“I’m not sure Clyde’s up to—” Rowland began.
“I’m afraid I’m not,” Clyde agreed quickly. “But that’s no reason for you all to stay by my bedside… I’m not dying.”
“Perhaps if we found you some crutches or a walking stick,” Milton began, his lips twitching into a smile.
“No. I suspect I’ve already overdone it just getting out of bed.” Clyde was definite. “Wing will keep me company, won’t you, mate?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Bernardine will be sorely disappointed that you cannot attend, Mr. Watson Jones,” Mickey said. “But considering the severity of the injury you sustained in such a heroic manner, she will understand…and she will of course have your companions to console her.”
“Not to mention an evening of poetry and culture.” Clyde was clearly a man reprieved.
Milton shook his head sadly. “But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.”
“More likely to make me drink,” Clyde muttered. “Who was he robbing that time, Rowly?”
“Byron, I believe.”
Chapter Twenty-One
CHINESE VERSE
“The Jade Mountain” is a Chinese anthology, edited by Mr. Witter Bynner and Mr. Klang Kang-Hu, and is the result of ten years’ collaboration. It consists of 300 poems of the T’ang Dynasty, A.D. 618–906—the golden age of Chinese poetry. Mr. Bynner has done the translations from the texts of Mr. Klang Kang-Hu, and each editor contributes an introduction. Mr. Bynner thinks that, of English poets, Wordsworth has the closest affinity with Chinese poets. He resembles them in his simplicity, in his sense of spiritual kinship with nature and his capacity for discerning beauty in the commonplace. But Mr. Bynner holds that Chinese poetry cleaves even nearer to nature than his.
—Sydney Morning Herald, 28 June 1930
* * *
Bernardine Szold-Fritz’s banquet was to take place at a Chinese restaurant in Yangtzepoo, beyond the Soochow Creek, which marked the border of the international settlement. The waterway was only a few hundred yards from the terrace on Kiangse Road and was spanned by the impressive double arches of the Garden Bridge.
Their hostess sent a car to collect them, a gleaming white Packard with a smartly uniformed chauffeur.
Rowland offered Edna his hand as she descended the narrow staircase in a shimmering grey gown, which clung to the curves of her figure and highlighted the burnished copper tresses she’d gathered into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The wrap hanging loosely over her elbows was sheer and embroidered with peacocks, her only jewellery a silver locket embellished with seed pearls. She smiled as she took Rowland’s hand. The sculptress was not oblivious to the way in which he looked at her. It was perhaps simply that he had always regarded her thus, that she was not alarmed by the intensity of his admiration. She would not have tortured him for the world if she had known she was doing so.
“You look pretty, Ed,” he said quietly.
Her brow furrowed just slightly. “I do hope this is appropriate for dinner over here. I wish I’d thought to ask Mickey. We might be completely at odds with Shanghai fashion.”
“I’m sure they’ll make allowances.” Rowland’s eyes lingered on the graceful line of Edna’s neck. He could capture it in a portrait from behind, a composition which had her glancing over her shoulder.
She recognised the look on his face and laughed. “You’re painting me!”
“I wish I were.” He glanced at his watch. “I wonder if it would be too late to send our regrets.”
“Yes.” The sculptress was firm. “Where’s Milt?”
“Trying to add some note of personal flair to his dinner suit,” Rowland said, wincing.
“We’ll say goodnight to the others, and perhaps by then he’ll be down.”
Clyde had recruited Harjeet and her brother to make up a four for cards. Rowland had been a little surprised that Singh had agreed to join the party given the tension between the driver and Wing Zau, but perhaps he’d simply done so to keep an eye on the butler as he’d pledged. Harjeet had prepared a feast of finger food for the evening, and the card table had been moved so that Clyde could play from reclined comfort on the couch. There was already a hand dealt and underway when Edna and Rowland came in to wish them a good evening.
Harjeet gasped. “Miss Edna, you look lovely.”
Clyde sat up, considering Edna appreciatively as she twirled for his benefit. “Won’t you be cold?”
Edna ignored his concern. “We’re off,” she said. “Well, as soon as Milt can drag himself away from the mirror.”
“I resent that.” Milton strode in and stood so they could take in his splendour. He had accessorised his dinner suit with a silk brocade waistcoat to match the red fez on his head.
Rowland sighed. Still it was less ridiculous than he’d feared.
Clyde groaned. “You look like Mickey Hahn’s monkey.”
Milton frowned. “I’d forgotten about that stylish primate… Do you think she’ll bring it? Perhaps I should wear the beret instead to avoid embarrassing the poor creature.”
“We don’t have time.” Rowland walked over to look out of the window. “The car is waiting. You could, of course, just leave the fez here.”
“Don’t be absurd, Rowly. Colonials or not, one can’t step out half-dressed!”
Edna shook her head. “We’ll have to risk you and the monkey turning up in the same outfit then.” She turned back to the gathering at the card table. “Mintzowe.”
Wing smiled. “Chin la ke xin ye.”
“Mr. Wing’s been teaching me a little Shanghainese,” she told the rest of them proudly.
“Indeed,” Rowland said, impressed. “What did he say?”
“I’ve no idea, but I said goodbye.”
* * *
On the drive to the restaurant, Edna imparted the remainder of her knowledge of Shanghainese to Rowland and Milton, teaching them to say “Good evening,” “Pleased to meet you,” “Thank you,” and “Call the police.”
“Mr. Wing thought it would be a useful phrase to know, all things considered,” she explained when Rowland expressed surprise at the last.
“He’s probably right,” Milton murmured.
They collected Mickey Hahn from her apartment only a block away. She met the car in a black jacket tailored to fit her curves and worn over a crisp white blouse and a grey tie—the androgynous style of Parisian streets and Bohemian haunts.
“Hello,” she said, squeezing in beside Edna. “Bernardine will be delighted to have secured three Australians for her dinner party. Utterly delighted!”
“Are we on the menu?” Milton asked.
Mickey laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Is Mr. Mills not invited?” Edna was clearly disappointed by the monkey’s absence.
“I’m afraid not. He’s spending the evening with Victor, who was also an omission from the guest list. They’ll be able to complain to each other about the slight.”
Kiangse Road became more congested as they neared the Garden Bridge. Here terraces and houses gave way to vast, overcrowded tenements, subdivided and extended in a manner that was almost organic to accommodate the masses of urban poor who worked in the factories of Shanghai. Clotheslines spanned every gap, creating a disordered web in which was snared daily life.
“They are called sikumen,” Mickey said. “People atop people—this is the real China.”
The Packard travelled past slums and shanty towns on the shores of the Soochow as they rode over the bridge to the Japanese districts.
“And here lives the proletariat of Shanghai,” Milton murmured.
Mickey looked at him curiously, but she said nothing.
The restaurant at which the Packard pulled up was a
rchitecturally Chinese, a series of pagodas joined by open walkways, decorated with serpentine dragons and lit by strings of lanterns. The tables were laid with snowy linen and golden cutlery. The largest pagoda had been reserved for the Szold-Fritz party and was already crowded with guests. They were greeted at the entrance by a woman whose carefully cultivated exoticism tipped into the outlandish. Bernadine, as she insisted they all address her, wore a silk long coat embroidered with koi, an elaborately folded silk turban, and several pounds of jade. Rowland estimated the society doyenne to be about forty years of age. Her features were quite birdlike: a small mouth, an inquisitive nose, and bright, round eyes. She welcomed Mickey first, handing her on to a conversation with an Austrian novelist before she gave her attention to the Australians.
“Mr. Sinclair! How very kind of you to accept my invitation!”
Rowland introduced his companions, and Bernadine gushed over each of them in turn. She took Edna’s hands. “Why, my dear, you are a picture. Come with me; there is a gentleman you simply must meet.”
Rowland glanced at Milton. It appeared they were not to be included in the impending introduction.
Bernadine returned within a minute. “Mr. Isaacs, may I compliment you on your fez? I must find one for Chester, though I’m not sure he would wear it as well as you. Is the fez popular as headgear in Australia? You simply must meet Mollie Smethurst; she’s wearing the most darling hat.” She hooked her arm through Milton’s to lead him away. “I’ll deal with you in just a minute, Mr. Sinclair.”
Rowland watched, bemused as Bernadine ushered Milton towards a young woman in an elaborately feathered hat seated at one of the tables. There was a large birdcage on the seat beside her which housed what looked like a macaw. As she turned her head to look at Milton, so too did the macaw. Rowland smiled, struck by a vague similarity between the features of the bird and its mistress. The notion of painting birds and women entered his mind, and for a time he played with a composition of feathers and figures.
“Your turn will come.”
Rowland turned. A young man, Chinese, though his accent was discernibly Oxbridge. His hair was parted and slicked back in the Western fashion, a thin wispy moustache on the edges of his upper lip. His eyes were bright and whimsical, and he wore the simple brown robes of a scholar. “Mrs. Manners will peel off your companions so that she may display you to best effect,” he said.
“Display me?”
“You are the Australian gentleman, are you not?”
“Rowland Sinclair. How’d you do?” Rowland extended his hand.
“Shao Xunmei.”
“I take it you’ve attended dinners hosted by Mrs. Szold-Fritz previously?”
“Oh yes. I am the dear lady’s favourite oriental curio.” Xunmei bowed.
Rowland’s brow rose. “I see.”
Xunmei laughed. “Do not allow me to frighten you, Mr. Sinclair. Our hostess is harmless, a little too eager to demonstrate how open-minded and cosmopolitan she is, but harmless.”
At that point, Bernadine returned. “Oh how marvellous! I was just about to introduce you, and here you are already old friends.”
Xunmei extracted a gold cigarette case from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and offered its contents to Bernardine and Rowland. Rowland declined, though he held a light for both of them.
“I recognise you, Mr. Sinclair.” Xunmei dragged deeply on his cigarette.
“I’ve been in Shanghai for a few days. Perhaps—”
“It was before that…years ago. In Cambridge.”
“I’m afraid I’m an Oxford man.”
Xunmei shook his head. “I’m sure. Rowing…no. A boxing match perhaps.”
Rowland stopped. “Yes. Actually that’s possible.” He had boxed at Oxford, and for Oxford in various matches against Cambridge. He was not a little impressed by the Chinese poet’s recall and embarrassed by his own lack of it. “I’m sorry; I don’t remember being introduced.”
“Oh, we weren’t. I was in the crowd.” Xunmei replied. “I lost a considerable sum wagering against you, which has possibly helped me remember your face.”
Rowland grimaced. It was an awkward way to be remembered.
“A boxer!” Bernadine said. “Such a brutish sport. No doubt you are fascinated by the martial arts of the Chinese—so elegant in comparison to Western fighting.”
“I’m afraid I have not yet had the opportunity to see a display,” Rowland replied.
“Well perhaps Xunmei could demonstrate?” The idea caught like fire in the tinder dry fuel of Bernadine’s mind. “Why I’m sure we’d all love to see a demonstration.”
Xunmei stepped back. “Bernadine, I am a scholar, not a common street boxer. I have no—”
“Nonsense, I insist. Consider yourself educating the foreign devils on the superiority of Chinese combat.” Bernadine rushed over to a small gong on the edge of the dance floor and sounded it.
Still standing beside Rowland, Xunmei laughed quietly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bernadine announced, “we have a very special treat for you tonight. My dear friend, the renowned poet Shao Xunmei, has agreed to give us a demonstration of Chinese martial arts.”
The gathering gasped. Some began to clap.
Xunmei removed his quilted jacket and handed it to Rowland. “Mrs. Manners believes every Chinese should be proficient at all things Chinese.” He flashed a grin. “It is easier to make something up than to argue.”
The Chinese poet stepped onto the dance floor and requested a little space. He bowed and then executed several elaborate, graceful movements that looked more like ballet than combative technique. And then he stopped and bowed again, to rapturous applause.
“For what skill are Australians renowned?” Xunmei asked as he collected his jacket. “Before the night is over, you will be asked to demonstrate, my friend.”
“Fortunately there’s only cricket,” Rowland replied. “She couldn’t possibly want me to demonstrate that.”
Xunmei laughed. “At least the good lady is thoughtful enough to provide a gullible audience.” He flagged a drinks waiter, and they chose from a selection of cocktails and spirits.
Xunmei raised his glass. “Bubeh bubeh! Here’s hoping she does not ask you to hop like a kangaroo.”
Rowland was somewhat alarmed by the possibility.
“She is clumsy in her enthusiasm for other cultures, but at least it is an enthusiasm,” the poet observed. “What business are you in, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Here in Shanghai? Wool.”
“You are here to do business?”
“I suppose so.”
“Forgive me for asking, but are you the gentleman who found a dead girl in your hotel room?”
Rowland looked at him, startled.
“Shanghai gossip, my friend.”
Rowland drank his gin. “I don’t suppose the gossips of Shanghai say anything about what happened to her.”
Xunmei shrugged. “Murder is not uncommon here. Perhaps if she were not Russian and a taxi girl, there might be more outrage…but there is interest. Some believe it was you, of course. Others accuse Victor Sassoon. Still others say it was the woman who accompanies you—an act of jealous rage.”
Rowland bristled. “Ed? Why that’s absurd.” He could feel Xunmei’s scrutiny. The poet was assessing him. Murderer or unfortunate fool.
“Some say it was the Communists.”
“Why would the Communists kill her?”
“She was said to be royalty. The last Romanov. Some say the Communists killed her to aid their Russian comrades, or that Stalin sent his own people to ensure there was no one around whom the White Russians in exile could coalesce.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“Revolution is a paranoid business.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Washing Di
shes
Important Bit of the Work of the World
Dishwashing is like living in one respect; it is exactly what we make it. For one girl it is a dull tiresome task, for another an opportunity for a necessary service to loved ones, depending entirely on the attitude of mind assumed toward it…
GAY EQUIPMENT
Gay, colorful equipment is helpful to some. One girl replaced the old gray granite dishpan with a bright red one of different shape. Another found that the attractive little rubberised aprons, which may be bought quite inexpensively, made dishwashing far more cheerful. Attractive tea towels and gaily painted mop handles enlivened the process for still another girl…
If you wash dishes with sister or mother, make the most of the opportunity to have a good time together. In one household the dishwashing period is often gay with snatches of song. At other times mother and daughter talk about pleasant happenings, past or prospective. Sometimes they plan little surprises for father or other members of the household.
AS AN OPPORTUNITY
If dishwashing for you is a solitary affair, use it as the time to refresh yourself mentally, or, to plan usefully. One girl uses the dishwashing period for memorising verses or bits of prose which appeal to her. Another girl uses this time to review something she has recently read, to see how much of it she has really retained. Still another uses her dishwashing minutes to plan a new dress, some decorative scheme for a party, or a new way to beautify her room, and the like. All of which goes to show that one’s thoughts need not be immersed in the dishwashing task which, in time, becomes largely mechanical…
—Advocate, 1 September 1934
* * *
“Xunmei, darling, your demonstration was wonderful!” Bernadine was back. She leant conspiratorially between Rowland and the poet. “I wanted to show them all that there is so much depth and richness to Chinese culture. I’m afraid too many Occidentals think it’s all about lanterns and dragons.” She fussed them towards the table, sitting between them. Also at the table was Chester Fritz—their reserved host. Beside him, an English actress who had just finished playing Beatrice in the Shanghai Theatre Company’s production of As You Like It, a Greek acrobat, and Chao Kung, an Occidental who spoke with a heavy East European accent and wore the saffron and ochre robes of a Buddhist priest. Before the entrée was finished, the actress had been prevailed upon to perform one of Beatrice’s soliloquies.
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