tell me where I might find the Duck River in Australia?’

  ‘I am afraid I can’t. If it exists it must be very small indeed. I don’t mind telling you that I pride myself on being a keen student of the geography of my native land.’

  ‘Nor have you ever heard of a coastal town called Mem? Am I correct in that?’

  ‘Quite correct.’ Willy Paradise nodded equably. ‘But perhaps you had better explain what you mean by asking all these questions.’

  Ayres shrugged. He suddenly felt very tired indeed. There was only one more question to ask. He opened his mouth and heard his own disembodied voice. ‘Mr Paradise, have you any interest in astronomy?’

  The clergyman seemed relieved by the question. He beamed at him and his pink forehead shone. ‘Why yes. But how did you know? My wife must have mentioned it to you. Actually we have built ourselves a fairly sophisticated little observatory in the garden at the back. We encourage our students to take an interest in science. It’s only a six-inch telescope, but it’s a comet seeker. Comet seekers are always small; you need a large ratio between the diameter of the lens and the focal length. It’s because comets are diffuse and have a low surface brightness.

  It’s a German telescope, though the equatorial mounting was made in America. Ah, many’s the night I’ve spent out there, sweeping the skies and checking my charts. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve had one or two notices of my sightings printed in the scientific journals, both here and abroad. No Paradise’s Comet, though. Not yet, at any rate. One day, perhaps! In fact, I’m rather inordinately proud of our little observatory. I’m looking forward to showing it to you.’

  It was dusk and the moon had risen. Ayres stood at the window of his room. From this vantage on the upper storey he could see beyond the mission grounds to the lush green valley, the canals, the tumbledown stone buildings of a village and, in the distance, catching the last red light of the afternoon sun, what looked like the edge of a lake, but what was really the near shore of the river. Below him were English lawns, English trees, and a rose garden bordering the drive at the side, where a lone gardener was still at work. At the centre of the pattern of paths was a small stone fountain which had been partly reduced to rubble. The gardener moved along the rose bushes, stooping, pruning, cutting, sawing, and even from the distance between his window and the rose garden and even though the light had failed, Ayres could tell that the gardener was a woman. She was barefoot. She wore a pair of men’s trousers and over them a hessian sack strapped on with a belt, like an apron; a vest; a collarless striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up over her biceps. He could see, now that she was below him, drawing water from the hand-pump at the well, the way her arms and shoulders made sinewy mounds of muscle. She carried the metal buckets of water back to where she had been working, pausing to splash this rosebush and that.

  Ayres stood back and let the voile curtain fall. As he did so he caught his reflection in the mirror of the dressing table. His face was dark and his own expression was hidden from him. He walked over to his large suitcase which lay on top of the low chest of drawers, and from his medical bag next to it he took a small phial of vivid blue glass, which had been wrapped in a piece of cotton waste in one of the compartments. He uncorked it, lifted it to his nostrils as though it were a cologne to be sniffed, sipped from it, corked it again, returned it to the compartment, locked the bag and returned the key to his vest pocket. He sat on the side of the narrow bed and stared at the window. He thought of Julia Paradise and the net she had cast with such casual accuracy across his path: the hints planted, her silky narrative woven to confound him, an entire childhood left hanging in the air. Lying on the bed in his shirtsleeves, Ayres was a dream, Julia’s story was a dream: just a different kind of opium-eating.

  Later, when it was quite dark the four Europeans assembled on the veranda to watch the skyrockets.

  People from the village kept respectfully to the borders of the lawns, although the more adventurous boys climbed the trees to improve their view.

  At the first sound of the fireworks a group of soldiers wearing the drab green uniforms of the Kuomintang army came out of the schoolhouse at the back of the mission. They were capless and their uniforms were unbuttoned. They had been drinking rice wine and appeared dazed by the commotion which confronted them. Two went back inside to fetch their rifles, as though suspecting an artillery attack. When the soldiers had satisfied themselves it was all harmless enough, they joined in the spirit of the thing, whooping and laughing and firing several volleys in the air.

  But when the Union Jack sprang into lights, hissing with its brilliantly coloured flares, their mood changed. There were shouts and angry gestures and two of them began methodically to smash their rifle butts through the windows of the schoolhouse. The Reverend Paradise looked for a moment as though he might go down and speak to them, but Julia grabbed his arm and held onto it tightly, and led them all inside.

  The swooping sighs of the rockets could still be heard from the dining room. It was a small room, nearly filled by the table and chairs, and a lamp cast a strong yellow light over their faces, so that everyone looked slightly ill. Ayres found himself seated opposite the woman he had observed earlier in the garden.

  Miss Platz looked every inch the schoolteacher: a big woman in her dark and unfashionable clothes who kept her shoulders very erect. She had a patrician nose and her eyes shone with an absolute confidence in the way they saw things. Because of its plainness and luminosity, even her basin haircut, her face reminded him of Joan of Arc.

  A soup tureen appeared, the boy vanished and Willy began to say Grace. Ayres bowed his head but did not close his eyes. He watched Julia at the head of the table in her shabby old cardigan. She had gone to no effort to dress for the occasion, wearing no rouge on her cheeks or lips, her hair uncombed and her face haggard and tired-looking. Willy wore his usual clerical collar and Ayres felt conspicuous in his dinner jacket and black tie. Through the meal Julia was perfectly agreeable, although tentative, uncertain. When her husband asked whether she had enjoyed the fireworks she smiled down at her hands and nodded her head quickly. There was a strained excitement in her and when she turned her head Ayres saw that the tendons in her throat stood out.

  Willy helped her tear the wrapping paper from Ayres’ Morocco album for her photographs; then from his own gift, a handsome edition of Coleridge. She flicked through the slim volume until she had found the page she wanted, then snapped it shut, as though afraid to let her pleasure show. Miss Platz alone had apparently failed to provide a gift.

  Ayres rarely spoke. He muttered a word or two in reply to a question; a ‘Hmm’ or ‘Mmm’, encouraging Willy to go on. Ayres seemed the most relaxed of them all, elbow on the table, shirt cuff showing, a bearded cheek resting in the palm of his hand. When Willy or Miss Platz spoke, his eyes stayed on them, bobbing his head to
show he followed. He watched as Julia became more restless. Her tic resumed. Occasionally she sucked back her saliva or sniffed loudly. She ate little, and lighted a Players before the others had finished eating.

  The pudding was produced, and Ayres, who had a sweet tooth, took particular interest. It was a rich wine trifle—an aberration for Methodists, Ayres thought. There was no wine served at table. The fat layers of yellow custard alternated with sponge cake, soaked fruit with almonds and whipped cream, the whole floating in a sauce of port wine and another syrup, a clear caramel liquor, traceable to no particular ingredient and which formed itself (by alchemy, for all Ayres knew) in the best trifles. It was excellent and Ayres was pleased to be helped to a second serving. A cake was brought in with thirty-one candles blazing. After the birthday song, Willy proposed a toast to the King in sparkling ginger ale. His butter knife rang against the side of his crystal glass, and three of them rose. Miss Platz remained stubbornly seated. ‘Surely we can afford to be just a little patriotic?’ Willy chided her good-naturedly.

  ‘I know where patriotism leads,’ she said. She spoke in an Oxford drawl which, with her slight German accent, never quite avoided sounding disdainful.

  After the toast, in the absence of either brandy or port, Julia and Miss Platz sat on, and Ayres offered Willy a cigar.

  Willy waggled his finger at Miss Platz. ‘But you’re a patriot yourself, my dear. You opposed your countrymen in the war.’ His manner was teasing and indulgent, and his gestures with the big Havana added to his grandiloquent air. Ayres liked the man a lot less as a host than as a victim.

  ‘I opposed the war,’ she pointed out quietly. ‘If Christ were really present in our hearts he would make of us all Internationalists.’

  The Reverend Paradise looked hurt. ‘The Lord makes brothers of all men.’

  ‘Yet you make the flag of the British Empire in your fireworks in the garden! If it had not been for your Union Jack our schoolhouse would still have windows!’

  Now Ayres was interested. He looked from Willy, who had opened his mouth and frowned, as though he did not quite follow what she was saying, to the woman. She sat, with the anger still in her face, sensing her advantage but unsure about whether to press it. Ayres guessed this was not the first time the two missionaries had had disagreements.

  ‘Then you are simply another kind of patriot,’ Willy said.

  He asked her slyly, ‘You support the aims of the Kuomintang, do you not?’

  ‘What is required at the present time is a vigorous Chinese nationalism.’ She was about to elaborate, but seemed to change her mind and sat back.

  Julia watched them fiercely. Her small head flicked from her husband to the woman, then back again.

  ‘Let me tell you something about patriotism,’ Miss Platz said pleasantly to Willy. ‘I lost my patriotic fervour at Oxford in 1916 when I was sent down without taking my degree.’

  The three of them waited for her to continue. ‘Oxford was a very quiet place during the war. You talk of patriotism—all the young men were enlisting. Intelligent boys, brilliant boys, eighteen, nineteen, they were only children. But I wasn’t a child. I was twenty-three years old. The colleges were nearly empty. There were barracks and hospitals in the town. I did what I could for the war effort. It was not as though I was trying to remain neutral. I performed voluntary nursing duties at one of the hospitals. One night when I was walking home to my college I was attacked. A group of boys had been drinking. They held me down. Out came the predictable taunts. I was a Bosch, a Hun, an enemy. One of the boys tipped some stuff he was carrying in my hair. You know Stockholm tar? You know what it smells like? I complained to the authorities. An enquiry was held. My college decided that I should be the one to leave.’

  A sudden look of doubt, almost of fear, came across her face when she saw Ayres watching her. She had spoken more than she needed to. Ayres slumped back in his chair, his cigar in his mouth, and said quietly, ‘That must have been a very painful time, Miss Platz. You must find it difficult to talk about it.’

  She smiled and Ayres saw that the corner of one of her front teeth was chipped. ‘Not at all, Doktor.’ She pronounced his honorific in the German manner, ironically, making him feel uneasy, outwitted in some obscure way. Partly it was her being German. The vague idea floated through his mind that he wouldn’t mind asking what was her father’s name.

  ‘My hero,’ Willy Paradise was saying to him. ‘Is Timothy Richard. You’ve heard of him?’ Ayres admitted that he had not.

  ‘A very famous missionary indeed. The Chinese called him Li-Ti-Mo-Tai. He had an extraordinary reputation in scholarly circles. Not everyone could accept his methods, of course, least of all our more conventional brethren. Timothy Richard dreamed of China reforming herself, rather than of a country studded with Western churches. He tried to emphasize the essentials of Chinese culture in his teaching. He inspired many young Chinese to join the revolutionary movement back in those days. But he was convinced that China must have Western learning. He lived in abject poverty, dining on rice and vegetables so that he could buy telescopes and microscopes for his students. And here we are—look at us having dined on roasted pork.’ He looked at Ayres as though that were his fault.

  ‘An excellent meal,’ said Ayres. ‘You met this man Timothy Richard?’

  ‘Sadly I never had the opportunity. He died in 1919. But he left his mark, my word he did. Now we have the New Missionaries and their national salvation through reform. That’s Timothy’s work. The social gospel, as they now call it.’

  ‘Those soldiers out there don’t seem to appreciate it,’ Ayres said.

  Julia said loudly, ‘Of course they appreciate it. Didn’t you see how it amused them to smash out our windows?’ Then, more quietly, ‘They were only being Chinese.’

  Willy turned to Ayres, ‘You have to understand that missionaries in this country have traditionally been targets for nationalist attacks. We have been extraordinarily lucky here. A handful of soldiers billeted for a few days. In a week or two our students will return. A few windows smashed. It would make your stomach turn to hear of some of the atrocious things that have been done to our people in the past.’ Julia said, ‘Our girls will return if Johnny Yang will let them.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Ayres asked.

  Willy said, ‘One of the policemen at the prefecture. One of those who, as you say, doesn’t seem to appreciate us. It’s really all very petty. Occasionally a girl’s family wants her back. They sign an agreement then two or three months later someone puts pressure on them, or they decide they’re not Christians any more and they want them out. Sometimes they just send a few bully boys to get the girl back. Puts us in a terrible position. They might be abducting the girl, for all we know. It actually happened to one girl, last year. At other times they send young Captain Yang for them. A duty which, I might hasten to add, Captain Yang delights in performing.’ Willy Paradise paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to go on. ‘He hates us. Loathes us with a fine burning hatred. He believes it is his sacred duty to drive all Christians out of China.’

  ‘But why send the police? Why not simply come and take the girl home themselves?’

  Willy Paradise shrugged. ‘Cowardice, I suppose.’

  Julia said sharply, ‘They are afraid Willy will talk them out of it. Willy can be very—convincing.’

  Finally the party broke up and Ayres dragged himself upstairs to his room. He took off his shoes and jacket, lighted his pipe and lay back on the bed.

  A high-pitched shriek cut through the night. Ayres shook himself awake and remembered where he was. The shriek died away and now he heard the excited babble of Chinese outside in the garden. And another sound that was unmistakeable: the crackling of flames.

  The little wooden schoolhouse was already well alight when Ayres got there. The fire cast bright wobbly shadows over the garden. Bits of timber lay flaming on the grass and he heard the sharp knock and hiss as the iron roof collapsed. Flames leapt out and caught o
n the overhanging branches. The soldiers were doing nothing to stop the fire. They looked on with interest from their huddled rucksacks and bedrolls and rifles. Willy Paradise ran to the pump and filled one of the metal buckets left there, but the heat of the fire was so intense that he could not get close enough to throw his water at the flames.

  ‘Is everybody out of there?’ Ayres yelled across to him.

  Willy looked confused, then, understanding, turned and yelled something in Chinese to the soldiers. They did not seem to understand Willy’s Mandarin. They looked at each other, then back to Willy and smiled. One of the young soldiers, who had the beginnings of a straggling moustache, lifted a bottle of rice spirit to his lips and drank, then, staring into the fire, passed it on to the soldier standing next to him.

  Something made Ayres look up. Julia was standing in one of the dormer windows. She was looking beyond him to the burning schoolhouse and in the firelight her face was exultant.

  Half an hour later the building was a skeleton of blackened timber which smoked and smouldered but would not fall. The soldiers had withdrawn with their belongings to the group of garden sheds which had been jerrybuilt against the back fence. As they left, one of them—it was the young one with the moustache—lugged his kit and bedroll over to where Willy stood by himself and took something out from inside his pack and handed it to Willy apologetically. Ayres saw that it was a microscope.

  Willy had shown no signs of moving away from the smouldering ruin when Ayres had retired. He continued to stand there, oblivious to Ayres’ goodnight, surveying what was left of his school.