by Basu, Kanal
“Undesirable?”
“Criminals, addicts, and those suffering from incurable and infectious diseases, on their way to be hanged or beheaded on butchers’ blocks.”
Soldiers dragged the prisoners along bound with chains. Heavy breathing mixed with groans and sobs. They crawled along the banks of the canal like animals taken to slaughter, or an army of insects risen from the soil and turning it black. A deep bloodlike trail followed them, the prisoners’ necks smeared with oil to make it easier for the executioners to chop them off. The convicts carried boards that announced their crimes and sworn confessions: a dwarf who’d murdered his parents for giving him birth; a whore who’d poisoned her lover for breaking his promise to marry her; a thief who stole babies from nursing mothers to sell to impotent lords. A pale-faced creature who could be either man or woman held up a sign with the picture of an opium pipe. Antonio spotted several carrying crude drawings of their diseases: frightening sores and ugly eruptions all over their bodies and disfigured genitals. Rows of prisoners passed him with their lifeless eyes, bald heads and half-eaten noses. He smelled the revolting smell of syphilis.
“They might take us along too if they spotted us.” Chris trembled, keeping his head down behind a fence. “Maybe the empress has issued edicts for undesirable foreigners as well.” He glared at Antonio. “We’d be safe if we hadn’t been foolish.” A snarling guard passed them a hair’s breadth away, spitting on the ground barely inches from their feet.
Antonio saw the woman of his nightmare, young and suffering. Wearing a white chemise and a turban around her head, she seemed almost invisible. She had fallen behind the rest, and slipped past the guards to run away to the open fields. Her cloudlike form floated effortlessly over the slush and mud. She appeared to be a high-ranking concubine; her delicate features made her out even to be the wife of a mandarin. She could be an innocent victim, or the carrier who’d infected hundreds. He lost her among the tall reeds on the riverbank. Craning over the fence, with Chris trying to pull him down, Antonio caught a glimpse of her taking off her chemise, her luxuriant hair sprouting like spring foliage, as she moved like a dancer with clear and languid steps: a naked angel blooming with a thousand rosebuds. Death … that’s the simple cure. … Oscar Franklin whispered in his ear, and as she entered the river Antonio shouted at her to stop. He broke free of his companion, seeing her sink under the water, and bounded through the fields. He charged after her, slipping and falling on the muddy slopes and reached the bank, then gaped at the surging stream on the verge of drowning the fields in spring floods.
Polly woke him at midnight. A maid has fallen sick, Antonio thought. Perhaps it was her asthma, or Cedric’s liver that troubled him from time to time. Dressed in their nightgowns, she and Arees led him downstairs from the veranda and out of the mansion. Patrolling guards saluted as they walked along the canal, passing the Russian quarters to reach the Harris mansion. John Harris received them at the door and led them up to the attic. As he entered, Antonio heard a whimpering sound. Linda knelt at the feet of Norma Cook, holding a wash basin while a maid fanned the elderly widow, who sat on a straight-backed chair holding out her arms.
“A perfect nuisance…!” John Harris muttered under his breath, and pointed at the thin streams of blood that dripped down from Norma’s hands to the basin.
Linda spoke without rising: “She’s slashed her wrists.” She glared at Norma, who sat impassively on the chair, wiping her tears with a handkerchief embroidered with the reverend’s initials. “The maid was woken by a rat and heard her crying. If it weren’t for her, she’d be dead by now.”
It didn’t take Antonio long to stop the bleeding and close the cuts. Fortunately, the wounds weren’t deep enough. She had simply managed to scar her wrists with her husband’s rusty razor that she had recovered from his Shanxi lodge. Finished with bandaging, he slung up her arms and had the maid hold a feeding cup to her lips for a shot of whiskey.
“You won’t let me die, will you?” Between sips, Norma Cook spoke to him in a tearful voice.
He broke down before the widow and started to cry, sobbing in great bursts that startled Polly and Arees. Linda Harris hurried her maid out of the attic and stood with her husband at the door. Kneeling by the chair, he buried his head in Norma’s lap and wept the tears for all those he’d loved but failed to save.
Tensions kept mounting week after week with the Legation crammed full with refugees and imperial soldiers blocking off all exits to the north of the Tartar wall. Skirmishes had started some days earlier when a picket of Italian guards was attacked while everyone was taking a well-deserved nap after the night patrols. Heavy casualties were inflicted; the soldiers were late to react to what they thought were firecrackers to mark the coming Dragon Boat festival. The city’s churches were set on fire. The French orphanage of the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception was wrecked, as were shops catering to foreigners. Jewelers, furriers and goldsmiths had begged the rebels on their knees to spare them, but all it took for sparks to fly was the discovery of a Burma teak plaque carved with an ode to Queen Victoria, commissioned by the head of Jardines, the opium giant, among the collectibles. Reams of silk burned in the bonfire, along with lanterns and fans, and priceless furniture stolen from the royal palaces for the enjoyment of merchants and officers.
Mr. Pinchback was emphatic: “We were foolish to celebrate too soon. A mere four hundred foreign soldiers can’t measure up to four million Boxers plus the imperial troops. They’ll have more rats in their trap now, unless the world declares war on the Chinese soon.” Last night’s shelling of the missions had left more than a dozen dead and the hospital’s floors were full of bodies, the stench of human blood made intolerable by the warm weather. Everyone had stayed up, ears ringing with flying bullets making a noise like crying cats, and the thud of shells.
The officers were most perturbed by the murder of one of their own kind, Mr. Itami, the Japanese consul. The short man with clean-cut looks and immaculate manners was strolling in his garden in the morning, doing what he most enjoyed – feeding the birds in his famous aviary and imitating their calls – when a volley of shrapnel cut him down. He had bled to death in front of the birds that watched him in silence through the nets. Leaving the hospital, Antonio was cornered by Mr. Pinchback, visibly agitated by the death of “important people, not simply the refugees.”
“You know what’s happened to Yohan, don’t you?” Antonio shook his head.
“He was found in his ancestral home with his throat slit, along with his three young sisters in lovely clothes, all of them lying dead in a row.” Mr. Pinchback grimaced.
“The Chinese have killed their own spy?” Antonio exclaimed in disbelief.
“Spy, my foot! Everyone knew him to be a weakling, a dandy passing himself off as someone important. The Chinese had seen right through him. The most troubling thing is that he was killed for being a foreigner, his death note condemning him for fathering a child with a white witch.”
“And Helga?” Antonio asked nervously.
“She’s delivered a bonny girl, who’ll sadly never see her father. Luckily, her in-laws had taken her and her child to be blessed at a Buddhist monastery when the mischief happened.”
Polly came to join the two of them, looking more anxious than Antonio had ever seen her. He thought she was concerned with the foreign guards, some of whom had gone berserk at the sight of dead dogs thrown at them over the wall by Chinese soldiers and fired more than a hundred rounds. There were unconfirmed reports of a Russian guard misbehaving with a refugee girl, and a brawl breaking out between hotheads on either side. Pinchback tried to calm her even before she could spell out her worries.
“The Chinese will run out of dogs to shoot, if we manage to hold fire for just a few days more. You don’t want this war to go down in history as the great canine conflict!”
“Not dogs,” Polly spoke nervously. “It’s Arees.”
“You mean the Portuguese girl?” Pinchback took a quick look at Antonio. “
What’s happened to her now?”
Polly shrugged. “She left some hours ago, and should’ve been back by now.”
“Left why, with whom and to go where?” Pinchback narrowed his eyes. Polly Hart letting out her visitor at a time like this! His disbelief showed plainly in his voice, at the exceptional lack of judgment from someone usually so reliable.
“She’s gone out with Ferguson. He promised to show her the sights of the Tartar city before it’s burnt down.”
“I thought your best friend has left Peking,” Antonio remarked caustically.
“Not left, but hiding.”
“We’re all hiding from the Boxers, but why’s he hiding from us?” Antonio snorted at Polly’s lame excuse. He was angry at her for trusting the gypsy and letting Arees disappear with him. “Where could they be hiding now?”
“He must’ve taken her home to show off his treasures,” said Polly sheepishly.
“Then why don’t you ask Cedric to send his Sikh fighters to rescue her?”
“And who’ll rescue her from the Sikhs?” She looked pleadingly at Antonio. “You must find her … after all she’s your …”
Busy with casualties at the hospital, he hadn’t met Arees since his return from Xu’s house, although he had caught a glimpse of her as he went pedaling to the camps. Like strangers they had exchanged greetings from a distance, and he had noticed Dona Elvira’s lucky charm on her neck.
“Are you thinking of a rescue mission?” Pinchback asked him after Polly had left. “You’d be mad to play the savior. Fortunately, you don’t have far to go. It won’t take you long to reach Ferguson’s villa, especially on the backs of my sedan bearers.”
Antonio looked quizzically. Pinchback explained: “They’ve been smoking opium all morning, and can’t tell a Boxer from a dead dog by now. They wouldn’t mind taking you out on a ride.” The banker held out his hand and offered Antonio his terse parting words: “Hope to see you in my next life if I don’t see you again in this one.”
From the outside, the Chinese villa looked intact, guarded by the casuarinas, but bore a look of desolation like all other mansions of the Tartar city. Without a guard or a servant to show him in, Antonio walked up to the courtyard through the arched gates and into the parlor. The young servant he’d met before was packing up a large wooden box and stood up to greet him. Stacks of manuscripts lay piled on the floor along with empty trunks and a variety of scrolls. The sun glinted on a broken mirror, and lit up the jumble of furniture and bric-a-brac that had turned the well-appointed room into an old and dusty curio shop. The young boy smiled shyly, and looked around to find a chair for him to sit on.
Ferguson staggered into the room cradling a pile of books, and dropped them at the servant’s feet. “Where’s Arees? Have you brought her here?” Antonio asked him anxiously.
“Ah, the Pox Warrior!” the gypsy nodded and motioned to him to sit. “You’ve nothing to worry about.” He ordered the young man to bring over his medicinal whiskey, and poured a generous inch for himself and another for Antonio.
“You’ll meet her soon, but first I must offer you my apologies. I’ve failed to find your Boxer manuals. They’ve all disappeared, and my scouts have returned empty-handed. But you won’t need them anymore. The Boxers are here, they’ll show you all their tricks!” Taking a large swig from his glass, he thumped on the stack of old books setting off a cloud of dust. “They’re looting everything, including the garden flowers! In just a few days they’ll destroy the Great Chinese Civilization! Smash and burn everything that’s been touched by the foreign hand. They’ll kill each other in order to destroy us. And the Big Fat Buddha will bless her brave spirit soldiers, turn every man into a eunuch and every woman into a palace whore.”
“Will you be moving into the Legation then?” Antonio asked.
Wiping his sweaty face on the sleeves of his Jesuit robe, Ferguson gave him a cocky smile. “I’m not stupid, Dr. Maria. The Legation is unsafe, you know that well, don’t you? There’ll be a bloodbath soon, and personal scores will be settled. No one will escape, not even our dear old Polly.”
“What personal scores?” He rose to pace the room, with Ferguson sitting on a trunk and drinking from the bottle. The heat spread like the flames of an oven, burning the soles of his feet and inching up rapidly. He picked up an empty water pitcher, and wondered where the gypsy would hide his treasures till the troubles ended. The young servant ran into the room and tried to attract his master’s attention, but Ferguson waved him away and dropped his voice.
“Never mind the Boxers, it’s better to talk about someone else.”
Antonio raised an eyebrow.
“She’s upstairs, your friend from Lisbon. Your special friend, should we say?” He smirked at Antonio. “Maybe she’s the wife you left behind …?” Coming up to Antonio, he laid a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I haven’t told her anything.”
“Told her what?” He moved away from Ferguson.
“About your golden lily, the one and only one that you’ve had in China.” He inched up closer to Antonio, and spoke into his ear, “The one you’ve had a fight with over her dead lover, the one who pretends to teach you Nei ching, the one that made you angry and punch the foolish Frenchman, the one with whom you’ve tried the Butterfly and the Pigeon, the Ox and the Monkey, tried all the thirty positions, haven’t you!”
He pushed Ferguson away and started climbing up the stairs, just as the servant reappeared and tugged on his master’s arm with great agitation.
“You can read your wife the Memories of the Plum Cottage. I can have the book sent up for you if you like. You can give her a taste of China that she’s never had before.” Dragged away by the young servant, Ferguson laughed deliriously, “Polly thinks she’s come all the way from home just to win you back … poor girl …!”
Arees was sitting on the floor of an empty room and smoking. Antonio started to tell her how worried Polly had been at her absense, but she hushed him with a finger, drew him out onto the balcony and pointed through the casuarinas. A large crowd had gathered outside the villa, waving giant banners. They looked like a peasant army, armed with clubs, swords and spears and were advancing in a ragged line. Many were quite young, led by priests dressed in red and chanting, exhorting the crowd with their incantations. Hundreds of joss sticks set off a cloud of smoke above the crowd and it seemed as if a funeral procession had made its way through the wall of trees. The advance party had started a war dance, the peasants leaping up into the air and dropping down in grand acrobatic swoops.
“Boxers!” Antonio whispered.
They heard the servant scream as he dashed out of the parlor into the courtyard with Ferguson running after him, cursing the foolish boy and wrestling him down to the ground before he could scale the walls and land in the Boxers’ laps. They were surrounded on all sides and there was no way to escape, except to hide inside a book box, hoping to fool the rebels and have them move on to yet another villa in search of villainous foreigners. The courtyard resounded with the crash of glass and porcelain as master and servant emptied the treasure crates that were large enough to hold them both.
A young rebel dismounted at the gate and walked into the courtyard flanked by a small group. Spotting Ferguson and the servant, they raised a cry of triumph, and within moments the Boxers were inside the walls. Antonio and Arees hid on the balcony and heard them go from room to room, smashing things, breaking down doors and windows. Pots and pans were thrown out of the kitchen, chickens and ducks cut loose from the coops, the birds darting out in a rush of feathers. Bricks and pieces of tiles flew all over the courtyard. The peasant soldiers kicked open the crates, and a jumble of ivory and jade spilled out of them. There was a mad scramble with their leader shouting orders in a shrill voice to stop the looting, and soon a bonfire was lit with the soldiers lifting up the empty crates and hurling them into the flames. Where’s the gypsy and his servant? What if they were hiding inside an empty crate? The young boy had stopped screa
ming. Antonio looked down from the balcony and found him kneeling before the garden shrine, held down by a Boxer’s boot and praying for his life.
What will the gypsy do now – the scholar, the adventurer, and the merchant, who was blessed with the cunning of a fox? What bargain could he strike with the Boxers? Antonio waited to hear him speak in his loud and mocking voice, inviting perhaps a suitable response. Maybe the priests would start their chanting again and call off the attack, sparing his life.
They heard each other’s nervous breathing, crouching behind the mahogany balcony rails. The horse head dagger pistol he had pinched from Cedric’s collection of handguns gnawed at his side and Antonio took it out from his waist buckle. Down in the parlor, Ferguson sat on his thronelike chair, bound hand and foot, with the Boxers surrounding him. He was pleading with them to release his servant, who wailed loudly as a peasant made a move to thrust a spear into his heart. The Boxer leader stopped him, then silenced the boy with a single gunshot.
A young voice started to recite a list of crimes in Chinese, each one of them followed by a roar from the crowd. The gypsy replied after a short silence. He seemed to be denying the charges, offering long explanations for his behavior. What are the Boxers accusing him of? Putting his meager Chinese to work, Antonio tried to catch the words that spoke of profiteering and hoarding, hoodwinking innocents to part with their treasures, threatening all those who were witnesses to his crimes, and murdering a poor man by setting him on fire. With the list exhausted, a hush descended on the parlor. Then the Boxer leader spoke to the crowd, calling for a few volunteers. He’ll be tortured now … Antonio whispered to Arees under his breath. Ferguson howled as his accuser read out the charges again, without waiting for answers. The crowd started to chant, and a roar went up with every confession, the priests spurring on the acrobats to perform their feats as a mark of celebration. The two on the balcony shut their ears with their palms as the howling grew louder. He wasn’t offering any arguments but pleading now to be pardoned, appealing for his life and to be let off. Miserable shrieks and moans drowned out the young voice, appearing at times to be personal pleas for help from someone the gypsy knew.
