White Shanghai

by Elvira Baryakina

Kantorovich laughed. “Are you crazy? The Soviets will pay for everything.”

  After the meeting with the lawyer, the warden searched Nina again.

  “When I come to you, it’s my happiest hours,” she said. “You’re so white, so fresh…”

  Nina didn’t feel anything anymore, just a subdued grief.

  Night. The damn bedbugs. Go right—break your neck. Go left— spend all your life in jail. Go straight—they’ll make you serve the Bolsheviks. The commies aren’t helping you for northing. They’ll want something in return.

  A decision came to Nina, strong and stubborn: Dream on, comrades! Even if I get out of here, I’m not playing by your rules. I’m going to Shanghai to make peace with my husband.

  But what if Klim was already here, in Peking? Despite all the hurdles, he knew where Nina was and had come to save her?

  The more she thought about it, the stronger she intuitively felt: Yes, he’s here in Peking. It can’t be any other way.

  CHAPTER 79

  STALIN’S MONEY

  1.

  A black carriage waited at the prison gates.

  “Get in,” the guard ordered.

  Fanya Borodina and the diplomatic couriers sat inside on wooden benches.

  “Nina, my dear!” Fanya grasped her arms and started to cry.

  “Comrades, take courage, please,” said Greibus, the diplomatic courier, but he was also touched and turned to the barred window so nobody saw his tearful eyes.

  Two soldiers with rifles climbed into the carriage. “Stop talking!”

  “It’s a good sign they’re taking all of us to the hearing,” Greibus whispered to Nina, his voice stammered from anxiety.

  They were marched into a large, brightly lit hall with a table and three chairs raised on a platform. No one was sitting in the audience seats: it was a closed hearing.

  Kantorovich gave the accused his final instructions, “Please control your feelings—that’s the most important. And we,” he exchanged glances with his Chinese colleagues, “will organize everything.”

  The translator boomed, “All rise!”

  The judge’s face was blank—a death mask.

  “Sit.”

  The accused were interrogated through the translator one by one. “Say your name and how long you’ve lived in China?”

  Time crawled unbelievably slowly. Nina exhausted herself watching a clock on the wall. Only afterwards, she realized it was broken. Fanya fidgeted and fanned herself. Nina worried she would do something crazy, spoiling everything. Life sentence or execution… a thought kept throbbing in Nina’s head. If they condemn me to execution, how do they do it? Cut my head off?

  Fanya only risked everything once when the prosecutor accused her of smuggling into China seventy million dollars in silver for revolutionary purposes.

  “Can you imagine how much that is—seventy million?” she protested. “Did I bring it in under my skirt?”

  Kantorovich flashed a pleading glance at her, and Fanya fell silent.

  How much time passed—who knew? Their lawyers talked calmly, in Chinese, something about article one hundred and one and the many other articles used against them.

  A pigeon sat on the windowsill. One set of claws was red, the other— black in a disturbing play of light and shade.

  The judge called for a break.

  “I think he listened to Ma Dezheng,” Greibus said.

  Nina nodded. Ma did look convincing like a Chinese sage.

  On July 1, 1927, Marshal Zhang Zuolin appointed himself Generalissimo and announced an amnesty.

  “He had a golden robe made for him—eighty thousand dollars!” Kantorovich told Nina in his meeting. “Probably, thinks he’s going to be the next emperor.”

  The jail was elated. Each day, guards would line prisoners from the lower floors in the yard and a warden would shout in a high-pitched voice, “You’re free!” Exultant yells and applause followed. Nina wasn’t invited to come downstairs. She believed she was now the last prisoner in an entirely empty jail.

  At the second hearing, their lawyers tried to prove the defendants were entitled to an amnesty. The judge snorted, barely noticeably. But Nina couldn’t bear it any longer and asked to have a word. “Call in the captain of Commemoration of Lenin, and the ones who searched us. They’ll tell you, we didn’t have any weapons or communist propaganda materials.”

  The judge stared at her and said something. The translator shook his head. “The captain is not here, so it’s not in your best interests—the matter could take several more weeks if he is summoned.”

  What did he mean? Nina thought in panic. For God’s sake, what does he have in mind?

  She exchanged glances with Fanya and the diplomatic couriers. None of them understood the meaning of the words. Either the judge wanted to get rid of them as fast as he could, or he really wished them well.

  Nina couldn’t sleep on the night of the last hearing.

  I’ll kill myself… That’s what was needed: a heart attack, a stroke, something to make her sleep and never wake up. But, it wasn’t long to go now: tomorrow was the verdict then she’d be taken to a square and put in front of a crowd…

  When Nina was ten, a street Gypsy read her palm and told her she’d have three sons and a long, calm life. Nina’s mother gave the liar a ruble. Though, if the Gypsy had spoken the truth, the old woman wouldn’t have earned a thing, as no one would have believed her. Bloody madness, indeed:

  You’ll survive the Great War, the Civil War in Russia and the Civil War in China. You will marry a count, but you’ll lose everything. Then you’ll marry a penniless journalist and the story will repeat itself. Your baby will die, but eventually you’ll have a lot of money. When you turn thirty, Chinese people will execute you for a coup attempt.

  Probably, having her head cut off wasn’t as bad as it was quick.

  For most of her life, Nina had been plagued by the nightmare of the headless rooster. She looked into dream-books, asked doctors and fortune-tellers—no one could explain the dream. In the end, it was all very simple.

  2.

  The court room again. Pigeons bobbed on the windowsills, the clerk read the records, the translator translated, yawning.

  Nina kept her eyes on the judge. What had Zhang Zuolin ordered him to do? Everyone knew court hearings were just make-believe, so what was the point in tormenting the prisoners? Or is this prelude to Chinese torture, all part of the punishment?

  The judge wrote something for a long time, his brush knocking rhythmically on the edge of his inkpot.

  They’re going to murder me…

  The judge slammed a stamp on his paper, said something, quietly and unemotionally. Here it comes…

  The translator scratched his cheek.

  “On behalf of the Republic, the Judge Huo Cong pronounces—”

  3.

  The Legation Quarter: tall walls, mansions, shops, gardens—all clean, quiet and wealthy.

  Klim met Judge Huo Cong in a private room of the Golden Pagoda restaurant. The judge sat in front of him, his hands folded on his stomach.

  “It’s nice to talk to a foreigner who knows Shanghainese. It’s such a rarity here in Peking. I must confess I enjoy speaking my native language.”

  Klim tried not to show his impatience.

  “Two hundred thousand silver dollars,” Huo Cong finally said. “You have to understand that if I free Fanya Borodina and her people, I’ll be announced a state criminal. I’ll lose everything, all I have earned from years of hard work.”

  “I understand.”

  “Let your people bring half the sum before the announcement of the verdict. And the rest as soon as the convicts are freed. I’ll have less than an hour to escape the city.”

  “Okay,” Klim replied.

  Nina’s life cost two hundred thousand little pieces of silver. And who was the only person who could provide it? Comrade Stalin.

  4.

  Rubtsoff lied. The verdict was announced in the morning,
not at two in the afternoon.

  When Klim arrived at the court building, it was already cordoned off. Agitated journalists rushed about trying to learn the details.

  “The judge was corrupt!” someone shouted in the crowd. “Straight after the hearing, he jumped into a car and left.”

  “Zhang Zuolin is mad with anger. The judge’s wife, brother and children have all been arrested.”

  Klim rushed to the Soviet Embassy where there was gathered a crowd of reporters and onlookers, a lot of Russians among them. A person in a service jacket announced at the entrance, “Comrade Fanya Borodina and her companions were here, but they have already left.”

  “Where did they go?” Klim shouted.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

  Klim drove madly around the city until evening. He visited Rubtsoff’s house and for a long time pummeled the gates, but to no avail. He climbed the wall, finding the place empty, a padlock on the door. In the lawyer’s office, a frightened-to-death secretary told him, “Kantorovich didn’t appear today. Soldiers came, and policemen were asking for him as well.”

  Again the Embassy, court building, prison, newspaper offices…

  No use. Nina had disappeared.

  Klim returned to his hotel. Kitty hung from his neck. “Daddy’s here! I was not a good girl, but only a little bit bad. I wanted to sweep the floors, but Nanny Valentina wouldn’t let me. And also I love you very much and will hug you right through. Why are you not laughing when I tickle you?”

  Klim pressed her close to himself. “I will laugh. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 80

  SOMETHING TO HOPE FOR

  1.

  Don Fernando sang of his love for the whole of Shanghai. His voice sounded from wide open windows, from restaurants and street loud-speakers.

  “That was Fernando Burbano,” Klim said into the microphone. “And I’m saying good bye to you. Meet you tomorrow, eleven in the morning, on the same station. Take care.”

  The Don leant back in his chair, his face red. From his temple to his collar stretched a sweaty rivulet; his eyes shone triumphantly.

  He padded his forehead with a handkerchief. “Have you heard what crazy Martha did?” he asked Klim. “Some guy went to her brothel, used girls in credit, but didn’t pay. Last Sunday, she went to a church service and when they started to gather donations, she put his chits in the basket. ‘Bearer of this to pay for debts in a brothel—’ What a mad scandal that was!”

  Klim chuckled, “That’s funny!” And noticed a technician waving frantically behind the glass screen. “Oh no, we forgot to switch off the mike!”

  Don Fernando roared with laughter and then cursed everything, before deciding that that’s how it should be: now people would be talking about his mistake in every tram. Free advertising for Martha and him!

  Their secretary, Olga, knocked and peeped through the door, showing Klim a Russian newspaper.

  “Look, here’s a reprint of the article from Moscow Pravda. Fanya Borodina is already in the Soviet Union, and Zhang Zuolin is still looking for her in Peking. He announced there will be a thirty thousand dollar reward for her head. Here,” Olga poked the headline with her nail. “She’s been interviewed.”

  Don Fernando had gossiped to everyone about Nina’s story and now the radio station staff considered it their duty to express their condolences to Klim.

  He took the newspaper.

  Apparently after the court hearing, Fanya and her companions hid in Peking at a Russian orientalist’s house. It was too dangerous to leave the capital: all the roads and train stations were watched.

  In the interview, Fanya explained how they escaped: “Our landlord had many visitors, that’s why his neighbors never paid any attention to our car arriving at his gates. My cousin and I were dressed as nuns— modest black robes and huge white headpieces. We left the city in the same car.”

  Then the story continued, detailing how the fugitives crossed the border through a desert. They were met on the Soviet side and immediately put on a train.

  Klim took a huge breath. So, Nina was in Moscow.

  He stood. “Okay, I have to go.”

  Don Fernando grasped his sleeve, “Where?”

  “To Russia.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  2.

  But it took several months for Klim to obtain a Russian visa.

  The steamer, Comrade Volodarsky, was leaving at four in the afternoon. Klim, an American citizen, held a passport stating he had a daughter— her name forged into his documents by the artist Guo. Klim wore a light-gray coat, Homburg hat and carried a redwood cane under his arm. Dockers dragged a dozen of his newly bought suitcases up the ramp.

  “Daddy, look! Uncle Tony!” Kitty screamed.

  Aulman waved from a crowd of disheveled, bearded Russians. He gave his papers to an on-duty sailor and joined Klim and Kitty.

  “You’re going to Russia, after all?” Tony said. “Then you’ll keep my clients company. Like a fool, I took up the case of the sailors from the Commemoration of Lenin. For half a year, I rushed around prisons to them. In the Shanghai Club, they’ve stopped exchanging bows with me—they think I’ve sold out to the Bolsheviks. But how could I say no to people rotting alive in dungeons without a trial or records? No body of crime, nothing to stick to. I finally managed to talk the Chinese into deporting them back to the USSR.”

  “How’s Tamara?” Klim asked.

  “Better.” Aulman’s eyes became warm. “Much better. She sees Mitya every day. He’s a magician: he talks to her and that’s enough to make her feel better. I’m afraid to scare away my happiness; I’ve become more superstitious than a Chinese washer-woman.”

  They exchanged handshakes. “

  You know, Klim, you don’t even begin to understand how lucky you are. You have something to hope for and it’s the most important thing of all.”

  Klim met Aulman’s eyes to see the lawyer smiling. “I wish you all the best.”

  His clients called him and Tony ran back to arrange their boarding.

  “Klim!” Ada pushed through the crowd. She wore a travel suit and a worn map case hung at her side. Mitya followed, carrying two big sacks.

  “We’re going to Panama!”

  “Half of the dream came true?” Klim smiled.

  Ada pulled her shoulders back and gave him a proud look. “All my dreams come true.”

  Klim turned to Mitya. “And you’re going to Panama, too? What about Tamara?”

  “She doesn’t need me anymore. Ada does.”

  A horn sounded on the little steamer transporting passengers to the big ocean liners.

  Ada crossed herself. “That’s us, we’re off. If God allows, we’ll see you again.”

  Mitya lifted the sacks, “Where to?”

  “Follow me.”

  In his eyes: love, love, love.

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