The next day, she went back to the lawyer to discuss their scam. She didn’t even think of taking Jiří with her.
It would have been so simple just to hate her if she wasn’t so…so… Jiří didn’t know the right word in Czech, English or Russian. Every day he would look at her neck, at the shadow of her earrings, at her shoulder, where birthmarks arranged themselves into a Draco constellation (only two stars were missing). Every evening, he would cuddle in an armchair, so he could see the glass bathroom door. Nina never knew that her pink shadow shining through the ruffled green blur was strikingly similar to the best creations of the Impressionists.
Every night, Jiří would close his eyes and imagine how she was sleeping there, in the next room, like a little girl with her knees drawn in. How he would enter the room, pressing his hand on her throat to keep her still. To conquer her, to break her and then disappear, leaving her lifeless. To let a Chinese room-maid find her in the morning, let her scream in horror and call the police and reporters. Jiří Labuda would be far away. Next day, he would buy a newspaper, read the creepy headline and smile ironically.
But his left arm was in plaster and his right arm was useless.
Nina did it on purpose: teased him, just like his cello teacher had, Frau Schtitz. Strict and magnificent, like a spire on the top of St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague, Frau Schtitz would breathe sweetly into his ear, showing him how to hold a bow. Fainting with anticipation, Jiří would count the hours till the next lesson, when she would come, tell him off and then squeeze his fist with her dry hand in silver rings.
Nina had already left. Jiří heard the buzz of the elevator taking her down. He slammed the door and spent the evening rifling through Nina’s underwear. He gently stroked the silky underlining of her camisoles, smoothed the lace of her nightgowns and brought close to his face her delicately perfumed panties. Every noise made his heart jolt in panic, and he rushed to stuff Nina’s things back into her drawers, desperately trying to remember where the right places were.
CHAPTER 11
THE BUSINESS PLAN
1.
On March 16, 1920, Pope Benedict XV canonized Joan of Arc.
A Day’s Pleasure with Charlie Chaplin began its circuit in the electric movie theaters of Paris.
Tamara Aulman was walking past a Shanghai shop called Presents. A window cleaner’s unattended ladder fell and struck her on the back. Tamara was rushed to hospital. When she finally returned to her festive manor house with its dolphin weathervane, the doctor told her grief-stricken husband she would never walk again.
Tony Aulman brought everything to Tamara’s feet to make her happy: flowers, rumors and guests. She was smart to continue to smile and put on lipstick.
He horrified their architect by having part of the western wall demolished and a big glass door installed there instead. Now his dear Tamara could enjoy the garden. Dinners were served in her bedroom; a grand piano and sofas were moved in as well.
When Tamara heard about the Russian refugees, she said, “I’d love to see them.”
She never mentioned it again, but Tony remembered. After the accident, he swore to make as many of her wishes come true as he could.
“What’s this Nina Kupina like?” Tamara asked Tony.
He described the woman Lemoine brought into his office: how she sat at the edge of her chair, how she nervously threaded the chain of her purse between her fingers while she spoke, and how it left traces on her skin. Tamara smiled as she listened to Tony. She liked people with willpower who were able to commit to big deeds, even irrational ones. She also liked that Nina was Russian.
2.
The year was 1910. Tamara’s father arrived in Shanghai to head the department of the Russo-Chinese Bank.
…The Earth passed through Halley’s Comet’s tail.
…Japan annexed the Korean Peninsula.
…Leo Tolstoy and Marc Twain died.
That year Tamara turned eighteen. She wore a velvet hat, made to order in New York, and amazing beige stockings that were so fine her legs almost looked bare in them.
She met a young American called Tony Aulman at an outdoor concert. He said he’d come to Shanghai from Europe. While in Paris, he’d seen all the shows of the touring Imperial Russian Ballet, which had great success.
“I fell in love with everything Russian,” he said.
Tamara curtly replied that out of all American products, only Edison’s electrical ventilators appealed to her. “You know, the heat is unbearable here,” she explained. Mr. Aulman didn’t attract her at all.
The next day he arrived with a huge theatrical fan. “I am ready to do my duty.”
Tony Aulman came to Shanghai to work for an international law firm. The advertisement for the job read:
The candidate must have a sound knowledge of English and Shanghainese languages, superb understanding of Maritime Law, International Law, the US Supreme Court’s decisions, Law of the forty eight American States, Law of the District of Columbia and the Philippines. To practice in the Court of the French Concession, it is advisable to speak French and know the Code Napoléon. Horse riding skills are also essential.
All western lawyers in Shanghai were into polo, and if the newcomer couldn’t play, he was unlikely to feel at home in China.
“Tamara, tell me please, on a scale of ten where would you place me in your heart?”
She was young and enjoyed teasing men. “Oh, about a five.”
She looked straight into his eyes expecting to see him hurt. But Aulman didn’t go pale; he went pink with happiness.
“Really? A whole five? You love a whole half of me! Please tell me, what do you love in that half?”
“You’re very nice, you know the Code Napoléon—”
Shortly afterwards, Tamara’s father died of a heart attack, and she was left alone—she had no mother.
Aulman came around to help her get things in order. He started calling the bank from her father’s office. Tamara was in the next room removing a painting of St. Petersburg from the wall—she wanted to give it to Tony as he loved Russian things. Tony was arguing and on an impulse hit the wall with his fist. A piece of plaster burst through the wall (houses for foreigners were usually built in haste and breakages were frequent). Aulman and Tamara were looking at each other through the dusty hole. He had a phone receiver in his hands, she—the painting of St. Petersburg.
“Would you marry me?”
“Yes.”
3.
Nina was dying from shame after the talk with Aulman. He’d looked at her like she was a schoolgirl who had run away to the frontline, armed with a sling.
Now she was on her way to entertain his wife, and Nina’s Russianness was the only reason she’d been invited. It’s okay, Nina thought. Let Aulman snigger; let his Tamara have her fun. I just need to get a foot in the door. The rest will be history.
An electrical doorbell hung on cast-iron gates. Behind it were sand- dusted paths, a lawn and flowerbeds wreathed in steam after a recent warm shower. As Nina followed a servant through the estate, birds sang in the garden, heavy water drops fell from the tree branches, and behind the shrubs, laughter and children’s voices were heard.
“This way, please,” the servant bowed his head.
On the first floor of the house, one wall had been removed and replaced with sliding glass doors. In the room were a fireplace, a grand piano and patterned sofas. Three young boys built a fortress on the carpet. They looked very similar to each other and to Aulman.
“What are you doing?” yelled one in English. “Don’t you see? It’s a roof! It’ll fall down now because of you!”
“It won’t! Mom, tell him!”
Under the grand piano two puppies were gnawing on a huge bone— each from its own side.
“We’re looking forward to meeting you,” a voice from the back of the room called to Nina.
Tamara was propped up in an alcove, lying on what looked like a cross between a bed and an armchair. Mountains of
colorful pillows with tassels surrounded her. She wore a blue dress and satin gloves up to the elbows; her hair was white, and a deep red lipstick covered her thin lips. In front of her was a carved table with a Chinese teapot and cups.
“Ms. Kupina? Nice to meet you. Please call me by my first name. I am so used to it here—am totally Shanghaied.”
Her children jumped to their feet and greeted the guest.
“Go now and play,” Tamara told them. “And take your dogs with you. Can’t stand them. Would you like some tea, Ms. Kupina?”
Nina talked about her life, joked in moderation about the useless White generals and the ship’s chef who didn’t know how to cook yams. She felt she was being tested—a pie pricked with a thin stick to see if it’s baked properly.
The conversation moved to ideas of how they could entertain the Czechoslovakian Consul’s guests. “
The dinner and dances will be filmed by a real cameraman,” Nina said.
“Where would we get him?” Tamara asked, surprised.
“From the Chinese. They recently opened a film studio in Shanghai. I read about it in the paper.”
Tamara’s eyes sparkled. “Very good. In fact, that’s great! No one’s done it before. We also need to think about the safety. We’ll invite only those who have no connections to real diplomats. I’ll prepare the list. Our ideal guests will be young and rich. They’ll be so busy flirting with each other they won’t even think about the Consulate’s origins. We’ll sell it all under the ruse of introducing Czechoslovakian culture to Shanghai.”
Tamara took a notepad and quickly calculated the costs of the function and how many liquor boxes could be written off.
“We can also sell copies of the film and tickets to the viewing and make some money on that too. My God, Nina, I am so happy you are here and you speak Russian!”
They drank tea and made plans. It would be a masquerade ball themed A Hundred Years Later. Aulman’s friend had brought to Shanghai an amazing material called cellophane. It was impossible for the man to trade it as no one knew what cellophane was for. So, Tamara and Nina decided to sell it to the guests who could use it for their futuristic costumes.
Further ideas were:
Russian Seasons. No doubt, among the Russian refugees, there were a lot of talented artists who could perform.
Olympic Games. Guests would take part in sporting competitions wearing Greek costumes.
Tamara was smart and spirited. She had a maturity that Nina lacked.
Once in her childhood, Nina’s mother had asked her to take a bucket of cherries to one of her relatives. Nina hoped that some of her girlfriends would help, but they didn’t. She was dragging the bucket along, crying, struggling with its weight.
“Let me help you,” said an unknown woman. “Where’re you going to?”
Nina was searching for words of gratitude, but couldn’t find the right ones. A simple thank you seemed just too small for the help this woman gave her.
Nina was overwhelmed with that same feeling now.
The disheveled head of one of Tamara’s boys appeared. “Mom, Dad just arrived! He asked me to say that he loves you to bits!”
Then, there was a dinner. In a split second, the table was set and food served. The boys were let in; Tamara showed them how to catapult peas with spoons and make sailor’s knots out of napkins. Aulman had almost lost his voice after a long argument in the court. He ate with a huge appetite and laughed more than anyone, when told about a recently caught gang of pirates on the Yangtze River. It turned out the gang’s leader was a young woman.
The boys listened with their mouths open in wonder, but Nina noticed all his stories were actually meant for Tamara. Aulman was looking at her and smiling. He kissed her hand, his lips mouthing silently, “I love you.”
For the first time in her life Nina saw a man—successful, strong and wealthy—who utterly adored a cripple. It was strange and delightful.
“Please, forgive our table manners,” Tamara said to Nina when the boys and Tony dashed off into the children’s room. “I’m bringing them up as carefree as possible.”
“Why?”
“So they won’t even think of grieving when I’m gone.”
It went dark outside. From far away, Nina heard voices and the stomping of feet. The air smelled of wet soil; the wind gently rocked the Chinese lanterns in the garden. Just a moment ago, Nina thought she’d finally found a miraculously happy house where even tragedies had no power. But Tamara’s words left her feeling sick. Everything here was temporary, and all the inhabitants of the household knew it.
“I’m not taking my medications,” Tamara added. “The doctors tell me to swallow all this rubbish, but my head spins from it. The only thing that relieves my pain is when a Chinese lady comes and sticks healing needles in me.”
“You’re not afraid to die?” Nina uttered and immediately fell silent. She was shocked by her tactlessness: that was her only mistake of the whole evening!
But Tamara wasn’t angry. “You’re afraid of death only when you think it’s important. But it’s not. People lived thousands of years before us and will live thousands of years after us. The world won’t stop when I’m gone.”
CHAPTER 12
ALMOST A WAR CORRESPONDENT
1.
“It’s a pity you make so many mistakes in English,” Edna said, reading Klim’s story about Russian refugees. “Everything’s here: the details, the feelings…but the text needs to be re-written.”
“At least, not re-created,” Klim joked halfheartedly, feeling ashamed. He knew his article had mistakes, but not as many as Edna was finding. Colloquial English was nothing: you just need a couple of hundred phrases and you’re ready to talk away. But literary English required years of hard work to master a centuries’ old tradition, full of proverbs, idioms and metaphors.
A pitiful sight: a journalist like a dog—he understands everything, but can’t express himself in a human way.
Nevertheless, Edna paid Klim five dollars.
“How about this: I’ll correct your mistakes, and you watch and learn,” she said. “Later on, you’ll be ready to write for the paper all by yourself.”
He nodded. “I had the same arrangement in Argentina a long time ago.”
In the mornings, Klim would turn up at Edna’s with two or three short articles on tram pickpockets, horse race betting frauds and back-street fist-fighting competitions. She was amazed and impressed. “How did you manage to find all these stories?”
“Just asked around.”
Klim always expected Edna to lash out and not pay him—too many mistakes, the wrong topic, the wrong length. There was such a vast abyss between them—a wife of a tea tycoon and a poor emigrant. She didn’t work at the newspaper for the money, but out of ambition. He believed that she would never understand his desperate situation, so he never talked about it.
To Klim, Edna resembled Nina. Both were bossy; both had a passionate desire of universal love and admiration.
He was reserved and courteous with his employer: complementing her bracelets, making her laugh, tactfully helping when he saw something could be bettered in her writing.
“We don’t have a bad team here,” Edna would say. “I’m improving your form, and you’re helping with my content. You know what? I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Green, our editor-in-chief. I told him about you. Of course, he’s a big snob and doesn’t believe a foreigner can turn into a good journalist for an English newspaper. Though, I talked him into employing you as a courier. It’s not great, and usually they hire the Chinese for that kind of position, but you need to meet the editorial staff. Don’t worry, you won’t be running chores. You’ll work for me. Just come at eight to the editor’s office next Monday.”
What a blessing—a steady salary! Klim didn’t know how to thank Edna.
She was happy too. “You have talent, Mr. Rogov. Everything will be fine, just give it time.”
Of course, the reporters at the North Ch
ina Daily News looked strangely at Klim. The editor-in-chief threw him the occasional Hi, in the morning, then did not notice him for the rest of the day. All this didn’t bother Klim, who felt almost in heaven. He would stay long after hours going through old newspaper filings. He needed to prove to Mr. Green that he could write not just well, but superbly well. He learned the flow and the rhythm of the language, noticing all the details, rewriting articles—doing everything possible to sharpen his skills.
When the executive editor’s typing machine broke down, Klim brought a huge Russian priest in, who said he could fix anything. The next day, Father Seraphim changed liners in the men’s lavatories, fixed the door and saved Mr. Green from an intrusive young author who demanded his love story be published. The Father simply lifted the youth up and carried him outside.
Father Seraphim wasn’t paid regularly; he got only tips, but didn’t complain. His face had grown gray after his illness, and he’d lost weight. He still wore the same old gown and a frayed skullcap.
“Thanks be to God, Matushka Natalia is taken care of,” he would say to Klim. “She has clothes, shoes and food. She is lucky with the children, too: they are very well-behaved.”
Every day, Father Seraphim would go to the church and do whatever was asked of him while waiting for the bishop’s decision regarding his future. He wasn’t the only one: dozens of Orthodox priests were struggling in Shanghai, not having a parish of their own.
Father Seraphim tried to return to the House of Hope as late as possible: he was afraid of Ada.
“Ahh…I wish I could be back in Russia,” he sighed. “I’ve absolutely had enough of this China.”
No one really knew what was going on in the Soviet Union. The émigré papers wrote the Russian economy was in ruins thanks to vicious financial decisions by Moscow; on the other hand, the Bolsheviks’ media trumpeted how everything went smoothly and people were overjoyed with the New Economic Policy.
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