White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  Klim’s very presence became annoying. He didn’t give her any other alternative: either you live with me in poverty or provide for both of us. He thought his love for writing articles was more important than her having warm stockings.

  During their last days in Vladivostok, the headless rooster dream began to haunt Nina again.

  Old Russia was dying before her eyes. She felt the same as she had felt when she watched over her bedridden father for six months. Mother would put on a brave face and tell him everything would be okay, but secretly, they were all waiting for the end. Father died—thank God! No more night pots and doctors. The torments ended and only grief remained.

  Something similar was happening to Russia. Refugees tried to convince each other that they would surely be back: “Soon there’ll be a revolt in Siberia.”

  Yeah…dream on!

  Nina made up her mind: she would start over—a new country, new house, everything new. She learned that people in Shanghai spoke English and found a tutor named Jiří Labuda, a Czech POW. He was her age, lanky, gray-eyed and ill at ease every time he saw her. Three fingers were missing from his right hand.

  “I used to play cello in Prague,” he would say in his broken Russian. “People considered my music to be genital…oh no…I mean genial. A prodigy, they called me.”

  He speaks Russian so poorly; his English must be terrible? Nina thought. But she didn’t have any other options. Apart from Labuda and Klim, there was no one else who spoke English on the ship.

  Czech lands were a part of Austro-Hungarian Empire, and when the Great War was declared in 1914, Jiří was recruited with thousands of his fellow countrymen. The Austrian military officer didn’t listen to Jiří’s pleading patrons or music professors: “What are you talking about? Cello? Who cares? All Czech bastards must do their duty.”

  The Czechs never wanted to fight their Slavic brothers and surrendered to the Russians as soon as they could. So Jiří found himself with many of his countrymen in POW camps deep in the forgotten wastes of Russia. After abdication of Nicholas II in 1917, the Russian Provisional Government offered the freshly created Czechoslovak Legions a second chance: an opportunity to fight their mutual enemies, the Austrian and German oppressors. Trains with legionaries spread from the Volga region to the Sea of Japan, but in October, the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia and tried to disarm the troops. An independent army not under their control was no joke. The Czechoslovak Legions rose up in revolt, and the Russians opposed to the Bolsheviks joined them. This was how the bloody civil war started.

  For eight years, Jiří drifted around Russia. He’d lost three fingers to frostbite, had been separated from his platoon and had given up all faith in mankind. Somehow, he ended up on Stark’s flotilla. Where was he going and what for? He did not care anymore.

  Nina despised Jiří for the fact that he’d surrendered. She cared about him only to spite Klim. Her husband was madly jealous, and she laughed inwardly: How could he even imagine that I was in love with this half-strangled sheep?

  She wanted to punish Klim; her disappointment in him burned her from the inside out.

  2.

  During their forced stop near Wusong fortress, the waiting became unbearable. Nina paced back and forth on the rusted deck, cramming English verbs into her head.

  Sooner or later, the authorities would let the Russian refugees ashore. They couldn’t go anywhere else; there were too many of them and they were armed—they couldn’t be ignored. When this ragged crowd poured into Shanghai, its citizens would hate the Russians for their poverty and unsettled state. Nina knew she had to get ashore before anyone else.

  Local boats frequently came to the ships. The rowers would pound the boards with their oars shouting, “Me wash—you pay!” As if Russians had any spare clothes to change into.

  Nina continued pacing:

  Come, came, come;

  see, saw, seen;

  win, won, won…

  “Missy! Guns! Mee wantchee guns!”

  Nina bent overboard. She saw a large sampan with three young Chinese in European clothes.

  “What do you want?” she asked in French. “I don’t understand.”

  One of the guys made a gesture as if he was firing with his finger and then pulled a banknote from his pocket.

  “You want to buy arms?” Nina asked. “Will a revolver do? I have a revolver.”

  The guy fanned his fingers.

  “Ten revolvers? No? How many?”

  “More! More!”

  Nina caught her breath. These Chinese wanted to buy the whole arsenal.

  “I need to speak to the captain. Bring someone who speaks French. Got it?”

  The Chinese nodded, “This b’long number one!”

  At first, the captain didn’t want to hear anything of it. “The Great Powers have imposed an embargo: it is prohibited to import arms into China. If they catch us selling guns, you can only imagine what they’ll do.”

  Nina tried to explain calmly, “How much cash have you got? Not Russian trash, but real money—dollars? Rear Admiral Stark wants to sell the ships and share the profit among the heroes of the civil war. Are you a hero? If not, then you’ll have no ship and no money.”

  “I do not have the right to trade arms. They do not belong to me.”

  “But you do have the right to sign off anything that has gone out of service.”

  The buyers arrived later that night. Nina had already lost hope in seeing them. A lame visitor in a white yachtsman cap walked out on deck, supporting himself with a cane. “Madam!” he whispered in French. “Come here, please. I’ll kiss your hand!”

  This stranger with a tanned face, drunken eyes and carefully trimmed mustache was a prime swindler, Nina thought.

  “Where is this wretched captain?” the visitor asked impatiently. “Tell him Paul Marie Lemoine is here in person.”

  He walked with a bad limp. Nina was sure he had prosthetic legs. The Chinese men she had seen in the morning followed behind. One of them, huge and ugly, gave Nina a piercing look with his only eye, making her shiver.

  Nina didn’t understand half of what Lemoine was saying; it was probably better for a lady that she didn’t.

  “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, examining the arms. “I bet they were supplied by Americans? Well, well, very good stuff. You have the rounds for them?”

  The captain was reserved and sullen with the guests in his cabin. Nina was translating for him, “We have rifles made in Russia, Mills Bomb hand grenades, handguns, gun sights and periscopes.”

  They haggled endlessly. Lemoine rolled his eyes and scratched his clean-shaven head with both hands.

  “What’re you talking about? Take what you’re given and that’s that.”

  He pulled a little counting frame out of his pocket and feverously snapped the beads. “Cartridge shells—twenty boxes; Mosin-Nagant rifles—old piece of crap. I bet half of it is out of service—sixteen caskets, plus grenades. One thousand and six hundred dollars, and I won’t give more than that.”

  Nina breathed convulsively.

  “Piotr Ivanovich,” she called the captain. “Monsieur offers only a thousand.”

  Till the very last moment Nina was terrified that her scam would be revealed. But Lemoine had mercy. “So, I’m giving a thousand to the captain and six hundred to you? Should I take you to Shanghai, so you can put the money in a bank?” he asked.

  “That’s right.” Her heart was thumping. “I will have another person with me. A translator.”

  “As you wish.”

  Nina ran to the galley to find Jiří among the sleeping people. She needed someone who could speak English.

  “Get up and follow me. Very quietly.”

  “You are a reckless woman,” said the captain as he bid her farewell. “You can be arrested as an illegal foreigner.”

  Nina looked at him haughtily. “We’ll see.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Lemoine asked.

  “Captain says that i
f a hair drops from our heads, he will find and kill you.”

  Morning broke to smells of coal and seaweed. Water—the color of tea with milk—swept around the junk. Nina sat on an ammunition box; Jiří nearby tried to warm his fingers with his breath.

  It had been a good idea to take the Czech with her. He surely was a burden, but Nina was scared to go alone into this foreign city.

  “Come here, madam,” Lemoine shouted from his cane awning. “As the last knight of Shanghai, I will keep my word. Here are your six hundred dollars. Not even a single forged note.”

  Nina hid the money in her fur muff.

  “Do you wish to buy a passport?” he asked. “People of your trade need documents.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You will come back to me anyway. Sooner or later. When you do, find the pub called the Three Pleasures. They know me there.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Nina thought for a second. “Monsieur Lemoine, what is the best hotel in Shanghai?”

  “Astor House. Why?”

  “Just for my general knowledge.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE BEST CITY TO LIVE IN

  1.

  “Are you out of your mind?” bellowed Jiří, when Nina told him they were staying at Astor House. “The police will catch us for sure!”

  “Nonsense,” Nina cut him short. “Fancy hotels are the last place where they’ll be looking for illegal foreigners.”

  The morning air was crisp and clear. Smoke rose from chimneys. The factory people and clerks—Chinese and white—hurried to work. Nina bravely took her first human pulled transport. The rickshaw boy carried her through the city, which was covered with frost glittering in the sun.

  Calm down, she urged herself. Everything will be fine. I’ve just made six hundred dollars out of thin air—that was a piece of cake. If I want, I can make a million.

  At Astor House, a doorman in a crimson uniform greeted them. The foyer shone with crystal chandeliers and marble floors. Nina had forgotten life could be like this.

  A porter rushed to them, then stopped, baffled by their shabby appearance. Nina stood straight and said, “Jiří, give him the sack.”

  A receptionist looked alarmed when Nina asked for a luxury room.

  “Do you want a deposit?” she asked in French. “I’m ready to pay.”

  When she showed her wad of money, all the receptionist’s concerns disappeared.

  “No, no, madam. In Shanghai, everyone pays with a chit. We will send you the bill later.”

  For Nina, the hotel was a blur of stained-glass windows, thick carpets and redwood walls until their porter pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door to their room.

  “Monsieur, Madam…welcome.”

  Nina threw the curtains open. The view of the waterfront and a bridge was sublime.

  “I think I love this city,” she said.

  Jiří sat on the edge of a soft chair. “We’ll spend too much money for this. We need to save.”

  Nina looked him straight in the eyes. “If you want to be king, learn how to hold, not how to pass the scepter.”

  Dressed in a cozy white bathrobe, her hair wrapped in soft towels, Nina lolled on a chair drinking coffee from a gold-rimmed cup.

  “Jiří, go and take a shower! We’re going shopping. No one will talk to us looking like tramps. Astor House and stylish shoes are the best business card.”

  On their way out, they passed a vaulted gallery that wound its way around a dancing hall. An orchestra played downstairs; couples danced. Nina took in the current fashions: ladies wore belts hugging their hips and fastened to the side, their backs and shoulders were left naked. Wow!

  “Jiří, what kind of music is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

  “And you call yourself a musician?” Nina teased. “Oh, we’re hopelessly behind the times.”

  Jiří talked to an elevator boy: the strange music was called jazz, and tiffin—a second breakfast with cocktails and dances—was taking place downstairs.

  2.

  In the evening, Nina lay in bed reading a menu from the French restaurant like a delightful novel.

  “Capon fillet and chestnut mash. Roasted pheasant in a sauce of woodcock mince, bacon, anchovy and truffles. Mandarin fish aspic with wild saffron rice. Oh Lord, have mercy on us!”

  Her legs were buzzing from the shopping marathon, and her head still spun from the non-existent ship rocking. Shopping bags and boxes spread around the floor, half unpacked.

  Before the war, Nina visited Moscow and Paris where she’d seen multi-storied department stores, but they were nothing compared to the giants of Shanghai like Wing On and Sincere. One could find anything here: American photo cameras, Scotch whiskey, English leather, Swiss fountain pens, all under one roof. There were cinemas, an opera house, restaurants and even a winter garden.

  They didn’t ask for money in the shops, either; it was enough just to show a hotel card and sign the purchase. Clerks in gray gowns heaped silk on the counter, cut a little nick in the weightless fabric then tore in a perfect line the rest of the way. “Bye-bye makee me pay. Mee send chit.”

  During dinner, Jiří looked at a stylishly dressed Nina and then at his own reflection in the wall mirror. A smart man dressed in a suit and a tie smiled back. His hair was trimmed and smeared with brilliantine. He could hardly believe his eyes.

  Nina took a silver cigarette case out of her purse and put it in front of him. “It’s for you.”

  “What for?” asked Jiří in surprise. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Wealth is the ability to buy things you don’t need.”

  Nina was amused. She dragged Jiří everywhere and boasted about Shanghai as if it was her city.

  “We’re having such a great time, and the others are still stuck on those horrible ships,” she said to Jiří when they were back in the hotel.

  He nodded. He was numb and deaf from the city.

  They were on holidays in paradise. Nina could snuggle in bed, read menus and lose herself in the sparkling cleanness and freshness.

  There was a quiet knock. Jiří stood in her doorway looking strangely hilarious in his silk gown with a belt.

  “I’m very sorry to disturb you,” he said. “But I have some unpleasant concerns. How are we going to pay for all of this?” He pointed at the shopping bags.

  Nina shrugged. “I’ll put an ad in a newspaper: Will talk high with high people. A hundred dollars an hour. This is the best of pleasures.”

  Jiří sighed. “In Japan, those women are called geishas. They are paid two dollars a day.”

  CHAPTER 6

  TAXI-GIRLS

  1.

  A cashier grabbed Ada’s dancing tickets from the previous night.

  “You’re late again. Martha told me not to change tickets for money if you come after seven.”

  A stuffy dressing room was filled with taxi-girls preparing for the night: dressing up, checking their make-up and curling their hair.

  Dark-eyed Betty, wild and beautiful, swept into the room. “The manager told the cloakroom person to lock up my coat, so I won’t run off with goldmines.”

  The other girls sympathized with her, “Well, that’s quite rubbish.”

  They had their own language in the Havana.

  The rich guys were goldmines; their ladies were gold diggers. Boring men, who didn’t know how to dance properly, were cucumbers; men without means were false alarms. Locksmiths were guys who put metal pieces in their pockets to make them jingle as if they had lots of silver. The best were dragons: young, daring and white-toothed. These always had lots of cash they spent like dust.

  Betty wasn’t sure who she really was: a taxi-girl or a prostitute. She adored dancing and loved to love. Her dress was red with frills, her lipstick—crimson. No shame.

  Ada watched her in admiration and wouldn�
��t dare talk. Betty once snatched a cigarette from her saying, “Drop this! You’re too young.”

  But she herself had said smoking was the best cure for a cold throat! Ada wondered, puzzled.

  Without knocking, the manager appeared in the dressing room. The girls squealed, trying to cover their bodies.

  “Hey, you, Russian! The Madam wants to see you,” he barked, indifferently.

  Ada made her way upstairs to Martha’s little office. The walls in the room were covered with porcelain plates showing pictures of various cities: Paris, Vienna and Florence. Martha was collecting them.

  “Sit down,” she said, motioning to a brocade armchair. “The Municipal Council wants me to give details of all the people working here. What’s your full name and address?”

  Ada told her.

  “Nationality?”

  “I’m American.”

  Three times Ada went to the Consulate, but an evil Marine wouldn’t even let her in. “Do you have a passport? No? Get lost!”

  “But my father is from Texas and I have Auntie Clare—”

  “Get lost!”

  Martha wrote Russian in the space for nationality.

  “Are you married? We’ll say yes.”

  “Klim and I are only renting a room together.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Go to work.”

  Ada plodded downstairs.

  Klim never thought of her as a woman. He would wake up very early, do a couple of push-ups, his chain cross tinkling on the wooden floor. Then he would put on his jacket and leave. Where—who knows.

  One day he said, “Ada, there’s an orphanage in Xujiahui. They have some Russian girls. Do you want to go there?”

  Oh, I’ll kill you! she thought.

  “At least there they’ll teach you embroidery,” Klim continued. “In the Havana you drink every day and breathe tobacco smoke.”

  “You brought me there yourself!”

  Adults from Ada’s past saw her as a treasure. “

  She’s such a special child,” her grandma used to say. “She could read when she was four; at five, she was writing poetry in English and Russian. Plus, she’s such a beauty. Look at her plait!”