Last Princess of Manchuria

by Lilian Lee

  14

  With great delicacy and tact, Yamaga eased his companion out the front door.

  "Why don't you run along home now? I'll phone you first thing in the morning!"

  The frightened young woman had no desire to stay and left in a hurry.

  Once rid of his date, Yamaga shut the door and turned to face Yoshiko. For some time, neither of them spoke as they traded blank stares. Yoshiko made no move to apologize.

  "You really get around, don't you?" she said frostily. "Whether you're at work or at play, there must be plenty of lovely ladies just throwing themselves at you, some of them quite openly, I'll bet!"

  "It's usually work and not play," he replied.

  "Giving those starlets acting lessons, are you? Helping them practice their love scenes?"

  With great effort, Yamaga checked his temper. "That's my business!"

  "The girls you like are all Chinese," she said provocatively.

  He didn't respond.

  Suddenly, she shouted at him:

  "Why don't you like Japanese girls?"

  He remained silent. Tension filled the air. In that brief moment, their thoughts traveled over a thousand miles and back, and both were filled with confusion. Why didn't he like Japanese girls?

  She sneered.

  "Maybe it's because I'm a Chinese girl," she said smugly.

  Yamaga listened, feeling torn. He was getting old, and he hadn't risen as far or as fast as he'd hoped. He wasted his youth on his career, and for what? He was middle-aged, and had found neither professional success nor true love. He was just a cog in a wheel.

  He chuckled ironically.

  "You have much too high an opinion of yourself, Commander Chin!"

  Gesturing toward the door, as though to usher her out, he added:

  "It's late. Please go."

  These weren't the words Yoshiko wanted to hear, and she ignored his request. Instead, she threw herself at him, clinging tight, and resisting when he pushed her away in disgust. She wasn't about to let him get away with this. She always got what she wanted—all it took was a little effort. Like the vortex of a whirlpool, she drew in the object of her desire with sheer force of will, until it rested in the palm of her hand. No man could evade her once she set her sights on him, and this fact gave her immense satisfaction. She thrived on this success—it made her beautiful.

  She wasn't about to let him slip away. In an instant, her face changed. Who in all the world understood him best? She lightly and lovingly caressed his weathered face.

  "Were any of them even half as good as I?" she purred. "Hm? Tell me."

  Bit by bit, nostalgia crept over him. She embraced him tightly, offering him her red lips and covering his mouth with hers, so that he could not speak. He was powerless to resist. Once, he believed she would be his. She would make him sweet date-filled rice cakes every day for the rest of his life. But that was a long time ago. . . .

  His hand moved around from her back to her breasts, and she felt a shock go through her body. With their bodies pressed tightly together as though one, they did not move for a long time. When at last he began to stir, she wrapped herself around him like a serpent, whetting his appetite, showing him how lucky he was to be with her. None of the other women he'd had could compare.

  She took her time, giving him pleasure beyond his wildest dreams, making him so happy he could die. She suckled him hungrily. Men had taught her to do this, and she learned well. Experienced and confident in her ability to give and receive pleasure, she found that fate had brought her back to her first love. But she now felt slightly contemptuous of him.

  Suddenly, and without warning, Yoshiko turned on him, biting down as hard as she could on his mouth. He cried out in pain through bleeding tongue and lips.

  Yamaga then stared at her blankly and wiped the sweet, sticky blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. It was surprisingly painful. He eyed Yoshiko steadily, this baffling she-devil.

  She threw her head back and laughed lightheartedly, then pushed him away with disgust, just as he had pushed her away only a little while before. Although she was uninjured, there was a streak of blood on her face—his blood, looking like smeared lipstick beside her crimson-painted mouth. She sprawled, naked, and laughed wantonly.

  "I'm not anybody's good little girl!" she said with a wicked smile. "It may be over between us, but you were my first love, and I will always have a claim on you. I can't simply stand by while you do as you please. I won't let you get away with it! Don't underestimate me!" she added menacingly.

  She rose and stepped into the moonlight and put her clothing back on, one piece at a time, all the while facing him. It was as though she were building a wall, brick by brick, cutting herself off from him. Yamaga felt completely off balance. Only moments before, he had been lost in an indescribable ecstasy—then in an instant it was gone.

  Yoshiko swished out of the room, and he stared mutely at her retreating back. A big, fat drop of blood welled out of his torn lips. He was alone with his thoughts. In China on a mission of national importance, he considered himself a man of bold ambition. He was central to the efforts to ensure that the newly born state of Manchukuo would be filled with "pure" and unswervingly loyal cultural influences, and had the important task of setting up a Manchurian film studio. As head of this enterprise, he was constantly surrounded with attractive women, all preening and tittering like so many brightly colored birds. He used them, and they used him—so what? Somehow, though, he provoked the ire of this particular woman.

  Who knew what nasty tricks she might play on him later on? She was capable of anything. Yamaga sat down wearily, weighed down by his worries, and stayed that way, alone with his thoughts, until daylight.

  Yoshiko mustered all of her strength to wipe any trace of Yamaga from her memory. She lived her life as before, sleeping all day and staying out half the night. Ordinarily, she didn't get to sleep until morning, when she slept the sleep of the dead, like a stone disappearing into the depths of the dark sea, under a black and moonless sky. Only in the world of her dreams could she find her lost innocence—there among the singing birds and sweet-smelling flowers, without another soul in sight. There was never anyone else there—the world was bright and clear, as though freshly washed. It was a place without family or country; a land without love or hate, or strife. It was a return to the innocence of childhood.

  The most difficult time for her was during those moments spent crossing the border between sleep and awakening, when she was tormented by lingering dreams that clutched at her, unwilling to let her go. Her head aching so much it seemed about to split open, Yoshiko suddenly, in a burst of energy, would gather all her strength and will her eyes to open. The sun was setting; a new day was beginning. She would slide out from behind the bed curtains like a wraith, ready to begin another night of excess.

  Her schedule was always very full. First, she would have "breakfast," before rounding up her usual gang for another night on the town. They gambled at mah-jongg, poker, and other games of chance that came their way. When they tired of that, they went out drinking, visited nightclubs, or watched operas or concerts. Shanghai was a city that never slept, with nightclubs, dance halls, and tennis courts that stayed open all night.

  Yoshiko saw nothing decadent about the life she was leading. Life was short, so why not enjoy it?

  Sitting in front of her dressing table and combing her hair before one such excursion, she evaluated her appearance. Her short hair looked decent enough—not perfect, but at least it was smooth and shiny. Her face had a slightly sickly pallor, but that was easily corrected with a touch of powder, freshly drawn eyebrows, and a dab of lipstick. She put on one of her favorite outfits: a black satin scholar's robe, mandarin jacket, and padded vest, topped off with a little round black satin cap. She looked for all the world like a casually elegant man-about-town.

  That particular evening, she dropped in at the opera house, trailing an entourage of some dozen hangers-on.

&nb
sp; "This way please, Commander Chin," the manager fawned as he greeted her obsequiously. Bowing and scraping all the way, he and a waiter led Yoshiko to her seat.

  They showed her to a box in the center of the balcony. The people of Shanghai knew all about her. Some were contemptuous, others despised her, and others still were simply curious, but none of them dared speak their minds. She was a very powerful woman, and wherever she went, people rose to their feet and bowed down, their true feelings well hidden.

  Settling in, she put up her feet, and with an air of complete satisfaction surveyed the theater. The stage was flanked by red-and-gold lacquered walls, and crimson velvet curtains framed an actor who, playing a female role, was singing the aria "Raise the Jade Goblet." The youth looked quite pretty, the result of liberally applied paints and powders, as he coyly refused the goblet time and time again.

  Yoshiko looked on, fanning herself with a black-and-gold fan, while her other hand rested on the thigh of the handsome young man beside her. She alternately stroked and squeezed his leg, following the mood of the music. Those around them pretended not to notice. Wasn't life just one great big farce, anyway?

  "Bravo!" the audience cried out, cheering the actor whose portrayal of a woman was so convincing.

  A boy handed Yoshiko a steaming hand towel sprinkled with rose water, and she wiped off her hands. She recognized him as the flunky she'd sent to check up on Yamaga only a few days before. He was rather good-looking and well built, but his cheap suit gave him a phony air.

  Yoshiko took the warm, fragrant towel from him and casually read the note that was concealed beneath it:

  "Highbrow" is unreliable.

  "Highbrow" was a code name for one of the runners she suspected of leaking information to the other side. There had been three suspects, and to flush out the guilty one, Yoshiko gave each one of them a different set of false information. Then she sat back and waited to see which batch of disinformation was passed to the revolutionaries. It was really quite simple.

  Politics was a ruthless game—it was dog-eat-dog. There was no room for dissent. If you allowed dissent, you'd find yourself out in the cold.

  The proprietor sent over a tray of tea and snacks. Yoshiko finished wiping off her hands and wadded the note up inside her used towel before handing it back to the boy to take away.

  "Please, have some tea," the manager said. "It's top-of-the-line Jade Spring." He smiled ingratiatingly, and she grunted her assent, waiting for him to serve her the tiny porcelain cup of tea. As he passed it to her, he also secretly passed her the stack of bills hidden in his hand. He needed her protection.

  With studied nonchalance, Yoshiko picked up her escort's opera glasses and smoothly panned from the corner of the stage to the audience. Her gaze came to rest on one man, and she zoomed in with the binoculars until his magnified face filled her entire field of vision.

  He wore a disguise, but Yoshiko recognized him immediately: it was "Highbrow." She pointed the glasses back toward the stage as her boy brought the man some tea. "Highbrow" took a sip and within a second collapsed silently. There was no struggle. The boy and a few adjacent members of the "audience" picked up the body and carried it out.

  Yoshiko turned and said to no one in particular, "Let's go. I'm bored."

  But she had taken only a few steps when something onstage caught her attention, and she stopped. There was a drumroll, and the audience started cheering wildly. Yoshiko turned to see what all the fuss was about—why, there was a monkey onstage! Soon she realized that it was an actor, but he was so good that he tricked her momentarily. It was a real tour de force. The actor seemed to be half god, half demon—a genius. Capering about lightly in his monkey shirt, monkey pants, and monkey hat, he made monkey faces with his fiery golden eyes. Brandishing a golden staff, he struck fast and sauntered away, then twirled his pole like a big baton, so fast it became a blur, encircling him like a rainbow wheel. He was clearly a master of the martial arts, and his acrobatics were equally impressive. He had the audience eating out of his hand. Yoshiko was seduced as well.

  "He's performing The Monkey King Raises Havoc in Heaven," the manager said unctuously.

  She focused the glasses on the actor, first taking in his body, and then his face. His features were covered in a thick layer of greasepaint, but she felt a nagging sense of recognition.

  He was knocking down the assembled hosts of heaven and laughing with glee—-just like a happy and excited monkey, clever and quick.

  "What's this fellow's name?" Yoshiko asked offhandedly.

  "Yun Kai—'Parting Clouds,' " the manager answered promptly. "He's the most famous Monkey King in Shanghai. He brings down the house every time!"

  She glanced appraisingly at the stage and then spoke to the manager as though to a pimp:

  "Is that so?" she said huskily. "Not bad at all!"

  After the performance ended, the crowd poured out of the theater. Outside the main entrance was a marquee with the name Yun Kai emblazoned in large letters, and a poster-sized picture of him to one side. She had only seen that face once, and briefly at that, but it was a face she couldn't forget. He'd made it!

  The day she met him on the docks, he was like a young eagle flying from his nest for the first time. Just a few short years had turned that wide-eyed youth into a huge success. The poster frame was edged with a string of bright lights, emphasizing his strong features. She remembered his words to her: "Wait for the parting clouds, and you will see the shining moon."

  He looked even more vital and handsome than before.

  Ah-fu? Well, not quite. He was Yun Kai now!

  A plan already forming in her mind, Yoshiko gave the poster another cursory look before climbing into a small Ford sedan and driving off in a cloud of dust.

  15

  The sun had not yet set—it was that hour caught between day and night, when the feeble dusk gathers in dim shadows and the colorful lights of the city have not yet winked on. Outside Yoshiko's mansion, a pair of her superficially polite bodyguards were strong-arming a special guest inside.

  "I can walk by myself!" he said unhappily.

  Somehow he kept his dignity and maintained the impression of the Monkey King striding onstage as they dragged him into the drawing room. He didn't want to be there, but his manager explained to him the importance of cultivating friendships with the rich and powerful, and in the end he really had no choice. The name of his hostess was known to all, for she was a notorious collaborator, and the very thought of her nauseated him—Commander, indeed! He was not a willing guest.

  Yoshiko had just taken a sip of very expensive wine when she raised her head and saw that Yun Kai had arrived. She gazed at him steadily, and he stared back, scrutinizing her, and realized with growing shock that he knew her. He was incredulous and stood there numbly, looking as though he'd been dealt a staggering blow.

  Was it really her? The owner of the handbag he'd wrested back from that thief, the girl he'd rescued on the quay, that delicate but aloof young lady who came to Shanghai all alone to make a living? She had done more than just make a living, he reflected. She'd made a name for herself, earning wealth, power, and the hatred of millions of Chinese. Yun Kai could not reconcile the girl on the dock with the woman she became. He had trouble regaining his composure. It was like being in the middle of a performance and having a character from an entirely different play suddenly come walking onstage. Everything ground to a halt.

  His "hostess" waved her bodyguards off, and they withdrew.

  "Sit!" she said, flashing her most charming smile. "It's so wonderful to see you again!" She paused. "Surprised?"

  "I'll say! I never imagined that the person who 'invited' me here would turn out to be such a big shot!"

  "Really?"

  He did not even try to appease her.

  "Every red-blooded Chinese has heard of the Kwantung Army's right-hand 'man,' Commander Chin!" He emphasized the word "Commander," speaking it ironically.

  She laughed lightly, sa
ying, "Please, call me Yoshiko."

  "I don't think I could."

  Yoshiko rose and poured him a glass of wine.

  "I never forgot you. Who would have thought that in just a few years' time you would become such a great success!"

  He felt angry and disappointed—he didn't want to believe that the woman before him was the same woman he'd met on the docks. He wished she were someone else, but the more he wished, the worse he felt. He grappled with his own conflicting feelings, and it was all he could do to restrain himself.

  "The same goes for you," he said sarcastically. "I hardly recognized you."

  His tone wasn't lost on her.