White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  In a year, Don Fernando was the established king of the port. “The Chinese are not our business,” he would say. But all the brothels for foreigners, the gambling houses, the white pickpockets and the dealers of stolen goods were his area of expertise. Don Fernando ruled his people with an iron fist and, if it was necessary, could sort things out with both bandits and police.

  “I’ll do the talking,” said Martha to Klim. “But if you could just stand nearby, I’ll feel better.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of him. Or has he lost all his conscience while I was out of town?”

  Martha didn’t answer and ran to hail a rickshaw.

  On the way, they passed Nina’s house—as if on purpose. Klim turned from it and frowned. “Martha, tell me, what’s the difference between a prostitute and a courtesan?”

  “A prostitute is rented, but a courtesan is bought. She could then be given to someone else, lost or stored in an attic, but it’s a purchase. A prostitute has as much chance of becoming a courtesan as a wedding dress from a costume shop has of getting into the Wing On department store. But, sometimes it happens the other way round.”

  How lousy is it that you can buy a woman, thought Klim. She is sometimes happy with her situation, but there definitely is something disgusting about it.

  4.

  Don Fernando’s restaurant resembled the guts of a pirate ship, full of old-fashioned furniture and lost people with lost money. Tobacco smoke swirled, and voices gurgled as if from under water. The name was fitting—the Flying Dutchman.

  “There he is!” Martha whispered and pointed to a fat brown man on stage. He was holding a lacquered guitar on his lap, wore a hat and an open shirt displaying a golden chain through a black thicket sprouting on his chest.

  “Don Fernando, sing to us about Marietta!” cried someone in the crowded hall.

  The Don twiddled with the pegs of his guitar, touched the strings and quietly started to sing. The audience was mesmerized, all eyes on the Don.

  “Marietta, my beauty, how can I cope with my love for you—” His voice sounded magical.

  “Wow!” Klim muttered in amazement. “I never knew he’d get into singing so late in life.”

  “He likes this stuff,” Martha said. “The guy is making thousands of dollars and melts away when they throw him a few coins after a song.”

  Martha was waiting for the Don’s performance to end, but a short- legged woman with dark hair, most likely Mexican, managed to capture him before she could. He passed his guitar to his bodyguard and disappeared into the back rooms.

  “Still saving his country-women?” Klim asked.

  Martha nodded. During the building of the Southern Pacific Railroad, several thousand Chinese workers arrived in Mexico, where they started families. After the contracts ended they took their Mexican wives and children back to China. But there, the good Catholic women found their husbands already had other wives with their other children. And the Mexican ladies, by local laws, were considered to be concubines. It was difficult to get a divorce as the children had to stay with their fathers. The poor señoras would run to Don Fernando and beg him to do something. Usually a deep frown and a promise to kill the parasite was enough. The fame of the Mexican women’s savior spread all over Shanghai.

  Martha took Klim across the kitchen to the second floor where there was a casino and the Don’s private apartments.

  A silver star on a blue door with a crimson note read, Don Fernando Jose Burbano. His bodyguards were passing time out front.

  “Is Don Fernando in?” Martha asked sweetly.

  A loud Spanish voice blared from behind the door, “Tell your macho that you agree: the boys are staying with the father and the gals go with you back to Mexico. You’ll get one more than him. C’mon, stop your sobs! Tell him to come to me or I’ll arrange the amputation of his pecker.”

  The door flew open and a woman with red and puffy eyes ran out. Klim and Martha stepped aside, giving her space.

  “My God! Who do I see there?” bellowed Don Fernando when he saw them. “Klim, you son of a bitch, where have you been? You were sent to get some cigarettes, and where did you go to get them? Korea?”

  “Argentina,” answered Klim.

  Fernando listened to his story and roared with laughter. “Wow! You’ve learned to speak our language! And where do you live now?”

  Klim wanted to tell him all about the House of Hope, but Martha interrupted, “We have some business to discuss.”

  Her plan didn’t impress the Don. “You’ll go bust,” he said. “There are too many brothels in this city: almost every day a new one opens.”

  “But Klim believed in me and agreed to give me half the cash.”

  “Where has he got his money from?” smirked Don Fernando.

  Martha quickly stepped on Klim’s foot: For God’s sake, be quiet!

  “He earned it.”

  But the Don wasn’t letting things go that easily. “How exactly did he earn it?”

  Martha turned to Klim, “I’ll tell him, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she began a fantastic tale, “He fooled a couple of merchants from Shandong…”

  Klim learned a lot of things he never knew about himself. It turned out that he offered two naïve merchants help to obtain a license for a casino in the French Concession for a mere ten thousand. The merchants said they would hand the money to the Consul General themselves. On the agreed day, the two arrived at the French Consulate and a respectable young man appeared from the office with a plaque: A. Wilden. Consul General of France. Klim introduced the merchants, “Monsieur Wilden, here are my friends.” Having received the parcel with money the young man promised that he would send all the papers by mail.

  The merchants were waiting for two weeks and when they finally rushed back to the Consulate, they were arrested on the spot for bribery, or rather for attempting to bribe. At the same time, it was discovered that the respectable young man never worked in the Consulate. He just wandered into the office of Monsieur Wilden by mistake and then came out to meet the two Chinese.

  “Not bad!” laughed Don Fernando. “So you decided to invest your hard-earned money in Martha’s business?”

  Klim snorted, “Well…something like that.”

  Don Fernando started to rock on his chair. “We need to think up something special; otherwise the clientele won’t come. Martha is a good brand, she’s already got a reputation, but at the same time, a reputation alone is not enough. In Victoria, girls dress as ballerinas, in Dark Eyes— as Gypsies, and in the Sports Bar—as jockeys. We also need to have something special.”

  “We’ll have girls dress as flappers,” said Klim and handed the Don over a photo given to him by Lissie.

  Fernando and Martha exchanged glances, “Something strange. … What kind of skirt is it?”

  “These are what all modern American girls wear now,” declared Klim. “We’re entering a new era where a woman will be free from slavery. Let Martha’s girls dress as flappers. We’ll explain all the details to the public: I’m going to make a special magazine for that.”

  Don Fernando agreed to give half the sum on condition that they would have a casino in the back rooms.

  “Why on earth did you include me in this?” Klim asked Martha when they were outside.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “I needed to convince the Don that my plan was worthy. Money is always easier to get when there is already someone else in on it. I think it sounded pretty good. Don’t worry, I’ll return you the favor. I’ll give you a lifetime of free service in my brothel.”

  Klim sighed. “Where’re you going to get the rest of the sum?”

  “I have friends.”

  On their way home, they passed Nina’s house again.

  How are you there, my Cinderella? Klim thought. Are those crystal shoes not too tight? Hope your current Prince treats you nicely. What are you dreaming about now? To find the cave of Ali Baba? To fall into the rabbit’s hole and fly to the c
ore of the Earth and explore everything there? Recalling your past, you’re probably wondering how you managed to mistake the Puss in Boots for the king of a fairytale.”

  CHAPTER 23

  AN ENGLISH DETECTIVE

  1.

  June was graduation time for the cadets. Felix and Bashkirov marched in a modest celebratory parade and enjoyed a ball.

  All the graduates stayed on at the Corps with nowhere else to go. Money for feeding the boys was obtained through a lottery. In most cases, raffles were prohibited in the French Concession, but kindhearted Consul General Monsieur Wilden made an exception for the Russian cadets as they had no other income but charity. None of the European governments wanted them. There were rumors that they would be disbanded and the boys distributed among families and boarding houses.

  “No way!” shouted Bashkirov from his upper bunk and started singing When Our Corps Were Founded.

  Felix grimly watched his friends and thought, Grow up, huskies. All your muzzles covered in stubble, but you’re still happy to live on mercy.

  “Those officers who’ve been at war at least participated in the great White Movement and fought for the rebirth of Russian Empire, but we have nothing!” Bashkirov roared angrily. “We’re living like the refuse of history.”

  “Don’t envy them,” Felix said. “They’re sending letters to newspapers and foreign governments protesting against the Bolsheviks, still hoping the world community will care. But they don’t give a damn about the White Movement. I’ve met one officer—running around publishing houses with a copybook full of his memoires. He said, ‘It’s history, it’s priceless.’ Who the hell would need him with his memoires? It’s sickening.”

  The cadets grew quiet.

  “Hey-hey!” Boris Marukhin said. “Keep your tongue! For God’s sake, is there anything sacred to you?”

  They tried to sleep, but everyone was thinking, Where should I go? Who with? What do I do with my life?

  One day, Bashkirov’s algebra teacher gave him a note and sent him to his friend, an English engineer. The Englishman turned out to be quite hearty and friendly. He asked Bashkirov things about the Corps and offered some words of sympathy.

  “Here are books on engineering,” he said. “If you sort them out, I’ll take you on as an assistant.”

  Bashkirov was full of excitement when he got home. He sat down and tried to read the books, but couldn’t make heads or tails of them. When the month of his study was up he still went back. Why not? He had nothing to lose.

  “I got it,” he declared.

  The engineer asked him a question and Bashkirov started to say gibberish—half Russian, half English and German. Brazenly, he looked straight into the Englishman’s eyes, showing something on a textbook drawing with his finger as if he understood everything, but could not explain it properly.

  The Englishman took Bashkirov to the factory and introduced him to the manager, “Here, a young Wunderkind. He specializes in steam boilers.”

  The director was very pleased; he gave Bashkirov drawings and took him to the workshop. There was a boiler the size of the dancing floor in the Astor House hotel. Bashkirov was on the brink of tears: he was so close to such a great job and it was slipping away from him. When they left the boiler room, Bashkirov confessed to the Englishman that he was dying for the work, but had no idea about boilers.

  The Englishman smiled. “Come here on Saturday at seven in the morning and I’ll help you with the drawings. You start the job on Monday, but remember the most important thing: you’re the boss. Your deputy is a Chinese fellow; he knows these boilers inside out. Follow him everywhere and keep silent. He’ll think that you’re watching how he works and will get down to his duties even more eagerly. I’ll be the one who signs off this boiler. You just learn how he does it and keep looking serious and important. In a year, you’ll be a specialist. All the whites here start like that.” After getting the job, Bashkirov rented a private apartment, but still visited the Corps every day. He bought nice clothes and found himself a blonde girlfriend. Looking at him, the cadets felt heartened: so, after all, a Russian man can make a life here!

  Once Bashkirov brought a long pipe and a piece of sticky dirt wrapped in cloth.

  “Who wants to share a peace pipe with the chieftain?” he asked.

  It was opium.

  He was beaten up badly—for the wrecked dream, for the wrecked soul. The cadets threw him out on the street with his broken pipe and all his stuff.

  Felix saw a Chinese beggar come up to Bashkirov, who was lying on the ground, and start rummaging through his briefcase.

  About a month later, Boris Marukhin saw Bashkirov in Nantao—half naked, not even looking human. The cadets didn’t mention him again.

  Now Felix felt completely alone. So far only odd jobs had come his way: wood sawing, grave-digging or whatever else he could find. He didn’t dare eat at the Corps: it was like freeloading off the younger cadets, and so once a day he went to the French Catholic nuns who were giving away carrot soup. The sisters were cunning: after soup, they asked people to listen to their sermons, hoping to snare new souls into their faith.

  In the evenings, when it wasn’t so hot, the cadets would gather in the yard, smoke roll-ups and tell each other of good places they’d found to score cash.

  Through the nuns, Sasha Simonov managed to enlist with the French police. He almost failed the medical examination: the officers were afraid he was too skinny. But luckily they took him in the end. He arrived back at the Corps in his new uniform, clean-shaven and perfumed like a son of a bitch. He said that the wage in the police was great and the superiors were nice.

  “There’s a whole crowd of the Russians working for the French,” Sasha told his friends. “All our people, except me, have battle experience. The boss wanted to stitch red stars on our sleeves, so it was clear that we’re from Russia. All our guys were quiet—not a word. But I stood up. ‘To hell with your cushy wages!’ I said. ‘We cannot have stars! It’s Bolsheviks’ stuff. Our symbols are the double-headed eagle, a sword and a thorn wreath.’” He paused, catching his breath. “I thought the boss would kick me out for my boldness, but no, he said he respects a soldier’s feelings. So we’re in without stars.”

  Felix listened, frowning. “I have to go,” he said and headed to the warehouse where he worked as a night watchman.

  Every night, from eight in the evening till four in the morning, Tibet Road would fill with heavily made-up girls. Old Chinese crones—the girls’ maids—would grab passing men by their clothes and drag them behind their rotten doors. If they succeeded, the poor man’s fate was decided. There would be half a dozen of them waiting; they would claw him and, with treats and curses, send him off with the girl to the shed.

  Felix was always harassed.

  “Come, pretty boy, come, it’s not too far. Or are you powerless? Is your instrument not in working order?”

  He would angrily push the crones away.

  Once he was stopped by a Russian woman. Felix looked at her, wincing with pity, and gave her two cigarettes.

  2.

  Rats ran around the warehouse, feeling right at home. Some even ventured into the bright circle made by the lamp. They didn’t fear anything, bastards!

  There were no clocks in the warehouse, so Felix needed to listen for the waste-collectors to come by. The owner of the warehouse did not allow any tables or benches in his establishment to make sure the watchmen keep awake on duty. The only relief Felix had was a tiny three-legged stool. He sat on it, yawning and looking at a gnat crawl around the lamp under the ceiling. The floor was dirty to sleep on. Bored with sitting, Felix began to walk around the warehouse, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

  Finally, a waste-collector passed by with his cart. The watchman supposed to relieve Felix, a middle-aged Turkish guy in a tarboosh hat, only turned up once the factory women appeared on the street. These women’s feet had been contorted into hooves from childhood and they were unable to walk for long distances.
They perched like hens on huge carts, dragged by the skinny, half-starved men.

  Finally, Felix’s shift was over.

  “Günaydin” said the Turk, wishing Felix a good morning. A drop of egg yolk was stuck in his droopy mustache. Felix hinted for him to clean himself, but the Turk didn’t get it.

  “Have a good one,” muttered Felix.

  The sky above the roofs was yellow and pink. Sparrows were chirping in plane trees.

  “Hey, pretty boy!” someone shouted in English.

  Felix looked back. A girl was running after him, tripping on the way. Her eyes were smeared with the remnants of her make-up.

  “Wait, gorgeous! We need to talk!”

  Felix started to walk faster, but the whore wouldn’t let go. “Wait! I’ll give you the best price!”

  He turned into a side street, pulled himself up a fence and jumped over. The wench’s voice faded behind him.

  He found himself on an unpaved street. A dirty ditch piled with rotting rubbish ran along the side. Low dwellings with cane roofs looked like they were made of different parts: a wall from one house, a door from the other. Windows were battered by cardboard with banners: Drink Coca-Cola! Nestlé—milk from Switzerland!

  Despite the early hour, elders were sitting on porches and children were messing around in the dirt. Everyone was gawking at Felix as if it was the first time they’d seen a white man. There were more and more people around. Everywhere there were black-haired heads, bright umbrellas and Chinese pants on bamboo railings.

  The road took Felix to a little bridge across a stream. Two young fellas dressed in European hats and Chinese jackets and skirts held a boy by his legs and dipped his head into the dirty water. The third stamped on the boy’s patterned bowls brought for sale. Idle pedestrians stood around laughing; the boy sobbed and struggled to get out.

  Felix couldn’t bare it. “Hey, stop it!”

  The bullies dropped the boy into the water.

  Felix grabbed one by the chest. His blood boiling—he didn’t even notice that he spoke Russian. The bully pulled out a knife and started to chirp something. Felix shoved him so hard that the guy crushed into his mates and they all rolled to the ground.