White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  “Who’s their big boss?” asked Felix.

  “They have several,” answered the professor. “The Green Gang is not like the police where everyone has a job title and a position. It’s an association of fellow-countrymen. Let’s say, a man from a village arrives in Shanghai—where would he go to before he found his way around? To his fellow countrymen, of course. They give him work and a place to live and in return they demand absolute subordination. That’s what the Green Gang is.”

  Felix was looking at the sobbing youngster. “What are we going to do with him?” he asked Johnny. “Give him to the Chinese again?”

  Collor shook his head, “No way. All the documents show he’s not even alive, so we’ll keep him until he rats out the others.”

  The youngster went silent for a second and Collor laughed, “Look, he understands English. You, mate Rodionov, go and get some sandwiches and I’ll talk to your little captive.”

  When Felix returned, there was no boy behind the embroidered screen.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  Collor was going through a fat folder. “Here he is. Our friend Paul Marie Lemoine—larger than life. He owns those rifles you saw. But we can’t do anything about him: the storehouse is on the Chinese territory.”

  Felix looked closer at the face in the picture, “I know him, he goes to the Three Pleasures almost every day. The cripple with prosthetic legs.”

  Collor nodded. “Guess how I got to your hostage?” He pointed to a colorful candy wrap with Madam Gallant’s name on it. “I showed him the chocolate and said, ‘That’s the boiled eye of a Chinese boy.’ And then bit on it. Cognac burst out on my face and the guy passed out on the spot. When I shook him awake, he blurted everything.”

  CHAPTER 30

  SHANGHAI RACE COURSE

  1.

  In the first week of November, the streets of the foreign concessions were deserted with everyone flocking to the Shanghai Race Course. The one-hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar main prize was no laughing matter.

  The racecourse was alive with hustle and bustle. At the entrance, a disheveled woman pummeled her husband with an umbrella. “Again, you wasted all the money, idiot!” Onlookers enjoyed the show and made bets on whether she would bring him to the ground or not.

  A guide shouted through his funnel at a group of tourists in safari helmets, “Here they call Mongolian horses ponies. When they arrive in Shanghai, they are completely unbroken. This kind of pony can be bought for twenty five pounds, but they cost five pounds a month to keep.”

  Jiří watched the families of the Race Club members through his binoculars: the ladies in their stylish dresses especially made for the Champion Day and the gentlemen with fat cigars clenched in their teeth. Waiters in white jackets deftly zigzagged between the cheering guests.

  Half a year ago, Jiří met an Italian policeman called Umberto, who told him about Benito Mussolini: “Duce promises to clear the country of communists and masons and severely punish everyone who dares to insult religion. He formed the National Fascist Party and it’s the duty of every honest Italian citizen to join it.”

  In Shanghai, there were several pro-right circles of former officers. They realized that the Great War and European revolutions were a direct consequence of rotten liberalism. Words like order, family, discipline and duty didn’t mean anything anymore. Civil liberties, so dear to Nina Kupina and people like her, resulted in monstrous egotism and total moral degradation: I do what I want and don’t give a damn about others.

  Umberto introduced Jiří to Maria Zaborova, the young leader of a Slavic circle. She had arrived in Shanghai from Harbin and worked in a hospital. She had connections with some northern military organizations and very soon gathered around her a small, but very enthusiastic group of Russian officers. Their goal was grandiose: creation of Slavia, a great country uniting peoples from Prague to Vladivostok.

  From time to time, officers would raid radishes, the White Army servicemen who agreed to change their colors into red for the Bolshevik’s ruble. Especially hated were charity workers paid by Moscow. They collected money for sending refugees back to Russia. Several hundred idiots had already been caught in their nets.

  Jiří joined the Slavic circle. “Fascism cleans the soul of fear and indecisiveness; it gives a person a much bigger goal for life,” the orators would say in meetings. “It is protection from the Bolsheviks’ savageness and western democratic decay.”

  The world of fascism—harsh and spiritual—shielded all Jiří’s problems. Despite Nina’s order, he didn’t minimize the amount of duty- free liquor supplied for his Consulate. He knew that, at the first audit, the truth would be revealed. There would be no reports about the balls and parties in the newspapers, therefore the champagne was obviously sold on the side. But the greater goal of fascism justified the means.

  Lemoine agreed—he wasn’t happy to lose money just because Nina was pregnant. And both of them said nothing to Tony Aulman.

  The profits went to Harbin and Tianjin, where trusted people printed leaflets with proclamations. Jiří wished the fascist activists weren’t this poor and the distances between them weren’t so great. The struggle was strenuous and demanded a lot of time and reserves, but almost every fascist in China had a family and a day job, so political proceedings ran extremely slowly.

  People—it’s not to do with race or a geographical location, wrote Jiří in his journal. It’s a group of people united by a common ambition to exist and rule. We don’t like Jews, because they don’t believe in Jesus Christ and claim to be the chosen ones. They want to command the spiritual development of all mankind—that’s why they are so revolutionary and full of desire to destroy century-old traditions.

  For Jiří, everything suddenly made sense. The Jews and their hangers-on started the Great War only with the goal of forcing the most talented and brave people into killing each other. Under cover of creating their miraculous democracy, they infested governments, armies and big companies. Russia was the first country that they had managed to conquer. Now they craved domination over the whole world. If they weren’t stopped, everything would be destroyed.

  “We have to sacrifice anything!” Maria Zaborova declared. “Our friends spilt blood on the Soviet-Chinese border arranging raids on the Bolsheviks’ territory to destroy the enemy. Every true fascist must look for opportunities to fight mercilessly.”

  Jiří told her that he had connections with the customs people and Foreign Affairs Office and could help with shipping arms under the guise of diplomatic mail. Maria happily agreed.

  The risk was great—the cargo had to be transported by railway across many frontier posts through different Chinese provinces. For a lot of money, Lemoine promised Jiří to ship the big orders of machine guns that the fascist needed. He also had bombs made for them. Sardine tins stuffed with explosives would destroy about fifty feet of railway; for bridges they used pineapples packed in pound tins; but the most valuable were ten-pound pickles—they would bring to the ground communists’ barracks and headquarters.

  But the connection with the Canadian turned out to be a horrible mistake.

  Lemoine was watching the race out of his own box. He wasn’t a member of the Race Club, though; he had bought it from a broker who went bankrupt.

  “Good morning,” Jiří greeted him sullenly, entering his box.

  Lemoine nodded. “Now, birds, disappear, I need to talk,” he said to the couple of the primed-up girls standing behind his armchair. The ladies pouted and retreated.

  “So, the goods are ready?” asked Jiří trying to conceal his impatience.

  Lemoine spat his chewing gum into his handkerchief and put it in the purse of one of the girls.

  “Well…soon it’ll be ready.”

  “Monsieur, people are waiting. You have already received an advance.”

  Lemoine pretended he did not catch it. “Have you bid today at all?” he asked. “I, personally, bid on the Black Thunder. That scrubby rascal
will outrun everyone—I give my word.”

  If only his word meant anything!

  Noble feelings seemed to Lemoine to be an expression of one’s weakness and he shamelessly played on them. Sometimes to gain profits, sometimes just for sport’s sake.

  Jiří narrowed his eyes. “Stop playing the fool! You have till the end of the week. If I don’t get the goods, I’ll report you to the police.”

  “You won’t,” Lemoine laughed. “You have a pregnant lady on board. Have you thought about her?”

  Jiří struggled to stop himself slapping him in the face. “Listen, you! I refuse to take part in your wheeling-dealing with alcohol, unless you do what you promised till the end of the week!”

  “Oh, how soft we are!” grumbled Lemoine, when Jiří headed to the exit. “Don’t know what a joke is? You’ll get your precious pickles…”

  Lemoine was not only handicapped physically, but morally as well.

  2.

  Hugh Wayer told Johnny Collor to get ready for a trip to Hong Kong. “Local police there have huge experience in fighting drug trafficking. You’ll go and learn how they do it.”

  When Collor returned to his office he hid behind his embroidered screen. Felix understood, this meant do not disturb. But Johnny called him in and spoke in a low voice, “Listen, mate…I’ve given the case with the rifles to the Chinese police, and now they’re sending me out of Shanghai. It seems our big bosses are in agreement with the smugglers.”

  Felix couldn’t believe his ears. Wayer himself had taken the report and praised his vigilance with the promise of a promotion.

  In the evening, Wayer summoned Felix.

  “A lot of people are on vacations now,” he said, looking tiredly out the window. “So we’ll transfer you from detectives to security.”

  “Security of what?”

  “Of the prison. They don’t have enough people, so we should help.”

  Felix didn’t say a word, suppressing his fury inside. The old man told him it was a temporary measure, as without Collor there would be nothing to do anyway.

  “Don’t worry, Rodionov,” Wayer added, “you’ll be given a bonus for it.”

  The jail had nineteen hundred Chinese prisoners and only a dozen white ones—all awaiting deportation. Everyone was busy doing something to collect the money for their food and guards: some were twining straw mats, some were sewing police uniforms. In one of the cells was a brilliant wood-carver who made duck decoys so lifelike that they looked like they would fly out between the bars. Hunters were queuing to buy his wares. The warden treated him tenderly and every week sent him a loaf of sesame bread, but didn’t mention that his case papers had been lost long ago. The wood-carver had already been waiting two years for a trial.

  Felix’s job was to chase prisoners to the pond. There they had to wash tablecloths from nearby restaurants. The whole day, Felix stood in the cold. When the weather was sunny and there was no wind, he would buy Russian newspapers, sit under a tree, put his revolver on his lap and read while the Chinese, clanging in their irons, beat tablecloths with paddles.

  Grand Duke Nicholas used up the money we sent him for blasting work against the Bolsheviks.

  Felix’s head was going numb after reading such a shameless attack upon the Royal Family. He tore a piece of paper out of his pad and wrote, “If you, miserable people, will continue to insult His Royal Highness, we’ll show you what for.”

  To save on envelope and postage costs, Felix told his rickshaw boy to take the letter to the editor’s office and put it in their mailbox. The boy was smart: he understood everything.

  All done, now it was time to go back to the prison. What a bore of a job, Felix thought with disgust. And tomorrow would be the same…and the day after tomorrow. I hope Collor comes back soon.

  3.

  Felix recognized the little Chinese boy straight away. He was squatting, washing floors in the prison corridor. His green shirt stained with blood and dirt was torn up to his belly button. Felix motioned to the guard, “Go, have a break, I’ll watch him.”

  The youngster mopped up the floor trying to face away from him. But Felix came up and picked him up with one hand—the boy was as light as an empty sack.

  “Remember me?”

  The little Chinese squeaked. On his face, he had a bruise as big as a saucer.

  “What was Lemoine preparing the arms for?” Felix whispered in a sinister voice.

  “Me not know!”

  Felix threw him on the floor. The bucket with water turned upside down.

  “For the last time, I’m asking: what was it for?”

  The boy sat in the puddle, wiping his bleeding nose with his sleeve. “For wa-a-a-r…”

  “Who with?”

  “Me not know…but soon will be war. Very big war.”

  That was all he knew.

  4.

  In the evening, Felix called Umberto into his room.

  The Italian arrived, rubbing the toe of his boot on the floor. “You have enough sand in here for a beach. Hire a girl to clean it up.” But Felix had more important things on his mind. He told Umberto what he had heard from the little Chinese.

  “So, it’s war after all,” said Felix, lighting another cigarette. “Maybe it’s for the best: that’s what we’ve been trained for. But who will it be with?”

  Umberto shrugged, “Probably between the Chinese again. There’re loads of arms in the city—you can buy anything you want in the port. Yesterday, a Japanese steamer with machine guns arrived in Nantao.”

  “How do you know?” interrupted Felix.

  Umberto laughed. “All traffic officers were paid not to inspect their tracks.”

  CHAPTER 31

  THE ADVENTURES OF A PRISON GUARD

  1.

  Mesdames et Messieurs and all noble gentlemen arriving at the Shanghai Club in cars made in 1922, do you remember Paul Marie Lemoine? The one with no legs, who rode a one-eyed Manchu and asked you for money in his times of need?

  You laughed at him, Mesdames et Messieurs, you thought that Paul Marie had done his dash and turned into a silly caricature on the last page of his life. Come to your window and look at him now. Let your little white collars go damp with envious sweat.

  Paul Marie Lemoine is chauffeured in a Cadillac 1923. Even the cotton tycoons don’t have an auto like this. And what prosthetic legs he has! If only you could see and compare them with your swollen ones, you would have realized that God has already punished you.

  And do you have an idea where Lemoine drives to? No one, my dear gentlemen, will tell you this. Only your grandchildren will read in historical novels what kind of a man he was.

  The Czechoslovakian Consul, Jiří Labuda, faker than a hair loss lotion, had ordered bombs and machine guns from Lemoine. Petty stuff, thought Paul Marie.

  He never asked who Jiří was going to destroy—it wasn’t his concern. But instead, he demanded a signature—black and ornate like the mustaches of the road policemen on the Sichuan Road.

  The Consul’s signature and a wad of money wrapped in a newspaper worked wonders. A steamer flying the Czechoslovakian flag brought the weapons to Shanghai from Austria and Germany, stolen from the arms depots of Europe. During the day, the steamer would be very quiet, almost dead, with bored sailors on duty, pulling bogies out of their noses. But at night, carefully wrapped in matting, boots would slide over the decks, strong hands would carry boxes and bossy voices would be telling someone off in the darkness, but always in a whisper.

  On the neighboring streets drunken sailors staggered around and coolies with hats over their eyes slept along the walls—those were the disguised security. If an uninvited person appeared, they would play-act a disgusting punch-up to frighten away strangers.

  In the quiet of the storehouse, among the dust and saw shavings, there were mounted cases for transporting grand pianos. Inside were Gewehr 1888 rifles, Maschinengewehr 08 machine guns, sleek Mauser and Browning pistols. In cans labeled Pineapples were live rounds.<
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  The pineapples and grand pianos would go north to the glorious warlord Feng Yuxiang with the nickname Christian General. This warlord was into holy activities—either being at war or preparing for one.

  All the road posts on the route had been bought off. The customs officer received his cut and only inspected the specially marked cases.

  Dozens of workers sweated at the storehouse. Two of them were Feng Yuxiang’s representatives, Englishmen, who made sure that everything went smoothly. Both were dressed in overalls and caps stained with machine oil, but wore lacquered shoes. They lived in a hotel and every evening went out dressed to kill, so the concierge would think they were heading to the brothels. But, at Lemoine’s storehouse, they would change their gentleman’s outfits into working clothes, leaving only their fancy shoes on.

  The workers both admired and feared Lemoine and listened to his every word with huge respect. “

  Monsieur Lemoine, part of the ammunition is loose without packing,” a foreman reported.

  “Pack those into the gas canisters.”

  People would nod and work would resume again. They brought in the canisters, filling them up with a half-mix of ammunition and sawdust till the weight became just right.

  One-Eyed passed Lemoine a note from Jiří. The pseudo consul demanded to have his bombs and machine-guns immediately. “If you are not going to keep your promises, I will annul all the documents straight away.”