Last Princess of Manchuria

by Lilian Lee

  "Yes, Miss Yoshiko."

  Yoshiko admired this "birthday present" that she herself had commissioned on the sly, feeling rather pleased with herself. This silver plaque flaunted her continued close relationship with a very important person. It was a silent symbol of power and influence, proof that she, Yoshiko Kawashima, Commander Chin Pi-hui, was still valuable in Shunkichi Uno's eyes. And who had time to delve into the secret of the silver plaque?

  Yoshiko inspected the plaque closely, cocked her head, backed up a bit to give it another appraisal, and moved it a few inches. It had to look just right. She narrowed her eyes, feeling the thrill of a child who is getting away with something, but it hurt her at the same time. Who could tell what she really felt? Who could tell who she really was? She looked like a young man of twenty, but in fact she was already past thirty. And while she was supposed to be celebrating her birthday today, she didn't really want to count the years. How many good years did she have left? Were the best years of her life already past? Would those days of patriotic activism ever return? She had to face it, she was getting older by the minute. Fortunately, her captivating beauty had not yet deserted her, although she could feel it starting to slip away.

  People were calling out to her:

  "Commander Chin!"

  "Miss Yoshiko!"

  "Eastern Jewel!"

  "Princess Hsien-tzu!"

  "Fourteenth Princess!"

  One by one, her guests filed in, different guests calling her by different names. The head of the North China Governing Committee's Office of Information, the minister of internal affairs of Manchukuo, and a minister from the Japanese Ministry of Industry and Trade were there. There were also advisers from the Japanese and Manchurian embassies, journalists, Japanese actors and actresses, stars of the Chinese stage, bank managers, theater managers, and officers from the Japanese Imperial Army. Every man was dressed to the nines, and every woman was poised and elegant. Their gifts were the best that money could buy—or sometimes just a large sum of money. On the surface, at least, everyone paid homage to Yoshiko.

  Just as she was about to go and greet another guest, Old Wang, one of her translation officers, brought a sad-eyed, middle-aged man over to her.

  "Commander Chin," Old Wang said humbly. "This is Mr. Chu. He would be extremely grateful if you would speak with him for a moment."

  "Chu, did you say?" She furrowed her brow. "It's that business about the man with the silk shop, isn't it? Well, I'm afraid I don't have time right now. Some other time—"

  "Please, Commander Chin," Mr. Chu cut in. "Please help us. My brother is in prison, probably being tortured at this very moment. He's not a young man anymore. He won't be able to last long."

  "Has he confessed to anything?" Yoshiko asked Old Wang.

  "They tried to beat a confession out of him, but he didn't tell them anything useful."

  Although Mr. Chu was a proud man, he couldn't hold back his tears.

  "It's all a mistake, Commander. The charges are false! Please, say a few words on his behalf!"

  "If this brother of yours is an anti-Japanese guerrilla, then there's really nothing I can do," she said impatiently.

  "Please, miss, don't make fun of us. We are an old Peking family, and we've never concerned ourselves with anything but selling silk. My brother is over fifty years old—he doesn't have the muscle to play soldier! We are just ordinary citizens."

  Ever since Mr. Chu's brother's arrest, the family had been scurrying around from place to place, trying to find a way to get him released. At last they got access to Yoshiko through Old Wang. They were so desperate, they would grasp at anything, like shipwrecked passengers clutching at splinters to keep from drowning. Commander Chin was their salvation, they thought, a giant life raft—but her reputation and power were greatly inflated. Mr. Chu had to "go through the back door," as the Chinese say—use his connections—to get close to Yoshiko, and this process entailed handing out all kinds of valuable gifts and greasing many palms along the way. Otherwise, he wouldn't even have got his foot in the door; although perhaps "foot in the door" was the wrong expression—it was more like putting his foot into a trap.

  "Today is my birthday!" Yoshiko said irritably. "Why did you have to pick a day like this to come pestering me?"

  "Please," Mr. Chu pleaded tearfully. "Please, just have a few words with your friends in the Imperial Army. We can come up with twenty thousand yuan. Please help us, Commander Chin!"

  "That amount may not be enough to cover it—still, I'll see what I can do. But I can't make any promises."

  "But, Commander, twenty thousand is a lot of money—"

  Old Wang took him aside and gave him the word: In all likelihood, Chu would have to come up with sixty thousand yuan before the matter was concluded. It was an astronomical bribe, but it was also a matter of life and death. It broke Mr. Chu's heart to be haggling over money while his brother's life hung in the balance.

  Yoshiko left them to work it out and headed for the main dining room. She knew that they would ultimately agree upon a price—say, 30,000 to 40,000. Then she could use her influence to put some pressure on the military police. All it took was one phone call to an easily intimidated subordinate officer—there was no need to disturb the higher-ups—and the prisoner would be released. Wherever there were Chinese, there was always a "back door," she reflected.

  Flashbulbs were popping left and right. Yoshiko moved through the crowd of well-wishers like a butterfly fluttering from one flowering bush to another, circulating among her distinguished guests, stopping just long enough to pose for photos with them before she moved on.

  Everyone was superficially polite, but many people there scoffed at her behind her back.

  An officer and an ambassador were talking:

  "They call her Commander, but it's all a charade as far as I'm concerned!"

  "How could a woman do anything important in the first place?"

  "Well, she has managed to gather some amazingly detailed and accurate information. Did you know that Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist government is willing to agree to a cease-fire with Japan in exchange for staying in power? Those Nationalists are more worried about the Communists right now than they are about the Japanese!"

  "They're afraid the Communists will take advantage of their role in the resistance to expand their power base."

  "While the Chinese are busy fighting among themselves, the Imperial Army can just walk right in!"

  "Wasn't that little honey pot the source of all that news?"

  "Damn right, she was! We men are all alike!" He laughed. "Every man is a lecher at heart!"

  "And what about you? Have you been with her?"

  "Shh—"

  Just then Yoshiko walked up to them.

  "Mr. Sasaki," she chided the officer. "What are you doing at my birthday party with that dreadful little rag hanging out of your pocket? Is it some kind of good-luck charm?"

  His face grew solemn.

  "Many different women toiled long and hard to sew this cloth. It is the custom in Japan to give these to soldiers when they go off to war, with the wish that they may fight well and return victorious. I never put on my uniform without tucking this into my pocket. Don't you know about this custom, Miss Yoshiko?"

  "I'm a soldier, too! Where is my little hanky?" She smiled coquettishly and added, "We women are always pinning our hopes on men. I don't know if we're extremely clever or extremely stupid!"

  Yoshiko kept up this stream of banter, but her lively eyes swept over the room all the while, constantly searching: The face she sought was not there. Wouldn't Shunkichi Uno, the man she still called "Daddy" in a pathetic attempt to keep in his good graces, toss her even this tiny crumb?

  The banquet was beginning, with a first course of assorted appetizers already laid out on the round tables that filled the room. Waiters poured three-star brandy into crystal wineglasses, and Yoshiko called out from her seat at the head table:

  "Please, everybody, help yours
elves—but save some room for the other courses! We're going to treat you to a marvelous feast tonight. You know, people say that the best Tientsin dish is meat dumplings from Kou-puli, but I can't say I've ever tried them. In fact, China is the home of much fine cuisine, like Mongolian hot pot. . . ."

  She glanced furtively at her watch. When she looked up, she saw Uno's assistant coming her way.

  "Miss Yoshiko," he said formally. "Mr. Uno had some business to attend to, and he sends his regrets. I am here in his stead to convey to you his best wishes on your birthday."

  Not him again! she thought to herself. Once more Uno was sending a flunky in his place. Didn't she count for anything anymore? He wouldn't even show up this one day of the year!

  As the waiters rushed to set a place for Uno's deputy, a flash of displeasure crossed Yoshiko's face, but she forced herself to smile.

  "Oh well, I guess Daddy is very busy these days. I just hope he won't disappoint me next year!"

  The main courses were brought out, carried by wave after wave of uniformed servants. There were delicacies of every kind—game, poultry, seafood, all of it the best. The banquet tables were buried under dishes—not an inch of tabletop peeked through anywhere—and Yoshiko enjoyed a brief reprieve from her embarrassment as the partygoers turned their full attention to the delicacies set before them. The hall was crowded with Yoshiko's guests, but none of them were her real friends. Toadies and sycophants surrounded her on all sides. Politics was a treacherous business.

  She lived in a fantasy world, for she met every crisis with self-deception—it was the only way to survive. The truth would destroy her, but she was growing tired of lying to herself. Ten long years of living like this—they'd passed in the blink of an eye. She couldn't give up now! She had to get back into the ring and defend her title. But she was exhausted.

  The nagging pain of Yoshiko's old wound penetrated the gaiety of the occasion, and an odd grin crept slowly across her face as she nonchalantly reached across to a drawer in the sideboard behind her and took out a needle and a vial of white powder. With one eye on her guests, she deftly lifted the hem of her long white tunic, rolled up a pants leg, and injected the needle into her calf, all without a trace of embarrassment.

  Silence fell on the hall—her guests stared, speechless. She closed her eyes and let out a long, dreamy sigh. When she opened her eyes, they were sparkling again, and she put the needle away as everyone looked on. Turning back toward her assembled guests, she addressed them with a slight tilt of her head:

  "Sometimes my old wound bothers me, and I need an injection. Afterward, I can't drink water—but spirits are just fine. Cheers! Bottoms up, everyone!"

  Just as she was raising her brandy glass high to make the toast, there was sudden burst of gunfire. Her glass shattered into a thousand pieces, and Yoshiko's white cuff was sprayed with the amber-colored liquor.

  The banquet was under attack by members of the resistance who infiltrated the party disguised as servants and guests. Bullets were flying everywhere, and acrid smoke filled the room.

  The crisis sobered Yoshiko like ice water flung in her face, and without a moment's hesitation she rolled underneath the table. The guerrillas first took aim at Uno's deputy, one of the Japanese officers on their hit list; but their principal targets were Shunkichi Uno and Yoshiko Kawashima. What nobody there knew was that Uno had found out about the plot and decided to stay home.

  The attackers rushing forward in search of Yoshiko met with her bullets, instead. She was still a good shot, even when taking aim from the limited vantage point underneath a table. She was furious—in an instant, her splendid birthday party had been transformed into a battlefield. Blood-spattered plates and bowls were scattered everywhere, and men and women who only minutes before had been drinking and laughing lay dead or wounded. Yoshiko managed to hit two of the interlopers, one of whom she caught in the thigh. As he stumbled and fell, his hat slipped to reveal his face—a face she knew well. Yun Kai!

  After that night at her mansion in Shanghai, Yun Kai had dropped out of sight. He quit singing opera—it was somehow tainted. He threw away a brilliant career, all because of his stubbornness. Because of Yun Kai's attitude, Yoshiko came to reserve a special hatred for theater people, and many prominent actors suffered as a consequence. Stars like Ma Lien-liang, Cheng Yen-chiu, Hsin Yen-chiu, and Pai Yu-shuang were blackmailed and humiliated. Still, Yoshiko continued to invite anyone who played the Monkey King to her parties, but Yun Kai was never among them. A star is always in command onstage, but in real life it was Yoshiko whose power shone brightest. It never crossed her mind that she, too, might end up as just a character in somebody else's play. The man who had left an indelible mark on her, whom she desired most of all but could not attain, had banded together with a bunch of hoods to kill her!

  When she realized it was Yun Kai, she was torn, not knowing whether she should simply finish him off with one more shot. Her anger told her to pull the trigger, but something, some inner weakness, made her hesitate, and in the end she couldn't do it. Looking at this brave and committed young man, she was filled with a kind of wonder. He was still so young, so inexperienced— he'd hardly had a chance to live yet, but he was willing to die for his beliefs. After basking in the limelight for a few brief seasons, he cast it all away to become an outlaw fighter.

  Yoshiko and the military police quickly restored order. Although seriously wounded, Uno's deputy took charge of a team and went outside to stand guard. Uno had chosen his man well, but he had no intention of letting Yoshiko find out about his treachery.

  Some of the resistance men who had attacked died. The survivors, some twenty in all, were arrested. Yoshiko stood among the wreckage, watching as Yun Kai was taken away. His wounded leg was bleeding profusely, and as he was unable to walk, the police had to half carry him away, leaving a trail of blood so wide it seemed to have been painted by a giant brush.

  Long after everyone else was gone, Yoshiko was still staring at the glistening red path that led straight out the grand entryway of the Tung-hsing Lou restaurant. Even if he was the ringleader ... she thought to herself. Seized by a sudden impulse, she jumped to her feet and rushed out.

  It was late at night when Yoshiko appeared outside the Tientsin Military Headquarters Prison. The officer on duty greeted her respectfully—she still carried a bit of clout, after all. The title of Commander was still hers, and she knew how to use it.

  It wasn't long before a pair of wardens dragged in Yun Kai, half-dazed from hours of torture. She motioned the wardens, and they withdrew, but the duty officer looked uncomfortable and hesitated.

  "Miss Yoshiko—" he ventured.

  "When something like this happens on my birthday, at my birthday banquet," she cut him off darkly, "I take it personally. The responsibility quite clearly falls to me to see that the matter is taken care of satisfactorily. I will hand this matter over to Mr. Shunkichi Uno myself."

  She left with a flourish, her "prisoner" in tow.

  18

  Yun Kai didn't know where he was. With great effort, he managed to open his eyes just a crack, and the darkness that engulfed him gradually cleared. He was shivering as he regained consciousness, for he had lost a great deal of blood. Even the slightest movement was excruciatingly painful, and every vein in his body felt as though it were filled with lead. His legs felt especially heavy, and he moaned faintly as he tried to move them.

  He looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Where was he? His head was cradled on a soft pillow on a high bed, in a sumptuously feminine boudoir. A pleasantly sweet perfume hung in the air, and Japanese woodblock prints of geishas graced the walls, smiling down on him and the three other people in the room.

  The mood became even more voluptuous as a blind musician in one corner began to play an indolent, sensual tune on the samisen. Alone in his dark world, the musician was oblivious to those outside, unaware of what kind of people they were. He was soon lost in the melody that flowed from his fingers.
/>   Yoshiko sat beside the bed in a pearl-colored nightdress. Just a shade off white, it was also the color of an oyster, that mysterious animal that seeks to transform, by its smooth and pale example, the grains of sand that work their way into its flesh. Through constant struggle, the oyster always triumphs, coating the sharp and irregular grains with fluids from its own body until they become perfectly round and luminous, and almost white.

  The doctor gathered up his instruments and left, but Yoshiko remained sitting by the bed, a glass of wine in her hand, gazing at Yun Kai. After a long while, she took a sip of wine, then went back to waiting patiently at his side. He was her witness, she thought to herself. His very presence here was proof of her goodness. She had gone to great lengths to bring him here.

  An indescribable sense of peace flowed from the samisen, as Yoshiko quietly savored Yun Kai's moaning. The anesthetic was wearing off, and his groans became louder. Taking out her needle, Yoshiko readied the clear morphine solution and walked over to the bed, where she ever so gently lifted up his thigh. It was firm and well formed—he had the body of a fighter. Capable of striking hard and fast, at this moment Yun Kai was as limp as a sleeping baby. Yoshiko lightly rolled up his tunic and pants leg and wiped away the bloodstain. With practiced fingers, she pressed and probed until she found his vein, a vital dark blue serpent. Placing the tip of the needle against his skin, she released the morphine into his blood very, very slowly. He flinched weakly but gradually relaxed as a warm wave of pure happiness washed over his body, engulfing him like a sweet dream from which he never wanted to awaken. When the syringe was empty, Yoshiko tenderly massaged the almost invisible little hole where the needle had pierced his flesh. The pain was gone now, and he felt at peace.