Читать книгу Shanghai - Christopher New - Страница 13

THEY MOVED FROM QUAY TO QUAY through the Upper Section of the wharves, Mason swaggering ahead, Denton following a pace behind, self-conscious in his new uniform. The docks, open to the sloping evening sun, stank of rotting refuse, coal dust, oil, and all the casual effluents of the city that the sluggish muddy waters of the river washed lazily along. Burly Sikh watchmen lounged by the gangways, swinging long wooden clubs, while coolies watched from the shade of the godowns, silent and lethargic, squatting on their heels and smoking cigarettes through wide brown bamboo pipes.

At each vessel the Chinese agent greeted them respectfully and handed Mason the cargo manifest, waiting alertly - often, it seemed, nervously - while Mason lounged in the saloon, assessing duty and demanding in his abrupt, domineering tones to inspect some case or other in the hold. Each agent offered them drinks, cigarettes and cigars with ingratiating politeness. Mason invariably accepted, sticking the unsmoked cigar in his tunic pocket.

'What's the matter?' he asked sarcastically after Denton had declined everything on the first two ships. 'Don't you have any vices? Not even one?'

'I don't smoke or drink really,' Denton apologised uncomfortably, afraid of exposing himself to Mason's mockery, and simultaneously ashamed of his fear. It was true, he didn't smoke or drink (he'd signed the pledge at the Band of Hope when he was seventeen), but he was also thinking of the regulation he'd studied in the third, tan, pamphlet Mr Brown had given him, in which the acceptance of gifts of any description from persons dealing directly or indirectly with the Customs Service was expressly forbidden. On the third ship, a British India Steam Navigation tramp steamer, its hull dented and rusty, Mason seemed to divine this thought of Denton's. 'Well if you don't smoke yourself, you could at least take a cigar or two for your pals,' he muttered peevishly as the agent, a slight, young Chinese in a dark blue gown, with swift, shining eyes, offered them three cigars each. 'Or is it the rules that are stopping you? You needn't worry about them, nobody gives a tinker's cuss about a few cigars, you know!' He sniffed one of the cigars he'd taken himself, but said nothing, merely raising his brows in derisive amazement, when Denton again refused the cigars offered to him.

It was on that ship that Denton first saw opium. Mason carelessly ordered the opium consignment opened and took some of the dense-packed brown stuff in his fingers to smell it. 'Here, have a sniff.' He held it out to Denton. 'Best quality Indian. Worth a packet, even after tax.'

Denton's nose wrinkled at the rich, greasy smell, which he realised then he'd already encountered in faint whiffs on the waterfront and in some of the streets he'd passed along. Mason suddenly reached forward to tuck a few shreds under the flap of Denton's pocket. 'There you are,' he laughed, one eye on the agent. 'Smuggle some ashore.'

The agent chuckled obsequiously, his dark eyes glistening, while Mason went back into the saloon to compute the tax.

When they'd finished with all the ships berthed at the quays, they boarded a waiting Customs launch flying the Imperial Chinese pennant. 'Alexander the First,' Mason ordered the coxswain, a tubby Chinese with a rolling double chin that gave him a comfortable, jolly look. 'Number four buoy.' Mason held four fingers up in front of the coxswain's nose to ram the number home. 'Number four, all right?'

They went forward as the clanking engine started, dark smoke spurting up from the single grimy funnel. The sun was just setting over the skyline, a collection of long roofs and chimneys, black and sharp-edged against the great disc that sank further with every second, like a slowly-winking angry eye.

'That's the French Concession over there,' Mason nodded.

Denton gazed at the buildings, lower, older and shabbier than the merchant palaces along the International Settlement's Bund. 'Is it interesting?' he asked.

'Depends what you're looking for,' Mason glanced enigmatically at him from under slyly lowered lids.

Denton didn't speak again until the closing eye of the sun had vanished behind the buildings in the west. The sky still smouldered, reflecting its glow upon the smooth brownish waters of the river. He glanced back at the International Settlement, growing a dusky mauve and blurred already behind them. 'I wonder where the nearest church is?' he said unguardedly, half-aloud.

'What?' Mason turned to look at him as though he though he must have misheard. 'What church?'

'Well, the Church of England.'

'God knows.' He guffawed suddenly at his unintended witticism, and then repeated it to ensure Denton appreciated it too. 'God knows. And if He doesn't, who would, eh? There are dozens of 'em. Why? Thinking of getting married?'

'I'll ... I'll need to know for Sunday,' Denton muttered as if grudgingly confessing to some embarrassing frailty.

'Will you now?' Mason glanced at him, then looked down at the water. 'Personally I'd rather do something enjoyable on Sundays,' he said at last, drily, brushing the ends of his moustache lightly upwards with the back of his knuckle. Then he took out one of the cigars he'd been given and turned away from the wind to light it, smoking in silence as they drew nearer to the Russian liner.

Denton watched a blue sack-like thing floating in the water just ahead, wallowing almost below the surface. It slowly turned, rose, and sank as though it were being gently rolled and tugged from below. Mason had seen it too, and was leaning forward on the rail.

'It looks like a body,' Denton said.

'It is a body,' Mason answered coolly. He called out to the coxswain and the launch slackened speed.

Mason was right. It was a body, floating face down, its trousers and shirt darkened by the water and glistening slightly as it broke the surface. The queue, still neatly plaited, snaked away from the head like a piece of sodden black rope.

Denton's pulse quickened and he found himself holding his breath while he gazed at the submerged face, as if he himself were under the water. The coxswain fetched a boat hook and tried to hook the corpse's shirt with it. But the hook caught in the putrid flesh beneath and a piece flaked off like sodden pastry. A dark thick liquid oozed out.

'Phew!' Mason threw his cigar away. It landed with a little hiss in the water a few feet from the body. 'Can bring on board? Bring topside?'

'No can do.' The tubby coxswain laughed almost gaily, except that at the same time his eyes were mournful. 'He go open, open.' He closed his hands then flapped them open several times to express how the body would disintegrate if they touched it.

'Let him go then,' Mason said, waving dismissively. 'Or her. Can't tell, can you?'

The coxswain gave an obedient little shove to the corpse, pushing it under. It sank slowly, rolling on its side, then slowly rose again, rolling back, so that its greenish, eyeless face gaped at them for a moment, the flesh half gone. It was like a last silent scream for help.

The coxswain walked back to the wheelhouse, trailing the boat hook in the water to clean it. The engine clanked clamorously and they steamed on.

'That's one the slops didn't find,' Mason said, his nose still wrinkled above his ginger moustache. 'They pick up the corpses by the docks every morning. That one must've floated out. Been in a few days too, by the look of it, although they do rot pretty fast in this weather. Enough to put you off your grub, isn't it?'

Denton swallowed a little sour tide of nausea that was rising up his throat. 'What d'you think happened?' he asked.

Mason shrugged. 'There are usually a hundred or so bumping along the quays every morning. The slops have a special boat with nets to catch 'em with. Like trawling for fish.'

'A hundred?'

'About that, yes. Hunger, disease, gang-fights, ordinary murders and robberies - they all end up in the river. Nice and convenient. Some of our informers end up there too.'

'Informers?'

'How d'you think we nab the smugglers then?' He laughed shortly. 'We'd never get 'em, the likes of you and me. The Chinks are too crafty for us. It takes a Chink to see through a Chink. We have to buy tips. They'd sell their best friend for fifty dollars, too. That's how we do it.'

Soon they came alongside the gleaming white hull of the Alexander the First. The gangway trembled and swayed under Mason's weight as he clambered heavily up the steps. The agent was waiting for them at the top, an older man this time, dressed in a long silk gown with full sleeves and wearing a little round hat on his head. 'Good evening, Mista' May-song,' he smiled, affably rather than deferentially, giving a ceremonious bow that seemed almost mocking as he held out the cargo manifest courteously in both hands. The little fingernail of his left hand was long and curving, like some bird's talon.

'Evening, Mr Ching.' Mason replied with a grudging surly politeness himself. 'My assistant, Mr Denton.'

The agent bowed with the same mocking ceremony. 'Good evening, Mr Den-tong, how are you do?' His voice was high and loud, with none of the deference of the other agents.

Denton nodded and smiled awkwardly. He noticed how pale the man's skin was, as though it had never been in the sun, and wondered why Mason so uncharacteristically treated him with a certain respect.

Mason was leafing through the sheets of the manifest, each covered with a strange, looped writing that looked illegible to Denton. Then he glanced up, shaking the sheets together. 'We'll sort this out while we're eating, all right?'

'Of course, Mista' May-song.' The agent bowed again, folding his hands together in his sleeves, then led the way with short gliding steps, his gown flowing behind him, to the first class saloon.

They had hardly sat down at a table by the window, when the chief steward himself appeared, ushered in by the agent.

'What will you like to drink?' Mr Ching was asking, smiling that same courteous yet faintly mocking smile as he looked down at them through his rimless glasses. The chief steward snapped his fingers for the wine list.

'Sherry to start with. What about you, Denton? I can't stand vodka, myself.'

'Oh, nothing for me thank you,' Denton said hurriedly. 'Or just a glass of ginger beer?'

'Sherry and ginger beer?' Mr Ching turned to the chief steward and spoke to him briefly in Russian, leading him gently away.

'He speaks Russian as well,' Denton remarked tentatively. 'The agent.'

'Yes. Used to live up near the Russian border.' Mason opened the menu and studied it, frowning. 'Keep on the right side of him. He knows a thing or two.'

Confused by the names on the menu, Denton let Mason order for both of them. The putrefying corpse clearly hadn't put Mason off his grub after all, Denton noticed, nor indeed himself. It was as though it hadn't really been human at all, but some strange decaying fish. Only when he recalled the sightless eyes and exposed teeth did Denton feel a nauseous qualm.

After the meal, Mason sipped a brandy and picked over the box of cigars the steward brought them, while Mr Ching smoothed the cargo manifest out on the table in front of him. 'Wouldn't get this in second class,' he nudged Denton as the attentive steward lit the long cigar he finally selected. At last he looked reluctantly down at the manifest's sheets trembling under the fan, and began turning them languidly.

'Here, time you got started,' he said abruptly after a while. 'Sort out the tax on this lot. I'll check it afterwards.' He got up, dabbing his moustache with his napkin and went with Mr Ching to the far corner of the saloon, where the agent refilled his brandy while they talked quietly, facing each other across the table like card players.

At first Denton thought he wouldn't be able to decipher the script, but as he worked at the pages he found he could make it out after all. He finished with a lift of pride that was only slightly dashed when Mason negligently checked his calculations without comment.

'All right,' he burped. 'Let's sign.'

'Shouldn't we examine one of the cases?' Denton asked doubtfully.

'Hell, I s'pose we'd better,' Mason frowned in annoyance. 'Have 'em open up a case will you, Mr Ching?' He turned back to Denton as the agent rustled away. 'Teaching me my job now, are you?' he muttered, in a tone that seemed to hover uncertainly between indignation and bantering.

A case was opened in number three hold and Mason checked the contents perfunctorily against the manifest. 'All right,' he turned away. 'Let's sign and be off.'

As they were approaching the gangway, Mason suddenly stopped, slapping his pocket. 'Forgot my report book' he said. 'You go ahead, tell them to get ready. They're probably fast asleep, the lazy devils.'

It was night now, violet and soft, the lights glistening along the shore, with little misty hazes of moisture round them. Denton looked over the side at the Customs launch. The coxswain was talking to one of the sailors, looking up expectantly at Denton. The boiler fire glowed on their faces, and the water all round the boat seemed black and still, as if it had been varnished.

'We're just coming.' Denton called down. The coxswain moved into the shadow of the wheelhouse and then the engine began its vociferous clanking.

He returned along the empty, dimly-lit companion ways to the dining saloon. Mason was holding a white envelope in his hand, talking to Mr Ching in a low, tense voice. They moved apart when they saw him. Mr Ching quickly smiled, but Denton felt he had intruded. 'They're ready,' he said apologetically to Mason. 'Did you find it?'

'What?' Mason stared at him blankly.

'Your report book.'

'Oh.' His face loosened. 'Yes, got it. It was on the, er, on the table there all the time.'

They all looked at the table, while Mason slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his tunic.

'Goodbye, Mista' Den-tong,' Mr Ching said in his high cheerful voice. 'Goodbye, Mista' May-song.'

Mason buttoned his tunic as he went along. He walked most of the way without talking, but then began speaking with a sudden heartiness. 'Extraordinary thing,' he chuckled. 'The old chief steward on this tub sent me a letter.' He patted his pocket as if he was willing to produce the evidence if Denton doubted him. 'We used to go round a bit when he came ashore. Nice of him to remember me, eh?'

Once on board the launch, Mason leant silently against the rail, one foot on the neatly coiled rope, unusually self-involved. Denton wondered why he didn't read his letter. There was light enough from the lamp on the mast.

'He's got a very fair skin for a Chinese, Mr Ching?' he asked across the uneasy silence.

'Mm.'

The night air sliding over his face was mild and cool. 'I always thought Chinese were yellow, but he's paler than many Englishmen,' Denton risked again as the silence between them tautened once more.

'They come in all shapes, sizes and colours,' Mason answered brusquely.

Rebuffed, Denton didn't speak again. He recalled the moral distance he'd meant to keep from Mason and turned his head stiffly to watch the dark shapes of the ships they passed, each lit by pale twinkling lights. The launch put in at the Bund, near the Shanghai Club. Denton gazed up at the long, brightly-lit building with its wide verandas and balconies, from which he could hear the distant, muffled sound of music and laughter, cheerful and assured. He watched two Sikhs in red tunics and white turbans stamping their polished boots arrogantly outside the main entrance, magnificent under the heavy gas lamps as they summoned sedan chairs or rickshaws for the members emerging in evening dress from the open doors. As Denton watched, Mr Brown arrived in a sedan chair borne by four coolies, with an oil lantern burning yellowly on one of the poles. He inclined his shiny bald head, with its woolly circlet of grey hair, as the Sikhs saluted him and ascended the stone steps with a steady, stately step, as if he knew Denton was watching and wished to impress the dignity of his office upon him once more.