Nazar whispered to Klim that the Communist Youth Organization was spreading leaflets around the city, organizing propaganda teams to visit Chinese factories and plants—to wake people up from their thousand-year sleep.
“You want to become a rotten old senile?” Sokoloff thundered. “Do you want a life as worn-out as a bureaucrat’s pants, so after your death, nobody will sing a song about you at their campfire? There are not many of us, but that’s how it should be. Only a few can become true heroes, for heroes are the ones who pick up banners stained in blood and it’s them who carry the new faith!”
2.
Theodor Sokoloff wiped his sweaty forehead. The listeners came up to him with questions; young ladies thanked him heartily, asking when the next meeting was.
Sokoloff saw in the crowd a dark-haired man in a uniform jacket with no badge of rank. He’d never noticed this one before.
He walked up to him and asked, “Have you lived long in Shanghai?”
“Since January, 1923.”
“And how is it here? Crappy? It’s all because you, former officers, have no goal in life. Hunger, cold weather and everything else can be endured if you know what it’s all for. Who were you spilling your blood for? For General Glebov? He sold the military transport Zaschitnik and bought a house and a car for himself. What a patriot! Now this ship will not serve the Motherland, but Chinese bandits.”
Nazar, the sweet boy on crutches, introduced his friend to Sokoloff, “It’s Klim Rogov. I told him there’s no point us staying here. We’ll go home with General Anisimov on his ship Mongugai. He won’t let Glebov sell this one to the Chinese.”
“How do you know about Anisimov?” Klim asked, surprised.
“I arrived here by the Mongugai, I have friends on there. The Cossacks are dying to go to Russia, but Glebov doesn’t let them. He ordered his people to open fire if they try stealing the ship. But we’ll make our way out anyway. Trust me, in a couple of months, we’ll be home in our Motherland.”
3.
Klim and Felix were like doctors discussing a patient. The medical history of Comrade Sokoloff was on the agenda.
“To me, the diagnosis is quite clear,” Klim said. “He wasn’t given enough love in his childhood, Mommy slapped his bottom with a belt and Daddy was snoring on the bed, always drunk. This resulted in a complete contempt towards notions of home, family and bourgeois comfort. The patient developed saliva incontinence and since then wants to conquer the world.”
Felix listened to Klim, chuckling from time to time.
“Entertaining, though not exactly what we needed. I sent you to find who recruits for the Christian General’s army. But, we can work with Sokoloff as well. Is it only youths he lectures to?”
“Sokoloff promises that communism will appear by itself when the old regime is completely destroyed. The only ones who believe him are children, from sixteen to twenty years old.” Klim looked at Felix pointedly, as the young policeman was himself about the same age as the conspirators. “They can only break and rebel; they want fame and recognition here and now. Sokoloff is creating a world in their heads where a pimply runt with a gun means more than a professor. Youth is when you believe that you can change everything with one daring stroke. Chronic poverty, no demand for their services in the present and a lack of prospects for the future—that’s a breeding ground for guys like Sokoloff.”
“Have you compiled a list of who visit his lectures?” Felix asked.
Klim thought of Pasha and Glasha Zaborovas and their cheerful, bright smiles. They’d taken him under their wing; he listened to their passionate speeches about communism and promised to think about entering their movement.
Klim shook his head. “I’m not going to compile any lists. Fanatics need victims—it allows them to unify people around a leader. If you arrest a few dozen youngsters, it’ll only play into Sokoloff’s hands.”
“What a philosopher,” Felix grumbled. “They gather in the Chinese City and what can we do to them? Are you sorry for Sokoloff as well?”
“No. He’s feeding people with fairytales, but in reality he’s accomplishing the Comintern’s tasks. Sooner or later Dogmeat will understand that Bolshevism is not to be trifled with and then arrests and executions will follow. Our young heroes will head to prison, and Sokoloff—to Moscow to grant the press interviews.”
“Our young heroes have already made their choice,” Felix sneered and changed the topic. “What about General Anisimov?”
The Cossacks were really struggling. They’d sat on the ships for a year and a half. Anisimov decided that Glebov had deliberately impeded negotiations with the authorities wishing to sell the ships on the sly to pocket the money. He contacted the Soviet Consulate on behalf of his crew and offered to give the Mongugai to the USSR if his people were allowed to return to Russia.
The North China Daily News received a letter from the Mongugai crew. They were protesting about squandering the military property of Russia and called for all White Army soldiers and officers to return to the Motherland and atone for their sins with hard labor.
Felix listened grimly to Klim. “You worked in the Daily News, didn’t you?” On seeing Klim’s surprised look, Felix snorted, “We know all about you: which pseudonyms you used to write under and where you and your juvenile concubine live.”
“She’s my roommate.”
“Doesn’t matter. Get an interview for me with General Glebov and let him talk about his intentions. You’ll introduce yourself as a Daily News reporter.”
“Mr. Green won’t take an article from me.”
“He will. We’ll sort it out. But first, you’ll bring the interview here for me to check.”
Klim visited Glebov’s apartment. His adjutant, a dark-skinned young man in a black astrakhan hat, told him that the general had no problem talking to a member of the press.
“He will meet you in Bactria restaurant at nine in the morning.”
Felix gave Klim money so that he could treat the General.
4.
There were no customers in the restaurant. Security men stood at the doors and windows: there had been several assassination attempts on Glebov, so he took precautions against any Bolshevik agents.
The General had a thin and tired face, shaven skull, light eyebrows and a narrow brush of mustache. He looked completely exhausted.
He refused any food. “Tell your newspaper that we’re not given a chance,” he told Klim. “Forty people have died from diseases. The vessels are almost out of order. I’m selling rifles, because I need to feed my people. I sell to those who buy, the bandits. It’s a vicious cycle, because as soon as I start talking about our Cossacks coming into the city, the authorities scream, ‘You’re criminals, you trade weapons!’ They don’t let us earn; the charities refuse us; everyone would be so much happier if my Cossacks just died from starvation.”
Klim noted that Glebov’s palms were work-weary like a laborer’s.
“We’re the last detachment of the White Army which has kept discipline and their colors,” the General continued. “How do you explain this to the English and French? They offer to disarm us, so we lose everything—our honor, means of sustenance and guarantees of freedom. My people are suffering. I understand they are looking for someone to blame. I rent an apartment in the city for our sick people to recover—and they accuse me of using the money for private gain. Only one time, I drove to the Municipal Council by car and rumors began to circulate that I had bought an auto. One life won’t be enough to make excuses for everyone.
“And this scoundrel Anisimov weaves plots behind my back: Soviet spies promised him favors if he could get the Mongugai to Vladivostok. He simply doesn’t understand that it equals sending himself and his people as prisoners to a foul and merciless enemy. The Bolsheviks won’t keep their word: we’re their class foes, and to foes any lie will do. They call it a war ruse. Anisimov wrote a letter to the Foreign Affairs Office asking to transfer the Mongugai to the river dock—supposed maintena
nce. I know what he needs his maintenance for. But it’s okay. … We’ll throw all the scum off the ships and leave only the most trusted ones…”
Glebov scratched his eyebrow with a bluish, flaky nail. “Tell me, mister journalist, why do the foreigners see us as criminals? They’re not scared of the Chinese who hate them, but us, their allies, who fought on the Great War fronts together.”
Klim thought for a while. “Because China is foreign to them, and it’s all clear. But Russia is like a twin-brother lost in childhood. Just imagine for a moment, you walk along the street and you see your double approaching you—identical, but scruffy, beaten-up and ugly. You’re scared; you don’t know how this can be. You don’t want to know anything about this brother, even if he produces all the evidence that you’re blood relatives.”
Glebov sighed, “Oh well…doesn’t matter. Write in your paper that we, Cossacks of Shanghai, proclaim our union. Our goal is to unite Cossack veterans for emotional and financial support. And also tell them that I’m not going to give up. I’ll fight till the end when my boys go ashore. And not like criminals or refugees, but properly, as the warriors of the Allied powers.”
The General started to cough.
“Bring some water!” shouted his adjutant, running up to him.
There were no waiters in the hall and Klim peeped into the kitchen. “Can you get something to drink?” he asked a cook, fiddling near the sink.
The fellow turned—it was Theodor Sokoloff.
“What’re you doing here?” Klim frowned.
Sokoloff pressed his finger to his lips.
Klim dashed into the hall. The adjutant wasn’t seen anywhere. Glebov, red, with swollen veins on his temples, was hungrily drinking the water. Klim snatched his glass.
“Leave immediately,” he whispered.
The General looked in his eyes, concerned. “What’s the matter?”
“Leave!”
Klim rushed to the exit.
CHAPTER 48
FAMILY VIOLENCE
1.
At first, Ada was a bit shy bringing Mitya on her errands, but he was more than happy to go anywhere with her. They caught up with Betty, went to the market and even visited to the cinema. She would just ask him, “Would you sit near the entrance?” And Mitya would sit and wait for her.
Ada told him about how unbearable Klim was and about her hopes to move into a new apartment. She still hadn’t had a chance to tell Mr. Bernard about her living conditions. They had started training Volunteer Corps, so Daniel had his military business straight after work. Ada began to worry: maybe his passion for her had subsided?
She could tell Mitya anything. European ceremonies and moral norms were unknown to him. He was so far removed from western ways that sometimes his advice would have her rolling in laughter.
“You need to go to Shandong province to someone I know,” Mitya said once. “He is a very rich merchant.”
“What for?” asked Ada, derisively.
“He came to Shanghai not long ago, peeked in a cabar…caber…I don’t know.”
“Cabaret?”
“Yes. He liked Russian girls so much that he bought the whole cabaret company for his harem. It’s very good: they don’t need to work anymore.”
Mitya took everything literally. Once he said to Ada, “Give me some soap. I need to wash something.”
She offered him ten cents, but he wouldn’t take it. “I don’t need cents. Give me soap.”
Ada asked him to bring her a pastry and Mitya would come back with a pastry and the money.
“You didn’t say buy, you said bring.”
“So, you stole from someone?” Ada gasped.
“No. I went to a bakery shop and asked. They gave.”
For some reason, Mitya was allowed everywhere and given anything.
One day he arrived with a new bicycle saying it was a present from the Sky. Ada took him to a bookstore on Foochow Road. He tied her purchases to a luggage rack and went nearby, holding the bike by a handlebar.
It was getting dark. Servants carried garlands of red lanterns on bamboo sticks hanging them over the store entrances.
“Mitya, will you come to America with me?” Ada asked.
“I will. Where is it? In Japan?”
She laughed. Klim was right: Mitya was the happiest person in the world. He didn’t know how to dream and had never heard of New York or San Francisco.
But Ada was not happy—even new books didn’t bring her much joy. The money Daniel gave her was running out. First, she’d wanted to save it, but, tired of penny-pinching, she’d started spending.
“You need to part with your coins happily,” Betty taught her. “If you won’t buy those checkered crossword-puzzle stockings you want, it’ll mean you’ll spend your best years without them.”
Ada felt as if Shanghai had taken hold of her. It had forced her into a stuffy room in the House of Hope with no space for anything except useless hopes.
“I hate Shanghai,” she said, looking at the lanterns swinging in the wind.
Mitya was surprised. “Why? Shanghai is such a poetic city. You see that sign? It says, House of Magnificent Aromas: Musical Feasts with Wine for Guests from Manchuria and China. And over there is the White Cloud of Joy: a Watchmaker. And then Orchard of Eternal Spring: Fragrant Grains and All Kinds of Dried Vegetables. These are very beautiful words.”
Ada laughed. “But I can’t read Chinese.”
“I’ll translate for you. Look, this is the charcoal store Heavenly Embroidery. And there’s Happy Union of Every Virtue pharmacy.
“And over there, at the tea store?”
“Temple Of Golden Mean: ‘We sell midday tea.’ Behind it is the White Phoenix: ‘Pills helping women, eye wash with eight precious substances and proven tools for alleviating the effects of opium.’”
“What is written at that restaurant?”
Mitya hesitated. “Drunken Moon Tavern: Black Cats’ Meat, Canton Favorite.”
For a while, they went silent.
“Do you love me?” Ada asked, quietly.
“Of course,” Mitya replied. “You’re very nice.”
Everyone loved her: Klim, Daniel and Mitya, and all were completely useless. What was she to do with this love?
When they arrived home, the landlord gave Ada a note written in Edna’s handwriting.
Mr. and Mrs. Wayer have returned. Brittany is already with her parents. They will be waiting for you at their house at eight o’clock.
2.
Lissie couldn’t believe she was home. The trip around the world had taken a year, but to her, it seemed a lifetime. Who would have thought that she would so desperately miss Shanghai?
Her room was stuffed with suitcases. Brittany was rummaging in their lilac-silky insides, pulling out stockings, blouses, leaflets from the British Empire Exhibition and a plush toy penguin.
“How cute! Mommy, can I play with it?”
“Yes, you can.”
During the trip Lissie had completely grown to hate Robert. The whole time he exhausted her with stories about the wretched accident, vowing not to take a drop of liquor ever again. He lamented about the ponies he had left as a deposit and hadn’t paid off before they left. Robert was spoiling her life, causing constant ache like a rock in her shoe.
“Pony auctions start in March,” he kept saying. “They’ll bring hundreds of heads from Mongolia—something to choose from. I’d buy five…”
Lissie looked at his sagging shape—Robert had grown so fat he would break the back of any pony. He forced her to share his shame and exile. On the trip from Bombay to Shanghai, Lissie cheated on him with a looker, a chief mate—not so much out of passion, but out of a desire to have her own private life, separate from her spouse.
Brittany’s happy cry, “Mommy is back!” touched Lissie to tears, though it only took ten minutes for the loud voice of her daughter to begin annoying her.
“Sweetie, go and play in the other room.”
But
Brittany was sticking around like glue. “Mom, Daddy said you saw the Prince of Wales.”
“Daddy lied.”
“No, it’s true! He said that at the British Empire Exhibition there was a Prince of Wales made of butter. Did they eat him afterwards?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
The best treasures Lissie brought were European fashion magazines. While Robert was dreaming about ponies, she was thinking, drawing and writing articles. Flappers was to step up to the next level. Even though she regretted her time spent in the exile, this year wasn’t spent in vain—Lissie had learned so much.
“Mom! Mo-o-m!”
“What?”
“I can make road signs! Let me tell you which ones and you’ll draw them and we’ll hang them around the garden, so that everyone will follow them.”
“What kind of signs, goodness me?”
“Prohibited to beat worms with a spade. It’s a very important sign, or they crawl out after rain and the gardener executes them.”
“Go ask Daddy.”
“But Daddy can’t draw like you!”
“Later… Go and play.”
Next morning, Hugh appeared for breakfast. He had grown older, the skin on his throat sagged like a turkey’s wattle.
“Anything that’s done is done for the best,” he said, nudging his son. “People’s memories are so short, everyone will soon forget the story.”
Robert looked at him as if he was being tortured.
How stupid Hugh is, Lissie thought scornfully. Can’t he see that his consoling words are rubbing salt into the wounds?
“This woman, Nina Kupina…is she here?” Robert asked.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m holding her right here,” Hugh showed Robert his gaunt fist with arching veins.
“Don’t,” Robert winced. “I’m guilty before her.”
He looked at his plate, but Hugh wasn’t finished talking about the right of the strong and how nature doesn’t allow dithering. “Every sane person may use advantages given by his nation and social status,” he proclaimed.
To change the subject, Robert started to ask the old man about his work.
White Shanghai Page 37
