The China Lover (6 page)

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J
UST AS RI
Koran’s reputation as an exotic Manchurian singer began to spread in Japan, an actor at the top of his fame opened the door of his Packard on the lot of his studio south of Tokyo, and walked slowly toward his dressing room. Perhaps he was already rehearsing his lines, or maybe he had other things on his mind, having just moved to a new movie company, but Hasegawa never saw the gangster coming, who, quick as a flash, sliced his left cheek with a razor. It was as though a vandal had plunged a knife into a great painting. Hasegawa Kazuo, a former actor of women’s roles in the Kabuki theater, was famous for his great beauty, both as a woman on stage and as a young romantic male lead in the cinema. Now his celebrated profile would be scarred forever, courtesy of the bosses of his former studio, who did not take kindly to acts of disloyalty, especially among their most lucrative stars.

In fact, however, the incident made Hasegawa into an even bigger star. It added an element of masculine panache to his persona (as well as his face, which was rather too sweet anyway), and women warmed to his vulnerability. Nonetheless, he tried to make sure, whenever he could, to present only his right profile to the cameras, and when he couldn’t, a thick layer of greasepaint was applied to cover the scar, which ran from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe.

The reason I mention this is that Amakasu had the brilliant idea of bringing Hasegawa Kazuo over to Manchukuo to star with Ri Koran in
a Japanese-Manchurian co-production. The romantic coupling of the most famous, most handsome, most dashing male actor in Japan to the most beautiful, most exotic female star in Manchukuo would do wonders for our cause. It was one of Amakasu’s most inspired schemes, a pairing made in heaven. But as with all schemes, the results were neither straightforward nor predictable.

The story of their first collaboration was a simple melodrama, entitled
Song of the White Orchid
. He (Hasegawa) is a young Japanese engineer building an extension to the South Manchurian railway line. She (Ri) is a Mongolian music student in Mukden. They fall in love, even though the hero is expected to marry his boss’s daughter in Tokyo. Because of this unfortunate obligation, he tells the Mongolian girl that their love is impossible. She returns to her family of anti-Japanese bandits and threatens to blow up his precious railway line. Realizing that love cannot be denied, he goes back to her, and declares his true feelings. She melts into his arms. The railway line is preserved and our people are united.

Some might call this cheap propaganda. So it was, propaganda, but it wasn’t cheap, for it was for a good, progressive cause. We all wanted to build a better world than the one we were living in, where millions of innocent, hardworking Asians were ruined by the ruthless competition of Anglo-American capitalism. Americans make films to show
their
way of life in the best possible light. Why shouldn’t we have done the same? Besides, how often do you see Hollywood films celebrating the love between people of different races? In their lily white entertainments, dark people perform only as servants or dancing clowns. In that respect, we were well ahead of them.

While this picture was in production, I noticed something unusual about Ri. It was as if she had forgotten about her earlier resistance to being a movie star. She reveled in it now, like a child who suddenly finds herself being the most popular girl in school. I would even say
she was growing addicted to the perquisites of the little diva’s life: the hotel suite, the chauffeur-driven car, the explosions of magnesium flash powder whenever she appeared in public. But in the presence of the great Hasegawa, she still looked overawed. She followed him around like an adoring puppy, begging him to teach her how to be a better actress. He teased her that a Chinese woman would never understand the ways of a Japanese. She would first have to become a Japanese, he said, before she could act like one.

Much of
Song of the White Orchid
was shot on location, outside a village near the South Manchurian railway line. Security provided by Kanto Army soldiers had to be tight because of bandit activity in the area. Several times the shooting was interrupted by gunfire, and we had to rush for cover inside a brick barn. It was during these moments of enforced idleness that Hasegawa taught Ri the art of female seduction. Ri was all eyes, as Hasegawa transformed himself into a traditional Japanese beauty. He showed her how to glance coquettishly from the corner of her eyes, and reveal, just for an instant, the nape of her neck, by a subtle inclination of the head. In the murky light of our shabby place of refuge, his soft round face took on a sweet femininity that was quite uncanny. We all watched in awed silence as he moved his hands, and eyes, and neck, like a beautiful courtesan. Foreigners’ sex appeal, he instructed Ri, was frank and straightforward, while Japanese ways were always indirect, just hinting at sensuality without ever flaunting it. Ri would imitate the master’s womanly gestures over and over, the glances, the little pigeon-toed steps, like a man practicing his golf strokes, until she felt she had got it right. Hasegawa just smiled, like an indulgent parent, repeating that she would first have to become Japanese before she could fully master his art.

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N
OT LONG AFTER
the success of “If Only,” Amakasu decided to start a Ri Koran Fan Club. He, Captain Amakasu, would be the president of this illustrious society, whose members included industrialists, bureaucrats, and Kanto Army generals. The fan club actually played an important role in the tragic history of Manchukuo, so I shall relate my few brushes with it.

Once a month, the members met in a private dining room at the Yamato Hotel to discuss affairs of state, while listening to recordings of Ri’s songs. I can still picture the room, filled with heavy wooden chairs, set around a long oak table under a brass chandelier. Deer antlers were attached to the doorways, giving the place a vaguely Germanic air. The beige silk wallpaper was decorated with spring orchids. Amakasu was drinking his usual White Horse Whiskey. I recognized most of the people there. Who wouldn’t? Everyone knew these men in those days. They counted some of our top leaders, including Colonel Yoshioka, adviser to Emperor Pu Yi, and Kishi Nobusuke, the minister of industry. Kishi was not exactly good-looking. His suit was slack like a flag on a windless day, and his scrawny neck made the collar of his shirt look several sizes too big. His teeth stuck out and his eyes bulged. But they were the eyes of a shrewd man, and held a hint of menace. Amakasu often said that Kishi would go far, maybe one day as far as
prime minister. Kishi bared his moist red gums when Amakasu talked like that, but he never made any attempt to contradict him.

Yoshioka cut an equally unpleasant figure. Known as “the Wasp” for his trim physique, made to look even trimmer by the brown belt strapped extra tight around his waist, he laughed a lot without betraying the slightest evidence of humor. His face was marked by a prominent nose with wide nostrils, like dark holes, which widened when he was ingratiating himself with someone more powerful, or amused by the misfortunes of someone less powerful.

One man in the room was unknown to me. Dressed in a blue suit, which accentuated his narrow, slightly pockmarked face, he looked unremarkable except for a pair of diaphanous silk socks, which revealed unusually thin ankles, protruding from a pair of shiny black lacquered pumps. Only later did I realize who he was: Muramatsu Seiji, boss of the Muramatsu gang, a much-feared outfit with branches in several Manchurian cities. Getting in trouble with them was like catching a death sentence, except that the victim never knew when it would be carried out. Sometimes the execution came long after the poor wretch had forgotten what he had done wrong. Muramatsu was not much seen in public and spent most of his time up north in Harbin.

I was asked some questions about the state of culture, and whether our message was getting through to the native people. I tried to be as positive as I could, but said that we needed more time. Various pet schemes of the Kanto Army were discussed, including, rather to my astonishment, a plan to assassinate Charlie Chaplin. Evidently the plan had been around for some time, for all the men were familiar with it. The aim was to demoralize the American people by killing one of their favorite idols. Unfortunately, it would have demoralized His Majesty Emperor Pu Yi as well. But Amakasu, who took a personal interest in this project, thought that could be handled. Certain practical obstacles were mentioned. The fact that Chaplin had not visited Japan
since 1932, and did not seem inclined to do so again soon, was one of them. Then Kishi, I think it was him, casting a quick glance at me, changed the subject with a slight cough. I should have realized that one could never be too careful in Manchukuo.

Kishi calculated for us how much money was needed to keep the army in Manchukuo afloat, and explained that extra resources were an absolute necessity. Colonel Yoshioka, an expert on native affairs, added that Manchurians and Chinese were excitable races, who needed regular doses of opium to calm them down. Supplying them with the drug had several benefits. Apart from keeping the natives quiet, it would provide much-needed revenue for our troops. The problem was that Chinese gangsters in Harbin were trying to get a piece of the action. A Jewish businessman was also said to be involved. His flaw was his love for his only son, an artist of some kind. Perhaps some pressure could be applied by taking care of the son. All eyes were on Muramatsu, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and growled in a soft low voice, like a dog who has been tossed a meaty bone. Since there were no servants at these meetings, to avoid unnecessary gossip, Amakasu got up to change the record on the phonograph himself. I don’t recall what else was discussed, but I do have a distinct memory of hearing Ri’s sweet voice warbling “Spring Rain in Mukden” as we listened in silence. It was yet another demonstration that Amakasu was more than a martinet. He reached for his handkerchief, removed his glasses, and wiped a tear from his eye.

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T
HE NEXT FILM
pairing Ri with Hasegawa, called
China Nights
, was the one indisputable masterpiece to emerge from the Manchuria Motion Picture Association Studios. But for her it almost became a personal tragedy.

Ri plays a wild Chinese girl, named Ki Ran, whose village has been destroyed by the Japanese Imperial Army. Hasegawa plays Hase-san, a Japanese ship’s captain in Shanghai, who picks her up in the street, hoping to save her from destitution. She is treated with typical Japanese hospitality by the Captain and his friends in a Shanghai boardinghouse, but Ki Ran can’t forget that Japanese soldiers killed her parents. When she is offered a cup of tea by the Captain’s Japanese landlady, she knocks it out of her hands. That is when it happens, the scene that made Ri a detested figure in China: Hase-san slaps Ki Ran in the face—a shocking moment, but also an intensely moving one, for it shows the heart of a man in love. Hase-san’s slap is really a sign of his kindness. Ki Ran understands his true feelings, and falls into his arms.

To any Japanese, the scene makes total sense. But we are not all alike in this wide world of ours. Ri had tried to warn the director that this episode might not be properly understood in China. Alas, the director, a new arrival from Tokyo, wouldn’t listen. Ri turned out to be right, of course. This romantic encounter, which moved every Japanese
to tears, had the opposite effect on the Chinese, who misunderstood totally, and regarded “the slap” as a blow to their pride. They couldn’t understand that we Japanese sometimes use force against women and children to show that we care about them. Ri was not forgiven. Henceforth she became notorious as the Chinese actress who collaborated in a deliberate insult to the Chinese race.

China Nights
truly is a picture of endless riches, however. Every time I see this masterpiece, I notice yet another beautiful detail I missed before. “The slap” is followed by Hase-san and Ki Ran’s honeymoon trip to Suzhou, and China has never looked more ravishing; Suzhou is a vision of heaven, with its gorgeous canals, its ancient bridges, and classical Chinese gardens. It is here, in this paradise, worthy of a classical ink drawing, that the Sino-Japanese union is consummated. Then something astonishing happens. Those who have an eye for these things will note that the Chinese girl not only turns out to speak Japanese, but makes the coquettish moves of the traditional Japanese woman, the sidelong glances, the tilt of the head, just as Hasegawa had taught her. In this love scene, so full of tenderness, Ri Koran is the purest fusion of all that is best in the Chinese and Japanese races.

But that’s not the last of the picture’s many unforgettable moments. Ki Ran’s uncle is the leader of anti-Japanese bandits, who plan an attack on Hase-san’s ship. When the ship fails to return to Shanghai one day, Ki Ran knows that her husband must have been killed by her uncle’s men. In a scene of incomparable beauty, she returns to Suzhou to drown herself in the river where she had just spent her honeymoon. Whispering the words of a Japanese poem which her husband had taught her, she wades into the water and is slowly submerged, her silk Chinese dress billowing above the surface, the melody of “China Nights” softly playing in the background. I can never contain my tears at this point, and they don’t stop flowing until well after the picture has ended.

But for once the director listened to good advice. Although Ki Ran dies for her love in the Japanese version of
China Nights
, a different ending was contrived especially for the Chinese public. Instead of meeting an untimely death as she wades into the river, Ki Ran hears her name being called, over and over. It is him! He has survived. In the last scene, the most handsome man in Japan and the most beautiful woman in China sit side by side in a boat, gliding toward the rise of a new dawn. He pulls a cigarette from his case and she, in a moment of great feminine delicacy, lights it for him.

It isn’t simply the story that makes the picture so touching. The magic of cinema isn’t usually in the plot, but in the chemistry between the leading actors, which is conveyed through the eyes. The camera detects something the naked eye can’t see. I would almost call it magic— no wonder primitive people speak of the evil eye. Both Hasegawa and Ri look more gorgeous in each other’s presence, and through some mysterious process the camera manages to capture this. More than anything, it was
China Nights
that made the Japanese fall in love with China. And this was largely due to the purity of Ri Koran’s performance. Her eyes are like pools of light, filled with exquisite melancholy, as she faces her tragic death.

Shooting
China Nights
was not without its moments of danger. Suzhou was no problem, since we had secured the city a few years before, but getting there was another matter. One late afternoon, as we rattled across the northern plains in the train heading south, Ri suddenly cried out: “Look at all the red flowers! They’re gorgeous.” Bored with the bland scenery of northern China, we all peered out the window. At first I thought it was the setting sun that cast everything in a blood red glow. But as the train slowed down, we could make out people lying all over the place, like broken dolls. Some were huddled in small groups or sitting alone, but more were sprawled on the ground, and others still were rushing about, carrying white bundles stained in red. There must
have been hundreds of men littering the landscape, dressed in bloody rags and brown uniforms. The train stopped with a jolt, as though it were shivering. I noticed Ri turning away from the window.

Orders were barked. The doors opened with a clanking noise. A wounded man—the first of many—passed by our window. All I could see of his bandaged face was his mouth, opened wide as if he were about to scream. Hasegawa, in a fit of anger, tugged at the curtain of our compartment, but didn’t manage to close it properly. The noise of men crying and moaning got steadily louder. Some were howling in pain, some begging for water. A harsh voice told them to shut up. I saw a man who had lost a leg and both his arms. Another was twitching uncontrollably, like a fish. A young doctor was trying to staunch a fresh wound by pressing a white rag into the chest of a soldier, whose blood kept oozing through the cloth. A hand from a passing stretcher left a red smear on our window. The stench was unbelievable—rotting flesh, excrement, and filthy feet. One of the soldiers, staring into our compartment, suddenly became animated and pointed at Hasegawa. Others followed, pressing their blackened faces against the glass. At last, after frantically tugging at the curtain, Hasegawa managed to shut them out from our view.

An officer opened the door and sat down heavily. He removed his cap and stuck his finger under his collar to wipe the sweat off his neck. There were bloodstains on his boots and trousers, rather like a butcher’s. I asked him what had happened. He looked at me suspiciously. “Chink bandits,” he said, baring his crooked brown teeth. “Had to clean out the whole village. The way these savages fight . . . even a three-year-old kid is capable of murder. It’s either them or us.” Ri looked astonished. “Clean out?” Since she was dressed in Chinese clothes, the officer turned to us in disgust: “What the devil is this Chink bitch doing here?” Hasegawa introduced himself and politely explained that she was Ri Koran, the movie star. “Aah,” the officer replied.
“ ‘Spring Rain in Mukden.’ Well, I never,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, bobbing his head up and down in the direction of Hasegawa. “Well, well! Hasegawa Kazuo! Ri Koran! Well, well.” Perhaps Hasegawa-san could say a few words to the troops, and Ri could sing a song: “That’ll cheer the boys up.”

Once more the door to the corridor was opened and another officer was pushed inside by a medical orderly. He was young and handsome, but seemed incapable of speech. The orderly pointed to his head and said: “Doesn’t even know who he is.” We tried to make him speak by asking his name and where he was from. All we got was a blank stare. “Your mother must miss you,” Hasegawa said, thinking this might provoke a response. It seemed to have some effect. The young officer’s mouth began to work. “M-O-TH-E-R,” he mumbled slowly, “m-o-th-er . . . mother . . . mother.” But that was all, the same word repeated over and over. His eyes were wide open, but they didn’t appear to see a thing.

It was dark outside when the train lurched into action. After a mile or so, we came to another halt. Several men got off the train. “Well,” said the officer, “this is it for the night. Better make ourselves comfortable.” Guards took up their positions along the side of the train. The smell inside was still overpowering. We opened the window, but the late autumn air was too chilly, so Ri asked us to close it. “Why the hell can’t we keep going?” asked Hasegawa, who was not used to being held up. “Bandits,” said the officer, who pulled a flask of saké from his tunic, took a swig, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“So what about a song, then?” the officer persisted. Ri told him that would be impossible. In the middle of the night, without a stage, or a microphone, or any light at all. “My, your Japanese is good,” said the officer and hissed politely through his teeth.

Soon all the lights were turned off inside the compartments and we were in the dark, with nothing but the sound of moaning and coughing
men, and once in a while a disembodied scream. Sleep was impossible. Several officers came in with torches and asked for autographs. One of them insisted that Ri should sing. It would comfort the men, remind them of home, get them through the night. He would provide her with a torch, which she could shine on her face. Hasegawa instructed her that she should always think of her fans. At last, she shrugged her shoulders and relented.

But this was easier said than done, for there were bodies everywhere in the corridor, some barely alive. I followed Ri through the train to protect her. We kept treading on arms and legs, as she sang, eliciting soft moans and the occasional curse. At first she was almost inaudible. The sounds of distress, the bodies, and the darkness were unnerving. But as she slowly made her way, from compartment to compartment, her torchlit face the only visible spot in the entire train, something magical happened: her voice gained strength and the moaning stopped. It was as though an angel had stepped into this hellish place. “China nights, ah China nights . . . the junk floating upstream, the ship of dreams, China nights, nights of our dreams . . .” Then “If Only,” and the men sang softly with her, a ghostly chorus in the dark: “If only you would love me, if only you’d be true . . .” And then, the unforgettable sound of hundreds of grown men sobbing.