Wong frowns.
“Have looksee,” he tells the boys.
Wong disapproves, shaking his head vigorously.
Mohr laughs. “Maskee. Maskee.” In an instant the three boys are in the back of the car, tumbling and bouncing and peering into the frontseat. Wong refuses to let go of the door. He calls the boys out, barking angrily as they tumble off with waves and backward glances, then climbs behind the wheel.
Mohr pats the dust from his trousers and stands for a time by the roadside, watching the harvest continue. Flat fields shimmer in the heat. Birds reel overhead. A thousand little pictures of summers past—of cows and sheep and goats standing at the trough in the meadow, the slopes of the Wallberg. Käthe’s delphinium. The mere thought of those blue flowers is enough to make him feel that he has received his due, everything he deserves. Why China? Käthe asked up on the roof. He has an entire list of reasons that, taken together, yield a bundle of complexes that can only be disentangled slowly, and with reference to ever-larger turning wheels. He smiles to himself. Käthe says he’s complicated, but he’s not complicated. It’s the world that is complicated. All he wants is to be reunited with his family; he wants it so badly he can already see the breakfast tray and flowers and singing magpies and folded newspapers lying on the table, a succession of trouble-free todays where before and after have merged with one another.
All at once an idea for a poem springs to mind. Excited, he returns to the car, digs into his bag for pencil and paper. As they drive on, Mohr scribbles.
The path that leads from my door to your door
winds through a busy world where everyone is a stranger
and when at last I arrive on your doorstep
to find that you have set out to look for me
the world will, for a moment
seem small
Near Soochow, the traffic becomes dense. Roadside shacks, teahouses, little hotels. They arrive, at last, in the center of the compact, canal-webbed city. Traffic is at a standstill. Mohr considers the situation, then takes the map and camera bag and gets out of the car. “Drive hotel-side, Wong. Dung o li. Wait my come.”
“Garden Hotel?” Wong asks.
He leans into the window and repeats. “Garden Hotel. Dung o li. Hotel-side. Dung o li.”
Wong shoos him off with a friendly wave. The car jolts forward. Mohr stops at a tea stall to get his bearings. A man pokes him on the shoulder, points at his dust-covered shoes. Mohr shakes his head, and the man quietly withdraws. It was autumn when he was here with Vogel. The city hadn’t seemed all that crowded. They’d driven straight to the Garden Hotel, walked along the canal after lunch. It had been a pleasant afternoon, and how familiar everything had seemed—the cobblestone alleys lined with one-story, tile-roofed buildings, latticed woodwork, shops open onto the street. A picture postcard. Vogel had said something to the effect that if it weren’t for the Garden Hotel there would be noplace to eat anywhere. Mohr had rebuked him by detouring down every little side street.
He makes his way through crowded alleys and narrow lanes to the North Gate. The smell of joss sticks, heavy in the air. The area around the gate is packed with shrines and crowded with peddlers, beggars, and ragged children running in all directions. On a low wall near the gate, he sits down to catch his breath, begins to photograph. He takes in the entire scene through the camera lens—not in large sweeps but in isolated moments: A woman holding a young child by the hand, an old man in a long, quilted coat leading a goat on a rope, a Taoist monk in a tall conical hat, porters with poles across their shoulders, rickshaws going in all directions. A large black Packard shoots out of a side street, honking the horn and scattering people. A tea cart is upended, hot coals spill onto the pavement, which the angry vendor picks up and hurls at the passing car. Excited by the commotion, Mohr starts down a side street, and is stopped short at the sound of a gong being struck. The sound blossoms into a steady, deafening crash. Nobody seems to take much notice. He steps under the awning of a shop and glances around. A man eats a bowl of congee, blowing steam and slurping spoonfuls of the hot rice gruel into his mouth with grunts of satisfaction. Mohr is short of breath again. He takes out a handkerchief, wipes the sweat from his forehead, lifts the camera again. A sudden touch on the shoulder makes him jump.
“Dr. Mohr?”
He spins around.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mohr recognizes his bruised young neighbor from downstairs and recovers his composure by wiping his forehead again. “You surprised me.”
The man squatting against the shop wall glances up, then returns to his congee.
“I saw you across the square, photographing,” the man says. “You didn’t you see me? I waved.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I was standing right over there.” He points. Traces of his injuries are still plain to see. His nose is bent. Slight yellow bruising remains around his eyes. He is wearing a Panama hat, a blue cotton suit and tie, and in spite of his dress he seems scruffy and unkempt.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you. And I don’t believe I know your name.”
“Granich. Konrad Granich.”
They shake hands and Mohr asks, “Did you ever go to hospital? Has anybody looked at you?”
Granich casts a few darting glances—across the square, toward the gate, then shakes his head.
“I tried looking in on you once or twice, but you were never at home.”
Granich seems preoccupied, makes no comment.
“Your nose was fractured.”
Granich touches his nose, shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Well, there’s not much that can be done about it now.” Mohr looks in the direction Granich has been glancing. “Come. Walk with me.”
Granich waves, backs away.
“Come on. We’re both tourists here. Let’s walk.”
“I can’t. I have no time.”
“No time?” Mohr laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. “This isn’t Berlin. I should think you have all the time in the world!”
With another glance around, Granich shrugs and gives in. A short time later they have walked the entire distance to the Garden Hotel. As they approach the front gate, Mohr spots his car parked near the top of the long driveway. Wong is wiping the windows with a large cloth. “Do you like watermelon?”
Granich is amused. The walk has eased some of his reserve.
“Come and have some with me.”
“Not in there,” Granich says. “I will not go in that place.”
“Why not? It’s the finest in Soochow.”
Granich shakes his head. “It caters to imperialists.”
“Well, as it happens, I hadn’t planned to go there, either.” Mohr smiles. “I have brought my own watermelon and some food and am going to find a shady spot and sit down for a very unimperial picnic.”
Wong acknowledges Granich with a friendly salute, then unpacks the car and leads them to a patch of grass along the banks of a canal. He seems slightly bemused as he helps Mohr spread the blanket in the shade of a tree. “Mister b’long bottom-side Master house,” he smiles, by the by.
They sit down only to discover there is no knife to cut the melon with. Wong goes back to the car, retrieves a large cleaver from the trunk. Mohr has never seen it before, wonders what other surprises are hidden away in the car. Wong makes short work of the melon, hands it around. His wife packed a British-style feast of cucumber-and-butter sandwiches, which he proudly offers around, balking at Mohr’s insistence that he take one for himself, then giving in with a contented smile.
It’s a pleasant setting. Mohr is happy for the company. A slight breeze is blowing. Birds swoop along the canal banks, where the grass is greenest. The heat is bearable in the small patch of shade. Granich removes his hat and his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and stretches out on the blanket. He begins talking about the situation in Spain, the buildup of German naval forces in the Mediterranean, and then turn
s to what he terms the “capitulation of the Chinese worker’s struggle.”
“Capitulation?”
Granich peers up. “To the war against the Japanese. The only salvation of the workers and peasants of China is to struggle independently against the two armies, against the Chinese army in the same manner as against the Japanese army.”
Mohr takes this in, slightly curious. “Is that the Party line?”
Granich nods.
“But won’t the Chinese have a better chance if they aren’t divided among themselves?”
“Chiang Kai-shek is no ally of workers and peasants,” Granich protests, sitting up. “He’ll betray us at the first opportunity!”
“Us”? The fervent solidarity is amusing. Granich is about to continue, but Mohr cuts him off. “That beating, it wasn’t bandits, was it?”
Granich shrugs, doesn’t answer.
“How old are you, Granich?”
“Twenty-five,” he answers moodily and puts his hat over his face.
Mohr fishes his cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt, then stands up and strolls down to the edge of the water. A group of coolies taking a midday break has been watching, fascinated at the sight of two Europeans sharing a meal with a Chinese. Mohr nods to them as he passes, then continues a short distance along the canal. In the distance he can see the Tiger Balm Gardens, another of the places he visited with Vogel. A barge passes, loaded with produce. A little boy sitting on the gunwales waves, and Mohr waves back. Contentment is an enduring and unchanging sufficiency. He recalls the line from Lao Tsu, and wonders how long twenty-five-year-old Granich has been involved in politics. At his age, Mohr was stuck out on the front line of an insane war, and already disgusted with ideology. Poor him, poor you. What prospects among scattered fragments, missing links, lost connections?
Suddenly he is restless, and wants to start back.
Granich is sitting on the blanket, knees pulled up to his chest, puffing on a cigarette. Wong has repacked the basket and returned to the car. “May I offer you a ride back to Shanghai?” Mohr asks.
“No. No, thank you. I still have things to do here.” Granich rolls down his sleeves, puts on his jacket and hat. He seems nervous once again.
“Can I drop you someplace on the way?”
Granich’s features contract. “No.” He shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Oh? Why not?”
Granich ignores the question, stands up.
Mohr picks up the blanket and begins folding, eyeing Granich. “You have nothing to fear being seen with me. I’m not mixed up in politics.”
“Oh? Just another innocent victim,” he quips.
The sarcasm rubs Mohr the wrong way, but he won’t be drawn into an argument. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.” He smiles, and finishes folding the blanket.
Granich softens, seems to appreciate the neutral remark. He puts on his hat, tipping the brim slightly forward and down. “Thanks for the picnic,” he says. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”
“Are you sure about that?” Mohr tucks the folded blanket under his arm.
Granich nods. “I’m sure, Doctor.” He manages a smile, and starts off with a wave. Mohr watches him descend the little slope to the canal path in his ill-fitting, crumpled suit, waits to see if he’ll turn when he reaches the footpath—but he doesn’t. Without breaking stride, he slips his hands into his trousers pockets and saunters away, a proud young man, shaken by hatred. Mohr wonders where else their opinions may have collided, what they might have argued about in the car on the way back to Shanghai. Perhaps they wouldn’t have talked at all. That would have been best. Better to keep quiet than express yourself feebly.
In the car he remembers an old folk song. Returning Wong’s delighted rearview glances, he sings:
Müd bin i, müd bin i
Leg i mi nieder
Packt mi die Lieb
Auf muss i wieder
Tired am I, tired am I
I lay me down
When love comes over me
I must get up again
“You enjoy taking pictures, Dr. Mohr,” observes the clerk.
Mohr places the rolls of film on the counter. It’s the third time this week that he’s been to the shop—Eos Film & Photo—just a short distance down Bubbling Well Road from his apartment.
“If I could fly, I would fly.” He smiles, watching as the clerk busies himself making out receipts for each roll of film. Burton is his name. He is freshly combed, crisply attired in a Shantung silk suit, and gives the impression of having come straight to work from a night out on the town.
“Photography is certainly different from flying,” he says, keeping up pleasantries.
“You don’t think flying and photography have anything in common?”
Burton shakes his head, bemused.
“Gravity is defied. Light is captured.”
“Contact sheets or prints?”
“Time also.”
Mohr pats his pocket, takes out his cigarettes. The shop smells of film and developing chemicals mingled with tobacco. The plate-glass window, boldly lettered in gold paint, frames the street beyond; a cabinet along one wall contains the newest in camera and photographic equipment, securely locked. He enjoys it in here, a pleasant diversion, a little world apart. “Contact sheets,” he says, lighting a cigarette and stepping over to the camera case. “The new Leica?”
“Model G. With Xenon lens and Rapid Rewinder.”
Mohr blows a stream of smoke against the glass. On a lower shelf are exposure meters of various makes. He reads the printed advertisement out loud: “Whether shooting in deep shaded woods, or shipboard, or indoors. It will enable you to bring back a perfect photographic record of every trip.” He stands, turns. “What do you make of all this picture-taking?”
Burton shrugs. “It keeps us in business—with good customers like you.”
“I mean one hundred years from now? When every person living on earth today is dead, and the world has been transformed.” Mohr’s thoughts begin to race. He glances at the advertising placard. “Will it matter that we made a perfect photographic record of every trip?”
The clerk regards him with bemused caution and shakes his head. Mohr steps back over to the counter. “Have you ever asked why you take pictures on holiday?”
“I would say to remember.”
“To remember what?”
“The holiday.”
Mohr smiles. “Yes. But, isn’t it to remind you of the joy you felt on holiday? That’s the essential thing. What you felt. Can a feeling be preserved in a photograph?”
“I don’t know,” Burton says in the way clerks have of politely dividing their attention. “Can it?”
“I think so.”
“Is that why you do it, then?”
Mohr laughs, shakes his head. “No. I take them to send to my wife. Proof of my existence.” He crushes his cigarette into the ashtray at the side of the counter. “Einmal jedes, nur einmal. Einmal und nicht mehr. …”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand German, Dr. Mohr.”
“Everything just once. Once and no more. From a great German poet, Rilke.”
A polite nod tells him the young Englishman doesn’t know who or what he’s talking about. Never mind. His thoughts continue to wander. Can feelings be preserved in photographs? The way love letters can be written on a typewriter? Remember those last weeks in Berlin, Lindenstrasse, looking down on the tram stop? A thousand telephone calls to blasé consular officials who wouldn’t follow up, who made him wait on the line and then simply hung up? He called to tell Käthe he was coming back via Prague, where doors were still open, and Eva came to the telephone and said, “Papa, please come home soon!” After that all he could bring himself to do was sit at the window and watch the trams. He sat there all day, alone and helpless, trying to talk himself into feeling big and ambitious once again.
Burton passes the receipts across the counter. “Your photos will be ready on
Wednesday morning. Should I charge to your account?”
Mohr slips the receipts into his pocket, feeling slightly absurd. “Please,” he says, and leaves the shop.
On the way home he stops in at Café Louis. They make a delicious apple strudel, a large slice of which he buys to take home. The Viennese owners are pleasant and friendly. He’s never lingered there the way many of the clientele do, discussing events and news and passing along job tips and jai-alai odds. Talk today is about the sinking of the Deutschland off Ibiza and the subsequent German bombardment of Almería. A shame it had been merely the ship called Deutschland, he’d like to say. He’s begun to feel not only anti- but un-German, and hearing his native tongue spoken on the street now places him at an odd distance—from himself. He is learning to feel more comfortable in the English-speaking world, but it will never be a home to him. He’s glad for the anonymity this big city offers, accepts the boxed pastry from the anemic-looking woman with a polite danke schön, and shuffles out the door with a sense of having eluded her questioning one more time.
Even in early evening it can be brutally hot this time of year. Mohr holds the neatly tied box in both hands, making sure the warm pastry doesn’t come through the bottom. He walks quickly, threading his way down the crowded sidewalk. At Yates Road, the sweat-drenched traffic policeman blows his whistle furiously as Mohr dodges a trolley car coming around the corner. Horns blare. All he wants is to get back home, take a cool shower, eat the strudel, read the evening newspaper, and go to bed.
As he enters his apartment building, a strange man approaches.
“Dr. Mohr? May I have a word with you?” The man displays a brass, star-shaped shield; he is thin, pale, and gives the impression of having been made to wait far too long. “My name is Stubbings, C. I. Stubbings of the Shanghai Municipal Police, Special Branch. I would like to ask a few questions.”
Mohr doesn’t try to hide his surprise. “You want to talk to me?”
“Just a few questions.” The policeman glances up the sidewalk. “Do you mind if we talk upstairs?”
Mohr beckons him in, too tired to play the game of cheerful insouciance he usually likes to play with authority. He’s late paying Settlement taxes, should have sent Wong to deliver the checks last month. But wait, the police don’t collect taxes! He ushers the policeman directly into his sitting room. Do they know he is sheltering refugees in the apartment? Zappe is asleep on his perch.
Mohr Page 11
