A Most Immoral Woman

by Linda Jaivin

‘Yes, and for someone so averse to contact with the male germ, one that frequently occupies itself with sexual matters.’

  ‘I would not have guessed.’ Morrison’s expression in no way forbade further confidences.

  ‘When I lace my corset tightly, for instance, she frets that it will prevent my venous blood from returning to the heart, collecting instead in organs where it might cause “unnatural excitement”. Men are lucky not to be the subject of so much vigilance.’

  ‘As a boy, we were warned about sliding down banisters, but I didn’t understand why at the time. And at medical school there was much talk about the lecherous daydreams induced by the smoking of tobacco.’ Morrison bit into a dry pastry covered with toasted sesame seeds and felt doughy flakes stick to the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth. He worried them with his tongue. He was so focused on the woman before him and performing this operation without undue uncouthness that he did not notice, amongst the Chinese coming and going, their felt-soled footsteps soft on the stairs, Professor Ho, Sir T’ing and Mr Chia.

  ‘Mrs Ragsdale,’ Mae said, ‘is a great devotee of Dr Kellogg and his theory that late-night meals and tasty foods like flesh and chocolate are the work of the devil, prone to exciting “morbid sensibilities” and “harmful instincts”. She doesn’t go so far as to follow him into vegetarianism, primarily because Mr Ragsdale will not countenance it. But every morning she urges upon me a bowl of Dr Kellogg’s cornflakes, which have been scientifically formulated to dampen unbidden sexual urges. I have assured Mrs Ragsdale that I do not suffer from unbidden urges, an answer that seems to satisfy her.’

  ‘You must have much to hide from her.’

  ‘You never need to conceal anything from people who don’t want to see the truth.’ Mae shrugged. ‘Once, she walked in on me when I was playing with myself. Ha, Ernest, don’t look so shocked. What did you think, honey? I play with myself every morning, even if I’ve had sexual intercourse the previous night. Even if I’m ill. Don’t you?’

  Morrison sipped his tea to cover his temporary loss of words as his complexion reddened. ‘I wonder what the good Dr Kellogg would say about that,’ he said finally, in as jocular a tone as he could manage.

  ‘He would say that masturbation leads to sin and crime, not to mention indigestion, imbecility, dimness of vision, weakness of the knees and backaches. They say he is a virgin who never consummated his marriage, in which case he should know all about masturbation.’ She bit into a glutinous rice ball filled with black sesame paste. ‘Mmm. I fear all this tasty food is rather exciting my harmful instincts. I do hope you’re planning to shanghai me.’ She treated him to a look of pure burlesque. ‘It would seem only right, this being Shanghai and all.’

  Morrison patted his brow with his handkerchief. It was already the twenty-seventh of March. He had not written much of import in some weeks—not that his editor seemed to have noticed, for Bell had demanded little else of his star correspondent lately than that he keep track of his colleagues in the field. Although feeling diminished, Morrison was determined to keep up appearances. Besides, such was the nature of journalism that, if one kept looking, a story was bound to turn up somewhere. ‘I’m afraid I have some calls to make. I’ve been neglecting my duties…’ His voice did not carry a great burden of conviction.

  Mae’s foot travelled up the inside of his leg. ‘You are surely not going to start tonight.’

  If anyone is being shanghaied, it is I. Morrison did not struggle.

  As the trap rattled towards the hotel, Mae remarked, ‘You know, I could have sworn I saw your Boy entering the teahouse just then as we were leaving.’

  ‘Really? I suppose it is a popular place. I wonder why he didn’t come over to say hello.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t wish to disturb us. Maybe it wasn’t even him. They do rather look alike to me, as I am told we look alike to them, hard as that is to credit. I didn’t take too much notice. I had other more amusing thoughts with which to occupy myself

  .’ ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like how I was going to try doing this once we were in the carriage.’ She drew the blanket over their laps. Her fingers made their nimble way towards his trouser buttons.

  The next morning, Morrison took Mae sightseeing. He suggested they start with the Woosung Forts, where he inspected the field guns on the parade grounds and made rather a big deal about taking notes. After that, they visited a church she’d heard about where the missionaries had painted frescoes of Jesus and his Apostles all in Chinese dress, complete with pigtails.

  Shanghai offered many divertissements. Whilst mentally making a list of contacts he really ought to call on before dinner, Morrison was content to squire his own, two-legged divertissement about town in pursuit of this or that amusement.

  He had been gratified to see that she was determined to keep her promise not to speak to him of other lovers. And if the odd tale about going on an outing in a four-in-hand or a Valentine’s Day card party for which she smothered the chandeliers at Palm Knoll in cascades of fango grass and huckleberry ended a little too abruptly, he silently thanked her. Other men floated like spectral presences at the margins of her stories. But Morrison was a practical sort: not the type to see ghosts and certainly none he did not wish to see.

  His plan to return more seriously to his work ended up, like his trousers, shed carelessly in the vicinity of her bed. Yet he told himself he felt happier and younger than he had in years. ‘If only it could be like this forever,’ he said aloud without thinking.

  Her eyes narrowed for a second. ‘Ernest, honey,’ she purred, ‘it’s like this now.’ She leaned over to kiss one of his nipples. A loose strand of her hair, soft and fragrant, tickled his stomach. ‘Why wouldn’t it be like this forever?’

  That night, back at the Blunts’, Morrison confided to his journal: Days foolishly spent. Her company stimulates me greatly. My head in a whirl of excitement. I feel that the foundation of our affection has been driven even more deeply and strongly. Our natures are curiously dissimilar and yet…she so strongly attracts me and interests me. We are in closer intimacy than ever, in more affectionate converse. This has been a time of unsullied happiness.

  He reread the words and blotted the ink before closing the journal. He shook his head. Unsullied indeed. He had scarcely done a jot of work. With a twinge of guilt, he wondered how Lionel James was faring.

  In Which Our Hero Loses the Heat but Wins the

  Race, Has a Revelation About Crockery and

  Decides to Take a Friend’s Advice

  ‘They are saying that Japan is too small a country. She will not be able to withstand the strain on her finances of prolonged war,’ Dumas remarked. He had just arrived in Shanghai for a visit and was taking tea in the Blunts’ parlour with Morrison.

  ‘Similar doubts were voiced ten years ago at the start of the Sino-Japanese War. It’s good to see you here, old boy.’

  Dumas answered with a flash of teeth. The leather upholstery of the sofa creaked as he swivelled around, cup in hand, to examine the décor. Amongst the fine Chinese screens, French grandfather clocks and other acquisitions reflecting the taste of Mrs Blunt were scattered Mr Blunt’s hunting trophies—an elephant’s-foot umbrella stand, a bearskin rug and on the wall the mounted heads of a tiger and an oryx.

  ‘The Blunts’ drawing room is every bit as fine as I’ve been led to believe. Though I don’t like how that tiger’s head observes me. I feel rather like prey. It is something I have grown used to at home, of course.’

  ‘How is Mrs Dumas?’

  ‘Fighting fit. Or so she was when I left Tientsin and so, in all trepidation, I expect to find her upon my return. She has recently discovered the clitoris.’ Dumas lapsed into ruminative silence.

  ‘Do go on.’

  Dumas sighed. ‘She has become impossibly sensualised. Oh, stop looking at me like that. Where are your hosts?’

  ‘At Mrs Mudhurst’s for a dress rehearsal of some private theatrical,’ Morrison replied a
fter satisfying himself that no further revelations were forthcoming. ‘One prays that it is at least as fine an amusement as Yeoman of the Guard.’

  ‘It could not be worse. I do owe you, G.E.’ Dumas launched into an account of his recent trip to Newchang. He’d learned that an unscrupulous arms merchant had sold the Russians 4200 rounds of German powder that did not contain any cordite. ‘I doubt it will be able to fire the Armstrong guns,’ he said, and Morrison noted the fact in his journal with satisfaction. The men speculated next on the purpose of the arsenal that the Chinese were establishing in Wuhu, and Dumas passed on the heartening intelligence that sales of gunpowder and ammunition to the Japanese side were already netting British firms thousands of pounds. ‘Oh,’ Dumas noted, ‘I almost forgot. Outside Newchang, I ran into a Jewish surgeon gone absent without leave from the Russian army. Claims at least forty thousand of the Tsar’s conscripts are Jews. They’re dragging them out of the shtetls to fight the war. The Jews, he says, mutilate themselves, taking out their own eyes or severing tendons, anything to keep from having to do service, for Jews are badly used by the Russian officers. Eyvin says tormenting Jews is both habit and prime entertainment for the Russians. The Poles and other conscripts, meanwhile, would just as soon bite the finger off a Jew on their own side than shoot a Jap on the other. He says the Jews all go off to war carrying canvas boxes that their mothers have stuffed with bread, herring, chicken fat—which they call “schmaltz”—and sausages. “God forbid we should eat Gentile meat whilst fighting the Japanese on behalf of the Tsar,” he said, and spat for emphasis. He then issued what he told me was an old Yiddish curse: “May an onion grow from all their navels.”’

  Morrison chuckled. ‘How did he get away?’

  ‘Another Yiddish saying gave him the will: “A man should stay alive, if only out of curiosity.”’

  ‘Confirms everything I’ve ever thought about the Russian army, not to mention the Jews,’ said Morrison. ‘Add cases of vodka, an absence of discipline, wild Cossacks and the picture is complete. And yet…have you read James’s account of the Japanese bombardment of the Russian fleet at Vladivostok?’

  ‘Most vivid. All that business about the Russian bluejackets mutilated by shell; the rush from the conning tower; and the two Russian stokers who leapt overboard and were rescued by the Japs to become the sole survivors, along with two other wounded, out of a crew of fifty-five.’

  ‘And yet the blasted Russian navy will still not be port-bound. Enough Russian ships have escaped the attentions of the Japanese to patrol the entrance to the gulf rather effectively, as James also reports on the basis of Japanese intelligence. He has got close to his sources, despite the action remaining at some distance.’

  ‘I shall be making another northern excursion soon, if you wish to join me. The War Office wishes me to go, and my wife, for all her newfound enthusiasm for the marital bed, has no great wish to prevent me.’

  I should go. ‘I still have some things to do here in Shanghai. I fear I shan’t be able to get away that quickly.’

  ‘May I ask how goes that other theatre of war?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I was present at the first battle.’

  ‘Ah. So you were. The truth is, I spend most of my time here in Shanghai driving backwards and forwards between my supposed and actual places of residence. I cannot claim absolute pacification. Hors de vue, hors d’esprit seems to be her rule and I would be foolish to forget it. Still, I am hopeful. The flashing-eyed maiden has been most, shall we say, consistent in her affections of late.’

  Dumas had the appearance of a man who, if he thought or knew otherwise, did not deem it apposite to say so.

  ‘Indeed, she has requested our company this afternoon at the races. You can see for yourself what passes between us.’

  Arriving at the grandstands, they saw exactly what passed between Morrison and Mae: to wit, nearly every eligible man on the China coast, and quite a few ineligible ones as well. For Morrison and Dumas found the maiden at the centre of what could only be described as a male vortex. The swarm gyred about her, jousting for attention. In steady orbit were the bald and bespectacled Paul Bowles of the Associated Press; wily old Chester Holdsworth, whom Morrison had since learned was, like Ragsdale, connected to Mae’s father through the Republican Party; the blasted handsome Martin Egan and by his side none other than the famous Jack London; Zeppelin sans fiancée; and a dozen or more other bounders, cads and vile opportunists. Even Captain Tremaine Smith, he of the tireless tongue, was there. Only the Reverend Nisbet was missing. But not missed, thought Morrison as he completed the gloomy inventory, refusing to consider the question of Jameson. Mrs Ragsdale hovered nearby with some of the women of the ladies’ auxiliary, her expression flickering with worry.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Dumas. ‘The enemy is out in force.’

  Bowles, Egan and London appeared to be having the most luck in capturing the lady’s attention. They worked in concert: London acting the raconteur, Egan spurring him on, whilst Bowles played a hearty audience. Bursts of Mae’s merry laughter lit the air like fireworks, soaring, fading away and exploding afresh at each new witticism offered up by her collection of swains. Sheer provocation. She was so busy shining up to her other suitors that she didn’t seem to have noticed Morrison; if she was looking for or expecting him, it wasn’t obvious.

  In his book The Real Chinaman, Holdsworth had made much of the concept of face, mien-tse, as though it was alien to those of Occidental disposition. Thinking of his own mien-tse, Morrison regretted that he had not presented the situation between himself and Miss Perkins to Dumas in somewhat more casual terms than he had. His toothache, which had been dormant for the last few days, flared.

  ‘At least she stays faithful to the press,’ Dumas said finally.

  ‘I am only relieved to see that she will not expire from loneliness when I am gone. Which shall be soon enough. May onions…how does that go?’

  ‘May onions grow from their navels.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, before she espies us and attempts to impel us into the uncharming circle, let us go seek out those of Shanghai’s menfolk who have not yet turned themselves into metal filings before her magnet. We shall probe them for information whilst attempting to overcome the usual Shanghai passion for inaccuracy. I have wasted too much time in this useless city.’ Morrison affected insouciance badly. He knew he did not fool Dumas in any case.

  The report of the starting gun followed by a din of cheers made this mission impossible, as the attention of all was drawn to the track. The field was a hodge-podge of barrel-solid Chinese griffen ponies, sway-nosed Arabs, Indian-bred mounts, English saddle ponies and sturdy Australian steeds. The griffens galloped with their heads down, oblivious to direction. As they tended to skitter wildly across the track, spooking the others, they provided considerable diversion. In the end, a South Australian rode to victory on a horse belonging to the Welsh Fusiliers, devastating an English taipan who had entered a horse at his own expense. Having noted that the taipan had recently numbered amongst Mae’s captives, Morrison was pleased to see the taipan’s wife glare at her husband as if drawing a causal relationship between his inattention to the field and losses on same.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Morrison muttered to Dumas. ‘I am growing bored with the entertainments.’

  They were making their way towards the gate when a hand on his arm and a dulcet voice in his ear stopped him in his tracks. ‘Darling. I have been desperate to see you. The others were making me crazy. Ah, Colonel Dumas,’ she added with a sweet smile, ‘lovely meeting you again.’

  Morrison recalled the showman he’d seen juggling songbirds that day in Peking near Liu Li Chang. Mae was the magician, the trainer, the whistler holding the stick as the birds performed their tricks, landing and taking off on cue. Bowles! Holdsworth! Egan! Zeppelin! Jack bloody London! And let’s not forget the fiancé! The dentist! Willie Vanderbilt Jnr! Et cetera et cetera et ce
tera. And me of course. Her artistry easily surpassed that of the bird man of Liu Li Chang. He had three birds in the air. She played the entire aviary.

  The dentist. He had made an appointment with the British dentist and would see him soon. It was comforting to know that for some kinds of pain there were known remedies.

  Morrison returned in a funk to the Blunts’ house for supper. Their guests that evening included Lord Robert Bredon: brother-in-law of Inspector-General Hart, father of the vivacious Juliet and husband of the philandering Lady Bredon. Lord Bredon, who was also Chairman of the Shanghai Race Club, the Shanghai Club and the St Patrick’s Society, was high on Morrison’s list of the most enervating men in all of China, worse than Menzies and with fewer redeeming features. Bredon dominated the conversation, boasting about his many honours and accomplishments. According to him, these included the drafting of several major diplomatic treaties. Damned empty windbag. I do hope Lady Bredon is taking precautions against the syphilis.

  A diversion was afforded by Bredon’s startled discovery that he was eating mille-feuille off his own monogrammed dessert plates. ‘I’ve warned Cook a thousand times,’ Mrs Blunt apologised. One of the peculiarities of life in the foreign settlements, as they all knew, was that the servants were forever borrowing dishes from other households; guests often found themselves dining off plates from their own homes. It was, Morrison thought, a perfect metaphor for the incestuous existence they all led: he, Zeppelin, Martin Egan, and God knows how many others were each supping from the same precious bowl, after all.

  That night Morrison went to bed with an icepack pressed against his jaw and Rudyard Kipling’s new novel Kim propped up on his chest. He lost himself in the world of the young Irishman gone native in India, with its wandering monks, scheming Pathans and overlay of British intrigue. Then a random sentence gave him a jolt: ‘The voice told him truthfully what sort of wife he had wedded and what she was doing in his absence.’ Slipping in a leather bookmark, he closed the book and lay it on the bedside table. Ridiculous. I am not wedded to anyone. He and Mae were lovers in the sense they shared a bed from time to time; that was all. He had been deluded to believe it was anything more than that.