White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

  “And you, Mr. Bernard, what do you like most of all?”

  “Never ask this question of an egotist and a cynic. He’ll disgrace himself and embarrass you.”

  “If you want to flatter me, tell me that you love me.”

  “And you’ll be in love with a cup of coffee and a white dressing gown? Count me out, or I’ll go crazy from despair.”

  After all, Daniel could make her laugh. In this art, no one could compete with him.

  Nina began teasing Daniel that she was madly jealous of the governess he’d sent to her studio. “Come clean, what did you see in her?”

  “It’s not my fault that her type is in fashion now. She has big eyes and is thin as a toothpick.”

  “You’d do better to let me play princess.”

  “Oh no!” Daniel exclaimed, pulling from his pocket the ivory disk Nina had given him. He deftly tossed it in his palm. “Little foxes, kitsunes, are priceless rarities in our times. They can’t be replicated—it’ll bring their worth to naught.”

  Even in refusal, Daniel somehow turned it into a compliment.

  3.

  Nina was depressed again when she returned home. She wandered the house thinking about Klim. Why had he come? Although, did it really matter? It didn’t. He was the last person to trust.

  She went to the bathroom before bed and took out a comb to brush her hair, but placed it back on the vanity. She took off her night-gown. She was terribly afraid that breastfeeding would spoil her breasts, but on the contrary, they’d become fuller.

  Her waistline wasn’t as thin as it had been, but the change was barely noticeable.

  She was a body type popular twenty years ago. In those times, ladies wore corsets and big hats with ostrich feathers, and magazine cover girls were opera prima donas, not anemic skiers.

  Daniel once called Nina a Gibson Girl. He said that in America before the war, there was a very popular artist called Charles Dana Gibson who created an icon of fashion: a graceful and somewhat sad lady with an hour-glass body and refined features.

  So, Nina had beauty which was out of fashion and that’s why she was neglected.

  God knows, she wanted to always stay up with the times. What if there was no Great War and no revolution in Russia? Her first husband would still be alive and they would have had children. They would have spent summers in sunny Crimea; winters would be full of Christmas bustle. No need to even think about money, just indulge in some charity work for her own pleasure. When Nina thought about it, full of self-pity, a lump formed in her throat.

  She picked up her night-gown from the floor and shoved her fists into the sleeves. She had no one left except a loud Chinese girl, who had learned to say, “Mommy, come here!”

  Nina had been so busy with the calendars she’d stopped visiting Tamara. In the beginning, she had no time and now she felt shame at her own bad manners.

  Nina climbed into bed and took a phone from her bedside table to dial the Aulmans. Tamara wasn’t asleep.

  “I’m so happy you called. How are you?” she asked.

  Nina started with excuses, blamed Kitty for her lack of sleep and lied that the little girl had been sick for a while. But Tamara cracked her straight away. “Did something happen?”

  Nina told her about Wayer. “Tamara, I’m losing heart…”

  “Start all over.”

  “How? Wayer will bankrupt me! Should I really flee Shanghai?”

  “If that’s the case, flee to the next street, to the French Concession. Wayer won’t be able to do anything there.”

  “He’ll send the bandits after me.”

  “Hire bodyguards. And think, maybe you should start a business which no one can take away. No goods—they’re easy to steal or spoil; only work with people.”

  Nina wanted to drop everything and go to Tamara, tuck her nose into her old friend’s dry and warm palm and just for a little while stay in the house where everyone loves each other and everything is so predictable. But how could she ask to come after so many weeks of brazen absence?

  “Come tomorrow,” Tamara said, guessing her thoughts. “We’ll discuss everything.”

  “Okay.”

  Nina hung up. What if she really could start a new business? She felt frantic, mad with pity about the calendars—it took so much effort to make it happen! But, what’s the point in banging your head against the wall when it doesn’t work out anyway? The risks were too high and so many things could go wrong.

  Both Tamara and Daniel had now recommended Nina hire security. In Shanghai, everyone who had money was afraid of robbers and kidnappers, especially the Chinese fat cats who arrived from war pillaged provinces. They were totally helpless; they didn’t have any friends or relatives who could recommend trusted people. You can hire a person and he’ll turn out to be a gang member.

  Nina pulled her blanket up to her chin.

  If she employed Russian officers and offered their services to wealthy Chinese, that could work out. Those guys would be able to protect Nina as well—from Wayer and whoever else. And she really could move to the French Concession, it would be easier to obtain a license there. Binbin could help her find her first clients.

  Nina didn’t sleep till dawn; she wriggled in bed, thinking, Gibson Girl, the owner of a security agency—utter madness. … Once Daniel showed her a very good quote by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “Do what you must, and come what may. That is the command to a chevalier.”

  That’s right—come what may.

  CHAPTER 46

  GOD SAVE THE TSAR!

  1.

  All the noble White Army officers had vanished into prison and Maria Zaborova lamented profusely, even considering turning herself in to the police. But if she did this, who would be left to run the great Slavic fascist movement?

  Makar couldn’t sleep, scared those whiskered Sikhs would come and take his precious girl to prison.

  “You, Daddy, are a horrible chicken-heart,” Maria said. “My friends are trustworthy people. They won’t blab a word about me.”

  Makar pleaded with Maria to go to Harbin and keep a low profile during these troubled times, but she wouldn’t listen. He could see how her heart was full of despair at losing her friends. Through acquaintances, she sent parcels to the prison and tried to find a lawyer. But she had no money to pay him anyway.

  Only Nazar, the guy with the wounded leg, still visited the Zaborovs’ apartment. Maria swore to take revenge on the woman who shot him, but Nazar said it’s no use dealing with people who carry guns.

  Pasha and Glasha, the younger daughters of Makar, found Nazar a place at their friends. The little brats stole a perspective suitor from Maria. Now he was hanging out with them, sitting on the porch, cracking nuts and telling them about his great deeds.

  Again, Makar’s parental heart began to glow with hope. Nazar was a goofy phenomenon with a futile trade—photography. If his leg grew together in the wrong place, he may even stay crippled. But anyway, Makar kept bringing the children ginger or vanilla ice-cream from the factory. Perhaps his darling sweethearts would come to some agreement, sitting there on the porch.

  Then Makar was caught stealing these presents and kicked out of the factory without even his week’s pay.

  The poorest creatures of all are Russians with no work. They would drift down to the labor market in the Chinese City. There they would drag shreds of hay left from horse or buffalo feed, throw it all in a big pile and make themselves comfortable. On the soles of their boots they would write with chalk the price for a day’s work. Those who were weak and had no skills—twenty-five cents; young and strong even dared to write a dollar. Chinese contractors would walk along the rows of the stretched out legs, then after merciless haggling would take the workforce they needed.

  Makar didn’t know how to explain to them that he was a maintenance person. In the beginning, he even wanted to ask a dollar, but no one took him. The whole week he wasted money on his tram fare, borrowing from his daughters.

  Only when
he dropped the price till it was not even funny to utter, they took him to a tannery—to drag skins out of lime pools and scrape bristle off them.

  It was primeval: an existence of dirt, dust, stench and horror. After his shift, Makar walked out of the workshop past Chinese workers hunkered down along the wall. They looked at Makar, roaring with laughter.

  “What’re you neighing about, devils?” he grumped.

  But the Chinese only laughed even more.

  “They’re probably saying that you’ve finally become a real white person,” somebody said in Russian. “Your face is covered with lime dust.”

  Makar looked around in amazement—it was his co-worker. The whole day they’d dragged skins together and the fellow was also covered in flour, concealing his features.

  “I thought you were a Chinese!” Makar gasped. “If only I knew you were my dearest fellow countryman, I wouldn’t have kept quiet!”

  They introduced each other. His co-worker turned out to be Colonel Lazarev, a former commander of a Siberian infantry regiment. When Makar heard this he stood to attention.

  “At ease, soldier,” the Colonel smiled, sadly. “All of us here are dependent servants. Makar, I don’t know about you, but I’m not working in this hole again. We can catch consumption here and that’ll be the end of us.”

  Makar said that he couldn’t agree more.

  The next day they sat together in the labor market—with fifty cents written on their soles. Lazarev wrapped himself up in his patched officer’s overcoat, holding a roll-up in an aristocratic fashion: between his two fingers.

  “I have a wife and a little son in the French Concession. No work— the landlord soon will have had enough of us,” he sighed.

  Makar told him about his maidens. Lazarev listened, nodding his head.

  “It’s a most difficult time for youth now,” he said. “They don’t know how to apply themselves; they jump on one thing, then on another. We can’t judge them, Makar: no one can live without hope. Bolshevism, fascism, Chinese nationalism and other isms—all this is searching for a better life in the future. If our generation can’t even give our children a house and food, what else can the kids do?”

  Such a clever person was this Colonel, so noble, a simply amazing man. Someone told Makar that back in 1923, Rear Admiral Stark rewarded Lazarev with money for successfully talking the Municipal Council into allowing the refugees ashore. The Colonel didn’t leave a penny for himself and gave everything to a fund for the sick and wounded. He said, “I’m healthy, I’ll find a way somehow. But these people will die without medicine.”

  That’s what a remarkable man he was, and Makar watched with sad eyes what hard times the Colonel was in now.

  “When we earn enough for a tram, you, sir, come to visit our place with your wife and son for a cup of tea.”

  Lazarev would smile and reply, “Thank you, Makar.”

  Then what seemed a dream came true: a car appeared at the labor market, a white dame came out and headed straight for the Colonel who had just stood up to stretch his legs.

  Makar couldn’t hear what they were saying, as the dame took Lazarev out of earshot. But suddenly, the Colonel’s face lit up with joy. “Come,” he commanded Makar.

  They were told to sit in the car. Makar had never been driven in an automobile before. The seats were made of leather, the door handles were pure chrome, and the chauffeur was a Chinese with a tiny mustache.

  The dame turned out to be Russian, her name was Nina Kupina. She brought them to her office and asked all the details about their lives. Then she offered them more money than Makar had earned at the ice-cream factory. Ms. Kupina told them to find other servicemen and teach them everything about protecting property and individuals.

  “What dames are out and about these days,” Makar exclaimed, after they left the office.

  The Colonel hugged him. “My dearest friend, finally you and I have some hope. I’d already started to think that I would be scraping cow skins till the end of my days.”

  At home, Makar didn’t tell anyone the news—not to put a jinx on it.

  2.

  Klim got off at Avenue Joffre in the French Concession. Here and there were signs in Russian: Pharmacy, Fashion Hats, and Souvenirs. Almost half of the pedestrians were fair-haired and blue-eyed; even Russian Gypsies turned up from somewhere.

  Felix claimed that there were more than ten thousand of their fellow- countrymen in Shanghai. Klim knew the police could be trusted so long as there was nothing to be gained from lying.

  Nicholas II stared sadly from a poster on the cinema. The foyer was packed with Russians. Klim felt awkward: when you are used to having only foreigners around and suddenly find yourself in the company of your countrymen, it seemed they were spying on you, reading your thoughts and seeing straight through your second-hand uniform.

  Smoke from cheap tobacco hung above the caps and astrakhan hats. The voices boomed louder than the orchestra.

  “Have you heard, in the Chinese City, the rulers have changed again—the Dogmeat General made a landing.”

  “Who is this one? Another warlord?”

  “Zhang Zongchang, the governor of Shandong province. He’s called Dogmeat because he likes gambling, especially one game which is called Eating the Dog Meat.”

  “Does he really eat it?”

  “No, just plays cards like crazy. But the General is a real beast.”

  Finally, the doors to the viewing hall flew open and a crowd rushed to the benches—to take the best seats. Klim sat in the isle. A girl with a scar across her face shoved him a leaflet:

  Beauty Pageant: Miss Shanghai!

  The main prize is a trip to America.

  Should he give it to Ada?

  Klim put the leaflet into his pocket. He glanced over the audience, searching for Bolshevik instigators and not seeing any.

  The lights went out and the movie started. Grand Duchesses with parasols and the Tsar with his decorations ran to their car. Klim turned around to look at the audience—he was astonished to see all the hard faces become elated.

  “Orchestra! Play God Save the Tsar!” a heart-rending voice cried in the crowd.

  The benches moved and everyone stood up. They sang ardently, with tears in their eyes. The chronicle ended and an operator started to roll a different film—about the Great War.

  A person on crutches lurched up to Klim. “Make way for an invalid!”

  Klim moved his knees to the side. “Nazar, is that you? What’s happened?”

  “Bandits attacked. … I was saving a lady.”

  People shushed at them, “Go outside!”

  They left into the sunlit street and Klim saw Nazar had smartened up, with a new suit and a red pom-pom cap like the French sailors wore.

  “How are you?” asked Klim.

  Nazar looked around anxiously. “Not a word to anyone. We’re all mistaken—the Reds and the Whites. There is only one Russia and we have to serve it. I want to go back home, to Vladivostok, but I’m scared to go all by myself. Let’s go together? I have friends who can arrange everything: enlist you into the Chinese army or send you to Russia.”

  Klim moved his cap to the back of his head. And here we are—a Bolshevik instigator.

  3.

  Nazar told Klim that the matter could not be delayed: they had to go immediately and talk with someone.

  “I’m so happy I met you,” he kept saying. “I wanted to watch a comedy, but they show a dead Tsar. I got so upset, almost cried. So, what now? Go back home on these crutches? And here you were. It’s not for nothing I saw chocolate in my dreams today!”

  Klim smiled. His dream was rather different: a fair-sized frolicking cockroach.

  Nazar told Klim he had met the young ladies, Glasha and Pasha Zaborova, who sympathized with the Bolsheviks and had proper connections. He claimed they were positively in love with him and would help with his every wish.

  “They live with their daddy and older sister. The daddy is a softie, b
ut Maria—oh, she’s a fierce one. Every week she meets with some noble officers, even some barons, and she harps on and on about the nation and Slavic roots.”

  “Wait,” Klim didn’t understand, “so, they’re for the White Movement or for the return to Russia?”

  Nazar laughed, “Everyone pulls to one side or the other. Maria— she’s for the White officers, Pasha and Glasha—for the USSR.”

  “And who’s the Daddy for?”

  “He’s for the League of Nations—for no war.”

  Klim slowly worked out what was going on. At first Nazar had joined Maria Zaborova’s group, but soon got tired of the fight and ran off with the younger sisters. They didn’t frighten him with difficulties and didn’t ask for membership fees.

  “There’s nothing here for a Russian man,” Nazar said, full of enthusiasm. “But there, in the USSR, we’ll go to college, get a profession and will build a great future.”

  Nazar was like a stray puppy who had found a canteen and kept getting in the way, ready to lick everybody’s feet for a piece of bread.

  “Where are we going?” Klim asked.

  “To Comrade Sokoloff’s lecture, he’s the boss of my ladies. But never call him comrade—everything’s top secret.”

  CHAPTER 47

  THE COSSACK GENERAL

  1.

  Youthful conspirators crowded the apartment where Theodor Sokoloff, in a bow-tie and round silver glasses, was condemning the Russian emigration:

  “Your mothers carry handkerchiefs to wipe their tears. Your fathers argue about which of the sissy Tsar’s relatives should inherit Russia. Petty people! Drowning in misery, are they the ones who should rule the destinies of millions? They lost everything they possibly could. They fought for their children’s happiness? Look what they’ve got you into. You, my dear young ladies, dance with sweaty seamen in restaurants and you, my young fellows, peddle shoelaces in the streets. Your friends brought you here because this is where you’ll hear the truth. You won’t get drunk on vodka here, but on the feeling of your wings stretched wide and free. They taught you to save money—I’ll teach you to laugh in the face of danger. We came to this world to conquer kingdoms!”