White Ghosts

14. LASCIVIOUS ART

The dazzling sun was shining over the river, which reeked of mud and machine oil; the merchant ships in the dock were nearly melting from the heat. The tackle creaked, the seagulls squabbled, and the sound of hammering could be heard as the riveters fixed the outer hull of a ship.

Klim reached the dock by sampan and ordered the boatman to take him to an overloaded junk with the inscription “Santa Maria” emblazoned across its stern in gold.

“Do you see the rope ladder hanging from the side?” Klim said. “I’ll try to climb up it, then you wait for me here in your sampan.”

The boatman nodded, but when Klim pulled himself up onto the lowest rung, right above his head he heard the sound of a revolver being cocked.

“Who are you?” a one-eyed Chinese asked quietly, aiming his revolver at Klim’s forehead.

The boatman let out a gasp and began to row back to the shore, leaving Klim hanging helplessly over the water.

“My name is Klim Rogov,” he said hastily. “I’m an old friend of Don Fernando.”

The one-eyed man glanced over his shoulder and shouted something in an incomprehensible dialect. Steps thundered on the deck above, and after a few agonizing minutes, Klim was allowed on board.

Santa Maria’s deck was buried in crates and bales. Small birds fluttered from one perch to another, chirping and pecking at the sacking and shaggy hemp ropes.

“The master is waiting for you,” One-Eye said, and he chaperoned Klim through the narrow passage between the crates.

Fernando was dressed in a hat, a dirty shirt, and pants that were rolled up to his knees. He was sitting under a canopy, eating a watermelon, his Chinese crew standing at a respectful distance to one side.

“Now, look who’s here!” the Don roared as he threw the watermelon rind overboard and rushed to give Klim a hug. “Where on earth have you been all this time?”

“En Argentina y Rusia,” said Klim, smiling.

“Wow, you’ve learned to speak our language!” Fernando said, changing to Spanish. “Now tell me everything. Would you like some coffee? But not just any old coffee, this stuff is instant. It’s made using the latest military technology.”

The Don listened to Klim’s story and cackled happily.

“Listen, can you translate technical documents into English?” he asked. “You can see how much stuff I’ve accumulated?” Don Fernando pointed at the crates on the deck. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to Canton, and half of my papers are in Russian which nobody there understands at all.”

Klim shrugged. “I can try.”

It would be good to provide the Don with a service, he thought, and then ask him to return the courtesy.

A Chinese boy brought them a binder, and Klim looked through the creased pages covered with scribbles in pencil. It was a list of military equipment—grenades, artillery shells, gas masks, field telephones, etc. The list had been compiled using the old Russian spelling rules that had been common before the revolution.

“Where did you get all these?” Klim asked the Don.

“I bought it from your countrymen, the Cossacks. Their steamer, the Mongugai, lies anchored right across from the Wusong fortress at the mouth of the Huangpu River. It was the last White Army ship to arrive in China, and the authorities refused the Cossacks permission to go ashore. They’re stuck on board, their engine room is completely ruined, and they have nothing to eat, so they’re selling off their arsenal.”

“And you’re planning to resell it in Canton?”

Don Fernando nodded. “Something is brewing there, you know, so the demand for weapons is huge. Sun Yat-sen wants to levy taxes on the local merchants to pay for his military expenses, so the Chamber of Commerce has raised a local militia to defend themselves against him.”

Don Fernando ordered his boy to bring Klim a pen, an inkwell, and paper.

“Sit down right here under the canopy and write. I used to have a Czech translator who was good at Russian. He wanted to get home, to Prague, but didn’t have the money, so he agreed to help me for a share in the business. Unfortunately, he’s dead now.”

Klim couldn’t help but smile: things were working out much quicker than he had anticipated.

“The Cossacks have been sitting on that ship for almost a year,” Don Fernando said, lighting up a cigar. “The Chinese governor has demanded that they give up all their weapons for nothing, but they are worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. Naturally, the Russians have turned down his generous offer, and now the Chinese navy is holding the Mongugai at gunpoint until the Cossacks starve to death.”

“What do the foreign concessions have to say about this?” Klim asked.

“The whites in Shanghai are pretending that they know nothing about the whole situation.”

They’re so greedy, they’ve lost their minds, Klim thought. They’re torturing innocent people for no reason whatsoever, and as a result, all these weapons will end up in Sun Yat-sen’s hands for a song.

It took Klim the whole day to finish the translation.

“Oh, I forgot about the Avro!” Don Fernando said as Klim handed him the final page. “The Cossacks offered me a brand new biplane, still in its original packaging. It’s too big for the Santa Maria, and I won’t take it with me this time, but I’ll try to find a buyer for it in Canton. One-Eye, bring me the papers the Russians gave us.”

Klim couldn’t understand a word of the biplane specifications.

“I’ll need a technical dictionary,” he said. “I have one at home, and I could bring you the translation tomorrow.”

“That sounds fine with me,” Don Fernando said. “How much do you want for your services?”

Klim put the biplane’s specifications into his wallet. “I’d like to interview you for my newspaper.”

Don Fernando exchanged glances with One-Eye. “My! We have become popular all of a sudden. All right, tomorrow you’ll get your interview along with my heartfelt thanks. But don’t be late. We set sail at ten in the morning.”

Tony Aulman called Nina and told her that he had succeeded in releasing the cash from her bank account.

“Come and take it,” he said. “Your account is closed.”

Half an hour later the driver brought Nina to Peking Road where she saw young Chinese men and women queuing at the entrance and up the stairs leading to the lawyers’ waiting room.

“Who are these people?” Nina asked as she entered Tony’s office.

“Actors,” he sighed.

Tony explained that his client, a film company called Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, had asked him to find a couple of indigenous people to play the main roles in their new motion picture about China. Tony had been very reluctant to take up the job. “I’m not a casting agency,” he had told the film producers, but they promised to grant him the rights to show the films in China, and Tony had relented. After all, outside of America, Shanghai was one of the biggest movie markets, and the offer had been too tempting to resist.

“I’ve had enough of these actresses,” Tony complained as he counted out Nina’s money. “We placed an ad in the Chinese newspapers: ‘Healthy twenty-year-old men and women required for casting, fluent in English, pleasant appearance.’ And what do you think we got? The world and his wife! Pimple-faced old men, and women with bound feet who can barely walk. Hardly one of them speaks a single word of English. I don’t know what they were expecting.”

Nina put the banknotes into her purse, waved goodbye to Tony, and went out. Thank God, I have cash now, she thought. She hadn’t taken a copper of Klim’s money to spend on herself and was eager to buy something that wasn’t just a necessity item.

On her way out of the building, she came across European woman selling cigarettes, magazines, and wall calendars featuring scantily clad blondes. The seller was Russian, of course: no other European woman would have demeaned herself by working on the streets.

Nina bought a ladies’ magazine and started to flip through the pages. A new type of a cloche hat in the shape of a bell had come into fashion that season, the waistline on the dresses was still low, but the hemlines had risen markedly.

“Would you like a calendar?” the saleswoman asked. “White people seem to like them.”

Nina looked up at her. “What about the Chinese?”

“They don’t understand this sort of art. They think white girls are ugly.”

A rickshaw stopped nearby, and a young Chinese lady stepped out on the road. She wore a crimson hat and an elegant gray dress complete with a garnet necklace. Her feet were a normal size, not deformed.

“Do you know who she is?” the saleswoman asked Nina. “Her name is Hua Binbin, she’s an actress. Her first film was such a success, and she’s such a celebrity that even the British newspapers are writing articles about her.”

“What was it about?” asked Nina.

“The story is about a father who wants to marry his daughter to a wealthy official, but she disobeys him and runs off with a young student. This is a shocking storyline for the Chinese because love matches are unheard of. All their marriages are arranged by the parents.”

“I’d like a copy of each of these calendars,” Nina said. “And could you write on them which fashions are selling better and which ones are not selling at all?”

Back home, Nina spread the calendars on the floor of the living room and stood there, examining every detail of the fresh pink-cheeked faces.

What if she replaced these Western starlets with Chinese women like Hua Binbin? More and more Chinese women with short hair and modern, stylish dresses were turning up on the streets of Shanghai. If the Chinese people were taking up Western styles, then the demand and market for Chinese fashion calendars would be immense.

Nina tried to calculate how much seed capital she would need to set up a publishing company. She would have to find models and artists, rent a studio, pay for the printing, storage, and delivery. It was going to be a fairly considerable sum. Nina’s savings would never be enough, no bank would give her a loan, and she didn’t want to ask Tamara for money. Where was she going to get the funds she needed?

She wracked her brains trying to come up with a solution and then slapped her forehead. Gu Ya-min, the antique dealer! He was the man who would help her find the money she needed.

On the way to Nina’s house, Klim tried to work out how he could help the Cossacks trapped on the Mongugai. If they had been women and children, he could have written a heart-rending article to encourage local philanthropists to help the refugees out. But who needed several hundred more men who had been brutalized by war, idleness, and hopelessness?

Previously, Russian refugees had been able to eat at the soup kitchen in the Orthodox church, but this had been closed at the request of the Soviet Consul. The Peking government had established diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union and for the first time in history signed an equal treaty with a European power. For the Chinese, it was a very important event, and they were happy to indulge the Bolsheviks’ whims—although this didn’t stop Moscow puppeteers organizing revolutionary propaganda in China and helping the local communists and rebellious Sun Yat-sen down in the south.

The Bolsheviks didn’t see anything remotely duplicitous in their actions. After all, the government in Peking was bourgeois, and according to their views, making a deal with the bourgeoisie was not worth the paper it was written on. The Bolsheviks were convinced that world revolution was not far off, and then all previous agreements and rules would become meaningless anyway.

Nina’s black Ford caught up with Klim just as he was about to reach her house.

“Get in,” Nina said excitedly as she opened the rear door. “I need to talk to you.”

Klim sat down next to her. “What’s up?”

“You’ll probably say I’m crazy. And yes, I know it’s a risk.” Nina clasped her hands on her knee and looked askance at him. “I’ve been to Gu Ya-min’s. He’s moving north to live with his son, and he’s offered me the chance to buy his entire collection for just a thousand dollars. I’m going to talk to him again now.”

“Why do you need it?” Klim asked.

“It’s worth at least twenty times that. Tony gave me my money back, and if I invest it into antiques, and then resell them, I’ll have enough money to open a publishing company to print calendars for the Chinese market.”

Nina told him she had already visited a dozen printing presses and warehouses and found out all she needed to know about prices, supply, demand, and volumes. She had neatly inscribed all these figures in the columns of an old dancing book, which had been designed to record the names of dance partners in the balls.

It had been ages since Klim had seen her so inspired. I don’t care what she does, he thought. The main thing is that she gets her love for life back again.

“What are you smiling about?” Nina asked, looking suspiciously at Klim. “Do you think I’m not capable of running a business?”

Klim squeezed her hand. “On the contrary. Let’s go and see that antique dealer of yours.”

He decided not to tell Nina about his meeting with Don Fernando. There was no need to bother her about it just yet. Let her think about her new project and dreams.

Klim wasn’t much of an expert on oriental art, but he immediately realized that Gu Ya-min’s collection was worth a lot of money.

As he looked through the albums and figurines, Nina tensely followed his expression. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said nervously. “I won’t be able to resell them because everyone will think that they’re pornographic.”

“You underestimate the secret admirers of the pornographic,” said Klim. “I know a woman who keeps a brothel, and she has a lot of clients who are very rich and eager to get their hands on the exotic. If we promised her a decent share, I’m sure she would be able to sell all this stuff.”

“How do you know her?” Nina frowned. “Have you used her services?”

Klim laughed. “I also personally know a number of drug traffickers and assassins, not to mention some women sewing ladies’ underwear. But this doesn’t mean that I’ve used all their services.”

Embarrassed, Nina lowered her eyes. “If only you knew how frightening this all is. I feel like a captain of a ship who has set sail without a compass or navigation charts.”

She gave Gu Ya-min the money and promised to bring a truck and porters so that they could deliver the collection to her home.

On their way, Nina became even more agitated. “What if we won’t be able to sell it, and I’m left with nothing but thirty boxes of pornographic art?”

“You won’t be,” Klim said. “Tomorrow I’ll go to Martha’s and talk to her. Maybe she’ll open an art gallery at her brothel and charge visitors a fee to view her exhibition.”

He touched the chauffeur’s shoulder. “Would you mind pulling over and getting me some cigarettes?”

“Why did you ask him to do that?” Nina asked once the chauffeur had got out of the car. “Have you started smoking?”

“It wouldn’t feel right kissing you with the chauffeur looking on,” Klim said and pulled Nina towards him.

She put her warm, trembling arm around his neck, hesitated, and then kissed him—first barely touching his lips, and then with an intense girlish passion.

“Please don’t leave me on my own anymore,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t going to—” Klim began, but Nina put her finger to his lips.

“It’s just that sometimes you’re so remote from me—when you go into yourself and can’t even look in my direction.”

Klim held her tight. “I’m not going anywhere from you.”

The chauffeur returned and handed him a green packet of cigarettes with a red circle on the wrapper.

Klim winked at Nina, showing her the brand name. “They’re Lucky Strikes. I’ll keep them for good luck.”

“Why don’t you come back to my house now?” Nina asked.

The temptation was great.

“I really need to go home tonight,” Klim said. “I have a translation to finish. Tomorrow I’ll come to you after work, and you can tell me what you’ve decided about our situation.”

“I already have.”

“Mull it over again. If you change your mind and don’t feel we can be soul mates, it doesn’t mean that we can’t be around each other.”

Klim had never expected his life would change quite so suddenly. He admitted to himself that all these months he had been shadowboxing with a woman who he thought was Nina, but was, in fact, a figment of his imagination. He had been exhausted by these phantom battles, like a soldier who no longer remembers or cares about the cause he is fighting for and wishes for only one thing—to throw his rifle down by the roadside and go home.

Klim guessed that Nina must also have rehearsed endless disputes with him in her head, finding hidden meanings in every word he uttered.

The only possible way we could get over it, Klim thought as he walked up the stairs to his apartment, is to accept that both of us were just looking for the best solution in the given situation. It doesn’t matter who was right and who was wrong in the past; there’s a lot to blame on both sides.

Ada came out from the kitchen to greet Klim.

“What are you so happy about?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did you find a wallet full of money on the pavement or what? By the way, a courier from Mr. Green came over and told you to come into the office immediately. Will you go now or have your dinner first? I’ve cooked Chinese cabbage today.”

It was half past eight. Why on earth would Mr. Green summon Klim to a meeting this late?

“I’ll be right back,” he said and went out into the street.

The tram was filled with merry people returning from restaurants. While making a turn, the tram driver hit the brakes and a drunk young woman with a bright lipstick fell face first into Klim’s arms.

“I’m so sorry!” she mumbled, looking at the lipstick mark she had left on his lapel.

Klim swore under his breath. She had ruined his jacket. How was he going to get it clean before his meeting?

It was already dark when he reached the Bund, and there wasn’t a single light on in the recently-built editorial office building. Perhaps the meeting is over and everyone has gone home? Klim wondered.

The old doorman ushered him into the dimly lit lobby.

“Do you have anything for this stain on my jacket?” Klim asked.

The doorman gave him a jar with an impressive red inscription on its side:

In all likelihood Shine had been manufactured in a nearby basement out of rice vodka and ditch water, however there was nothing Klim or his jacket had to lose.

He went up to the sixth floor. It was all very strange: the editorial room was empty.

I guess Ada lied to me about the meeting, Klim thought. She probably invited Betty over and decided to keep it a secret from me.

Frustrated, he threw his jacket on his desk and poured some Shine onto the stained lapel. The fumes were so strong that he coughed. That was all he needed. It was unlikely the bad smell would be gone by the next morning when the typists came into work.

He heard footsteps coming from the corridor, and two burly Chinese men burst into the room.

“Who are you looking—” Klim began but stopped in mid-sentence as Captain Wyer appeared from behind their backs with a fat cigar in his mouth.

“Sit down,” he ordered Klim. “We need to talk.”

Klim rushed to the door, but the Chinese caught him, twisting his arms behind his back and forcing him to sit down at his desk.

Wyer’s square jaw was moving slowly as if he was chewing on something.

“What’s that smell in here?” he asked.

He opened the window, and a draft riffled the papers on the desks and swayed the lamps hanging from the ceiling, causing their shadows to swing along the wall like oversized pendulums.

“Did you seriously think those students would never betray you?” Wyer chuckled. “No Chinese would ever risk his life for a second-rate ‘white ghost’ like you.”

He made a sign to one of the Chinese, and the man pulled a brown bottle out of his pocket.

“I’m a kind and God-fearing man, and I will not kill you,” Wyer said, “at least, not immediately. I expect you’re wondering what’s in this bottle? Well, I’ll tell you. It contains cholera water—a very apt cure for your impudence. Since you’re so fond of writing all sorts of crap about me, you should find yourself expelling every ounce of it for the foreseeable future. I think that should teach you a lesson unless you croak from the diarrhea first.”

Klim stared at the blue smoke rising from Wyer’s cigar.

“Could I have a smoke first?” he asked hoarsely and pulled the packet of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket. “Damn, I forgot my lighter.”

Wyer tossed him his matches. “Yes, you can, if it helps you to calm your nerves.”

Klim struck a match and threw it onto his jacket soaked with Shine. The draft blew the flame up to the ceiling, the Chinese jumped back, and Klim darted out of the room.

“Don’t let him out of the building!” Wyer yelled.

Klim dashed down the stairs, taking several steps at the time. He hit the heavy front door with all his weight and found himself on the Bund.

Pushing passersby out of his way, Klim ran towards the bridge over the Suzhou Creek.

“Stop thief!” he heard the voices behind his back. He looked back and saw the Chinese thugs chasing after him.

Narrowly avoiding a car, he crossed the street, but a Sikh policeman who was directing traffic on the bridge blocked his path, hitting him on the neck with his bamboo stick. Klim fell onto the warm road that smelled of iron. The policeman gave a shrill blow on his whistle, and the traffic stopped.

Klim quickly got back up onto his feet and rushed to the railing on the bridge. Down below was an endless stream of boats and sampans. Without a second thought, he jumped over the railing and onto a motorboat.

He hit the deck so hard that the boat almost capsized. The Chinese woman sitting at the stern gawked at Klim.

“Who are you?” she shrieked. “What do you want?”

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” someone yelled from the bridge.

“Get out of here quick, or they’ll kill us!” Klim shouted to the woman.

The boat jerked forward, and in a few seconds, they were in the middle of the Huangpu River, gunshots ringing out after them.