Shanghai (84 page)

He picked up the phone on his desk and ordered his automobile with the number-two licence plate put out on the street. “Yes,” he said, “in an open place,” then he added, “and far away from where people may be.” He hung up before he added the thought,
Far enough away that when the thing blows up no one will get hurt.

Silas headed home, then, and summoned Mai Bao, who appeared quickly, with a quizzical look on her face.

“Who do you know who writes for the newspapers?” She started to protest, but he stopped her. “I know that there was a time in your life when you were very …” for a moment he hesitated, “… very close with writers. Do you still know any who would appreciate a news exclusive?”

“Is this about my request?” she asked.

“Certainly. Now just answer my question, Mai Bao.”

After a little more cajoling Mai Bao acknowledged that she knew several newspaper writers, “From the old days.” “Good,” Silas said. “Tell them that if they want a good story they should loiter outside the warehouse where Gangster Tu keeps his automobile with the number-one licence plate.”

“And they will know where this place is?”

“If they are real newspapermen, they will know.”

—

MacMillan's explosion threw several of Gangster Tu's men, who slept in the loft above the garage, from their beds. The building itself seemed to ripple with the concussion of the blast. And when Tu finally made his way down to the stables where he kept his prized automobile, he was shocked to see that his pride and joy was little more than a smoking, blackened, twisted piece of useless metal—with a melted rubber bubble of a horn.

“What …?” Tu was about to shout some elaborate profanity when he saw, much to his surprise, a completely clean, downright polished, licence plate with the single number two on it, nailed to the wall. He bent down to see if his number-one licence plate was still on his automobile. It was not.

Gangster Tu pulled the unscathed number-two plate off the wall and screamed, “Find me the automobile that this rightfully belongs to. Now!”

—

“HORSELESS CARRIAGE BLOWN UP!” screamed the local papers, which flew off the kiosk stands even faster than when a new Flower World Princess was crowned.

When, two days later, Silas's automobile—now bearing a licence plate with the number one—was blown to smithereens, the newspapers had an even better story: “HORSELESS CARRIAGE WAR!” The papers neglected to mention the dumpling seller who had happened by just as the bomb tore through Silas's prized Bugatti.

When Silas was told about the man he put his head in his hands and wept. Mai Bao had never seen him like this.

“It was not your fault. The man wandered there by mistake. It was a mistake. His mistake.”

Silas looked up at his powerful, smart wife and said simply, “I carry too many souls on my back already. They bend me over like an old peasant beneath his firewood.”

For a moment she thought that he was finally going to tell her about his brother Milo, but the moment passed, and Silas's business face returned. “What was the dumpling seller's name? Find it for me, Mai Bao, please. I want to pay for his funeral, and if he had a family I want them moved into the Garden.”

Mai Bao did as he ordered.

Later that night, after he had been assured that the dumpling seller's family had been moved into the small house on the south side of the Garden, Silas Hordoon went over to see the man's widow and two small children. And in an act seldom, if ever, seen in the Middle Kingdom, a
Fan Kuei
Taipan knelt down before a Chinese peasant woman and her two small children and begged their forgiveness.

—

Two days later Silas's office desk was covered with newspapers. The city was following the “Horseless Carriage Wars” like an opium smoker follows the approach of his pipe. Silas had seen it before—a single idea taking control of the entire city. As a boy, Silas had seen Shanghai swept up in the thrill of the first theatre with women performing in public. Manchu law strictly forbade such female performances, but the theatres were in the Foreign Settlement and thus protected from Beijing's edicts. For months you couldn't get a ticket—even
Fan Kuei
couldn't get seats. Several years after that, some merchant had introduced white cotton gloves as a fashion statement, and overnight everyone had to have
a pair. No matter how hot or cold, every self-respecting Shanghainese wore their white gloves. Their clothes could be filthy, but those damned white gloves were always pristine. And of course there was the madness caused by his father's famous horse race. Silas stared out the window at the exact spot where Milo's saddle had shifted and his head had hit the ground. Roses and hydrangeas threw splashes of red across the dark earth. Silas always insisted that there be red in that flowerbed. It was the only request he had ever made for the dozens of beds throughout the Garden.

Silas knew that his father's famous race had been as much about mass hysteria as the running of horses. And that was exactly what he needed now, mass hysteria. Hysteria about automobiles, so that all those eyes would be watching automobiles and not a six-foot-long object being moved through the streets of the city at the Bend in the River by a middle-aged Jew. But how exactly he was going to move the large, curved object was a problem still awaiting a solution.

He thought about simply jumping to the ultimate part of the diversion, then decided that the diversion would work better with a buildup—just as an aria needs to be introduced by a recitative, and a fine main course by hors d'oeuvres and a cocktail.

He said the words aloud—“Hors d'oeuvres and cocktails.” Then he smiled and called for Mai Bao. He told her what he wanted, and after a quick smile she bobbed a bow and headed out.

—

The next day's newspapers were filled with letters from courtesans about the glory of being chauffeured in
automobiles to assignations, and the “preferability” of this means of transport over the covered palanquin. Others extolled the wisdom of accepting a month's use of a client's automobile as payment for particularly fine service. And finally, there was a wonderfully scandalous letter in which the courtesan implied that she had brought on the clouds and rain for a special client not just
in
an automobile but
as
he drove along the Bund with the European buildings on one side and the river on the other. Mai Bao had penned the letter herself and was proud of her achievement.

As these courtesan letters and the letters in response kept the city's focus on automobiles, Silas fanned the fire by offering the very latest Italian Bugatti automobile to the winner of the next Flower Contest. And then, on the stage, as he handed over the keys to the winning courtesan with thousands upon thousands of cheering people watching, he announced, “In exactly a month I will race my automobile against anyone else's automobile on the streets of our city. The winner will take home one hundred thousand pounds sterling.” Then he added, to the astonishment of the
Fan Kuei
community but to the open glee of the Chinese, “The race is open to one and all. Any resident of Shanghai—any resident of any race of Shanghai who can put up the entrance fee—is welcome to enter the Fabulous Shanghai Road Race.”

The race to the race was on—and, as Silas had hoped, mass hysteria began to set in. Eyes turned from spying on the streets of Shanghai and narrowed their focus in anticipation of the racing of automobiles through the few paved streets of the city at the Bend in the River. And this being Shanghai, the betting began, even before the contestants were known.

Silas had never lost his temper with Mai Bao, but this night, as they sat over their simple evening meal, he pushed aside the prawns and said, “Not good enough, Mai Bao.”

“It's as good as I am able to manage at this time, husband.”

Silas sighed deeply. He still had no answer as to how to safely move the object, and his failure to solve the problem was making him both concerned and angry—not usual for him. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then asked, “This is important to you?”

“The most important thing in my life. I have said as much several times—several times.” Her answer came back angry as well. For the first time in their marriage there was a tense silence between them.

“Fine, then tell me more about this object that I am supposed to spirit out of Shanghai.”

“It is a—”

“Long, curved object, that you've told me. But surely you can tell me more. I am trying to help you but I have so little information that I might do damage to this ‘long, curved' object.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Help me to help you, Mai Bao.”

Mai Bao stood and carefully closed the sliding doors of their dining room, then said, “Ask me questions, and I'll try to answer as honestly as I can.”

Silas was tempted to get up and leave but resisted the impulse. He reminded himself that Mai Bao was not frivolous, had never been so.

“Is it delicate?”

“More so with every passing day.”

“But it's also heavy?”

“Yes.”

Silas waited for more information, but Mai Bao shook her head.

“Will water or cold or heat damage it?”

“They all could damage it, as I have said, but I don't think slight exposure to those elements would do any serious harm.”

“And it's about six feet long?”

“And curved, husband,” she snapped.

“And heavy but delicate,” he snapped right back, then threw his hands up in frustration.

“Yes, husband, as I have said.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

They ate the rest of their dinner in silence. When they finished she crossed over to his side of the table and knelt with her head in his lap. “I am sorry.”

He reached down and stroked the silk of her hair and thought,
I am not. Whatever this is, it is a gift to me, as you were a gift to me—a way to lighten the load I carry on my shoulders
.

Then the race cars began to arrive, each one redesigned for as much speed as it could muster. Mechanics were flown in from the United States and England and Italy and France to look after the temperamental machines. And the owners kept their new toys hidden away, just as the Vrassoons had kept their prized stallion a secret before the race that took Milo Hordoon's life.

The newspapers were paying huge sums of money for any information about the vehicles and would latch on to any tidbit they could find and blow it up into a front-page story. News about the teetering final gasps of the Manchu Dynasty never bumped information about Silas's “Fabulous Shanghai Road Race” off the front page.

Tu Yueh-sen was the first to display his entry, along with his twenty thousand pounds sterling entry fee.

Although he had urged his Japanese contacts to get their manufacturers to produce a motorcar for the race, none was forthcoming. He desperately wanted to enter an Asian car but, unable to find one, settled on what was, to his mind, the next best thing—an Italian car. He bought the newest and best Italian automobile made by Anonima Lombarda Fabbrica Automobili. The car was better known by the company's acronym, ALFA, and because the firm was taken over by a Mr. Nicola Romeo, the car quickly became known as an ALFA-ROMEO. Tu demonstrated an unexpected flare for the dramatic by revealing his extraordinary racing car at Shanghai's Chinese New Year celebrations, nearly causing a riot. Following the great dragon that ended the huge parade came the very loud honking of a very powerful horn. Every eye turned to see Gangster Tu, wearing a long leather coat and goggles, standing on the front seat of his race car with his Japanese driver behind the wheel. Then Tu Yueh-sen began to throw silver dollars to the crowd—the effect was both impressive and complete.

The next day, William Dent presented a cheque for his company's fee and showed off a true oddity of a car—a Stanley Steam Automobile, whose engine, as the name suggested, ran on the steam generated from a boiler that was powered by coal. The car was remarkably sturdy and solid on the road, but it was carrying a tub of boiling water—a hazard on a train, let alone on a car jostling for position on a race course.

Heyward Matheson entered a remarkable British vehicle called a Simplex Racing Car, which was one of the few two-seater cars in the race. Although unproven on a racetrack, the car was smaller and faster than any of the competition.

Zachariah Oliphant wanted the actual Rambler 55 driven by President William Howard Taft, but, much to his surprise, the President of the United States refused to part with his beloved vehicle. When the Rambler Company heard of this they offered Oliphant any model they made—free of charge. But Oliphant refused, still evidently confused as to why the President of the United States would not contribute his automobile to the noble cause of showing the heathens of Shanghai what real engineering from a God-fearing country could do. He eventually settled on an Oldsmobile Model M Palace Touring Car—and a fine thing it was.

Meyer Vrassoon struck a secret deal with the Rolls Royce Company for the use of their inaugural Silver Ghost, which had already won its first three races. Part of the deal gave the Vrassoons exclusive rights to sell the Silver Ghost line once it went into full production.

Silas entered an exact replica of his beloved Bugatti, sacrificed in the Horseless Carriage Wars, and hired three technicians to increase the speed of the car.

Charles Soong fretted and fretted. Like Gangster Tu, he had wanted to enter an Asian car, but none was up to the competition. He finally settled on an Italian Zust, one of only three cars to complete the New York to Chicago race of 1908. It had four cylinders, a chain drive, and could attain a remarkable sixty miles per hour. Charles's only problem was that his wife and three daughters thought the car was “dowdy.” As with so many comments from his wife and daughters, Charles really did not understand their complaint.