Shanghai (111 page)

Something caught his eye—a glitter from the boy on stage. “What was that?” he demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.

Maximilian reached for his son, for the first time sensing a threat.

“I said, what was that! What are you wearing around your neck, boy?”

The boy stepped forward and said, “The beads from my mother's necklace.”

The History Teller ripped the necklace from the boy's neck and some of the beads tinkled as they hit the
wooden stage floor. The History Teller brought them to the single light bulb and looked at them closely. Then he arched his back, magically becoming the Princess from the East, pulled both peacock feathers from his headdress into his mouth, struck a pose so exquisite that the air itself seemed to still—and he let out a cry from the depths of his heart, which, through the transcendental miracle of Peking Opera makeup, stayed alive and vibrant in the minds of the Assassin, Jiang, Maximilian, and his son until the very end of their days.

—

In the History Teller's dressing room, over steaming cups of tea, Maximilian told the story of the birth of his son, the finding of the necklace, and the death of Chiao Ming.

The History Teller bowed his head and there was a long silence. Finally he looked at the boy and said, “I have a grandson.”

“And I a son,” Maximilian said.

The History Teller nodded slowly. “It truly is a new world when a Chinese boy can have a red-haired father and a black-haired grandfather.”

“A better world,” Maximilian said.

There was a pause. The History Teller reached for a towel and began to remove his makeup. The exquisite Princess of the East disappeared, revealing the deep, hurt eyes of the History Teller. “I have one more task I need to ask before I put you in stage paint to keep you safe and begin your training.”

“Training for what?”

“To perform.”

“Perform what?”

“In my new opera. You cannot stay in the theatre if you cannot act.”

“And what am I to act?”

“A lost peasant with a son—naturally—who confronts the Monkey King. But to my task first.” He told them of putting his part of Chiao Ming's necklace into the hole that held Maximilian's post.

Loa Wei Fen said, “I'll get that …”

“No,” the History Teller said. “Chiao Ming's son and his father and his grandfather will get
What Was Ours
.”

* * *

AT HIGH NOON the next day the Bund Promenade was alive with peasants and soldiers. Street wardens were everywhere, checking papers, making sure that there were no vendors or peddlers. And eyes were watching—many eyes, looking for the red-haired
Fan Kuei
.

Mao stood in his window overlooking the Bund, anxious to be done with Shanghai and return to the north. The Confucian stood at his side.

Then a boat coming from the Pudong headed directly toward the Bund docks. Immediately the river patrol boats swung to intercept it, but the boat was swift and dodged them. As the boat approached the wharf one of the strangest sights that would ever greet the eyes of the newly Communist people at the Bend in the River came into view. Jiang, dressed in full ancient courtesan costume, stood on the prow of the boat—holding the hand of her Japanese daughter—and singing.

A sudden silence allowed her beautiful voice to carry the words and melody of the ancient song, “Tears
of Time,” all the way to the Bund Promenade. Then the silence broke and was followed by an enormous commotion as bodies pushed against each other to get a better look at this most unCommunist of sights. Angry shouts and loud cheers intermingled, and three beggars, their heads swathed in rags—one a grandfather, one a father, and one both son and grandson—quickly dug into the dirt and extracted a necklace that had been
What Was Ours
.

It was a bitterly cold day when the History Teller knocked on Mao's door, as he had been instructed, and entered the huge room. It was almost vacant except for a raised dais upon which sat a large desk and an ornately carved chair. Behind the chair stood the Chairman of the Communist Party of the People's Republic of China. The cold breeze from the Yangtze blew the curtains into the room like the sails of a great ship taking the wind. The History Teller stood calmly, his hands crossed in front of his waist. He rolled gently on his feet—and waited.

Mao finally turned to him and said, “You're older than I thought you'd be.”

“I would apologize, but my age is not my fault.”

Mao stared at the History Teller for a moment, then said, “I am unimpressed by glib cleverness, of this you can be sure.” The History Teller canted his head to one side. “I have seen your plays.”

That surprised the History Teller. “Did you like them?”

“No. I found them hollow and self-serving. Egotistical and sentimental.”

The History Teller heard the implied “but” in Mao's words, although he couldn't tell what the “but” would lead to. “I'm sorry you did not enjoy them.”

“Ah, but I did enjoy them. You asked if I liked them, and I didn't.”

The History Teller nodded again, but said nothing. He had been summoned to Mao's presence, and he assumed he was not there to talk about the difference between “liking” and “enjoying” his plays.

Mao sat and said, “I want you to create a play to celebrate the great victory of the people over first the Japanese and then the Nationalist traitors.”

It didn't escape the History Teller's eye that Mao, who might think of himself as a man of the people and dress like an ordinary soldier, had chosen to sit in an elaborately carved chair on a raised dais—like any emperor of old.

“Do you have anything you would consider appropriate?” Mao demanded.

“As it happens, I have been working on a new piece—very new, and quite different from anything that has been seen on the stages of the Middle Kingdom.”

“Good,” Mao said. “And what do you call this new opera?”

What Was Ours,
the History Teller thought, but he chose to say, “
Journey to the East—To the Sea
.”

Mao smiled. The History Teller smiled back. Mao said, “You may go. I will see you and your opera on the final night of the New Year's celebration.”

“At the end of the Lantern Festival?”

“No. The Dragon Dance.”

The History Teller nodded. That gave him just over a month to uncoil the story that had wrapped around his heart and bring it to the life that only Peking Opera could offer.

The History Teller turned and left the grand room that had at one time been the private domain of one Hercules MacCallum, the gout-afflicted head of the Scottish trading company Jardine Matheson.

After the History Teller left, the Confucian entered through a hidden side panel.

“You heard?”

“Yes, Chairman.”

“And your thoughts on this matter?”

The Confucian chose his words even more carefully than he usually did. “The History Teller has a unique talent—but he is not a man of the people. He has dangerous bourgeois tendencies, and unless his work is harnessed to your purposes, I would suggest you abandon this project.”

Mao looked at the man before him.
Surely this Confucian has read my anti-authoritarian writings,
he thought.
So he must realize that once his usefulness to me is over I will discard him—and all his creed
. But what he said was, “Although discipline is essential, the human spirit needs at times to break free of all restraint and revel in its own excesses. The Red Army has exacted a great victory—now we will let the people celebrate that victory.” Mao knew that taking away hope from the people was the act of a fool. He was still the people's
favourite, and he would need their support to sweep aside Old China, and all of its Confucians, and replace it with a new order—an order for which he had been tinkering with new names, romantic names. Although he kept coming back to one: Maoist—Maoist order.

Moments after the Confucian left, Mao heard a female voice say, “You have a sly smile on your lips.”

Mao looked down into the stern eyes of his wife. Then he looked away. A great ruler like himself deserved better than this woman—far better. But she was useful, for now.

“Have you completed your task?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she said, and clapped her hands. Three men in army fatigues brought in large cardboard boxes, put them on the edge of the dais, then exited. Each of the boxes was filled with numbered and lettered files.

“They are all there?”

“Surely many
Fan Kuei
left after the Japanese were defeated. Many, but not all. The numbered files are those who are still here, the lettered those who left.”

“How many of them are still in the Middle Kingdom?”

“Before the Japanese were defeated, five thousand British, three thousand Americans, two thousand French, more than fifteen thousand Russians, and over twenty thousand Jews. That is as of 1941.” She was having fun, and he knew it.

“Fine. And now?”

“Some British, a few Americans, a few French, almost no Russians, and only a handful of Jews.”

“Numbers, damn it!”

“Maybe eight hundred, all told.”

“Good. And these files tell us where they all live?”

“Where most of them live.”

“Fine. Where most of them live. Prepare the ship we talked about.”

“For when?”

“At the end of the New Year's festival—after the new opera.”

“Fine. From the Suzu docks?”

Mao thought about that, then shook his head. “No. From the Bund. I want them to see what they are losing.”

His wife laughed—one of the first times he'd heard her laugh since that unpleasantness with the Soong girl.

“Something else?” she asked.

Mao turned from her, stepped off the dais, and pulled a curtain aside. Holding the swath of expensive fabric, he stared at the Huangpo River. He allowed the long curtain to slide through his fingers, then said, “Do we have any old ships—with white sails?”

A sudden drop in temperature in Baghdad in late December made the ivory contract, rapidly widening an existing crack—revealing a line of new figures in the second window, headed by an elegantly dressed, tall Han Chinese woman with a serious but beautiful face. As did all those lined up behind her, she carried an actor's mask in her left hand, and from her outstretched right hand dangled a necklace—of seventy glass beads.

* * *

THE FIRST DAY of the fifteen-day New Year's celebration dawned bright and cold in Shanghai. For centuries, the opening day of the New Year's festival was a time to welcome the gods of heaven and earth,
but now, with banners everywhere proclaiming that religion was a plot to enslave workers and peasants, the Shanghainese didn't know exactly what to do—anger the gods or anger the Communists? Some people retreated to private places and continued the ancient rituals, but many did not—although almost everyone abstained from eating meat that first day, as doing so ensured a prosperous and happy life. A vegetarian dish called
jai
was front and centre on most tables, and although it was never mentioned, people were careful not to cut the noodles, as they represented long life.

—

The History Teller spent the first day of the festival hunched over the tatters of his new script, in prayer. But it was not the city god or the kitchen god or even the Jade Emperor to whom he prayed. Rather it was to his artistic ancestor the History Teller who wrote the original
Journey to the West
.

—

The second day of the festival presented similar problems to the Shanghainese, as it was supposed to be devoted to prayer to ancestors. Many abstained, although almost everyone was kind to dogs, since it was believed that the second day of the new year was the birthday for every dog.

New complications arose on the following day, which was traditionally a time for sons-in-law to pay respect to their wives' parents. But the great red banners draped across almost every major intersection exhorted the
young to challenge parental authority. Many homes were the scene of quiet and tense dinners that night.

—

It was on the fourth night of the festival that the History Teller threw out the entirety of his draft, returned to his initial notes—and started again.

—

On the seventh day of the festival, farmers from miles around came into the great city to display their produce. The Communists greeted them with open arms and lauded them as the real heroes of the Revolution. The farmers, often confused by the attention, did what they had for centuries. They made a drink from seven different types of vegetables. Many found the drink that year terribly bitter. Without much ceremony, everyone in the city at the Bend in the River ate noodles with raw fish that night. The noodles for long life and raw fish for success.

The eighth day brought another serious problem, as it was a day meant to be devoted to prayers to Tian Gong, the god of Heaven. Few such prayers were offered in public, although, behind closed doors, the Shanghainese felt it wise to continue the old tradition despite the new rulers.

—

Late that night the History Teller completed three full days without sleep—and the last act of his newest creation.

—

The ninth day was traditionally devoted to adulation of the Jade Emperor who ruled Heaven. It proved to be a markedly quiet day in Shanghai and for years after was thought of as the most unnaturally quiet day of the entire decade.

—

The History Teller slept the entire day, but as night fell he carefully left the safety of his home.

—

“You frightened me!” Jiang said as she tied the sash of her robe.

“I'm sorry,” the History Teller said, moving the suitcase he carried from his left hand to his right, “but your people …”