Abigail drew back from him and studied his face. “I thought I sensed some reserve in you tonight, Kao,” she said quietly. “And I suppose I’m not entirely surprised. By now you must have done a little private checking on me — and I suppose you’ve discovered the link between Abigail Kellner and the Kellner Research Institute, in Hong Kong.”
She paused, giving Kao a chance to confirm her suspicion, but he said nothing.
“Well, no matter what you know, perhaps I ought to emphasize the obvious for you — I am only what I appear to be, a foreign- language teacher who loves China. You know well enough I’m not a Communist or a fellow traveler, but far from helping my father with his work in some underhand way, if that’s what you might have suspected, I should perhaps tell you that in the past five years I’ve not seen him once. Nor have I written him anything but the briefest of letters to inform him simply that his daughter is still alive and doing well by her own efforts, thank you. You see, lie didn’t want me to come to China at all. But I came anyway, believing, as you and Chairman Mao do, that in certain cases ‘rebellion is justified.’ That’s one of the chief reasons we’re barely on speaking terms.”
“I said nothing of any suspicion,” said Kao, his face expressionless. “But your explanation is very interesting.”
“I expect you’re also aware by now that my father was once a missionary — and that in the thirties he became a captive of the Red Army.”
Kao nodded. “And that you were born in China. I wondered why you’ve never spoken of that.”
“Perhaps for the same reason that you don’t want to discuss your work with me. I didn’t want it to get in the way of our friendship. But more important, the truth is I know almost nothing about it. My father’s always been tight-lipped on the subject for reasons best known to himself. That’s an even larger part of the reason we’re distant with one another.” Abigail rose from her seat, gathering up several dishes. “But I hope I’ll be able to put that right myself someday — perhaps soon.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kao with a quizzical expression.
“I’ll explain if and when I have something to tell you.” She smiled tantalizingly. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I make us jasmine tea.”
She carried the dishes into the small kitchen and when she returned to the room a few minutes later she was carrying a lacquered tray bearing a bamboo-handled teapot and two small decorated cups. Kao, who had stretched himself out wearily on the long sofa, watched her intently as she placed the tray on a low blackwood table and switched on a shaded table lamp. She knelt on the carpet to fill the cups and for a minute or two they sipped the fragrant tea in silence, looking at one another and listening to the occasional throb of passing Red Guard drums and the distant sound of raggedly chanted slogans.
“In case you decide you can’t stay tonight,” said Abigail at last, shifting closer and looking down into his face, “I’d like you to do something for me now.” She took one of his hands, pressing it between her own, and unhooked two or three of the delicate silver frog fastenings that closed the high neck of her silken blouse.
“I want you to undress me, Kao,” she murmured. “Now — before you go.”
Kao stared up at her, his eyes burning suddenly with a new brightness; then with slow, uncertain movements he began to unhook the remaining silver clasps one by one until finally the blouse fell open from top to bottom. Abigail wore nothing beneath it and with a quick movement she shrugged the garment from her shoulders, leaving herself naked to the waist. The sensation of his first impulsive caress caused her to shiver uncontrollably and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall backward as he raised himself toward her.
“Stay here with me, Kao,” she urged him in another frantic whisper and tugged open his shirt to rake her hands across his hard, lean chest. “Undress both of us.”
Kao obeyed, then, catching her face in both his hands, he kissed her fiercely; when he released her they gazed into one another’s eyes, awed by the breathless frenzy that had seized them.
“Kao, don’t wait,” Abigail gasped. “Don’t wait any longer.”
They encircled one another with frantic arms and she shifted beneath him, drawing him deep into herself. The profoundest feeling of union engulfed her, making her sob joyously aloud, and she forgot her separate existence for the space of several blinding seconds. Outside in the street, the sound of Red Guard drums and cymbals being beaten furiously on a moving vehicle grew louder, approaching at speed. The discordant chorus of sound reached a crescendo, drowning their ecstatic cries as the vehicle roared by outside; then the cacophony faded, melting rapidly into the distance.
Locked in their embrace, Kao and Abigail saw and heard nothing else beyond themselves. The first rage of passion began to ebb but for a long time both remained oblivious to their surroundings. Clinging tightly to each other, they had merged as one, their minds and bodies fused by an impulse of which they were both instinctively aware but which neither then could begin to understand.
8
Two evenings later Abigail entered a narrow lane a mile-or so from the Shanghai Conservatory of Music and halted before a gate-set in a low wall. In the deepening darkness, washing that fluttered from bamboo poles was faintly visible above the top of the wall and Abigail guessed that several families now shared the kitchens, bathrooms, and halls of most of the dilapidated old middle-class homes. Strips of torn and faded wall posters which had been stuck on the gate and wall weeks before were flapping raggedly in the evening breeze and by the feeble glow of a nearby Street lamp she could still read sections of the poster that urged “Bourgeois Reactionary Element Lu Mei-ling” to confess her “Crimes Against the Revolution.” But on leaning closer she saw that symbolic Red Guard seals made of paper, which had always been pasted across the latch of the gate during her previous visits, had been freshly broken and she at once reached up and rang the bell on the gatepost.
For several minutes nobody answered but Abigail continued to ring insistently and at last she heard footsteps crossing the yard; they stopped and there was silence as if somebody inside the courtyard were having second thoughts. Then the gate opened an inch and Abigail felt herself come under the scrutiny of a shadowy figure inside.
“I’m Abigail Kellner,” she said, speaking Chinese and bending toward the gate “I’m English. I’d like to speak to Madame Lu Mei-ling in private if that’s possible.”
In the gloom Abigail was unable to see whether it was a man or woman who had answered her ringing but she sensed that the figure standing inside the little walled yard was uneasy. “I teach at the Foreign Languages Institute in Shanghai,” she said in a reassuring tone. “I’ve come many times in the last few weeks but the gate’s always been sealed. Madame Lu Mei-ling took care of me for a time when I was very young.”
After another long moment of hesitation the gate opened just wide enough to admit her and a subdued female voice said, “I’m Lu Mei-ling. Please come in.”
Abigail stepped quickly over the threshold of the gate, feeling faintly elated, but inside the small yard she found herself standing among ugly piles of debris and rubble. By the light spilling from an upper window she saw that broken furniture and porcelain lay scattered among uprooted shrubs and sodden heaps of gray ashes; stagnant pools of water lay in holes that had been dug in the flower beds. Yet the Chinese woman made no reference to the chaos as she led the way silently along a little cleared path into a tiny, shabby hail. Its walls were daubed with crude black-painted characters that said “Down with All Bourgeois Reactionary Scum!” and when Abigail followed the woman up a short flight of stairs she saw that the walls of the staircase were covered with similar slogans.
In a larger room at the top of the stairs lit by a single unshaded bulb, Abigail was dismayed to see that piles of household debris still cluttered the floor — broken lamps, torn curtains, fractured black- wood tables, and smashed fragments of ornaments, pictures, and mirrors lay jumbled together and narro
w paths similar to those in the yard had been cleared to allow access to a small kitchen and a bedroom. The white waIls were covered in painted slogans attacking “Stinking Bourgeois Intellectual Lu” and colored portraits of a blank faced Mao Tse-tung had been pasted to doors and cupboards. In a cleared space beneath an uncurtained window, a cheap, mass-produced table and two chairs that looked new had been set up, and the woman, who wore a shabby tunic and trousers of blue cotton, motioned Abigail to sit down.
“Please wait, I will make some tea.”
Abigail, appalled by the disorder, sat down reluctantly at the table and watched the woman walk into the tiny kitchen. Taller than average and slender in build, she carried herself with a quiet dignity, although she moved slowly as though numbed or distracted. In the shapeless blue cottons she looked curiously youthful and when she returned to the table with a small tray and sat down opposite her, Abigail saw that while she looked strained and weary, her face still possessed a beauty rare in middle age.
“I hope you’ll forgive the condition of my apartment,” said Mei-ling distantly as she poured tea into two small cups. “I’ve been detained by the Red Guards at the conservatory. I was allowed home yesterday. . . . But they haven’t given me permission to clean up here yet.”
Abigail gazed uncertainly at the Chinese woman. Obviously shaken by her recent experiences, she seemed dazed and disoriented and Abigail was seized by a sudden doubt. “Could I have made a mistake?” she asked in an anxious voice. “You are Lu Mei-ling the writer?”
“Yes but that was a long, long time ago.” Mei-ling peered distractedly into her teacup. “I haven’t written anything for many years.”
“But you did write Women of the Revolution . . . and you were on the Long March?”
Mei-ling nodded without looking up.
“My father is Jakob Kellner . . . he was held prisoner by the Red Army.” A rush of emotion caused Abigail’s voice to falter. “... He told me that you nursed me on part of the march . . . that you were a mother to me . . . and saved my life. Is all that true?”
Mei-ling raised her head and although the expression in her eyes was guarded, her face softened in a faint smile. “I recognize you from the photograph your father showed me. But you’re even more lovely than your picture.”
Abigail stared at Mei-ling, deeply moved and shocked in the same moment. “Have you kept in touch with my father?” she asked in an astonished whispers
“No.” Mei-ling’s expression became pained. “He visited me for a few minutes when he came back to China in 1957. Didn’t he tell you about that?”
“No. I didn’t know he’d seen you.” Abigail felt tears start in her eyes and she reached across the table and gripped one of Mei-ling’s hands tightly. “But that doesn’t matter now’. I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’ve wanted all my life to meet you and say thank you.”
Mei-ling stared silently into Abigail’s face; then her own eyes dampened and she clasped Abigail’s hands in both her own. “There’s no need to thank me. I was glad to help. You were a sweet baby. . . . I became very attached to you.”
For a long time the two women sat holding hands across the table, unable to summon words to express feelings that had been buried deep inside them for many years. The night outside was still and quiet and only occasionally did the sound of passing footsteps reach into the wrecked room.
“I have so many questions I want to ask you,” said Abigail at last, speaking with a catch in her voice. “There’s so much I’d love to know.”
As Abigail waited expectantly, Mei-ling’s expression became guarded again and she slowly withdrew her hands to pick up her teacup. “How much has your father told you?” she asked quietly, averting her eyes.
“Almost nothing,” said Abigail with an exasperated smile. “He withdraws into an invisible shell when I ask him questions — that’s why I’ve always longed to meet you myself.”
Mei-ling passed a hand wearily across her face, brushing back a loose strand of hair, and sighed. “Perhaps your father’s right,” she said, rising quickly from the table and picking up the teapot. “Perhaps it’s best to forget. It can do little good raking over the past.”
Turning her back abruptly, Mei-Iing hurried to the small kitchen, and Abigail heard her making fresh tea although very little had yet been drunk. When she came back, although she set the teapot down on the table, she did not resume her seat but began walking up and down the room between the heaps of debris. Mystified by her abrupt change of mood, Abigail sat watching her in a helpless silence.
“Is anything wrong, Mel-Hug?” asked Abigail at last. “Has my coming here upset you?”
“No.” Mei-ling stopped pacing, listening intently to the new sound of footsteps in the lane outside; but they passed and died away and she consulted her wristwatch with a frown. “I’m just very tired ... and somebody else may be visiting me this evening.”
“Then I’ll go,” said Abigail quickly, rising to her feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I would love to talk some more when you’re feeling better. May I visit you again?”
“Yes, of course. Come back again in a few days’ time.”
The sight of Mei-ling standing wearily amid the devastation of her broken belongings moved Abigail deeply and on an impulse she picked her way across the room to her and put her arms about her shoulders in a gentle embrace.
“Please take care of yourself, Mei-ling, until I see you again,” she whispered. “It will mean a great deal to me.”
Abigail made her way to the top of the stairs, then turned to look back before descending. Mei-ling was still standing motionless in the center of the room, at once a courageous and forlorn figure.
“And thank you again,” called Abigail softly. “Thank you for being so generous — and so brave.”
9
As he strode through the noisy crowds of workers and students thronging the Shanghai waterfront, Jakob pulled the collar of a shabby reefer jacket up around his ears and hunched his shoulders, endeavoring to attract as little attention to himself as possible. He wore a navy blue seaman’s cap pulled low over his eyes and he deliberately hugged the nighttime shadows cast by the solid colonial edifices that still dominated the Bund. He walked quickly, looking neither left nor right, ignoring the commotion around him. Ahead he could see the grandiose bulk of the Cathay Hotel, now renamed the Peace Hotel, opposite which he had landed from the Tomeko Morn more than three decades before. Externally, like all the other imposing waterfront buildings, the old hotel remained virtually unchanged and in the flare of the streetlights the Bund looked to Jakob like the immutable, classical backdrop for a living opera in which only the cast pouring across the stage in .a fresh scene had changed.
Gone were the indolent white-suited Europeans who once had lounged at ease in the rickshaws, gone were the swearing, bare-chested coolies who had hauled merchandise endlessly for their foreign masters; gone too were the gleaming limousines and the sleek foreign warships at anchor on the Whangpoo which had symbolized China’s subjugation. Now the Bund seethed with activity of a vastly different sort: along the whole length of the curving boulevard columns of student Red Guards and adult Revolutionary Rebels were marching and running, shouting slogans and waving giant red Rags and portraits of Mao Tse-tung. At several points among the trees and gardens that flanked the river, temporary platforms decked with red banners and slogans had been set up under floodlights, and dense crowds were gathered around them, chanting and yelling in response to the amplified speeches that were booming out through loudspeakers. The visible slogans strung around the platforms and the speeches being made by students and factory workers alike called repeatedly for unity and the forging of a “great alliance,” but Jakob continued walking at a fast pace, deliberately closing his ears to the details of what the banners and voices said.
To his great relief, the false seaman’s card and discharge book obtained for him in Hong Kong by his chief translator had passed the scrutiny of the harbor’s m
ilitary guards without any difficulty when he had stepped ashore a mile from the Peace Hotel. Anxiety about inspection of these fake documents had grown steadily within him during the two days he had spent hidden on board a Dutch freighter, and although the reaction of the PLA soldiers at the foot of the ship’s gangplank had given him no cause for alarm, as he hurried on he remained apprehensive that somehow discovery of his true identity might still prevent him from reaching Abigail’s apartment. Nobody among the excited crowds thronging the Bund had given him a second glance, but fearing that he might accidentally become a target of interest because of his foreign appearance, Jakob turned off the main street into a side lane soon after entering the Nanking Road.
The sound of his own footsteps echoing in the gloom of the stone- paved alley immediately triggered another vivid memory of the day of his arrival in Shanghai — the sensation of sliding suddenly from the hot sunlight into a shadowy, subterranean tunnel haunted by disembodied yellow-brown faces. He wondered whether by some quirk of fate he had chosen that selfsame alleyway, and above the sound of his footsteps he seemed to hear again the rattle of the rickshaw’s wheels on the slimy cobblestones and the slap of his coolie’s straw-sandaled feet. It was at that moment that he had seemed to plunge headlong into Asia with the plangent music of lutes and gongs ringing in his ears. He smelled again the pungent spices, the incense, and the fetid reek of overcrowded humanity that had left such an indelible impression on his senses, and other related mind- pictures began to spill rapidly through his memory. Laurence Franklin’s youthful face smiled a greeting on the teeming quayside; a Chinese courtesan in a passing rickshaw shielded her face beneath a mauve parasol; a ragged body, unmoving in death, huddled at the foot of a wall; and a legless beggar with a hole in his skull sparked off Jakob’s own wild dash through the narrow lanes between the shafts of a rickshaw. The horror of those last images gave way unaccountably to a spellbinding vision of a young Mei-ling descending the gang ladder of the Tomeko Maru in a full-skirted dress of French muslin and a beribboned sun hat. Her golden face was radiantly beautiful and the force of the recollection jerked Jakob’s mind back to his painful anxieties about Abigail and Mei-ling which had wracked him constantly since the day he received his daughter’s letter.
Anthony Grey Page 63
