White Gardenia

by Belinda Alexandra

  I was in exile and without love for the second time.

  I didn’t recognise the other people on the ship, though many of them seemed to know each other. All the Russians I knew had escaped China by other means. But there were quite a few wealthy people mixed in with the middle-class families, the shopkeepers, the opera singers, the pickpockets, poets and prostitutes. We privileged ones were the most ridiculous. The first night in the mess hall we arrived for dinner in our furs and evening attire. We dipped bent spoons into chipped soup bowls and failed to notice the metal cups and frayed napkins that were our tableware. We were so lost in our illusions of who we had once been that we could have been dining at the Imperial for all we knew. After the meal we were handed the cleaning roster for the next twenty days at sea. The woman next to me accepted it in her diamond-ringed fingers as if it were a dessert menu and then squinted at the piece of paper in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, looking around for whoever was responsible. ‘Surely they can’t mean me?’

  The next day one of the ship’s orderlies handed me a plain blue dress from a pile of clothes he was pushing around on a trolley. It was a size too big and was worn around the waistband and the sleeves. The cream lining was stained and it smelled musty. I slipped it on under the garish bathroom light and stared in the mirror. Is this what you were afraid of, Dmitri? That we would be wearing other people’s clothes?

  I gripped the sides of the sink. The room seemed to spin around me. Did Dmitri want a club called the Moscow-LA so badly that he had been prepared to sacrifice me? I had not seen treachery in his eyes the morning he left for the consulate. When I helped him to button his coat, I had no reason to believe that he would not return for me. So what had happened after that? How had Amelia intercepted him? I closed my eyes and imagined her red mouth whispering spells of persuasion: ‘It will be so easy for you to start again…the Nationalist government destroyed thousands of documents before they fled. There’s probably nothing formal to say you’re married. Nothing the United States would know about anyway.’ I heard Dmitri affirming ‘I do’ at their hurried wedding. Did he flinch, I asked myself, at the moment he murdered me?

  It was the thought of how much I loved him and how little he loved me that was driving me to madness. Dmitri’s love was like Shanghai. It had only existed on the surface of things. Underneath it was corrupt and rotten. His love was not like my mother’s love, although both had left their mark on me.

  Most of the refugees on the ship were cheerful. The women gathered at the railings to talk and stare at the sea, the men sang as they mopped decks, the children skipped rope together and shared toys. But every night they would gaze out of their cabin windows to search for the moon and stars and check the ship’s position. They had learned not to trust anyone. It was only when they saw the celestial markers that they could sleep, reassured that they were still en route to the Philippines and were not being transported to the Soviet Union.

  If they had sent me to a labour camp, I wouldn’t have cared. I was dead already.

  They, on the other hand, behaved as though they were grateful. They scrubbed the decks and peeled potatoes with little complaint and talked of the countries that might accept them after the Philippines. France, Australia, the United States, Argentina, Chile, Paraguay. The places rolled off their tongues like poetry. I had no plan, no idea what the future held. The pain in my heart was so deep that I thought I was going to die of it before we ever reached shore. I scrubbed the decks along with the other refugees, but while they took breaks, I went on rubbing fittings and railings until my hands were bleeding from windburn and blisters. I only stopped whenever the supervisor tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Anya, your energy is remarkable but you must go get something to eat.’ I was in purgatory, trying to buy my way out. As long as I felt pain, I would live. As long as there was punishment, there was hope of redemption.

  Six days into the journey I awoke with a burning pain on my left cheek. The skin had turned red and raw and was full of hard cysts that looked like insect bites. The ship’s doctor examined it and shook his head. ‘It’s caused by anxiety. It will go when you get some rest.’

  But the disfiguration didn’t go. It stayed with me the whole journey, marking me out like a leper.

  On the fifteenth day the steamy heat of the tropics passed over us like a cloud. The steel blue water transformed into an azure ocean and the smell of tropical pines perfumed the air. We passed islands with steep cliffs and sandbanks of white coral. Each sunset was a fiery rainbow sizzling on the horizon. Tropical birds fluttered on and off the decks, some so tame that they would jump onto our hands and shoulders without fear. But such natural beauty made some of the Shanghai Russians uneasy. Rumours of voodoo and sacrifices spread throughout the ship. Someone asked the captain if it was true that Tubabao Island was a leper colony and he assured us that the island had been sprayed with DDT and any lepers moved long ago.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re the last ship,’ he told us. ‘Your fellow countrymen and women are already there, ready to welcome you.’

  On the twenty-second day there was a shout from one of the crew and we rushed out onto the decks for our first view of the island. I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted into the distance. Tubabao protruded from the sea, mute, mysterious and shrouded in a fragile mist. Two giant mountains, covered in jungle, mimicked the curves of a woman resting on her side. Snuggled in the arch of her stomach and thighs was a cove of alabaster sand and coconut palms. The only sign of civilisation was a jetty reaching out from the tip of the beach.

  We anchored and our luggage was unloaded. Later in the afternoon we were sorted into groups and taken to the beach in a creaky barge that reeked of oil and seaweed. The barge moved slowly and the Filipino captain pointed to the clear sea beneath us. Schools of rainbow-coloured fish skittered under the boat and something that looked like a stingray lifted itself from the sandy bottom. I was sitting next to a middle-aged woman in high heels and a hat with a silk flower in the brim. Her hands were neatly tucked into her lap and she was perched on the splintery wooden bench as though she were on her way to a health spa for the day, when in reality none of us knew what even the next hour would bring. It struck me then how absurd our situation had become. Those of us who had known the bustle and stink, the noise and frenzy of one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities were about to make our home on a remote island in the Pacific.

  Four buses waited for us at the end of the jetty. They were rundown, the glass was missing from the windows and the panels were warped with rust. An American navy man with hair like steel wool and a sunburned forehead stepped out of one and told us to get onboard. There weren’t enough seats so most of us had to stand. A young boy offered me his seat and I sunk gratefully into it. My thighs stuck to the burning leather and, when I was sure no one was looking, I slipped my stockings down to my ankles and hid them in my pocket. The air on my stinging legs and feet was a relief.

  The bus bumped and rattled over the furrows in the dirt road. The air steamed with the aroma of the banana trees that lined our path. Every so often we passed a nipa hut and a Filipino hawker would hold up a pineapple or soda drink for us to see. The American shouted above the roaring motor that he was Captain Richard Connor, one of the IRO officials based on the island.

  The camp itself was only a short distance from the beach, but the primitiveness of the road made the journey seem longer. The buses parked next to an open-air café, empty of patrons. The bar was made of thatched palm leaves. Card tables and fold-up chairs were half buried in the sandy soil. I looked at the chalkboard menu: cuttlefish in coconut milk, sugar pancakes and lemonade. Connor led us by foot down a paved path between rows of army tents. Some of the flaps were rolled up to let in the afternoon breeze. The insides were crammed with camp beds and overturned crates that served as tables and chairs. Many had a single light bulb strapped to the centre pole and a primus stove near the entrance. In one tent the crates had been covered with matching cl
oths and set with a dinner service made from coconut shells. I was amazed at what some people had managed to get out of China. I saw sewing machines, rocking chairs and even a statue. Those belonged to the people who had left first, those who had not waited for the Communists to land on their doorsteps before evacuating.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ the woman with the flower in her hat asked Connor.

  He grinned. ‘Down at the beach, I suspect. When you’re off duty, that’s where you will want to be too.’

  We passed a large tent with open sides. Inside four stout women were bent over a vat of boiling water. They turned their sweaty faces towards us and shouted, ‘Oora!’ Their smiles were genuine but their welcome filled me with homesickness. Where was I?

  Captain Connor led us to a square in the middle of the city of tents. He stood on a wooden stage, while we sat in the scorching sun and listened to his instructions. He told us that the camp was divided into districts, each with its own supervisor, communal kitchen and shower block. Our area backed onto a jungle ravine, a ‘disadvantageous position in terms of wildlife and safety’. Therefore our first task would be to clear it. I could barely hear the captain through the pulse in my head when he talked about the deadly ‘one minute snakes’ and about the pirates who crept out of the jungle at night armed with bolo knives and who had mugged three people already.

  Single women were usually put two to a tent, but due to our proximity to the uncleared jungle all the women in our district were put in tents of four or six. I was assigned a tent with three young women from the countryside around Tsingtao who had come to the island earlier on the Cristobal. Their names were Nina, Galina and Ludmila. They were not like Shanghai girls. They were robust with rosy looks and hearty laughs. They helped me collect my trunk and showed me where the bedding was issued.

  ‘You’re very young to be here on your own. How old are you?’ Ludmila asked.

  ‘Twenty-one,’ I lied.

  They were surprised but not suspicious. I made up my mind in that moment that I would never talk of my past. It hurt too much. I could speak about my mother because I was not ashamed of her. But I would never mention Dmitri again. I thought of how Dan Richards had signed my papers to get me out of Shanghai. He had struck out ‘Lubenskya’ and written my maiden name, ‘Kozlova’. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘There will be a day when you’ll be glad that man’s name doesn’t belong to you.’

  Already I was longing to be free of it.

  ‘What did you do in Shanghai?’ Nina asked.

  I hesitated a moment. ‘I was a governess,’ I said. ‘To the children of an American diplomat.’

  ‘You have nice clothes for a governess,’ said Galina, sitting cross-legged on the baked-mud floor and watching me unpack. She swept her fingers over the green cheongsam poking out of the corner of my trunk. I tucked the corners of the sheets under my mattress. ‘I was expected to help entertain,’ I said. But when I looked up I saw that her expression was innocent. There had been nothing behind her remark. And the two other girls seemed more fascinated than sceptical.

  I reached into the suitcase and pulled out the dress. I flinched when I saw that Mei Lin had repaired the shoulder. ‘Have it,’ I said to Galina. ‘I’m too tall for it these days anyway.’

  Galina jumped up, pressing the dress against her chest and laughing. I cringed at the side splits. It was too sexy for any governess, even those exceptional ones who ‘entertained’.

  ‘No, I’m too fat,’ she said, handing it back to me. ‘But thank you for your kindness.’

  I held the dress out for the other girls but they giggled. ‘It’s too fancy for us,’ said Nina.

  Later, on our way to the dining tent, Ludmila squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t look so sad,’ she said. ‘It all seems a bit much at first, but when you see the beach and the boys you’ll forget your troubles.’

  Her kindness made me despise myself more. She thought I was one of them. A young, carefree woman. How could I tell them I had lost my youth long ago? That Shanghai had ravished it?

  The district dining tent was illuminated by three twenty-five-watt bulbs. In the dim light I could make out about a dozen long tables. We were served boiled macaroni and meat hash on tin plates. The people from my ship picked at their food while the seasoned Tubabao hands wiped their plates clean with slices of bread. An old man spat plum pits straight onto the sand floor.

  When she saw that I wasn’t eating, Galina pressed a can of sardines into my hand. ‘Add them to the macaroni,’ she said. ‘For a bit of taste.’

  Ludmila nudged Nina. ‘Anya looks terrified.’

  ‘Anya,’ Nina said, pulling at her hair, ‘soon you’ll look like us. Suntan and frizzy hair. You’ll be a Tubabao native.’

  I woke up late the next morning. The air in the tent was hot and stank of burned canvas. Galina, Ludmila and Nina were gone. Their unmade beds still held the impressions of their bodies. I blinked at the crumpled army-issue sheets, wondering where they had gone. But I was glad of the peace. I did not want to answer any more questions. The girls were kind, but I was a million miles away from them. They had their families on the island, I was alone. Nina had seven brothers and sisters, and I had none. They were maidens waiting for their first kiss. I was a seventeen year old who had been abandoned by her husband.

  A lizard wriggled along the inside of the tent. It was teasing a bird on the outside. The lizard blinked its boggle eyes and strutted past the bird several times. I could see the bird’s shadow flapping its wings and pecking at the canvas in predatory frustration. I flung my blanket aside and sat up.

  A crate propped against the centre pole served as a communal dressing table. Among the beads and brushes covering it was a hand mirror with a Chinese dragon on the back. I picked it up and examined my cheek. In the bright light the rash looked even more inflamed. I stared at it for a while, trying to get used to my new face. I was scarred. Ugly. My eyes looked small and cruel.

  I kicked open my trunk. The only sundress I had brought was too elegant for the beach. Italian silk with a glass bead trim. It would have to do.

  The tents I passed on my way to the district supervisor’s office were full of people. Some were sleeping off the night watch or San Miguel, the local drink. Others were washing dishes and clearing breakfast plates. Some sat in deckchairs outside their tents, reading or talking like people on holiday. Young men with sun-browned faces and clear eyes watched me walk by. I lifted my chin to show them my damaged cheek, warning them that I was unavailable, without and within.

  The district supervisor worked from a Nissen hut with a concrete floor and sun-faded pictures of the Tsar and Tsarina posted above the doorway. I knocked on the flyscreen door and waited.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice called out.

  I crept into the dark space. My eyes squinted to adjust to the dimness inside the hut. I could just make out a camp bed by the door and a window at the far end of the room. The air reeked of mosquito repellent and motor grease.

  ‘Careful,’ the voice said. I blinked and turned in its direction. The hut was hot but cooler than my tent. The district supervisor gradually came into view, sitting at his desk. A small lamp gave off a ring of light but didn’t shine on his face. From his silhouette I could see he was a muscular man with square shoulders. He was stooped over something, concentrating on it. I moved towards him, stepping over bits of wire, screws, rope and a rubber tyre. He was holding a screwdriver and working on a transformer. His nails were ragged and dirty, but his skin was brown and smooth.

  ‘You’re late, Anna Victorovna,’ he said. ‘The day has already started.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘This is not Shanghai any more,’ he said, motioning for me to sit down on a stool opposite him.

  ‘I know.’ I tried to catch a glimpse of his face, but all I could see was his strong jaw and tightly clenched lips.

  He took some papers from a pile next to him. ‘You have friends in high places,’ he said. ‘You’ve only just arrived b
ut you will be working in the IRO administration office. The others from your ship are going to have to clear the jungle.’

  ‘I’m lucky then.’

  The district supervisor rubbed his hands together and laughed. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. The lips relaxed. They were full and smiling. ‘What do you think of our tent city? Is it glamorous enough for you?’

  I didn’t know how to answer him. There was no sarcasm in his tone. He wasn’t trying to belittle me, rather he spoke as if he saw the irony of our situation and was trying to make light of it.

  He picked up a photograph from his desk and handed it to me. The picture was of a group of men standing by a pile of army tents. I studied their unshaven faces. The young man in front was crouching, holding a stake. He had big shoulders and a broad back. I recognised the full lips and the jaw. But there was something wrong with the eyes. I tried to hold the picture closer to the light, but the district supervisor took the photograph back from me.

  ‘We were the first people sent to Tubabao,’ he said. ‘You should have seen it then. The IRO dropped us here without tools. We had to dig the toilets and the trenches with whatever we could find. One of the men was an engineer and he went around collecting bits of machinery the Americans had left from when they used this island as a war base. Within a week he had created his own electricity generator. That’s the kind of resourcefulness that wins my respect.’

  ‘I’m grateful for everything Dan Richards has done for me. I hope I will contribute to the island in some way.’

  The district supervisor was quiet for a moment. I couldn’t help thinking that he was studying me. The mysterious lips curved into a grin full of mischief. It was a warm smile that lit up the hut in a flash. It made me like him, despite his harsh manner. There was something of a bear in the man. He reminded me of Sergei.

  ‘I’m Ivan Mikhailovich Nakhimovsky. But under the circumstances let’s just call each other Anya and Ivan,’ he said, reaching out his hand. ‘I hope my joking didn’t upset you.’