Brother Fish (84 page)

‘“Will he get well again, Dr Chung?” I asked him.

‘“Sometimes, yes and sometimes, no,” he said, spreading his hands, his answer a typical Chinese response. Then he added sternly, “You must not take, you must not smoke opium – it is not for you!”

‘While I was aware of the dangers of opium, it could hardly have made my father any worse than he was. In fact, it sometimes appeared to improve his mood – and for an hour or so he'd be his old self again. Opium was readily available from the rickshaw boys who waited outside the club for patrons, and was not expensive. Many of the hostesses in the club had taken to using it to solve their problems. At one a.m. the hostesses were free to leave the club and those girls who had not managed to get a paying partner for the night would take it to go into a dreamlike state where they would forget their fall from grace and their misery.

‘Then fairly late one night four Chinese men entered the club, and soon it was buzzing with excitement. The girls hurried into the dressing room to adjust their make-up and straighten their hair. This was unusual – although some of the powerful Chinese businessmen occasionally came into the club, they were afforded no special treatment. If anything, they received slightly the opposite – many of the girls wouldn't go near them. Yuri passed me in a terrible tizz, flapping a white table napkin. I continued playing the piano, but called after him. “What's happening, Yuri?”

‘“Oh my God. It's Yu Ya-ching and he's with Smallpox ‘Million-Dollar' Yang, Chang Shig-liang and Du Yu-sen, three French Concession gangsters, and we're not supposed to know who they are – but all the rickshaw boys dropped to the ground as they arrived and the Chinese doorman, Wang Lee, nearly had a heart attack.” He said this almost in one breath. “I've got to go, Nicole. They drink brandy, and the stuff we serve at the bar is excrement.” He hurried off towards the office and passed me a couple of minutes later with the general in tow carrying a bottle of VSOP French cognac, no doubt of a suitably impressive age.

‘I was none the wiser, and on a whim I played and sang a folk song Ah Lai had taught me. According to Ah Lai my voice was ideal for Chinese music and she would clap her hands when I sang to her and say I had the intonation and timing just right. I followed the first folk song with another and then, thinking I might be reprimanded, reverted to a popular Noël Coward number. Soon afterwards Yuri came up to the piano panting with excitement. “They want you to sing the Chinese songs again,” he said breathlessly.

‘“I know several more,” I offered.

‘“No! Sing the same again! Mr Yu says he's never heard the second song more beautifully sung.”

‘I had quite an extensive repertoire of Chinese folk songs Ah Lai had taught me. In the eighteen months I'd spent in her village I'd learned all the songs for the region, and several more. So I played and sang the two I'd already performed, then continued with three more.'

‘Did you know “The Fish Song”?' I burst out, unable to contain myself.

She laughed. ‘Yes, of course. It is known by fisherfolk throughout China, but there are different versions.'

‘But you never said!' I cried, astonished at her admission.

‘That would have been extremely rude of me, Jack. “The Fish Song” belongs to both of you.'

‘Dat why yoh can trans-late dem lyrics for da governor daughters, easy as pie,' Jimmy laughed.

We were getting away from her story, and while it had been me who'd interrupted her flow I was anxious for her to continue. ‘You were singing the Chinese songs – then what happened?' I asked, sounding perhaps a little rude.

‘Well, I'd hardly concluded the songs when Yuri arrived with a wine glass holding a hundred-dollar note. “This comes with the compliments of Mr Yu, who hopes you might join his table,” he announced. “Oh, you lucky, lucky girl!”'

‘Dat like he saying, “Girl, get yo' sassy ass ovah der” – dis cat he a big-time gangsta, who got da bread he gonna spread!' Jimmy filled in.

‘Well, something like that. Anyway, Mr Yu was a notorious Shanghai businessman and real Chinese big boss of Shanghai. The other three were known gangsters who, I was later to learn, were referred to as “The Three Musketeers of the French Concession”. They were known to be exporting opium, running the sing-song houses – the translated Chinese name for brothels – kidnapping, running gambling dens and various other illegal oriental enterprises, including “collecting taxes” from the coolie boats using the river port. This practice is known in China as “squeeze” and is practised by everyone, from the lowest-ranking house servant to the highest government official. Squeeze isn't bribery as we know it in the West – it's just skimming a bit off the top of everything that passes your way.

‘I have to confess I was a bit nervous approaching Mr Yu and his colleagues – I couldn't imagine having to sit on Mr Yu's knee. I brought my hands together and bowed my head in the accepted Chinese manner required when a woman of lower rank meets a dignitary. I was invited to sit down and did so, but not before I had filled their glasses from the bottle of cognac. When Mr Yu and the three gangsters with him realised that I spoke fluent Cantonese they were simply delighted, and we soon got on like a house on fire. “How old are you, Little Countess?” Mr Yu asked. I told him, not expecting any reaction. To the Chinese, a fifteen-year-old girl is already a woman, but Mr Yu knew this not to be the case in the West. “It is too young for a place like this?” It was both a comment and a question – which is very Chinese, as it allows one to respond either way, to ignore or react.

‘“I play the piano and sing. I am not a hostess,
loh yeh
,” I answered, using the Chinese for “my lord”.

‘“It is not usual for a westerner to speak Cantonese – even less, to sing Chinese music with a good voice and with all the right intonations?”

‘It was another open question. “My
amah
taught me,” I answered, giving little away. Yuri arrived personally with lemonade and placed the tall glass in front of me with some ceremony, adding a slice of lemon and placing a napkin beside it. “You will drink brandy with us, Little Countess?” Mr Yu asked.

‘“That would be unseemly, and not something a lady would do,” I replied, my eyes respectfully averted. He had a deeply lined yellow face with large purple bags under his eyes. Central Casting would have grabbed him for the lead in any feature film requiring an inscrutable Chinese gangster or war lord. But at that moment he was smiling, and had a surprising twinkle in his eye.

‘Quite suddenly, Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang stuck his finger into my lemonade and sucked it. “No gin,” he stated in English, smacking his lips.

‘Chinese manners are difficult to negotiate. A woman, even an equal in class (and as a despised Russian refugee I was certainly
not
his equal), must be careful how she behaves in front of a Chinese man of substance. I reached over and stuck my finger delicately into Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang's brandy glass and brought it up to my tongue, trying very hard not to grimace at the ghastly taste. “French Cognac, VSOP,” I said in English.

‘There was a moment's stunned silence. Then Mr Yu clapped his hands gleefully and broke into a spontaneous chortle, and two of the other Chinese men immediately followed suit, the exception being Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang. His wide, flat, severely pockmarked face clearly did not accept my return gesture as an appropriate rebuttal. Had it not been for the presence of Mr Yu, I fear I would have been soundly rebuked. However, Mr Yu was delighted. “You must come to Shanghai, Little Countess, and I will look after you!”

‘“I cannot,
loh yeh
. My father is gravely ill,” I replied. “I thank you nevertheless for the great honour of your patronage.”

‘“Some time,” he said. “You speak English?”

‘“Yes, sir – and French, my mother was French.”

‘“Cantonese, English and French – you will do well in Shanghai.” He hadn't bothered to mention Russian, a language of no consequence in the life of the city. “When you come you have only to ask for Yu Ya-ching. I will not forget – you have a brave heart, and good manners.” He looked over to Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang, and then back to me, and said, “Your Chinese name will be ‘No Gin'. It will be good joss.” Joss, of course, is a Chinese concept of luck, fortune and destiny.

‘Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang broke into a broad smile, accepting the congratulations of the other two gangsters. Mr Yu had cleverly restored his dignity and at the same time he had gained face. I turned to the repulsive-looking gangster and bowed my head. “I am honoured to receive this name from you, Taipan Yang,” I said, thus giving him the credit for Mr Yu's perspicacity.

‘It was the house custom to leave an empty wineglass in the centre of the table as a not-very-subtle reminder that a gratuity was expected.

Mr Yu now produced his thick wallet. “I have a great personal favour to ask, Little Countess?”

‘I immediately stiffened. “I am not a hostess,
loh yeh
,” I said, unable to hide my anxiety.

‘Mr Yu laughed. “And I am not a seducer of schoolgirls.” He held out a one-hundred-dollar note, and with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand indicated about four inches. “Please. A lock of your hair.”

‘I sighed with relief. A hundred dollars for a small lock of hair was a generous offer. My long blonde plaits fell down to my waist and there was certainly more than enough to spare. I signalled to Yuri and asked him for a pair of scissors. When he returned I undid the end of one of my plaits, separated the hair carefully and cut the required length. Then I carefully bunched the small lock of hair, clipped the top with a hairpin and handed it to Mr Yu, re-plaiting the loose hair back in place. Whereupon he placed the one-hundred-dollar note into the wineglass in the centre of the table. Then he looked pointedly at Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang. “For the privilege of naming her,” he said, indicating the wineglass. Smallpox “Million Dollar” Yang grinned and placed the equivalent amount in the glass. Not wishing to lose face, the other two gangsters promptly followed suit.

Four hundred dollars was more – much more – than I could earn in six months, but I somehow knew that I shouldn't take it, even though the urge to grab it greedily and offer my profuse thanks almost overwhelmed me. Seeing the four hundred-dollar notes resting in the glass set my heart racing and I could feel a great thumping in my chest. I was taking a ridiculous risk and stood to lose a fortune. I told myself I would never see the four men again, so why was I being so obviously, almost insanely, stupid? If I walked away without their tip I took the risk of offending them, so they might return the money to their pockets. I had no right to the “face” that leaving the money implied. I was a nobody. Even to the Chinese rickshaw boys, the Russian refugees were deracinated and well beneath other Europeans in China – we were pariahs, poor and thought to be competing with the women in the sing-song houses. If I took the money these four men could think no less of me than they already did. Yet I resisted and walked away, holding my back as straight as I possibly could, feeling quite weak at the knees and inwardly cursing my own stubborn stupidity.

‘I returned to the Steinway and played another bracket, which included two more Chinese folk songs. Shortly afterwards I saw the four of them leave, and a minute or so latter Yuri arrived with the glass containing the money and I almost cried from relief.

‘“You were magnificent, darling,” he said admiringly.

‘One of the hundred-dollar notes was missing. “And
you
are a thief, Yuri Petrof!” I replied.

‘He shrugged, not attempting to lie. “Pay-back time, darling,” he replied tartly. He pointed to the Steinway. “If I hadn't entered Madam Olga's office at precisely the right moment you wouldn't have this cushy job.” I guess he had a point – I was learning that in China, everyone takes a cut.

‘I was overjoyed, practically jumping out of my skin as I scrubbed the make-up from my face that night. I kept hugging myself, not quite able to believe my good fortune as the rickshaw boy drove me home in the early hours of the morning. Father and I would be able to leave our shared accommodation and I'd make him a comfortable home with our own bathroom and kitchen. I would also be able to afford hospital treatment for him. The “Little Countess” was learning how to survive, and I must say I felt rather pleased with myself as I climbed the rickety stairs to our rooms. I well recall the cacophony of the several hundreds – nay thousands – of roosters in the Chinese city that heralded the approaching dawn, rending the smoky, acrid air and turning it into avian mayhem. As I reached the top of the stairs I felt under my skirt to reassure myself, for the umpteenth time, that the four hundred-dollar notes (three presented to me in the wineglass, less Yuri's cut, and one presented to me earlier, at the piano) and the other tips I'd earned were safely tucked inside my bloomers.

‘I inserted my key into the lock in the door of the rooms where we were staying, turning it ever so slowly, thinking to open it quietly so as not to disturb my father. But the door resisted. Then, as I pushed harder, it opened a tiny crack and seemed to bang against a heavy object. I was forced to put my shoulder to the door until it opened sufficiently for me to see a table had been placed against it. I pushed again, grunting with the effort, finally forcing the table far enough away from the door for me to squeeze through the gap. I could see the square-cut ends of the legs of an overturned chair that lay on the table and then, hanging from above, my father's pale, un-stockinged feet, one leg slightly longer than the other. I need not have been concerned about disturbing his sleep – his body was suspended from the neck by a piece of rope that hung from a wooden beam that ran across the ceiling.'