The Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  In the past year, Lu has made great efforts to present himself as a legitimate and respectable member of the community, buying a series of “front” companies, donating money to charity, and making regular appearances in the social columns of the North China Daily News. The changing perception of him in normally conservative high society is partly due to the increasing sense of insecurity of the International Settlement as a result of the anarchy that continues to tear the country apart. There is great fear, as I have already documented, that the communists, who now hold sway in the south, will soon conquer the whole of the country. It is felt by some that Lu may be an important figure in ensuring that the Settlement and the French Concession are not in any way violated (the Alabama and Sheffield arrived today, serving as a reminder of the consequences to any Chinese force of attempting such an action).

  As recorded in previous dispatches, we have ourselves made contact with Lu, whilst in no way, as a force, weakening our attempts to stifle and close down his criminal activities. It is clear, though, that he is as committed as we are to the total resistance of Bolshevism. He has, on occasion, provided useful intelligence on Michael Borodin and other Comintern agents who are trying to foment revolution in the Settlement, funding the communist army in the south and operating under the cover of the Soviet consulate (see summary on activities of Sov. cons. and Comintern 11th Dec 1925).

  At the bottom, Granger had written, again in pencil: Borodin. Communists on move. Unifying China? Pact with devil?

  The rest of the file was full of newspaper clippings, many detailing Lu’s charitable and legitimate business activities. One had a photograph of him handing over a check to a middle-aged woman at the Horticultural Society of Shanghai charity tea. He was a portly man in a long silk top, a chubby hand holding his end of the check up toward the camera lens. Another showed him doing the same for the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage.

  Field shut the file and tapped his fingers on its cover. This was only a summary, so he wondered what was in the “current” file that was still in Granger’s possession.

  Field opened Natasha Medvedev’s folder with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. A passport photograph of her, of poor quality, was attached to a single sheet. Her summary was as sparse as Lena Orlov’s.

  Natasha Medvedev resides at the Happy Times block on Foochow Road, on the top floor. She is a native of Kazan on the Volga and arrived in Shanghai via Vladivostok on the 12th January 1922. She is an associate of Michael Borodin.

  Beneath that, Field could only see a series of dates and times, listing meetings she had attended at the offices of the New Shanghai Life. This information had obviously come from an informant, because alongside each entry, someone—Prokopieff, probably—had written: said nothing of note. There was also a list of the seven occasions upon which she had been seen entering the Soviet consulate. Two of these were late at night.

  Field picked up his pencil and tapped it gently alongside each entry, going down the page. Natasha Medvedev was, he thought, just as vulnerable as Lena Orlov had been. Russians did not enjoy the rights of extraterritoriality here—the right to be governed by the laws of their own country—so anyone caught “fomenting revolution” was liable to be tried by the mixed courts and then expelled to the Chinese city and the merciless hands of the local warlord. This had happened a month ago to a Hungarian. He’d been tried, found guilty, and “put in prison,” but his family was still trying to locate him.

  Field returned to Lena Orlov’s file and placed the two summaries next to each other.

  The two women were from the same town and they’d attended the same meetings at the New Shanghai Life on the same days.

  He stood, looking at his watch, suddenly worried he would be late.

  Six

  Field emerged onto the street, relieved to feel a breeze on his face, even if it did carry with it the smell of dead fish and stagnant water from the wharves and the sulfurous pollution of factories over in Pudong, on the far side of the Whangpoo River.

  He had changed into his father’s dinner jacket, but it was just as thick and hot.

  Once it became clear he wasn’t getting into a car, he was besieged by a group of rickshaw pullers—every one scrawny and shabbily dressed—imploring him to use their services. He shook his head and waved them away, but without discernible effect. He walked purposefully the other way, passing the open doors of a packed restaurant and a billboard advertising “Money Exchange.” The signs along the street ahead were mostly in Chinese, competing for the attention of the hordes rushing to their destinations. Long cotton banners twisted in the breeze.

  An old man with no legs thrust a flat cap in Field’s direction and tugged at his trousers as he passed. Field fended him off and careered into a smart, handsome Eurasian wearing a white fedora and a long gray cotton tunic, with a silver watch pinned to his chest and bright, white shoes. Behind him was a woman in a long, figure-hugging white dress, her hair pulled back in a tight bun to reveal a pretty, oval face. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought she smiled at him.

  Ahead, a thousand telegraph wires crisscrossed a dark, brooding sky, heavy with monsoon rain. The first drops landed on his face. Field wondered if he should feel homesick, but he didn’t. He missed nothing at all about Yorkshire.

  Outside the white portico entrance to the tall red brick building that housed the American Club, Field stopped to light a cigarette. He looked up at the Stars and Stripes fluttering above the entrance. He was opposite the Municipal Administration Building and wondered if Geoffrey, too, would be walking. He couldn’t really remember what his uncle looked like. Field realized he was nervous, and recalled Edith accusing him, in a rare moment of disagreement, of “hero-worshiping a man who has played no part in our lives.”

  Field stepped off the sidewalk and waited for a tram to rattle past before crossing the road and turning onto the Bund, the city’s business heart, the Wall Street of Asia. The wind was strong here, so that the Chinese walking next to him lost his hat and had to scrabble on the sidewalk to catch it. Field stopped and ran his hand through his hair, then put both hands in his pockets and watched the new Buicks and Oldsmobiles rolling past. A black Chevrolet moved slowly among them, with burly bodyguards—White Russians—standing on each running board, machine guns resting casually over their shoulders.

  The Shanghai Club at number 2 the Bund was an ornate, classical stone building, with a red iron-framed awning shielding its entrance, Italianate cupolas capping a colonnaded facade of Ningpo granite. The street outside was quieter than usual, a group of chauffeurs kicking their heels, talking and smoking next to their sleek black cars. The rickshaw pullers stood discreetly about twenty yards down the street.

  On the Whangpoo, Field could see two dragon boats pulling away from the shore, their sides and bows decked out with bright-colored silk hangers and paper lamps. He waited again for a tram to come past, then crossed the road, walking between the line of cars parked down its center. He headed for the war memorial—a bronze angel standing above a square stone pillar. Some children were playing tag around it while their parents watched the dragon boats.

  Field looked at his watch. He did not want to be either early or late.

  He waited for a few minutes. A steamer, loaded to the gills with people bent low beneath a canvas awning, made its way downriver. It was towing three cargo barges, but still moving faster than a similarly overloaded sampan struggling to get out of its way. Both were making for the wooden jetty that jutted out ahead of him.

  Field leaned over the wall, looking down into the muddy waters. The lights along the shore came on suddenly. They were electric here.

  He looked at his watch again and turned to survey the solid majesty of the Bund. It was like the Strand, or any of London’s other classical streets; every building along it, he thought, a projection of European and American power. He pushed himself away from the wall and walked back across the road and through the iron gates. The glass doors at the top of the st
eps swung back as he reached them.

  “Good evening, sir,” the doorman said, bowing, next to a pair of Greek goddesses that guarded the entrance. He spoke with a thick Russian accent and wore a bright blue and gold uniform. Behind him, a broad staircase of white Sicilian marble climbed toward the first floor.

  “I’m here to meet Geoffrey Donaldson.”

  The man pointed toward the lobby. “Mr. Donaldson is not in yet, but if you’d like to wait through there . . .”

  Field walked through to the colonnaded hall across a black and white marble floor. The opulence of his surroundings was testament enough, he thought, to confidence in the permanence of the European presence here. He looked up at the ceiling with its ornate plasterwork and the enormous light that hung from a chain thick enough to hold a ship’s anchor. There was a balcony above and, on the walls behind, pictures of Shanghai life—hunting out in the fields beyond the city limits, men standing at the Long Bar of the club, and a panorama of the Bund.

  Field moved to a glass cabinet full of silver trophies at the edge of the lobby. Beyond it was a bulletin board covered in the latest Reuters reports, pulled from a telex machine. He read one that detailed further intercommunal riots in Rawalpindi and was grateful again that he’d not chosen to join the Indian police instead.

  Field turned to see a tall, sandy-haired, pleasant-looking man limping toward him.

  “Richard.” He was smiling. Field tried to wipe the sweat from his hand in his pocket before offering it. “I’m sorry to be late,” Geoffrey said.

  “No, I was early.”

  “Did you see the dragon boats?”

  “Yes, in the distance.”

  “You should take a closer look. It’s quite a spectacle.”

  Field was suddenly embarrassed and searched for something to say. “How often do they have them?”

  “Once a year. They are to celebrate a hero’s death. A faithful minister of state was dismissed by his prince, or so the legend goes, and threw himself into a small river in Hunan to show his humiliation. His friends gathered to throw rice across the water so that his spirit wouldn’t starve, and since then, on the anniversary of his death, they race boats on the river, presumably looking for his body.” Geoffrey smiled. “Let’s go through.”

  He led the way down the corridor toward a set of glass doors that Field guessed must have been twenty-five feet high, with brass handles the size of a medium-size dog. As they approached, the doors were opened by Chinese waiters in newly pressed white linen uniforms.

  The room he found himself in was the size of a tennis court, perhaps larger, furnished with sumptuously upholstered golden sofas and high-backed leather armchairs, dim lamps, and potted plants. A series of ceiling fans turned in unison. A long, L-shaped bar made of old, unpolished mahogany stretched all the way from one end of the room to the other.

  “The longest bar in the world,” Geoffrey said as he led Field to the bay window at the far end, overlooking the Bund, the preserve of taipans and other members of the city’s elite. “Thought we’d have a quick drink, then meet up with Penelope at the country club. Been there?”

  Field shook his head.

  “Have you come here?”

  “No.”

  Field thought it would have been so easy for Geoffrey to patronize him—just a brief raise of the eyebrows, perhaps to remind him, as the family back home so often did, of their reduced circumstances—but his warm face was without any hint of prejudice. He was exactly how Field remembered him from their last meeting almost ten years ago, and he liked this man instantly again.

  “Gin and tonic times two,” Geoffrey instructed the waiter, turning to Field to see if that was all right. He leaned against the bar to take the weight of his wooden leg. “How is your mother? I got the letter you posted for her.”

  “She’s all right, thank you. You know how things are.”

  He nodded. “I keep trying to send her money, but . . .”

  “She won’t take it. It’s good of you to try.” Field sipped his gin. “I’m so sorry about . . . I know it’s a long time ago now, but Mother told me . . .” Field pointed to his uncle’s leg.

  “Can’t be helped.” Geoffrey’s smile became somber. “I miss your mother. I’ve never held with all this nonsense from the rest of the family. I’m rather sorry I’ve been so far away.” His face was full of the compassion of a man who understands suffering. “I was, of course, sorry to hear about your father. Is your mother . . . is she all right—financially, I mean?”

  Field did not know what he should say, or what his mother would want him to.

  “Don’t worry,” Geoffrey said, touching Field’s shoulder. “I’ll have another go at her.” He took out a packet of cigarettes. Field didn’t feel like smoking, but wanted to be sociable, so accepted one when it was offered. “I never quite gathered,” Geoffrey went on, “and it’s difficult to write to your mother about it. But the final verdict was suicide?”

  “Yes.” Field nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette.

  “It was the business . . . the bankruptcy?”

  Field hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “It was you who found him?”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “Sorry. Probably crass of me to talk about it.”

  “No, really . . .”

  Geoffrey was staring at his hand. “He was a good man, your father.”

  Field didn’t answer.

  “Quite tough, I suppose, but his heart was in the right place.”

  Field sensed some reaction was expected of him. He shrugged.

  “Sorry, not my business, Richard.”

  “It’s the family’s business.”

  “Jolly tough if luck goes against you. That’s all life is, Richard, the merry-go-round of fate. I believe they loved each other, and in better circumstances, things might have been very different.”

  “But we have to live with the circumstances we are presented with.”

  Geoffrey looked embarrassed. “He was tough on you, I know. Or so it’s been said. But not for want of affection, I’m sure.”

  Field felt his face reddening.

  “I’m sorry, truly. None of my business. It’s just . . . so easy to get out of touch. That is the one trouble of being away. It’s hard to bridge the miles that separate us.” He cleared his throat. “The letter from your mother was a little odd, in fact.”

  Field frowned.

  “Said she was worried you would take advantage of our position and . . . you know, I’m only mentioning it because it’s a load of bloody nonsense. You’re family, so of course, we’ll help you in any way we can.”

  “I can assure you . . .”

  “Don’t be silly, man.” Field could see there was steel in his uncle’s eyes. “You’re thousands of miles from home in a strange city. Of course, it’s an absolute pleasure for us to have a link . . . I only mention it because it worried me. I’ve never held, as I said, with this marrying-beneath-yourself business—your father was a fine man and I’m just concerned it may have got to her in a way I’d not envisaged.”

  “There’s no need to worry. She’s fine.”

  Geoffrey patted his shoulder, smiling again. “Said they’d wanted you to be a missionary.”

  Field smiled back. “I don’t think there was much danger of that.”

  “Thank God we’ve got you out here.”

  A man in a white linen suit appeared through the swinging doors and made his way toward them. He moved with an easy, athletic gait. He ran a hand through his blond hair.

  “Geoffrey.”

  Field saw that his uncle’s smile of welcome was wary. “Charles. This is Richard Field, my sister’s boy. Richard, Charles Lewis, taipan of Fraser’s, Shanghai’s biggest trading company.”

  Lewis’s handshake was firm, a smile breaking the handsome solemnity of his face. He was about Field’s height, but there the similarities ended. Lewis, from his slicked-back hair to his finely polished leather shoes, was every inch t
he son of privilege, confidently shouldered.

  “Richard’s just come out, joined the police force.”

  “The police,” Lewis said with gentle, mocking admiration. “Excellent. Not in the Traffic Branch, I hope.”

  Field hesitated. Granger was always warning them not to tell anyone in the city what they did, but as members of the Municipal Council, both of these men were responsible for governing and overseeing the municipal police force. “No,” he said.

  “One of Macleod’s men?”

  “I work with Patrick Granger.”

  “Ah.” Charles Lewis raised his eyebrows. “You look like you’ve been pounding the streets all day.”

  Field smiled thinly. “There was a murder,” he said. He realized immediately he’d been trying to show off, and regretted it.

  “The Russian woman,” Lewis said. “I was just reading about her in the Evening Post.”

  “Lena Orlov.”

  Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he got the impression Lewis had known Lena Orlov, or at least recognized the name.

  “Handcuffed to the bed. Kinky.” Lewis took his hands from his pockets. “What are we doing?”

  Geoffrey Donaldson looked at his watch and turned to Field. “We had better get along to meet Penelope.” He put his glass down on the bar, facing Lewis again. “You’re very welcome to come along,” he said without enthusiasm.

  Lewis smiled. “Never say no to dinner with Penelope.”

  Charles Lewis led the way out. Field held back to wait for Geoffrey. In the lobby Lewis took his trilby from the porter and walked straight through the doors. Geoffrey grabbed Field’s arm. “He’s all right,” he said. “Charlie’s all right.”

  “Yes,” Field said. “Of course.”

  Outside, Lewis’s chauffeur had already brought up his new black Buick and they climbed into the back before setting off down the Bund, past the brightly lit monoliths. The dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank was ghostly against the night sky. They turned left into Nanking Road and Field looked out of the window in silence at the streets and shops still bustling with life.