White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  Lemoine flared his nostrils and scratched his chin. Bombs were easy to make, but he had already sold the machine guns: the Chinese at Nantao had offered him a better price.

  A couple of sailors appeared in the doors, calling Lemoine outside. There, on the road, inside the circle of light from a streetlamp, lay a young fellow. He was beaten up so badly, it looked as if a cavalry horse had stomped over him.

  “He was spying,” said one of the sailors.

  The fellow groaned and lifted his head. “I got the warehouse wrong. I needed the Japanese one,” he spoke with a strong Russian accent.

  “Which damn Japanese?” Lemoine barked out.

  “They brought Hotchkiss machine guns.”

  “Like hell they did!”

  “Yes, they did. I wanted to buy some for myself. Go and check! A steamer called Sakura, it’s on the fourth mooring.”

  Lemoine had seen this steamer the day before. His people reported that the Japanese brought porcelain and mirrors from Nagasaki. My dear competition, have you arrived? Paul Marie thought, tapping his chin with his fingers. “

  They’ll be taking the machine guns tomorrow,” the fellow hastily continued. “All road posts were paid not to inspect their van.”

  Lemoine finally recognized the smashed face.

  “I saw you before: you were in the Three Pleasures. Okay,” he turned to sailors, “Take him to the office and tie him properly, so he can’t run away. We’ll sort it all out now.”

  2.

  Lemoine sent people to see what was going on at the fourth mooring. Two hours later they returned and reported the Sakura had been unloaded last night. No one knew what cargo it held; the night watch supposed it was dishware. For some opium in a piece of paper, they found out that the owner of the warehouse was Japanese and tomorrow the dishes would be shipped to the stores.

  Lemoine became tired of running around on his prosthetic legs and ordered One-Eyed to put him in a wheelchair. Its upholstery was of crimson velvet and the wheel spokes were covered with chivalrous shields with lion muzzles on them. Paul Marie was a Frenchman by blood and liked chivalry.

  He was back to thinking again, clicking with his tongue. It would be nice to steal the machine guns from the Japs: in one blow sort out the competitors and square up with the pseudo consul.

  The beaten-up prisoner was reading his thoughts. “Monsieur Lemoine, you’ll always find some spare weapons handy,” he said. “It’ll be taken from the storehouse at five o’clock; there will be no one but a driver and a couple of guards. We could easily intercept their van on the road.”

  Lemoine scratched his head, “Who are you, fella?”

  “Felix Rodionov.”

  “And why are you so clever?”

  “Because of my friends.”

  Lemoine lifted his hand and One-Eyed rode him closer to the prisoner.

  “If there are dishes in the boxes, I’ll break them up and then make you eat the shards. Got it?”

  Felix nodded, “I got it. We need to find a truck and then we can catch them on the way.”

  The truck and everything else necessary for the heist was found. At a quarter to five, people watching the road reported that a big van had come up to the Japanese storehouse.

  Felix Rodionov, in a clean jacket and pants, was sitting in the cab of the truck with a Chinese driver. He had a crowbar in his hands. Lemoine watched him from his wheelchair as the owner of a young gamecock watches his bird as it’s sent to the cockpit for the first time.

  “If you get those machine guns, I’ll reward you.”

  Felix sneered and didn’t make any promises. Lemoine liked it.

  A watchman on the roof made a sign: the van had left the Japanese storehouse.

  Felix closed the door and the truck raced to make the interception.

  “If he plays a trick on us or tries to get away, we’ll punish him,” said Lemoine. One-Eyed nodded and headed after the truck on a motorcycle. A pocket of his jacket was bulging as if he was carrying a wad of cash, but it was a Colt M1911.

  One-Eyed didn’t have to use it, though.

  The truck cut in front of the Japanese van. On a narrow street, it screeched to a stop, blocking the way. The driver popped his head out of the window, “Sorry, conked out!”

  The Japanese driver and two guards jumped out of the van running to beat him up. One-Eyed watched how Felix, the crowbar in his hand, came up to them and in two seconds flattened them all to the dirt. Lemoine’s people hiding in the truck quickly moved the goods. They took the Japs with them. Felix said that the van should be left on the road leading to the Fujian province—let them think it was the local governor’s doings.

  3.

  The cases were indeed full of Hotchkiss machine guns, all in good working order and even supplied with ammunition.

  Lemoine called Felix to his office at the storehouse. “I love Russian women, but think Russian men are all drunkards. If you prove me wrong, I’ll give you a job.”

  Felix curled his lip. “I’m not anyone’s servant, but we can work together.”

  Again, Lemoine liked that attitude. “Okay.”

  He gave the Russian some money and from his face he read that the fellow hadn’t expected to be paid. Lemoine liked this too.

  He wanted to ask Felix about his life, but suddenly a disheveled Jiří Labuda rushed into his office. “Where are my machine guns, Monsieur!” he squealed, in the voice of a demoralized peasant woman.

  Lemoine was calmness personified. He explained where the Pan Consul could stick his Hotchkisses. And his bombs will be supplied next week.

  Jiří rolled his eyes, shaking his little fists. “You’re a scoundrel and a thief!”

  Lemoine couldn’t stand this kind of behavior. He said that Labuda was more annoying than bedbugs and was not a consul but a piece of shit. For his impudence, Lemoine would report him to the police together with his big-bellied gal. And let the judge sort out where this Pan got his consulate exequatur from.

  The pseudo consul’s cheeks went as white as a fish’s belly. “Are you crazy? We’re not alone!” he said, motioning to Felix Rodionov. “I don’t care!” roared Paul Marie.

  Doing up the buttons on his coat in the wrong order, Labuda went to the door, shouting, “You won’t get away with this!”

  “I’m so terrified I’m running to a bridge to jump now,” Lemoine grumbled. Then he turned to Felix telling him to go to hell and come tomorrow.

  4.

  A convict has a chance to get out of the prison; a jail guard doesn’t have this chance, Felix thought. My young years will pass in the prison walls—without return.

  He limped along crooked streets, twiddling Lemoine’s money in his pocket. No one wants your heroism and honesty. If you’re honest, then you’ll be like Collor—alone, proud and dependent. Any scum like Hugh Wayer could send you to Hong Kong or even further. But if you’re bold and cunning, you can make thirty dollars in one night. Or even more: on Stark’s ship this Jiří Labuda was as meek as a lamb, and look how he had settled: arranged a fake consulate.

  Umberto said once, “My little sister writes to me, ‘You serve in the police, you’re so brave.’ Like hell I am! It’s easy to not fear death, but what about not fearing life? Every day I wonder, what if they sack me? What if Wayer calls in tomorrow and breaks my balls? It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” Felix replied.

  Then Umberto asked, “Are you afraid of anything? I mean, really afraid.”

  “That I’ll fail.”

  “You’re too young for impotence,” laughed Umberto. He always brought it down to women.

  Felix did not go into details, that most of all he feared powerlessness. In his current position, other people decided what he should be doing and how much money he should have. Lemoine and Jiří probably never doubted, Am I capable? Will I have guts?

  That is why they had their own businesses, and all Felix had was guarding convicts.

  He stopped in the middle of the
street. If you won’t take your life in your own hands, if you won’t be brave enough, you’ll forever be sitting in a prison. And you’ll forever be scraping up coppers for motorcycle goggles or for some other crap.

  Felix turned and ran towards the police station. He rushed upstairs and burst into Wayer’s office.

  “I have urgent information!” he shouted. “The Czechoslovakian Consul is an impostor!”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE NEWBORN BABY

  1.

  Nina came to Tamara and sat in an armchair stroking her tummy with very natural strokes, laughing at herself, “I’m a stuffed woman. I’m a pastry with a filling.”

  She complained that she began to forget about business arrangements and overslept, missing appointments. How familiar that was for Tamara! During her own pregnancies, even putting flowers in a vase had exhausted her.

  Nina cut the poppy seed top off her bun—she couldn’t possibly eat more than that.

  “I have such a lot of helpers, I don’t do anything,” she said. “But how many women have no one to help them? It must be horrible—imagine washing up in this condition or tending cattle, or working in a garden. I have no idea how humankind survived.”

  Tamara was dying to choose clothes for the baby. “I’ll go to Yates Road,” she said to Tony.

  He was horrified. “You must not leave the house! You’ll have a displacement!”

  Tamara pouted her lips. “I’ve sat in this room for three years already.”

  Aulman ordered a special palanquin made and put an egg on its seat. He chased the carriers several times around his house and only when the egg still remained on the seat intact was he satisfied.

  It was snowing when the servants took Tamara out for the first time. She squinted and laughed, turning her face up to the gray clouds.

  The English called Yates Road—the Petticoat Lane, the Americans named it Underwear Street. There one could find any kind of underclothing—for lying in a crib or a coffin.

  “Onwards to Mr. Bookers!” Tamara cried out of her palanquin. Nina’s chauffer nodded and slowly followed behind.

  Tamara floated into the Bookers and Co. store. The owner flew straight at her, exclaiming, “Mrs. Aulman, is it you? My God, how wonderful!”

  Satin blankets, canopies for cots, beautifully embroidered bedding sets from Siccawei convent, nursing bottles, silver rattles—the store was filled with thousands of gorgeous things to melt a mother’s heart.

  Nina was going around shelves and counters, wrapping her tummy in fox fur-coats. “I can’t choose anything,” she said, looking totally lost. “So many lovely things—it makes me dizzy.”

  “You sit and have rest,” Tamara replied. “I’ll manage it myself.”

  Clerks piled children’s clothes in front of her, but she didn’t have time to make out anything. Nina gasped—the hem of her dress was wet, an embarrassing puddle appeared on the floor.

  “What is it?” she exclaimed.

  Tamara’s heart started to pound. “Your waters broke. Quick! Get in the car!”

  Two trucks had crushed on the corner of Weihaiwei Road with dozens of cars at a dead stop. Nina’s little girl was born on the back seat of her Ford. Her chauffeur delivered the baby under Tamara’s close directions from her palanquin, while her carriers chased away the curious onlookers.

  2.

  Martha placed an advertisement in numerous newspapers:

  Dear nature lovers! We are opening a night butterflies explorers’ club. The class tutor is an experienced specialist, Martha Spencer. The meetings are held every night starting at 7 p.m. First-quality and healthy material is provided for experiments. We also have a fully- licensed buffet bar.”

  Klim went to see the new establishment.

  Martha was modest in calling it a buffet—this was a chic restaurant with a stage and a dance floor. The gals were dancing the Charleston—the trendiest dance on all five continents. Their stockings were rolled down according to fashion, their eyebrows were plucked into a straight line, and the amount of make-up covering their faces could compete with any Japanese geisha’s.

  “We’ve already been attacked by our competitors,” a bartender bragged to Klim. “They’re not happy with us stealing their clients. Three days ago somebody brought a sack full of snakes and set them loose under the table. You should have heard the squealing! But our business is booming and you can’t argue with that. We’re planning to open a branch in Canton. The American fleet is staying there now and there are loads of prospective customers.”

  Klim wanted to talk to Martha, but she was busy darting around the restaurant, giving instructions and arranging the night’s entertainment.

  “Have a drink on me and wait right here,” Martha ordered Klim.

  When Lissie read Klim’s interview with Nina, she’d told him, “Shanghai is in sync with the times: we have our own Marchesa Casati.”

  “Who’s that?” Klim asked, surprised.

  “Don’t you know? She’s an Italian heiress. The Europeans are crazy about her. Cheetahs wander around her mansion instead of cats; she patronizes poets and artists and spends thousands on her balls.”

  Lissie just didn’t understand that clever women made money—not spent it, and they preferred to patronize high officials instead of poets. This Marchesa Casati had a long way to go to catch up with Nina.

  Klim had dialed her number several times—for some reason he hoped that she would ask him to come over again. But her maid always said the missy wasn’t home. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Nina didn’t believe in eternal love. Long ago, when they were on Stark’s ship, she said, “We’re constantly changing and growing out of old love. So, we shouldn’t build any illusions.”

  Only children can grow out of love—adults wear it out. Nina treaded her love down like the sole of a shoe; unlike Klim, who kept it close to his heart.

  Soon he and Nina would have a baby. Incredible. … If Nina didn’t let him see their child, should he eat humble pie? Or demand a share in her happiness?

  To love is to wait for something all the time: it’s the passengers’ lot to be carried from one station to another. A merciless engine driver controls your life: if he wants, you’ll arrive at your destination; if he doesn’t, he’ll let the train miss the stop.

  “Hello!” Martha said, sitting next to Klim at the bar. “Hey, Walter, pour me some soda. No whiskey please or I’ll drop before the end of the night.”

  The bartender gave her a glass; Martha sipped a bit and padded her lips with her handkerchief.

  “Have you heard the news?” she touched Klim’s shoulder. “It turns out that the Czechoslovakian Consul was an impostor. He was using his diplomatic status to trade in wine and arms—I just heard about it. The police went to arrest him in a restaurant on Nanking Road, but he upped and died from fright. They say it was a heart attack. His buddy was put under house arrest—she’s just given birth to a baby.”

  3.

  There were only two windows lit at Nina’s house: one at the top and one on the first floor. A Chinese policeman waited, bored at the gates. Klim looked at him, breathing heavily. He had run the whole way—the trams had finished for the day.

  “I need to see the lady you’ve arrested,” he demanded, showing his press pass.

  The policeman shook his head. “We’re not letting anyone in at night.”

  “But tomorrow’s paper is about to be printed and we urgently need an interview with Ms. Kupina. It’s a matter of international importance.”

  The policeman refused to listen to him. They bickered for a while until another Chinese policeman appeared—he was of a higher rank.

  “Not allowed,” he shouted.

  “Allowed!” Klim shoved his watches at him. The policeman weighed them in his palm. “Come through, but she won’t talk to you. She’s wild.”

  They entered the demolished living room; the lower ranks promptly stood to attention. “Mis
sy is at hers. No emergencies happened,” reported one of them.

  From the second floor, a baby’s cry was heard. Klim ran upstairs; a thin squeal cut though his ears. He knocked on the door and came in without waiting for a reply. Nina was standing in the middle of the room, lit by a night lamp. The room was trashed: rags, papers and broken chairs were strewn all over the floor—the policemen had turned everything upside down.

  “What else do you want?” groaned Nina. She held the baby in her hands—naked, with its little face distorted from crying.

  Nina was in a panic. She hadn’t slept for two nights and had already kicked out her amah.

  “Qin walks and cold air swirls after her—do you understand? The baby could catch a cold!”

  There was nothing left remaining from the proud lady Klim used to know. In front of him stood a frightened female—young, inexperienced, trying to protect her child.

  “It’s a girl?” Klim asked. “Yes.” Nina moved away, as if scared he would take the baby from her. “She wants to eat.”

  Nina sat on a sofa and revealed an unnaturally big breast. The girl grasped the nipple. After the constant screaming, the silence was deafening.

  “What happened with Jiří?” asked Klim.

  Nina sighed, “I don’t know…I had no time to sort it out.” She closed her eyes for a moment, but started talking straight away, “If they arrest me, will you take care of Katya? After all, she’s your daughter as well.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Klim was sitting there, confused and not understand anything. His daughter, his wife…policemen downstairs… “You called her Katya?”

  “Yes. We need to baptize her. Can you find a priest?”

  “I can.”

  The commander of the guard appeared. “The next shift will come soon. Go away.”

  Klim stood up. He didn’t dare touch the baby. Is it really my daughter? Unbelievable…

  “Don’t worry about me,” Nina said quickly. “I have a very good lawyer; he’ll get me out of this mess. Come tomorrow and bring a priest.”

  Klim walked in the black-and-white city. His breath was steaming in the cold air. The sidewalks were covered in snow. His fear for his wife and daughter was so tremendous and disturbing, as if someone had threaded a red-hot wire in between his shoulder blades. Klim turned to the House of Hope and lifted his eyes to the quiet sky. Every star was like a spectator at the Colosseum, waiting for the result of a gladiatorial battle.