by Shira Nayman
It was there, always: the fallen sun. I have loved once, only once, and unwisely, to say the least.
I thought of the thunderbolt, the way it had hit me, that first day, when Robert—before I knew anything about him, before I even knew his name—walked into my classroom along with the scraggly contingent of his fellow Internment Center residents. He was not scraggly—a misfit, rather, of dignified elegance, as if a case of mistaken identity had landed him someplace he did not belong. It was his carriage, and the intelligence and clarity that poured from his eyes. I knew in that moment that Robert and I would be lovers. I also knew something else, though I could not have known where it would lead, what this fact would come to mean (about him, about me): that Robert and I were two of a kind.
Barnaby was still twirling me. I wanted desperately for him to put me down.
“Christine,” Barnaby breathed.
It was already too late. No sadness now: only numbness, stillness, drought.
He came to a sudden halt; still holding me, he brought his lips close to mine.
“I love you, Christine. Did you know?”
“Barnaby. Put me down. Please.”
He gently set me down on the couch. I caught my breath, then reached for a cigarette.
“Let’s not fuss with the food,” I said, attempting nonchalance. “We can go out to the noodle house.”
Barnaby glanced at the items he’d lain out on the table: a handful of green beans, some sticks of dried beef, a bamboo box containing cold steamed rice, and two small, perfectly ripe mangoes.
“But it’s so much nicer here, just the two of us.”
I drew deeply on my cigarette. I was aware of the awful familiar restlessness in my feet, my legs, my arms: it took some effort to stop myself from fleeing the room.
“Barnaby, you know I’m not much of a homebody.”
He seemed finally to register that something was wrong; he approached the couch, knelt beside me.
“Darling,” he said, reaching down to stroke my hair. I carefully removed his hand, peered into his eyes, certain, suddenly, of what I must do.
“Maybe we just need a little air,” I said.
“But it’s muggy as hell out there.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what, Christine. What do you mean?”
“Breathing room. Perhaps we’ve been spending too much time together.”
“You can’t mean that.”
I said nothing. I gazed over at the mirror, stared at the tassels of the peacock-blue scarf; stirred by the overhead fan, they flared up like the hair of a running child.
“Why are you doing this?” Barnaby asked. “I don’t see the reason in it.”
His words seemed distant, as if his voice were echoing in my memory, rather than here, with me, in the room. When I turned to him, I was momentarily surprised to find that he was still there.
“It’s not about reason, Barnaby.”
“Then what?”
I looked at him—Barnaby flustered. Not the Barnaby I knew. And, bridling a little at my own callousness, not the Barnaby I wanted.
“Well,” I said, calm now, measuring my words, “if you must know, I’m not fond of being told that I’m wonderful.”
Barnaby looked like a child who’d been slapped. I ground out my cigarette in the alabaster ashtray on the side table, steeling myself.
“I’m also not fond of those three little words that other women seem so intent on extracting.”
Crossing to the window, I drew aside the curtain. Out-side, the heat was almost visible: liquid ripples shimmying around the hard edges of the world. When I turned back to Barnaby, I glimpsed on his face a contorted look of helpless rage. It was his turn to quickly rearrange his features.
“Christine,” he said quietly, “I only wanted to—”
“Yes?” Even I was surprised by the hardness in my voice. I tried it again. “Yes, Barnaby?”
He looked at me for a long moment, his brown eyes flat as mud: gone, the twinkle I had found so amusing; gone, the warmth, the expectation of imminent delight.
“I am sorry,” I said, managing some softness.
“I wonder why I don’t believe you,” Barnaby said, composed now, reaching for his hat.
“That I’m sorry? But darling, I am.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He surveyed the room. “I guess I just don’t quite believe any of it. What you want. What you think you want. The way you’re living. The parties, your friends. All this fun.”
He waited by the door holding his hat, studying the brim. “Be careful, Christine,” he said sadly, brushing the crown of my head with his lips.
Afterward, I stared for a long time at the closed door, studied the faded patches, the random pattern in the paintwork of peelings and blisters. Then, collecting my purse and stole, I stepped into my best evening shoes and headed out into the wet heat of the night.
At the party, there was a small orchestra with that perfect combination of tightness and abandon. Someone spun me around the room. A newcomer. He gripped my waist in a tender, possessive way. It had been a boisterous evening; I’d left drained tumblers and wine glasses on tables and sills. Overhead, enormous fans ground away at the thick heat. Now and then I looked up to see the slope of the man’s face. Charles, yes, that was his name. Young, very young, with a hovering eagerness about him; his eyes darted about with expectation and surprise.
As the evening wore on, the music changed, as it always did: fewer swing numbers, entire sets, now, of ballads. Of course, he pulled me closer, his hand caressed my waist. The wine was good, the whiskey exceptional, but the liquor could not stay the whirring ache that began somewhere deep within and fanned out to every inch of my flesh. I glanced up at him, at Charles, and tried to look happy, but something was wrong. This man seemed so innocent, so taken with me, so alive to my every movement. I could almost feel the tingling in his fingertips as they moved stealthily upward along my middle back, sliding discreetly; through the chiffon of my dress, they brushed the side of my breast. My practiced eye had plucked him immediately from the crowd: the expensive cut of his suit, the heavy gold of his watch chain, the Italian leather shoes. He had succumbed so readily, and yet now my heart was not in it.
“How old are you?” I asked. The man’s brow momentarily creased.
“Fancy asking such a thing,” he protested, trying to sound unperturbed.
Something at the base of my skull tightened and for one ghastly moment I saw myself as a giant bird of prey, swooping down with extended talons. I smiled, trying to make it a winning smile, but could tell, by the twittering of the man’s eyelashes, that I had distressed him. It was late; the band slowed still further to a deliberate languor. I gently pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, abandoning the smile.
It was no use, I thought, making my way through the crowd. For a moment, in the midst of the dance floor, listening to the saxophone moaning in rhythm to the swaying hips of the dancers, I wondered if I might chance upon Barnaby, almost hoped I would run into him, right into his arms. I lowered my eyes and hurried toward the door. Barnaby had long since lost interest in such gatherings. Besides, there’d be no reason he’d come looking for me; I’d made my feelings about him all too clear. I knew that Charles was probably standing bewildered among the other dancers watching my retreating figure. But I didn’t care. Not even the promise of smoke—and I knew from experience that Charles would have been unstinting in that regard—made me want to go back. His gleaming face above mine had become abhorrent; I needed to get some air.
But outside, the air was thicker and coarser than it had been on the dance floor. I hurried along the thoroughfare, which glowed in black blurry ovals where the streetlights hung from loopy metal necks. My lungs labored against the viscous air; more than anything, I wanted the freeing thrust of momentum.
A creaky rumble up ahead and then, over a hump in the road, a trolley car ambled into view. I waved it to a stop,
then climbed onto the worn running board and rested there a moment, rummaging in my purse for a coin. Once my breath steadied, I glanced around the car. My fellow passengers sat in silence, staring disturbingly into the middle distance. To a person, they were dressed in simple canvas garb. Their eyes were like hard brown eggs, opaque and somehow fragile, their skin leathery, prematurely aged by the sun.
After some minutes, the trolley car turned off the main road and headed away from the harbor. At first, it was a relief to be seated in the car, to see the world moving steadily by. But as the minutes passed, the bland silence began to feel oppressive. I looked at the woman across from me, whose brow, despite the deep lines, was expressionless. Won’t somebody say something? I thought. Anything but this dreadful silence. The woman opposite me grimaced, revealing several rotted tooth stumps in her lower jaw. I jumped to my feet and pressed myself to the door, trying to pry it open with my fingers.
“Let me off!” I called out in Shanghainese dialect to the driver. My finger jammed in the door, which clamped onto the nail bed; I felt a burning pain and the ooze of blood. The tram was now moving at a pace. I applied all my strength to the rubber grip and finally inched it open, just wide enough to wedge in my foot. I tugged and kicked at the doors and, as they sprang open, flung myself through, tumbling onto the road. The door snapped shut, catching a corner of my hem, which tore off in a long coil.
Shakily, I stood. I had no idea where I was. Instinct, I thought, I’ll do this by instinct. I ducked into a side street and headed east. It must have been very late, as there was no sign of life; the only sound that reached my ears, besides the clicking of my heels on the road and the labored draw of my own breath, was the lone warble of a cock, hours ahead of schedule. The air was tainted with the pungent odor of overripe fruit. I imagined papaya and mango, scattered on the ground with skins split, their yellow and orange flesh crawling with plump red-eyed flies.
The streets were a narrow chaos, curving odd-shaped bends running haphazardly into one another. I thought again of the young man at the party—what was his name, Christopher? Carl? The fluttering of his eyelashes, the timid sweetness I saw in the upward arc of his combed eyebrow: those had been my undoing.
But the blooming in my belly was ugly now and fierce. Food, I thought, wondering how long it had been since I had eaten. For the second time that night I thought about Barnaby, recalled a sumptuous meal he had produced in the meager kitchenette of my room. Barnaby had watched approvingly as I pried the meat from the tiny bones of the pigeon, as I scooped up another spoonful of the rice flour he had turned to a delicately spiced soufflé. I could not remember when food had tasted so good. I wondered where Barnaby was, what he was doing, what adventure he was embarked upon to add to his ever-mounting stockpile.
A retch rose in my throat. Something was happening to the air: it was sinking, lowering itself to the ground. No, not the air—the sky. Above the decaying tenements and shacks, a faint glowing rectangle of red seemed to be trying to press through the blackness.
Chan wanted the rent. This time, he was adamant. I knew he would throw me out—change the lock, perhaps, cast my belongings onto the street or, more likely, sell them.
It was easy to get lost in these streets. Now, small groupings of men stood about; heads turned, the slinging of surly glances. I snapped to alertness: guns in plain sight, the shabby blue uniforms of the Nationalists. Not a woman in sight. These men were looking to do harm. I turned the corner before hastening my step. I saw with some relief that this street was deserted, and the next. I came to a halt, looked around at the disheveled buildings eyeing me emptily with grime-smeared panes. I’m done with it, I thought, I’ve had enough of that place. I looked down at my ivory dress. I had to admit it was a little worse for wear, not just because of the torn hem; the filth in the air had arranged itself in damp patches on the bodice and skirt. I wondered where I would go.
When, some weeks earlier, Han Shu had vaguely offered me “some manner of employ,” I laughed breezily and patted his pork chop of a hand.
“Han Shu, darling,” I said, “I’m far more comfortable having the flow of cash go from me to you. Besides, I’m not certain I have any talents that would prove lucrative in your trade, whereas we all know the quality of the goods you have to offer me.”
I had peered over his shoulder into the foyer of the café, trying to determine whether the party just entering from the street included anyone I knew. Despite the casual way in which I dismissed Han Shu’s offer, I had been keenly aware that, besides my lipstick, key, and the vial of pills I kept for an emergency, there was but a single coin rattling around in my purse.
“I suspect you may change your mind,” Han Shu had said in a respectful tone, which seemed at odds with the sinister shadow crossing his face. “You are welcome at any time to take up my offer.”
“Han Shu, I won’t have you turning serious on me,” I answered in an attempt at lightheartedness. Han Shu bowed, but when he righted himself, there was an angry glaze in his eyes.
I had, after all, known someone in the group who had entered—a high-spirited Dane who was delightfully free with his billfold. After I led him to the large back chamber, he took it upon himself to foot the expenses I incurred in the space of that long and amusing evening.
The next day, I returned to Han Shu’s alone. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. My mind flew to the back room; I could almost taste the oily blue smoke in my nostrils. The bartender freshened my drink once, twice. At the third refill, my earlier pleasant feeling of anticipation turned to familiar restlessness.
“I think I’ll slip into the back and see if my friends are waiting for me there,” I said.
The bartender glanced up and down the bar. “Look, Christine. Han Shu told me I could fill your glass a few times, but your credit’s no good in the back room. Not anymore.”
“Don’t be a donkey,” I snapped. “I’m expecting a wire any day now. I’ve been through this with him before.”
But the man only shook his head, rested his hand over mine on the bar. “Don’t go back there, Christine. It will only cause a scene.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I said, pulling away my hand. “We’re the best of friends, Han Shu and I. There would never be a scene between us.” I emptied my glass, collected my stole and white satin purse.
It took a little while for my eyes to adjust to the smoky depths of the back room. I stood in the doorway blinking, then scanned the dim space: a few solitary figures seated or sprawled on divans in a state of intoxication, but no one I knew well enough to join. I made my way to a red upholstered chair and sat down, watching the boys with their trays silently crisscrossing the room, pausing now and then to adjust a footstool, fill somebody’s pipe, deposit a glass of steaming tea. None of the boys stopped to attend to me. Finally, jumping out of my skin, I called a little too loudly to one as he passed, but he averted his eyes and moved by. I called out to a second boy; again, the averted gaze. When, some minutes later, the first boy passed by again, I took hold of his arm.
“I’d like a pipe,” I said steadily.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he whispered in Chinese, “the master has issued orders.”
“And what kind of orders, may I ask?” My voice rose, which sent a flicker of alarm into the boy’s face. “I’d like to see the master,” I said loudly. Several stupefied faces turned calmly in my direction.
It was only then that I noticed Han Shu’s bulky frame looming in the arch that opened onto the passageway. He said something curt to the boy that I didn’t quite catch.
“May I help you, madam?” Han Shu asked, reverting to English.
“You’re just in time to clear up a misunderstanding,” I said with relief.
“And what kind of misunderstanding, madam, might that be?” Han Shu’s voice was brusque, though I was heartened by his odd repeated use of the word madam.
“Well, sir,” I said, going along with the game, “I was simply ordering some refreshment,
and—”
“I’m afraid if you want refreshments,” he cut in, “you’ll have to visit some other establishment,” and he turned and disappeared.
I jumped up and followed Han Shu into the hallway, calling after him: “You know I’m good for it, I’ve always been good for it.”
He stopped short; I found myself staring at his back.
“I’m not playing with you, Christine, and no, I do not assume you are, as you put it, good for it. If you have no friends here this evening who can pick up your tab, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
Han Shu proceeded toward his office.
“Wait.” I grabbed hold of his thick arm.
He spun around and gripped my shoulder. “I don’t think you want to play with me,” he said hoarsely.
Still gripping me, Han Shu pushed me down the corridor, pulled a key ring from his pocket with his free hand, and unlocked the door. Few people set foot in Han Shu’s private rooms; I had not visited them before. I had trouble taking in the unusual appointments, so startled was I by Han Shu’s unexpected behavior. He flung me roughly onto a gold chaise lounge, then walked behind an elaborately carved desk. Using another key to open a drawer, he pulled out a large leather-bound ledger. He opened the book and carefully leafed through the pages.
“Yes, here it is,” he said, marking a spot on the page with his forefinger. “Your account now stands at 178 pounds sterling, adjusting for my modest conversion fee. Now.” He looked up. “You are clearly not liquid as you were when you arrived. You therefore no longer represent a sound business proposition. I did not have to make very extensive inquiries to ascertain that you have no steady source of income, that you were living on the savings of a—let me see.” He peered down again at the book. “Of a school teacher, which I imagine, given your current rather desperate manner, have dwindled down to nothing.”
Han Shu closed the book and replaced it in the drawer, which he then relocked.
