White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  “Those wretched creatures are too spoiled,” he would say. “We need to get you a proper coat for the winter; now you resemble a Gipsy tramp.”

  Felix looked at Johnny in admiration. Collor was short and stocky with a huge saber scar across his curly head. He called it my only brainwave. After the Great War, Collor returned to his native Manchester where he hung around at a loose end until his friend placed a newspaper advertisement in front of him:

  Healthy men with war experience are required to serve in the Shanghai Municipal Police.

  Soon Johnny was in a second-class cabin on the Blue Funnel Line steamer.

  Rumors flew about Collar in the police office: some said that during the war, he’d shot fugitives; others—he was the illegal son of a lord, who sent him to serve in the colony after an ugly scandal. Collor’s bizarre habits only fueled the controversy. He kept a bar of soap in his desk drawer and washed his hands ten times a day. He lived in a sparkling clean apartment in a boarding house. But, at the same time, he was an amazing shooter and the best boxer in all fourteen police stations of the International Settlement.

  Once Felix visited Collar at his home—the carpets were laid out on immaculate wooden floors, a big old-fashioned bed with a metal frame stood in the corner and pillows were arranged on it in a neat pyramid with a lace cover on top.

  “Look who’s come to visit!” exclaimed Collor, opening the window. A huge raven sat on the windowsill.

  “How’re you Buster?”

  In amazement, Felix watched Johnny crumbling a piece of bread for the raven and carefully stroking its feathers with two fingers.

  “If anyone harasses you, just let me know. We’ll quickly sort him out.”

  He would hum a song under his breath; put both legs on the table and read books about motorcycles.

  “I want to know everything about them, mate.”

  Felix asked why, but Collor just shrugged. “It’s interesting.”

  He didn’t have friends—“You need to pay visits to them. Why would I need the hassle?”

  He didn’t count Felix as his friend—“Mate, I’m old enough to be your father.” But almost every night, he would put Felix behind himself on a motorcycle and fly somewhere as fast as he could.

  He loved Shanghai and knew many places where he could relax with a bottle of beer. He was particularly fond of roofs. If he had to, he would pull out his police badge and say that he was on an investigation. Then he would climb to the very top, spread his blanket, brought specially, and watch the city.

  “Look at the sunset today,” he would say, opening a bottle for Felix. “It’s better than fireworks for His Majesty’s birthday.”

  Felix wound drink his beer, watch clouds and think: Goodness me, how great this is!

  In the summer of 1923, the Municipal Council decided to bring an end to the mess with opium. The Deputy Police Commissioner, Hugh Wayer, called Collor in and offered him the job running the Drug Enforcement Division.

  Johnny chose men for his team: white, young and only those who had served in military but had never worked in the police before.

  “I know all those devils,” Collor would grumble. “Just let them get into our hell-hole and straight away they start taking bribes.”

  He said to the bosses that he would agree to take on the position only if they give him a stack of search warrants signed by the chief magistrate of the Mixed Court.

  “Leave the address box empty: I’ll write what I need. If we do everything by the book, the court scum with the greased palms will quickly rat me out to the drug dealers. How’d you think the dealers always know where and when the next search is going to be?”

  After the first round of arrests, so many criminals were caught that the city prisons were bursting at the seams. However, the initial successes quickly fizzled. Eventually, the dealers moved their operations to other streets, to the French Concession or Chinese City, where everything carried on as before.

  Hugh Wayer raved at Municipal Council meetings, “Why do my people have to risk their lives if everyone else, including the French Police, does nothing and openly cashes in on opium?”

  “Wayer pretends he has no idea about drugs,” Collor told Felix. “He fed off the smoking rooms for twenty years; where do you think he got the money for his mansion and other stuff?”

  Collor told Felix the history behind opium smoking: in the beginning it was considered a shameful sin, something from the world of coolies and cheap brothels. But in the 1870s, opium was brought to America and then the whites started to smoke the exotic dope. Slowly, but surely, opium turned into a trendy aristocratic fancy.

  “Now every cow in furs comes to Shanghai and the first thing she asks is where to smoke a pipe of real opium,” Collor would sneer. “Our enemy has serious patrons and not only here, but in other decent societies in Europe and America. Maybe they’ll croak off the stuff—every little bit would help.”

  It was getting dark. Streetlights went on. Collor checked his time and looked at the pharmacy’s windows, “Get ready.”

  It was the first hands-on operation for Felix. Collor gave him his own shoulder belt and a pistol holster, which was too big and stuck out like a badly adjusted horse harness. Felix was anxious and wanted to smoke, but Collor strictly forbade it.

  “It’s time!” he roared finally.

  Felix ran behind the others into a room and stood squinting under the bright light of a lamp. The pharmacy owner was on the floor, wailing and chirping in high-pitched Chinese. Three other men were standing, facing the wall with their hands on the back of their heads. The police were deftly searching the place, as if it was a training run. Glass crunched under their heavy shoes, ashes were flying from a raked-up oven.

  “There’s a safe in the bedroom on the second floor, sir!” cried someone.

  Collor lifted up the pharmacist by his chest and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “Ask him where the keys are,” he told the translator in a low voice.

  Having heard the question the pharmacist started to babble something. Splashes of saliva dropped on Collor and he pushed him away in disgust. “What is he saying?”

  “That he doesn’t understand a thing, that he is from a different province and doesn’t speak Shanghainese.”

  “Lies, bastard.”

  Collor pulled a revolver out of a holster and shot the mirror behind the pharmacist. The guy gave a whimper, went deadly pale and fell on the floor face down.

  “Feeble people,” said Felix through his teeth. He was hot; he took off his jacket and put it on the chair.

  Johnny searched the pharmacist’s pockets. “Here are the keys! Let’s go.”

  They went up the stairs. In the bedroom, a woman with two terrified children sat in the far corner of the big bed with a red cover on it.

  “Clear it,” ordered Collor and the policemen quickly took them out of the room. Behind the bed was a huge iron box covered with an embroidered spread. A bronze Buddha and candles were placed on top of it. Collor took off the spread and swore as the Buddha landed on his foot. He fiddled a little with the keys and opened the safe. Felix stretched forward to see what was inside. “Holy cow!”

  There were about fifty parcels and some papers.

  “Indian opium,” said a policeman, having opened one of the parcels. “And cocaine.”

  “Come here,” Johnny asked the translator. “What’re those papers?”

  The Chinese glanced through it and said, “Sir, these are lists of suppliers…and times…”

  Collor’s eyes lit up. “Gosh!” He started to rummage through the documents written in English and French. “Well, our pharmacist will stay in prison for a while.”

  There was stamping on the stairs. Felix looked out of the room and was almost smashed by a running boy about fourteen years old. He held something under his green shirt.

  “Hold him!” screamed someone from the downstairs.

  Sergeant Trots grabbed the youngster by his pants, but the bo
y turned and fired at him twice.

  The sergeant, bleeding heavily, fell down the stairs. The youngster dived under Felix’s hand, jumped to the window and pulled himself up to the roof. Felix started after him.

  There was no one up on the roof. Police vans were already in front of the porch—to transport the detained. Felix heard a noise from the side; he turned and saw the youngster jumping onto the next roof. The boy’s green shirt flashed over the ridge and disappeared.

  Somehow, Felix managed to cross onto the other roof; tiles slid from under his feet, his hands trembled. I’ll break my neck, no doubt. He sighed deeply and leapt to the next roof.

  Felix was just a couple of inches short. He hit the eaves painfully with his stomach, tried to grasp onto the wet tiles, but slipped. Bellowing, he fell, but somehow caught onto a window shutter hanging from his loose shoulder belt. The shutter started to slide and Felix, head first, smashed into the bamboo blinds of the window.

  It turned out to be a casino. Men dropped their cards and stared at Felix in amazement.

  He jumped to his feet and pulled out his revolver. “Hands up! Gambling is prohibited in the territory of the International Settlement!”

  2.

  The casino belonged to the renowned Don Fernando Jose Burbano, a regular character of the police criminal reports. The harvest was grandiose: twelve gamblers and the whole collection of equipment— from gambling tables to roulette wheels.

  Collor patted Felix’s shoulder, smiling from ear to ear. “Great job, mate! Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Hugh Wayer about your proper employment.”

  Detectives, journalists and photographers—all wanted a piece of Felix. It’s no laughing matter to single-handedly hold up a whole criminal nest.

  Once the reports were finished, Collor went out to the street and headed to his motorcycle. He beckoned to Felix, “Bear in mind that your Don will be out tomorrow.”

  “Why?” asked Felix.

  “The police of the International Settlement exist not to fight crime, but to provide the illusion of comfort to the citizens. The big bosses would be angry if the Don was to stay in prison.”

  Felix watched how the policemen took Fernando out of the gates. His well-fed face didn’t show any sign of concern or fear. He calmly got into the van and waved to Collor as much as his handcuffs allowed.

  “Mexico has the extraterritoriality rights,” said Johnny. “That’s why the Don will be prosecuted by Mexican laws. If he were British or even Chinese, we would have him behind bars for a couple of years. But now, the most he would get is a five hundred peso fine. He doesn’t give a damn about the police.”

  “What about the pharmacist and the rest?” Felix asked.

  “The card players will be fined. Those who were taken at the pharmacy will be imprisoned for three days. The addicts will be craving more drugs in forty-eight hours, so it’ll be easy to see who is a buyer and who is a seller. Then we’ll deal with the sellers.” Collor started his engine. “We caught the boy who wounded Trots. He’ll be given to the Chinese authorities for execution.”

  CHAPTER 27

  GOOD INTERVIEW QUESTIONS

  1.

  The little room in the House of Hope was back to its original occupants. Mitya had disappeared somewhere and Martha moved into the new premises for her brothel to keep an eye on the renovation process. She was a bit too hopeful that she would have the grand opening by summertime.

  “Aren’t you ashamed to live in such a hole?” Ada teased Klim. “You’re an editor-in-chief after all. I can’t believe you don’t want to get comfortable.”

  “And who will keep an eye on you?” he replied.

  Klim didn’t want to get comfortable. If he left the House of Hope to rent a good apartment, he would have to start refurbishing it—it would become a symbol of stability and permanence, leaving no room for change in his life.

  He tried to understand what he was actually waiting for. There was no answer. Sometimes he would imagine himself as a normal man: a house, a car, a membership in some club. He could ask Ada to marry him, she would be a great mother and a spouse—neat and moderately grumpy. It would be a piece of cake to make her fall in love with him. After all, she also lived this unsettled life, impatiently waiting for changes. To entice Ada and then, till the end of his days, imagine a different woman in her place? Deprive her of a chance to find true love for the sake of creating surrogate happiness for himself? Of course, not.

  After work, Klim regularly visited Don Fernando at the Flying Dutchman. He would praise the Don’s singing and talk about articles he’d written or about the latest technology. The Don loved the science of the future: he had zips on his overshoes, drank instant coffee invented for the military, and under his pants he wore special braces, Shir-Gar, connecting the tops of his socks with the bottom of his shirt—the socks wouldn’t creep down and the shirt wouldn’t wrinkle up.

  Klim liked being at Don Fernando’s: it was as if he’d plunged into the old pre-war world, where he had nothing to regret. But the Flying Dutchman had temporarily sunk in a police raid. The only entertainment left for Klim was his work.

  Lissie rented an office on Honan Road and placed on the wall a portrait of the actress Olive Thomas. She hired staff: a secretary, Miss Arabella Dowson, to answer phone calls and proofread articles, and an unscrupulous Irishman called O’Doul—to implement her creative ideas. For days, he would draw big-eyed ladies in sportswear or evening dresses, and when the mistress was away, he would draw Lissie in the most indecent poses and always naked. It was so true-to-life that Arabella would put her hands over her eyes and threaten to tell everything to Mrs. Wayer.

  “If you snitch, I’ll make a drawing of you, too,” O’Doul would say, roaring with laughter and sending an air-kiss to Arabella.

  Klim had to do everything Lissie didn’t fancy. Who had to look for printers? Klim. Who had to negotiate with typists, hire a dozen free-lance journalists and the advertising agents? Klim. Who would sign a renting agreement? Who would obtain a license in the Municipal Council? Who would throw out a dead rat from a trap? All Klim. Even the magazine content was mostly written by him—from the editor’s letter to Our Readers’ Stories.

  Lissie dealt with strategic management.

  “We need an article on dancing shoes,” she would shout after discovering a new trend. And Klim would head to the famous dance teacher, Monsieur Bessoni, harass shoe shop owners in the salon on the Nanking Road and then add in some recommendations from the popular dancer mademoiselle Paino, who never existed.

  The first edition of Flappers sold quite fast. Klim had a great idea to stick advertising posters on trams and even though they were soon torn away by street kids, it brought results. The magazine now had subscribers and enemies. Klim found it interesting to write for women and on behalf of them. He approached it as an attempt to grasp what was beyond his understanding.

  His early efforts made Lissie furious. “You must be kidding me!” she shouted. “Why on earth you do think all women like shopping? We are different! How can you tar everyone with the same brush?”

  Klim would promise to improve. He made friends with Lissie in the same way he did with her sister. Lissie didn’t know how to keep her temper; she always looked for a fight, for someone to measure her strength against. The victory would annoy her and fill her with contempt towards her opponent; and a failure would bring an acute wish to fight again. But Klim managed to keep a shaky balance where both parties still felt equal.

  In the evenings, when all the employees went home, they would sit by the window and chat.

  Lissie told him about her relations with Edna, “Once I put a sausage in her purse. I hoped it would get stinky. But Edna returned it to me in a beautiful gift box and I thought it was a present from some admirer. By that time, the sausage had dried out. Since then we still pass it to each other—hiding it in chest-of-drawers with underwear or in our shoes.”

  “And who has this sausage now?” Klim asked.

  “I h
ave it. But the game is not over yet.”

  It was difficult for Lissie to accept that she and her sister had grown up and there was no need for rivalry anymore.

  “I know, Edna helped me to open the magazine, and I’m grateful for that,” Lissie said, “but, she still looks down on me: she writes about the earthquake in Japan and I write about dress-up parties at Nina Kupina’s. Edna thinks that her news is more important.”

  Klim got hot and tense. “You said Nina Kupina?”

  “I visited her last Saturday and thought everything at her place was arranged in great style. By the way, that woman will be great for an interview. Let her tell you her story.”

  Lissie pulled out a phone book. “Here she is. Call her and arrange a meeting. She is Russian, like you. We’ll think up some questions now.”

  2.

  Klim felt as if he was watching himself in a play. The face of the heroic lover is full of tragedy, his heart is like a half deflated ball with a dented side— the result of a misfortunate love affair on a knife-edge.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Lissie, noticing his hesitation. “Call now! She’s most likely to be home.”

  Klim lifted the receiver.

  “Hello?”—Nina’s voice.

  He rapidly explained about the interview and other details.

  “Of course, come,” she said.

  The receiver crackled—like his own capillaries were bursting open. He gave a blunt look to the wall, to Lissie, to Olive Thomas’s portrait above her head.

  Nina spoke as if she was glad to hear Klim, “Come tomorrow. Around ten in the morning.”

  My dearest…my precious…

  Klim was standing with one knee on a chair, pressing the receiver firmly to his burning ear.

  The leader of guerillas is heading to hold negotiations in a palace. It’s a trap, of course. A prison, fetters and a verdict. Whatever. … At least, he’ll shake the princess’s hand.

  “Bring Nazar, the photographer, with you and take a couple of shots,” said Lissie.