by Meira Chand
Now, in Nanking, Nadya was nervous, and against Bradley’s advice, put off phoning W.H.D. for some days. Asking around, she heard tales of his power. There was talk of genius, but also of sycophancy. Whatever he was, W.H.D. appeared larger than life. At last she picked up the phone.
‘Why didn’t you contact me before this? Come today at three o’clock.’ The order was barked down the wire.
He was as big as his voice but at once assumed a paternal air, ushering her into his office, calling for tea, and her fear of him ebbed away. ‘And cakes. Do not forget the cakes,’ he demanded of a secretary.
At six o’clock she still sat listening over cups of tea to his talk of China, past and future. He seemed in no hurry to let her go, enjoying his captive audience. She did not mind, he was far from dull, and spoke with authority on everything. However colourful his tales, she doubted he embellished much; his life had been extraordinary.
‘I’m like a little boy who dare not go to sleep for fear I will miss something,’ he told Nadya. W.H.D.’s voice boomed out, even though there was no one to hear but Nadya. He leaned forward over his desk towards her.
‘The Japanese beat Russia but one day that victory is going to cause their downfall. Beating Russia began their almighty thoughts about world hegemony. The world press lauded Japan to the skies as the Oriental David slaying the Russian Goliath. The Japanese have fooled everyone but the Chinese.’
Finally, when she was ready to leave, he asked, ‘Well, what about Bradley’s great book?’
She had not expected to see Donald Addison again but he stood unexpectedly before her some weeks later, in the same linen suit, his tie off-centre, his hair still without direction. She had come to the International Club with a group of people from the university. There was dancing that night on the flat, terraced roof of the club. The band played loudly behind Donald Addison. He grinned and held out his hand, giving no more than a cursory nod to the people at her table. She stood up to dance and was immediately angry at her obedience. He swept her away without a greeting, humming above the music.
‘And how was the Generalissimo?’ she asked.
‘I have not yet succeeded in seeing him. There is some all-powerful Australian guarding him, who seems even fiercer than his Hitlertrained bodyguard. I had an appointment which he cancelled.’
‘W.H.D.? He is not so bad,’ Nadya replied. She had already now met him twice, but of course she had Bradley Reed’s introduction. ‘Maybe you have upset him.’ Donald Addison was pressed firmly against her. In spite of his untidiness there was a clean, scrubbed smell about him. And she knew she had been waiting to see him.
‘Why should you think that?’ He slowed his step and drew back to regard her. It was difficult to know if he joked or was genuinely upset. Once more, as on the walls of Nanking, she had the feeling of playing a game of words.
‘Because you look like someone who upsets people,’ she replied. His grip tightened as he pulled her towards him again. In spite of the prickly banter of words, her body was at ease against him.
‘Now, how do you know all these things?’ he asked. He had been told he might find her here at the Club. It had not been difficult to make enquiries.
‘You have not yet said good evening to me,’ she complained.
‘Haven’t I?’ Still humming above the music, he pressed her closer. He had seen her a score of times each day, etched indelibly on his mind. She was always silhouetted against the fiery sky, the sun burning in her hair. He could not rid himself of her.
‘Why should W.H.D. cancel your appointment?’ she asked.
‘Because he said I was dangerous stuff. In my opinion, I simply tell the truth. That is my job. There was a recent article on him in Time magazine. It was not by me but something I had written ages ago about China, mentioning him, was quoted out of context. He said I had insinuated he was an opium dealer.’
‘And is he?’ she smiled, leaning back to look at him anew, enjoying his sense of mischief.
‘I shouldn’t think so. But I have been damned. I suppose I would feel the same in his shoes.’ He began to laugh.
‘I could speak to him. My job brings me into contact with him. He either likes or dislikes people, nothing in between.’ The offer was out of her mouth before she could suppress it.
‘Are you going to be my guardian angel? If so we should get to know each other better. I have heard it is pleasant to boat at night on the Lotus Lakes,’ Donald replied. He drew her close again.
‘I have an appointment to see W.H.D. tomorrow.’ She was suddenly angry with herself. Why should she bother to seek involvement? What did it matter to her if he got his interview or not? It was as if in some way he controlled her.
‘I do not like being beholden to women. But I also do not like being snubbed. As it is I left a file in his office that I must pick up. I might see you there tomorrow. And the Lotus Lakes?’ he persisted.
‘The day after tomorrow is full moon. It’s a good night for a picnic on the water.’ Something quickened in her, already she felt enmeshed. The music stopped and he returned her to her table.
‘You’re going?’ She thought he would join her friends.
‘I came for a drink. This kind of evening is not my type of thing. Besides, I’ve written so many rude articles about expatriate communites around the world, few will have me at their table.’ Donald bowed in apology to the people before him.
He looked over his shoulder before he left the terrace and, seeing she stared after him, smiled with the look of a naughty child. She could not deny his strange charm. Nadya turned back to the people at the table who were immersed in a discussion about agricultural fertilisers. Her feelings were confused.
The next day she entered W.H.D.’s office in trepidation. Donald was there, the forgotten file already in hand, talking to a secretary.
‘He won’t see me,’ Donald announced as she walked up to him. The secretary pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘I even told her to say you recommended me.’
‘Why did you say that?’ Nadya asked with a frown.
‘Was that wrong?’ Donald asked.
‘I told you to leave it to me. I know how W.H.D. can be.’ A wave of annoyance filled her.
When she entered W.H.D.’s room she found him at his most volcanic. His eyes blazed behind his glasses.
‘What have you brought this man here for?’ W.H.D. demanded. ‘Do you know anything about him?’ She shook her head.
‘Well, let me tell you, he’s notorious. Not at all the type for a nice girl to see. All kinds of rumours abound about him in Fleet Street. His father was a famous man, a journalist of integrity, which the son is not. I am a journalist myself, and I do not like sensationalism, or unproved sources. Because of his loose comments, some people now say I’m an opium dealer. Few people realise it, but the fact that China is no longer thought of as a backward country of dragons, curios and laundry men is in no small part due to myself. I am proud to say upon my advice to our Generalissimo, China’s voice now rings out on international platforms.’
‘You like the game but not the spotlight,’ Nadya smiled, trying to keep things light. Whatever W.H.D’s opinion of his influence might be, Nadya found it difficult to imagine the suave and crafty Chiang Kai-shek hanging slavishly upon the Australian’s every word.
‘Dear lady, you are right,’ W.H.D. stormed. ‘Do you know, there are regular attacks upon this innocent child, to get him kicked out of China? I am sick of being picked upon. It is bad enough here in China, but when people who know nothing of me, like your friend, add their two pennies’ worth, you can be sure I will retaliate. And why does he need you to plead for him. Can he not face me himself?’
‘It seems to have been a misunderstanding. He says he was quoted out of context. He is here only to pick up a forgotten file, and I’m not pleading for him, only telling you the facts. He seems an interesting man and in his position with The Times could surely be more useful as a friend than an enemy,’ she suggested.
Nadya pushed the latest report from the TECSAT department across to him. ‘Things are going well. We should be able to finish by the autumn as Bradley wants.’
‘If the Japanese don’t attack,’ W.H.D. growled.
‘You think they will?’
‘Matter of time. If we have a Japanese occupation you can be sure that book will never be finished. Everything will be destroyed. China must remain united and fight them. I maintain the Japanese can never really conquer this country. If we are unlucky they may hold power for a while, but no more.’
‘Perhaps Mr Addison should interview you,’ Nadya suggested.
‘Mr Addison. Well, since you have taken such a shine to him, and I am not untouched by your feminine charms, let us have a compromise. Why don’t we let him interview Madame? She will put him right,’ W.H.D. relented suddenly.
‘But I have not met her yet,’ Nadya protested.
‘Well you are going to, right now. Come on, I am on my way to her office. She does nothing without my advice and I handle most of her correspondence. She said she wanted to meet you.’ W.H.D. gathered his papers together and steered Nadya from his office. Outside Donald sat on the corner of a desk, still talking to the secretary.
‘Shall I bring Mr Addison?’ Nadya whispered. She looked over her shoulder at Donald. He raised his eyebrows in enquiry.
‘Certainly not. God damn it, he will need an appointment.’ W.H.D. spoke loudly, marching Nadya forward. Donald began to laugh.
Madame Chiang Kai-shek sat at a desk in a crowded office. She was dressed in a suit of black crepe with yellow piping. Her beauty was legendary, she had no need of the heavy make-up she wore. She greeted Nadya in fluent English. She appeared more American than Chinese, with a vivacious manner and jerky movements. Her mind appeared to run at breakneck speed. The telephone rang and she gave brisk orders, then turned to Nadya.
‘This book is important, you understand. Never before has there been been such a complete, such a thorough compilation of all the facets of our great, unwieldly nation. Much divides us but much more unifies us. This is what Bradley wishes to put across: all the things in our nation that make us one thinking, breathing mass of people. These strengths we need to know, to be proud of, and draw upon in the future.’
Behind the charm was efficiency, not warmth, and Nadya remembered it was said her sister, the widow of Sun Yat-sen, was the mother of China, and Madame Chiang Kai-shek its governess.
‘I want you to be personally responsible to me for this book. I am very interested. It must come out as quickly as possible, as Bradley advises, for we do not know what the future holds. There could be much destruction of our infrastructure, artefacts and culture. Things that emphasise our greatness and oneness are doubly important at such times. If some symbol of our culture is concretely before us, we cannot forget easily who we are. This great book is very symbolic to me.’ She nodded and turned to the telephone again. It was clear the interview was over. Nadya left Madame Chiang Kai-shek and W.H.D. alone together, and went to wait in an outer office.
There was a clear moon that evening, and silver light flooded the water. The Lotus Lakes spread out before them like a secret, enchanted world. They chose a punt and the boatman poled off from the shore, gliding smoothly forward.
‘Well, what was the Madame like?’ Donald asked, leaning back, trailing his hand in the water.
‘Energetic, intelligent, ambitious, charming, beautiful, but I think without a heart.’ Nadya tried to sum up all the dazzling qualities of Madame Chiang Kai-shek.
‘Who needs a heart with such qualities? A heart makes a mess of life,’ Donald said. He sounded bitter. Shadow hid his expression.
‘What a terrible thing to say,’ Nadya sat up in the boat. ‘Life is only about having a heart.’
‘Evaluate,’ Donald demanded, sprawled on a rug. Behind him the boatman poled the craft with small, soft slaps of water. ‘Is there anything in your life you would honestly say has come about through obeying your heart?’
‘If I had not obeyed my heart I would still be in Russia, maybe shot dead or put to hard labour, starving and fearful at the best,’ Nadya concluded.
‘I only respect my head,’ Donald decided firmly.
Nadya thought again of Sergei. The moon cut across the water and hung low above the crenellations of Nanking’s old wall. There was the croak of frogs and sawing crickets as the boatman steered along the shore. At places the walls of the city almost met the lake and dense shadows fell upon them. She told him then about Russia, about Blagoveshchensk and the escape. The memories came alive to her again, under the moon on the swaying boat, the smell of the lake about her. She felt a grief whenever she thought of Russia. The harsh, rolling landscape, within which was seeded so much of her life, filled her unbearably.
‘And what did you feel when Sergei left?’ Donald asked. There was none of the usual edge in his voice. Instead she sensed companionship, as if he too had experienced some form of betrayal. There was a keenness in his gaze, as if he assessed her anew.
‘I was relieved.’ She trailed her hand in the water, memories overpowering her.
The relief had surprised her, she remembered. Beneath the fiction of romance and adventure, there had been hard facts of feeling hidden away. She saw now the relationship had been illusory. Sergei had used it to escape from Russia, and she to lose her virginity. Deep within herself she had discovered a woman whose sensual needs had driven her out of Russia.
‘Will you be here for long, in China?’ She had not questioned him before.
‘I have nothing to hurry back for,’ Donald answered and fell abruptly silent. She could tell immediately her question had jolted to the surface some unwanted thought. It was as if they played a game of hide and seek, revealing surreptitiously small clues to their buried lives.
Donald had been happy these few moments on the moonlit lake, listening to her story. He wished she had not reminded him of the blow he had recently taken, that another journalist, Edgar Snow, had taken the idea he had been harbouring for some time and already acted upon it, of going to Yenan and interviewing Mao Tse-tung.
There was no one who had not heard of the famous American journalist, Edgar Snow, who had arrived in Shanghai in 1928. Snow spoke Chinese and was an activist who had contact with the country at a level other journalists found difficult. Now the world was talking about the articles he was publishing after spending four months with Mao Tse-tung in his Communist capital. Mao had dictated to Snow his life story, and the history of the Eighth Route Army. The rebel leader had entrusted Edgar Snow to alert the world to the Chinese Communist movement. Snow was writing a book about the experience, holed up in his Peking home. Already, as Snow released parts of the incomplete work to the press, Red Star Over China was being called a classic.
In his hotel room in Peking, Donald had sat with Snow’s reportage before him. Words seemed to rise from the page to embed deeply and painfully within him. For some days he wandered about in a daze, spending long spells in bed, too lethargic to rouse himself. It had not occurred to Donald that someone other than himself might be destined to unravel the Red enigma. His life appeared suddenly to have been arrested, his future stretched aimlessly before him. Once more God had cheated him of what had seemed his for the taking. All he wanted to do was to leave Peking where Edgar Snow was at work on his book. He travelled to Shanghai and then Nanking, unsure of what direction now his time in China should now take. In one stroke he had been diminished to the status of a hack reporter. He had no golden egg to lay.
‘Perhaps someday I shall go to Hong Kong or Europe,’ Nadya conjectured. If she let herself think about the shape of her life, panic sometimes seized her. Since childhood it seemed there was only flight, abandonment and confusion behind her. Work held her in China, but she still felt ungrounded in dark moments. And, in spite of her words,
how would she easily travel anywhere? She possessed neither passport nor country.
‘Europe’s no Utopia at the moment. Hitler there, the Japanese here. Better to stay where you are. Could be bad times ahead everywhere,’ Donald remarked.
‘Do you think there will be war?’
‘Here? Probably. Perhaps I should also go,’ he mused.
‘You have no family, no wife, waiting for you at home?’ She tried to sound casual. He was silent.
‘I never found the right woman,’ he replied after a moment.
She saw the distress in his face. The jocular façade was gone and suddenly he appeared another man. In this unguarded stance there was a new vulnerability in his expression. She knew then he was afraid to show this part of himself, but that it was there, like a fearful animal, trapped within him. She sensed things had happened in his life that made him need to hide.
She unwrapped the picnic of cold meats and wine, pies, bread and fruit. Martha had donated some almond cake. The white light of the moon gleamed upon the oily surface of the water and the smell of the lake was strong about her. The rocking boat stirred memories again of the unrequited longings of her body, pulsing through her unattended, on that journey out of Russia. Her body was full of useless needs. She dare not look at Donald Addison, dismayed at the emotion engulfing her. These feelings led nowhere, and no man had adequately stemmed them. She looked up to find him staring at her.
‘Did you love this Sergei of yours?’ he asked. He had seen the expression on her face.
‘I thought I did. But the relationship was really to get out of Russia.’
‘See, you followed your head, not your heart, even if you don’t believe it. That is why you’re here,’ he smiled, triumphant, sipped his wine and looked out across the lake.
He was all façade, Nadya detected. Behind the cleverness and the restlessness she saw a troubled man. She met his eyes and did not look away. He was afraid of life in a way she had never been. She was no longer apprehensive of him.
