Dreams of the Red Phoenix (23 page)

But not just any woman, he thought with a smile. She was his
Shirley: sturdy and unbendable in ways that he was not. Shirley
Carson was not to be trifled with. If anything, she would see to
her own release and not leave it to the others. With this confident
thought, Caleb drifted off again, aware that he must stay alive a
little while longer, at least until word came that she had returned
safely to the mission compound.

S
hirley was willing to bow, but not low, or at least not as low as
the Japanese general would have liked.

“Thank you for joining me this evening, Mrs. Carson,” he be
gan as he poured tea for them into fine porcelain cups.

She had certainly not joined him freely but had been forced by
the Japanese soldiers through the mission, out the gate, and down
the empty town streets until she and her entourage arrived at this
municipal building, formerly the center for tax collection under
both Tupan Feng and then his warlord nephew. She had visited
here with Caleb some years before when he wanted to express his
outrage at the practice of excessive levies and bribes. He had felt
hopeful that he could help change the historically corrupt system.
As she noticed the Nambu pistol in its holster on the Japanese
general's hip and the fiery shine of his shoes, she found herself
longing for those old days, when the warlord was greedy, unprin
cipled, and vulgar, but at least had a patrician sense of responsi
bility to his people and province.

“Won't you have a cup of tea?” the Japanese general asked in
impeccable English.

She had refused to look him straight in the eye but did so now.
“You realize it is past midnight.”

The general spoke to his soldiers, who turned and withdrew,
leaving Shirley alone with him. He approached with the teacup,
and she took it. Short and rotund, he appeared tidier and cleaner
than anyone she had seen in weeks. The stars and medals on his
chest shone, and the creases in his pant legs were sharp. He wore
thick, black-rimmed round glasses, and his thinning hair was
slicked back and greased with something pungent and familiar.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Have a seat.” He ges
tured to a wicker chair in the middle of the room. She had been
surprised to see the Western-style furniture in this office, a large
teak desk and banker's chair, not the tatami mat, stools, or low
tables that the Japanese usually preferred.

“I believe the majority of Americans today do not drink tea,”
he said. “They prefer Chock Full o' Nuts or Nehi soda pop. But
Mrs. Carson, I am sure you do not care for such a low-class drink,
even if I could get it for you.” He offered a good-natured laugh.

Shirley eased into the wicker seat as he leaned against the desk
before her, his legs crossed at the ankles.

“I was always partial to Coca-Cola myself,” he continued, his
voice confident and friendly. “Delicious drink. If they ever sell it
in Japan, the tea tradition will be over forever. But I will never
forget the hot toddies at football games. What a grand custom of
your people! I still carry a flask with me.” He patted his breast
pocket. “During final-examination period, we drank black cof
fee late into the night. Were you Vassar girls allowed to do that?
At Princeton, no one watched over us. The young men were
untamed. Nothing could have prepared me for the wildness of
American boys.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower.
“I understand you have a teenaged son. I do not envy you.” He
shook his head. “In Japan, we know how to handle boys. We are
much better at this. You Americans could learn from us.”

Shirley calmly lifted the cup to her lips, unwilling to betray
her surprise at everything he said. But as she drank the bitter
tea, one crucial thing occurred to her: this general was trying to
impress her.

He set down his cup and offered his hand. “General Hayato
Shiga, Princeton class of '15.”

His plump and clammy palm repulsed her.

“Everyone called me ‘Hal.' I doubt you remember me, but I
remember you. I saw you at Vassar's final spring dance our senior
year. You stood out even in that company of lovely young ladies.”

He pushed off from the desk, strode to the window, and gazed
out. A flash of acid orange light appeared far off, briefly bathing
the horizon in a sudden, astonishing glare.

“You Vassar girls were regal,” he continued. “I was not al
lowed to dance or date because I was engaged to be married back
home. But that was all right. I was terribly shy. I admired you
American girls from afar. Such thoroughbreds, isn't that the
term? Highborn women. Women of the royal court. Princesses,
every one of you.”

“Not exactly,” she said. “My stepfather owned shoe stores. I
was no princess.”

His insistent smile suggested that he was not to be dissuaded.

Shirley took another slow, deliberate sip to gain courage be
fore speaking. “We are here now in North China, General Shiga.
Times have changed. But I am so glad that our two countries re
main on good terms. Yet, as friendly as we are, I cannot be bribed
with a cup of tea.” She set hers on the desk and raised her chin.
“I was taken by force from my home this evening, was marched
across this unfortunate town, and am being kept here against my
will. I know with great certainty that you have violated any num
ber of international laws by treating me this way.”

Behind the thick glasses, his eyes grew sharper. “I brought you
here, Mrs. Carson, in the hope that we could ignite camaraderie,
even friendship. We have a shared past. But you are hardheaded.
I should have expected it from an American woman.”

Shirley straightened her spine. “Why don't you tell me the
real reason you brought me here, General?”

He strode behind his desk. “I have heard that you are a nurse.
You care for the Chinese citizens who seek temporary shelter
at your mission compound. Your Reverend Wells and I have
discussed this, and I agreed that under our current rules of en
gagement, American civilians may assist the population. But my
primary concern is my officers. They are in need of medical at
tention. They suffer from maladies, private medical conditions.”

“War wounds?” she asked.

“None of them have been injured.”

“So they do not suffer like the Chinese who have been bay
oneted and left to die by the road? From our window, my son
and I witnessed the execution of not only military but also
civilians. They were shot and tossed into a ditch. Has a similar
fate met your soldiers?” As Shirley spoke, she rose from her
seat, her voice growing stronger. “Or perhaps they have been
attacked like the Chinese women I saw in the marketplace,
their bodies ruined for any future life, their very souls flayed
from them.”

“Come, now, Mrs. Carson,” he said with exaggerated pa
tience. “You are an innocent. It is not your fault that you are a
sheltered, spoiled woman who has never seen such things before.
What you have witnessed is typical of war, nothing more.” He
waved a hand toward the window, where another flash of light
illuminated beyond the farthest edge of town. “My request of you
is nothing so horrific. I would not presume to burden you with
real injuries. I don't think you could handle them.”

Shirley squeezed her hands together to control herself. She
longed to tell him all she had done to oversee the care of the badly
wounded Chinese, but instead, she simply said, “Good of you,
General.”

“Our complaints are more rudimentary. One of my officers
needs dental help, and another has such bad hemorrhoids that he
can no longer sit down. They have bunions from marching. In
digestion from rancid Chinese food. Coughing, most likely from
TB give to us by the unsanitary Chinese. Basic ailments for which
we need your help, Nurse Carson. I request that you attend to my
officers. In exchange, I will see that you are fed and kept safe. My
protection is worth all the money in this lousy country. And if you
serve us for even a short time, I will see that you and your son are
escorted out of the province to safety. I think that is a fair offer.”

Face the foe
, her husband had always said, half in jest, but
Shirley knew he would not be joking now. She pulled back her
shoulders and said, “I wish to be escorted back to my home, Gen
eral Shiga. I must decline your offer, but I thank you for con
sidering me for these tasks.” She meant to continue in this vein,
civilized and in control of her feelings, but could not. “I'm flat
tered that you trust me with bunions and hemorrhoids and other
insignificant complaints.“

A growl began deep in the general's chest and erupted loudly.
He stroked his slick hair and spun away from her. He called out
to his men, who came and grabbed her by the wrists, but Shirley
yanked free.

“I will not tolerate such rudeness, General. If I were to help
you, it would have to be on civilized terms.”

“Then you will still consider my offer?” he asked.

“It must be after 1 in the morning, and my son will be worried
sick. Please, I need to get home.”

“You may go,” he said. “My soldiers will escort you. But do
not dismiss my offer, Mrs. Carson. As you Americans say, sleep
on it, all right? I hope to hear from you soon.” He bowed.

She bowed, too, but before turning to go, she added, “I do re
member you, Hal. You were one of two Asian boys who attended
the dances. You and a good-looking one would huddle in the cor
ner by the band. What was his name, I wonder?”

The general seemed to flinch behind the heavy lenses. “Chen,”
he said. “Harvey Chen.”

“That's right. You two seemed to be such good friends. Thick
as thieves.”

The general barely nodded.

“I think I heard that he married a Vassar girl. They live out in
sunny California now. My, my, isn't he the lucky one?”

The general may have blanched but turned his back quickly
and did not answer.

Outside, Shirley leaned against the side of the building and let
the thick night air embrace her. Beads of sweat rolled down her
ribs, and she realized she was shaking. From around her neck,
she untied a silk scarf that Caleb had given to her. On it, a color
ful phoenix spread its wings and dove across a royal-blue sky. In
the dim light cascading from the municipal building, the magical
bird looked fierce and free. From her study of Chinese antiques,
she knew that Fenghuang bestowed on all who saw it not only
grace and good luck but also immortality. She patted the power
ful image of the bird against her lips now and then pressed it to
her damp breastbone above the buttons of her blouse, hoping for
strength.

Shirley started off through the quiet town, two Japanese sol
diers escorting her. They held their rifles cocked, and she sus
pected that Chinese watched from inside darkened doorways
and through the cracks in boarded-up windows. At a corner, she
almost stumbled into the bent back of a coolie who was rummag
ing through a pile of garbage. The soot-stained man appeared
haggard but unfazed and purposeful. The fear Shirley had held
at bay with the general rose up, and her stomach turned. She
raced to the side of the road and retched into a gully. A second
wave of nausea overtook her, but she had nothing left inside.
When she raised her head and noticed the desolate scene around
her, she felt panicked that she had behaved in such a headstrong
way with the general. She had always been like that: cocky in the
face of trouble, her instinct never to flee but to stride directly to
ward whatever frightened her. But that was foolishness now, she
thought, hubris of the first order.