All the Tears in China

by Sulari Gentill

  “You’re an excellent dancer, Mr. Sinclair,” Violet said glancing resentfully at Petty.

  “You and Miss Higgins make a very graceful couple,” Rabe agreed. “The modern dances are too exuberant for me, I’m afraid. Mrs. Rabe must content herself with the occasional waltz.”

  Andrew Petty endeavoured to resurrect negotiations for the Sinclair clip. “Well done, Sinclair,” he whispered. “Your feigned indifference is making them nervous. Bloody clever strategy. I suspect Yiragowa may be ready to raise their offer.”

  “It might be best to be indifferent for a while longer then.”

  “I don’t think…” Petty trailed off as three European men approached and then stopped at their table. They were obviously known to their hosts, who stood and greeted them warmly without the aid of the interpreters. But it was Rabe’s greeting that caught Rowland’s attention.

  The businessman stood. “Heil Hitler.” Rabe clicked his heels and flapped his hand in a casual Fascist salute. The response was in kind and the conversation which ensued, collegial, this time in German. Playful comments about what Mrs. Rabe would say if she knew he was dining with two such beautiful women. And then an enquiry about whether the Japanese had concluded their business.

  Rabe cleared his throat and introduced Rowland Sinclair and the ladies. The Germans were presented as diplomats, representatives of the Third Reich, a fact which Rabe clearly felt recommended them. Rowland’s reserve was marked but not beyond the explanation of a natural disposition. Only Edna was aware of the tension in his body. The Germans stayed a while longer, making jokes, being generally pleasant. They wished the Japanese wool buyers a good outcome before they departed for their own table.

  For a while talk of wool was set aside as they ate. Eventually Petty returned the conversation to the Sinclair stockpile.

  Yiragowa took up the negotiation declaring that he was willing to offer twice the market rate.

  “Well that is a most generous offer—” Petty began.

  “No,” Rowland said.

  Petty’s head snapped round. “I beg your pardon, I thought you said—”

  “I said no.” Rowland’s voice was calm and clear.

  Petty whispered urgently into his ear. “Look, Rowland, I assure you that this is an excellent offer. I doubt they’ll go much higher.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if they did,” Rowland replied. “The answer would still be no.”

  Lloyd-Jones scowled. “What exactly are you playing at, Sinclair?”

  Masey stared at Rowland aghast. “Why?”

  The Japanese wool buyers were talking amongst themselves—no interpreters were needed to translate their displeasure.

  Petty was apoplectic. “For God’s sake man! What the hell are you trying to do?”

  “I’m sorry, Andrew—I’ve decided not to sell the stockpile at this point.”

  “Sorry? We had an understanding!”

  “No, I don’t believe we did.”

  Yiragowa and Akhito were shouting now. The Germans, having noticed the commotion, were making their way back. Rabe stood and stepped away from the table to speak with them.

  Edna grabbed Rowland’s hand. “Perhaps we should go, Rowly?”

  Rowland nodded. He stood and thanked their hosts, for what it was worth. The interpreter who translated, did so while cringing. Akhito barked a reply while Petty almost begged Rowland to reconsider.

  “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Petty.”

  Petty exploded, grabbing Rowland’s shoulder angrily. “If you think I’m going to allow you to leave—”

  “I wasn’t asking your permission,” Rowland said coldly.

  “Let the boy go, Andrew.”

  Rowland turned. Alastair Blanshard. “Hello, Rowland.”

  “Do you know what this bloody fool has done?” Petty spat. “You’ll regret this, Sinclair. I’ll see that you do.”

  “Settle down, Andrew. There are ladies present.” Blanshard smiled at Edna. “Good evening, Miss Higgins.”

  “Mr. Blanshard—hello. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “That, my dear, is a story for another day. I believe you and Rowland were leaving. Don’t let me delay you.”

  Rowland caught the advice in his tone and, whilst he did not entirely trust Alastair Blanshard, he took heed. He and Edna made their way to the foyer and waited briefly while one of the footmen fetched their coats.

  “Mr. Sinclair!” Chao Kung pulled off his Tibetan skullcap as he approached and wrung it as he spoke. “I don’t suppose you’d remember me. We were introduced at the soiree of Mrs. Bernadine Szold-Fritz.”

  “Good evening, sir.” Rowland placed Edna’s cape over her shoulders. “I’m afraid we were just leaving.”

  “I couldn’t help but overhear that you have fallen out with the Japanese.” Kung did not seem inclined to let them pass.

  For a moment Rowland said nothing. “I see.”

  “I wondered perhaps if I might offer my services.”

  “And what services are they, Mr. Kung?”

  Kung preened. “As a man of the cloth, I have connections of trust with the children of the sun, as well as the British and Germans. Perhaps I could assist you to sort out any misunderstanding.”

  Rowland smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Kung, but I really don’t think so.”

  “Allow me to assure you, Mr. Sinclair, I am a man of considerable influence. Surely it would be better to return to your brother having successfully concluded the business for which he sent you?”

  Rowland’s eyes narrowed. How on earth did Kung know what Wilfred had sent him to China to do? “No, I don’t think it would, but thank you for your concern. We really must be getting on our way.”

  Kung gripped Rowland’s arm. “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland looked down at Kung’s hand. “I would caution you likewise, sir.”

  The abbot released his grasp. “Perhaps I could offer you a lift back to your residence in my motorcar. Where are you staying?”

  “Thank you, but we have our own car,” Rowland said coolly. He took Edna’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Kung?”

  For a moment Kung hesitated, and then he pressed his palms together and bowed.

  They slipped past him and through the door, stepping out onto Bubbling Well Road.

  “What now?” Edna whispered.

  “We disappear into the crowd,” Rowland said quietly, “in case someone tries following us.” Rowland adjusted Edna’s cape, glancing back over her shoulder as he did so. “That chap Kung seemed rather too interested in where we were staying.”

  They weaved their way through a group of people clapping and laughing around a man with performing monkeys, as the creatures cavorted and begged for coins. Chao Kung scurried into the crowd after them, the monk’s attire serving to clear the respectful from his path. It was not until Rowland and Edna joined a large group of Englishmen on the way to dinner that their attire and Rowland’s height became less conspicuous, and the abbot fell behind and out of sight. The Englishmen and their ladies had obviously been taking pre-dinner drinks somewhere and so they didn’t seem to notice the Australians who’d insinuated themselves into their party.

  After a couple of blocks, gaily traversed with the inebriated revellers, they found themselves entering a restaurant in one of the vibrant side alleys. The doorman waved in the group on the credentials of the gentleman at its head.

  “We’ll see about finding a telephone,” Rowland said as they were bustled in.

  The restaurant was lit by candles and oil lamps. It was large enough to accommodate a band and dance floor, but with the number of people within it, there was barely room to move. The party had clearly been going for some time before their arrival. The clientele was mainly Western though there were a few Orientals in the mix. Rowland could make out phrases of French and Russian and a little Italian in the multilingual babble. Waiters managed to negotiate the press of people with champagne and spirits. On th
e dance floor, couples moved together in a way that would have been a scandal in other establishments: entwined, enraptured, oblivious. It was warm in the restaurant, and perhaps for this reason, many patrons seemed to be in various forms of undress. Every now and then there were squeals and cheers as one of the guests removed some part of their attire. Rowland kept a firm grip on Edna’s hand. It was not that they had never been to wild parties before, but that they had come to this one uninvited with no idea as to who else was there.

  A young woman, naked to the waist, grabbed Rowland’s lapel and made to kiss him. Surprised and apparently offended when he resisted, she demanded an explanation in inebriated indignation. “Don’t you like me? Why are you being like that?”

  Rowland declined her advances as courteously as he could, but it seemed the would-be seductress was taking his lack of interest somewhat personally. Her anger became tearful and loud. He made a futile attempt to calm her. Then Edna reached up and kissed Rowland herself. He responded without reserve, without any thought of defence. When the sculptress finally pulled away, the spurned stranger had vanished.

  Edna laughed, rubbing the lipstick off his lip with her thumb. “I’m sorry, Rowly. I thought she might go if she thought you were spoken for.”

  Rowland stared at her, having in that moment forgotten completely about the naked girl.

  “Rowly?”

  “Yes… of course. Thank you. We should get out of here before someone notices we’re not actually on the guest list.”

  Rowland asked a passing waiter about using a telephone, but making himself understood over the din of celebration was a challenge. Eventually the man gestured that he should wait and headed towards a small set of stairs in the corner.

  “My God! You’re a doll!” The accent was American. A gentleman who’d lost his jacket and whose tie hung loose about his neck. “You wanna come upstairs with me, sweetheart?”

  “No thank you,” Edna said calmly.

  “Oh come on!” The American moved to seize Edna around the waist.

  Rowland stepped in between them. “The lady said no.”

  “Gentleman’s choice, buddy. It’s the rules. We share and share alike.” He grabbed for Edna. Rowland caught his arm. The American swung with the other.

  The dispute exploded more than escalated and it seemed the American had friends. They came quickly to the fray. The fight was brief and intense and Rowland lost quite decisively. He was thrown out into the alley.

  As he struggled to his knees, his first thought, his only thought, was Edna. Where the hell was she?

  The alley was deserted.

  Rowland closed his eyes, trying to steady a spinning world, attempting to recall exactly what had happened. He remembered being pulled away from Edna and slammed up against a wall while three men laid into him. She’d called his name, but in the crowded darkness he could not see her. They’d dragged him out and thrown him into the side street.

  Light from the establishment’s shopfront spilled into the head of the alley allowing the shadow to be cast. A man in robes. The figure moved as Rowland looked up. “Kung!”

  Rowland staggered back to the restaurant’s entrance. The doormen barred his way.

  “I’m afraid this is strictly an invitation only event, sir.”

  Rowland tried to explain. The doormen refused to hear him. Frustrated and beginning to panic now, Rowland charged the door. And then he was on the ground again. One of the doormen produced a gun and pressed the muzzle against Rowland’s chest.

  “You’d best move on, sir,” he growled. “Your young lady probably has.”

  Recklessly, furiously, Rowland refused. Somewhere a woman screamed.

  “Rowly!” Edna’s voice.

  She appeared suddenly from the darkness of the alley and attempted to push the man with the gun away from Rowland. “How dare you! Leave him alone—”

  It was hard to know what the zealous doormen might have done if two Rolls Royce limousines had not at that moment pulled into the alley, momentarily dazzling them all with their headlamps.

  Startled, the doormen stood back. The gun was holstered hastily.

  The doors of the first motorcar opened and six burly European men climbed out and waited. A uniformed chauffeur alighted from the second vehicle and opened the rear door of the limousine. Du Yuesheng stepped out.

  Rowland looked up into Edna’s face. She was close to tears. “Rowly…”

  He sat up slowly, painfully. “Ed, thank God! How did you—?”

  “The waiter,” she said. “He took me out through the kitchen after they threw you out.”

  Rowland embraced her. “I’m so sorry. I should never have—”

  Du Yuesheng cleared his throat impatiently.

  Rowland rose gingerly to his feet.

  Du turned to his chauffeur and barked orders in Cantonese. The driver bowed and translated his master’s instructions into pidgin for the benefit of Rowland and Edna. “Mister wanchee go home? Zongshi say my tek.”

  “I think he’s offering to have his driver take us home,” Edna whispered.

  Rowland hesitated. “Thank you,” he said to Du Yuesheng. As unlikely as it sounded, accepting a ride from a Shanghai gangster seemed the safest and most convenient course of action in the present moment.

  Du signalled, and one of the men who’d arrived in the first Rolls Royce opened the door and motioned Rowland into the back of the vehicle. Edna climbed in beside him.

  The chauffeur slid open the partition. “Where to?”

  “Cathay Hotel side,” Rowland replied slowly, attempting to reply with what pidgin he’d managed to pick up.

  “Rowly, are you sure—?” Edna began.

  Rowland nodded. He did not want Du Yuesheng to know where they were staying, if he could help it. By the time they reached the Cathay Hotel he would have recovered his breath enough to walk the couple of blocks to Kiangse Road.

  Du Yuesheng’s chauffeur was talkative. He did not seem to mind that his passengers understood very little of what he was saying. Edna took the trouble to nod and smile into the rear-view mirror from time to time; Rowland was preoccupied with the pounding in his head. Edna asked him for his handkerchief as she opened the inbuilt drinks cabinet. She moistened the cloth with the contents of one of the crystal decanters and then pressed it gently to his temple. It seemed the newly healed injury inflicted by Sergei Romanov’s violin had reopened.

  Rowland flinched. The alcohol with which Edna had dampened his handkerchief stung on contact. He wondered fleetingly if he had time to pour some into a glass instead.

  “Rowly—”

  “I’m all right, Ed,” he said quietly. “My pride’s more bruised than anything else.”

  “It’s not your pride that’s bleeding, Rowly.”

  “No,” he agreed. “That’s definitely my head.”

  She said nothing for a moment. “What do you suppose that place was?”

  “Some kind of nightclub. I expect there was a gaming room or an opium den up those stairs.” Rowland’s eyes clouded. “If anything had happened to you, Ed…”

  “Nothing did.” She pressed his hand. “They forgot about me the moment the fight started. I was terrified they were going to kill you.”

  Rowland smiled ruefully. “No, they weren’t that committed to the task.”

  The Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the Cathay and they disembarked.

  “Yáyà nong.” Edna thanked the driver in Shanghainese, an effort which seemed to delight him. He waved and honked as he turned the motorcar around and headed back towards the Garden Bridge. They waited till he was out of sight.

  “We’d better go in,” Edna said.

  “Into the Cathay?” Rowland asked. “Why?”

  “We’ll ask Mr. Van Hagen to have one of the hotel cars take us to Kiangse Road.” She reached up and brushed back his hair to check if the cut on his brow has stopped bleeding. It had, but the area was bruised and bloody. “All things considered, it might not be wise to wal
k.”

  Rowland nodded. Kiangse Road was only a couple of blocks away but his current state of dishevelment did make him somewhat conspicuous. They could also not be sure that they weren’t still being followed. Edna took his arm. She walked slowly and, accustomed to the usual briskness of her step, he guessed she was still concerned about him. “Stop worrying, Ed. I was a boxer, remember? I know how to take a punch.”

  She looked at him critically. “Yes, I suppose you must.”

  He laughed. “Come on, let’s find Van Hagen.”

  27

  AID TO COURTING

  A Book Was Once Written

  ABOUT 70 years ago, according to a classic which was published then, “The Art of Courtship,” there was no such thing as equality of the sexes in the business of wooing and being wooed, which in those days was called: “Winning the fair object of his affections.”

  …“If the now hopeful suitor is invited to a party,” the book says, “at which the loved one will be present, he can take the bull by the horns, and send her some flowers with the written request that he hopes to have the unspeakable pleasure of seeing Miss X honor his unworthy self by wearing them in her corsage that evening.”

  Sun, 5 November 1933

  Milton opened the red door and regarded them with both relief and shock. “Bloody oath! He moved quickly to lend Rowland his shoulder as Edna stepped inside. “What the devil did you do to Rowly?”

  The sculptress ignored him.

  “Who’s here?” Rowland asked, having noticed the black Singer outside the house.

  “You have a visitor.”

  Rowland groaned. “Randolph?”

  Clyde limped out into the hallway. “Actually no.” He put his arm around Edna, relieved. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ed—we thought… Good grief, Rowly, are you all right? What on earth happened?”

  “I’ll be fine. Who’s here?”

  Clyde stepped aside so Rowland could proceed into the drawing room. “You should probably see for yourself.”

  “Sinclair! Where in the name of God have you been?” Alastair Blanshard stood as they came in. “Look at you! I thought I instructed you to go home!”