Everything Under the Sky (52 page)

Once we reached the crowded station, we looked for a quiet place to say good-bye to Master Red. The date was Sunday, December 16, and, as hard as it was to believe, we had therefore spent only a month and a half together. It had been such an intense time, so fraught with danger, that it could just as easily have been a lifetime. None of us wanted to admit that we were going our separate ways and, worse still, might never see one another again. Fernanda, wearing a beautiful fur coat and a lovely sable hat like mine, had tears in her eyes and sadness written all over her face. Biao was shockingly handsome in a three-piece English tweed suit, his hair cut short and lacquered with brilliantine. He looked magnificent—and he needed to in order to be allowed onto that train and into the first-class cars.

“Master Red Jade, what will you do when you get back to Xi'an?” I asked with a lump in my throat.

The monk, who was carrying his share of the money in heavy bags cautiously hidden underneath his loose, worn tunic, blinked his small, wide-spaced eyes.

“I'll pick up the animals and return to Wudang, madame.” He smiled. “I'm anxious to unload all this wealth onto the mules.”

“You run a great risk traveling alone on those paths.”

“Don't worry, I'll send word to the monastery, and they'll have people come meet me.”

“Will we see you again, Master Red Jade?” my niece whimpered.

“Will you ever come back to Wudang?” the scholar asked, with a touch of nostalgia in his voice.

“When you least expect it,” I confirmed, “someone will tell you that three strange visitors have hurried through Xuanyue Men, the Gate to the Mysterious Mountain, and are running up the Divine Corridor calling out your name.”

Master Red blushed and, with a shy smile, lowered his head in that characteristic gesture that always made me worry he'd drive his dangerously pointed chin into his throat.

“Have you never wondered, madame, how the First Emperor's heavy coffin floated in the air?”

The mention of that funeral chamber, which now seemed so far away, was a discordant note that ruptured the emotion of the moment. That place would forever be connected to the last image I had of Lao Jiang in those horrible circumstances. I was suddenly conscious of all the Westerners who were looking at us strangely, the many families from the Legations Quarter who'd come to the station to send off relatives or friends.

“How did it float?” Biao asked, immediately interested.

“It was made of iron,” Master Red emphasized, as if that were the key to it all.

“Yes, we saw that,” I replied.

“And the walls were made of stone,” he continued. How could we fail to see when the answer was so obvious? he seemed to be saying.

“That's right, Master Red Jade. Stone,” I repeated. “The entire room was made of stone.”

“When I opened my bag, I noticed that the needle on my
luo p'an
was spinning wildly.”

“Stop playing games, Master Red Jade,” Fernanda snapped, unconsciously holding her bag as if she were about to hit him over the head with it.

“Magnets?” Biao timidly suggested.

“Exactly!” Master Red exclaimed. “Magnetic stones! That's why my
luo p'an
didn't work. The entire chamber was built using magnetic stones that exerted a proportionately equal pull on the coffin and kept it floating in place.”

I was completely flabbergasted. Could magnets be that strong? Evidently they could.

“But, Master,” Biao objected, “the slightest movement of the sarcophagus would have unbalanced those forces and made it fall.”

“That's why they put it up so high. Don't you remember? It was impossible to reach, and at that distance from the floor and the entrance nothing affected it, not air or human presence. Everything was carefully planned so that great iron coffin would remain in the center of those magnetic forces forever.”

“Not forever, Master Red Jade,” I murmured. “It's gone now.”

The four of us were silent, saddened by the irretrievable loss of all the marvelous things we'd discovered and that no one would ever see again. The engine whistle blew in the large station building.

“Our train!” I said, alarmed. We had to go.

Completely unconcerned about my regained Western appearance or whoever might be watching, I closed my right hand into a fist and wrapped my left hand around it, held them up in front of my forehead, then bowed long and low before Master Red Jade.

“Thank you, Master. I will never forget you.”

The children, who had followed my lead and still had their heads bowed when I straightened up, murmured their thanks as well.

Master Red was extremely moved and bowed to the three of us. Then, smiling warmly, he turned and walked toward the station door.

“We'll miss our train,” Fernanda suddenly declared, pragmatic as always.

Over the next thirty-six hours, we crossed China from north to south inside deluxe sleeping compartments, lovely club cars with pianos and dance floors, and magnificent dining cars where Chinese waiters served exquisite meals. The dishes made with duck or pheasant, which were as common in China as chickens, were by far the best. Before being roasted, the meat was painted with a fine coat of lacquer—the same kind used on buildings, furniture, and columns—to make lacquered ducks or pheasants, a delicacy that was once reserved for emperors.

The soldiers who guarded the train were an uncomfortable presence, rough and brutish, but they allowed us to pass without incident through truly dangerous areas controlled by warlords or bandit armies. The weather improved during our second day of travel, and while still cold, it wasn't the glacial cold of Peking, so we were able to spend time on the balconies enjoying the scenery. We neared the Yangtze, and though it might sound absurd, I felt connected to that river after so many days traveling on it to Hankow. If our lovely, cultured travel companions had even suspected that the children and I had journeyed upriver aboard filthy barges and sampans, dressed like beggars and escaping something called the Green Gang, they'd have avoided us as if we'd had the plague. How long ago those days were, and how wonderful they'd been!

Immense, water-filled rice paddies flew past for hours on end before we reached Nanking, the former Southern Capital founded by the first Ming emperor, a city I recalled as dilapidated and where Lao Jiang had walked the filthy streets happily recalling his student days. I'll never forget Nanking's immense Jubao Gate, or Zhonghua Men as it was now called, and the underground tunnel containing a Wei-ch'i problem on the floor. Known as “The Legend of Lanke Mountain,” it was over twenty-five hundred years old, and our intelligent Biao had solved it. That was where the Green Gang had attacked us for the second time, resulting in the loss of Paddy Tichborne's leg when he boldly stepped in front to protect the children and me. I would be eternally grateful for that gesture, and although I wouldn't be able to tell him the whole truth, I would of course give him his full share of the treasure.

We disembarked once we reached Nanking and were ferried across the immense, interminable Blue River on lovely steamers that agilely dodged the little junks, sampans, and numerous seagoing vessels with apparent ease. Back on the train by nightfall, we carried on to Shanghai, just a few hours away. The stations became more plentiful, and we could see crowds waiting in the light of red paper lanterns as we sped through.

Our convoy finally stopped near midnight at one of the platforms in the Shanghai North Railway Station, the very station we'd departed from three and a half months earlier, when Fernanda and I were newly arrived in China, carrying our bags and dressed as poor peasants. We were now returning in first class, looking so refined it would have been impossible to recognize us.

Although we'd left Shanghai in the stifling heat of summer and it was now the middle of winter, it still wasn't cold enough for fur coats and sable hats. Nevertheless, we left them on so as to stay warm on that late-night rickshaw ride. Since I was certain that Monsieur Julliard, Rémy's lawyer, would have sold the house and auctioned off the furniture and artwork as I had instructed, I decided we should stay at a hotel in the International Concession, far from the French Concession, controlled by Pockmarked Huang's police. One of our travel companions had recommended the Astor House Hotel, and that's where we spent our first night. Thanks to his imposing height, elegant Western clothing, and a considerable sum of money paid to the manager, Biao was allowed to stay in a small room in the servants’ quarters. We'd been granted a very special favor; giving lodging to a yellow could seriously damage the hotel's good reputation.

I soon realized that getting around in areas reserved for Westerners was going to be a serious problem with Little Tiger. Outside the pretty public gardens near the Astor was an English sign that read “No dogs or Chinese allowed.” The next morning I left the children at the hotel with the solemn promise from them that they were not to leave under any circumstances and took a rickshaw to see M. Julliard at his office on rue Millot in the French Concession.

It was a pleasure to ride through that city. Christmas was approaching, and some of the buildings had already been decorated for the season. I didn't recognize any of the well-known sites or places, because I hadn't had time to visit them when I was first in Shanghai, but I was thrilled to be traveling along the famous Bund, that great avenue on the west bank of the dirty, yellow Huang Pu River that we'd sailed up on board the
André Lebon
as far as the Compagnie des Messageries Maritimes docks on the day we arrived in China. There were so many cars, trams, rickshaws, and bicycles! So many people! The wealth and opulence were unlike anything I'd seen anywhere else in that enormous country. People from all over the world had found in Shanghai a place to work and live, revel and die—like Rémy. If not for the corruption that reigned in that city, if not for the gangs, the mafia, and the opium, Shanghai would have been a wonderful place to live.

We passed through the wire fence that separated the concessions without being stopped by the gendarmes. I was profoundly relieved, fearing that my name might set off alarms with Pockmarked Huang's Sécurité. I was no longer afraid of the Green Gang after what happened in the mausoleum, but I didn't want to stir up already turbulent waters before leaving Shanghai.

Nothing had changed in André Julliard's office on rue Millot: the same smell of must and rotting wood, the same glassed-in office, and the same Chinese clerks milling around the young typists’ desks. M. Julliard was even wearing the same sorry, wrinkled linen jacket as last time. He was pleasantly surprised to see me, greeting me warmly and asking what I'd been doing those last few months, as it had been impossible to locate me. I gave him a vague story about a sightseeing trip into the interior of China, which he didn't appear to believe. Over a cup of tea, he pulled the thick file containing Rémy's documents out of a drawer and explained that he had indeed sold the house and auctioned off the other effects. He'd obtained nearly 150,000 francs, enough to cover half the debt, but the other half was still outstanding. Creditors were growing impatient, and more than one lawsuit had been decided against me, making me practically an outlaw.

“Oh, but don't worry about that!” he commented in his strong accent from the south of France, smiling widely. “It's quite normal in Shanghai!”

“I'm not worried, M. Julliard,” I replied. “I have the money. I'm going to write you a check for the full amount, plus a little more should some other unforeseen debt arise and to cover your services.” His eyes grew wide behind the dirty lenses of his small, round, wire-rimmed glasses, and a question he never managed to ask formed on his lips.

“No need to worry, M. Julliard. The check won't bounce. Here's a copy of a letter of credit from the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, and here,” I said, pulling out a brand-new checkbook and taking the pen he offered, “are the two hundred thousand francs that will put an end to this nightmare.”

The poor lawyer didn't know how to thank me for such a generous honorarium and launched into a thousand courtesies and niceties. At the door to his office on my way out, I asked him to please be discreet with respect to payment, not to pay all the debts at once, but little by little in order not to draw attention.

“Don't worry, madame,” he replied with a complicit gesture I didn't quite know how to interpret, “I completely understand. Rest assured that's what I'll do. If you want or need anything, if I can be of service to you in any way, please don't hesitate to ask. I would be delighted to do what I can.”

“Well, I do have one favor to ask,” I replied with a beguiling smile. “Would you purchase three first-class tickets on the next ship to set sail for Marseille or Cherbourg?”

He once again looked at me in surprise but nodded his head.

“Even if it were to leave tomorrow?” he asked.

“Even better if it leaves tomorrow,” I answered, handing him a thousand silver dollars. “Please send them to my hotel as soon as you have them. I'm at the Astor House.”

We said good-bye, exchanging pleasantries and mutual gratitude, and I left with the lovely sensation of being debt-free for the first time in ages. It felt good to be rich; it was a sort of protective shield that kept any unexpected setback or mishap at bay.

My next stop that morning was the Shanghai Club. I hoped Paddy Tichborne would be fully recovered and hadn't been drinking too much. I was quite surprised when the concierge told me he no longer lived there, that he'd moved to other lodgings in the Hong Kew area—and from the look on his face, I presumed it must be somewhere cheap and shabby.

It turned out that the neighborhood of Hong Kew was between the railway station and my hotel; we'd been past it, but it had nothing in common with the Shanghai I knew. It was a miserable, filthy place where the people seemed extremely dangerous. Everyone on the street looked like a criminal, and I trembled as if I were seeing the Green Gang assassins again with knives in their hands. I ignored the curious stares and hurried out of the rickshaw as soon as my coolie stopped in a narrow Chinese alley in front of a brick building with the darkest entranceway I'd ever seen. There, on the second floor, was where Tichborne lived. Something very serious must have happened for this to be his new home.