Читать книгу Shanghai - Christopher New - Страница 32

HIS RENEWED FRIENDSHIP with Mason was precarious from the start, and Denton was always uneasy with him, like an actor playing a role that didn't suit him. So he felt almost a sense of relief when it began to cool a few weeks later and resumed what seemed a more natural state of distant neutrality.

Going to Mason's office to give him some documents that the clerk had mistakenly placed on his own desk, Denton found Ching in the room, about to leave. Ching smiled as genially as ever at him, scratching his pale, taut cheek with the long, curved talon of his little fingernail. 'Good afternoon, Mista' Den-tong. How are you do?'

Denton nodded, while Mason smirked connivingly, 'I'll see what I can do then, Mr Ching.'

'Thank you, Mista' May-song. Thank you,' Ching answered affably as he closed the door.

Denton gave Mason the papers.

'Ah, thanks, old chap.' He glanced down at them inattentively. 'Er.... Funny man, old Ching, you know....'

'Yes?'

'He's just been talking to me about that spot of trouble on the Alexander the First - you know, when they were loading that night you came along.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. It cost the company quite a packet, apparently.' Denton shrugged as Mason looked up, drumming his fingers on the papers Denton had just given him.

'Seems to think you might have it in for him.'

'No. Why should I?'

'That's what I told him.' He paused, cleared his throat and glanced away out of the window at the river. 'You know, with your girl and a sniff of opium now and then, I expect you could do with a bit of extra income now and then, couldn't you?' He looked back at Denton, winking and slapping his pocket. 'I mean, you wouldn't turn the odd favour down if someone offered it to you and nobody was any the wiser, would you? Know what I mean?'

Denton hesitated, embarrassed rather than tempted. He'd heard rumours, he'd seen Ching passing an envelope to Mason on their first visit to the Alexander the First, and there had been the hints Ching had dropped to him over that contraband cotton. But this was the first time a Customs officer had approached him. Although there seemed to be a veiled threat behind Mason's words, his tone was so genial and natural that it seemed hard to be curt or indignant. 'Well, I don't know,' he muttered uncomfortably, as if it was he who was the guilty one. 'I mean, I don't really need anything extra, you know.'

'Oh come on,' Mason cajoled him blandly, 'It's not as though we're overpaid, is it? Everyone takes a bit, you know.'

'Well, all the same I don't really want to get mixed up with that kind of thing,' he said apologetically.

'What sort of thing?' Mason chivvied him. 'It's the way of life out of here. You're practically expected to, I mean, in England it'd be a different matter, but out here....' He waved his hand largely. 'Way of life. When in Rome, you know, sort of thing.'

But Denton refused to yield. 'I've got some papers to see to,' he said woodenly, turning to the door.

Mason sighed loudly in helpless resignation. 'Well, there's none so blind as those that won't see, so they say.'

In his own office, Denton tipped his chair back and gazed up at the ceiling with the sense of having avoided an unpleasant social duty rather than a moral catastrophe. It's the way of life out here, he thought, watching two large black flies flitting round and round on the listless air. When in Rome. And yet he wasn't tempted. He wondered why. Just because it was dishonest? But suppose nobody suffered from it, as might often be the case? Would it still be wrong? He felt his mind groping for a certainty that wasn't there. It was queer, unnerving, when you kept on asking why. He couldn't see through the mists these repeated questions rolled over his mind. Yet if he imagined himself being offered an envelope as Mason was, something stiffened in his arm as if to push it away. Was that all it was - just an instinctive recoil? Or merely a reaction he'd been taught as a child, like his religion? But he'd given up his religion easily and painlessly. Could he give up his honesty in the same way? One day he'd have to find the time to study philosophy and ethics, the meaning of life and that sort of thing, to try and find the answers to all these questions. It would be good to get out of all this dim uncertainty into something definite and secure. One day he'd really do that, when he had time.

He let the chair drop forward with a bang and turned to his forms, sighing in the heat.

Mason never mentioned the subject again, but they gradually cooled to each other once more, though at first without any open break. It was merely that Mason never invited him to smoke opium again and they avoided each other in the mess. It was not until some months later that they actually quarrelled, when they were both on duty one breathless June afternoon on adjoining sections of the wharves. Denton was going to his office when Mason called him from the corridor, his heavy face damp with sweat. There were motes of dust sliding through the sunlight that slanted relentlessly in between the slats of the bamboo-blinds.

'I say, John.' His voice was unusually friendly, wheedling almost. 'They've put the Marseilles in berth nine?'

'Yes, there's been an accident on the cranes at ten. They can't work them, apparently.'

'Oh, accident, eh?' Mason brushed the tips of his moustache up thoughtfully, frowning down at the sheaf of manifests in his other hand. 'The thing is, I know some of the chaps on that boat, I was expecting to have a chat with them. Tell you what, I'll do the Marseilles and you do the Wonosobo.' His faced cleared. 'Got the manifest, have your Here's the Wonosobo's.'

Denton looked down at the papers Mason was holding out. 'I think, as it's berthed in my section,' he said slowly, with an almost reluctant dryness, 'perhaps I'd better do it myself.'

'Why?' Mason's face began to darken beneath its shiny glow of sweat. 'Not much to ask, is it? No need to be such a stickler - after all, it would've been in my section, but for this blasted accident anyway, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, but all the same,' Denton persisted, hardening as much against Mason's hectoring as against the corruption he suspected lay behind it. 'All the same, I think I'd better do it, as things stand.'

Mason stepped nearer, bringing his face close to Denton's. 'Now listen here, old man, I've got a special reason to do the Marseilles.' His voice was quiet but unpleasantly tense, his eyes gazing hard at Denton's. 'As I've already told you. I want to have a chat with some of the chaps on board. Got it? They're friends of mine.'

'Friends of Ching too?'

'Ching?' Mason stiffened. 'What are you getting at?'

'Nothing,' Denton stared obstinately down at his papers. 'Couldn't you talk to your friends while I inspect the ship?'

Mason's neck began to swell, and the veins stood out on his forehead. His cheeks became florid. 'You trying to insinuate something, old man?' he asked threateningly.

'No,' Denton's voice was blank and dead. He took a sudden breath, as though he was about to jump from a height.

'Well, then....'

'But as I've been given the Marseilles, I'll just have to inspect it, unless I'm ordered not to. That's all.'

'Oh you will, will you? Well, listen here, Mr Holy Bloody Denton,' Mason was speaking now with loud, angry irony. A passing clerk glanced at him in timid awe and hurried on down the corridor. 'Just you listen here. I don't think you've quite got the hang of things out here yet. I'm your senior in rank, right? You're just a probationary inspector, right? You're not established yet, are you? You could be kicked out quite easily, and don't you forget it. Well, as your senior in rank, I say I'm doing the Marseilles. So I am doing it. And you're doing the Wonosobo. If you don't mind.'

Denton frowned down at his papers, his cheeks flushing.

'My orders - '

'Or if you do mind, for that matter. Now take this bloody manifest.'

'My orders are to inspect all the vessels in my section.' Denton said doggedly.

'Well, I'm giving you another order!'

'You realise I'll have to report this to Mr Brown?'

'Well, go along and report it, then,' Mason said in high, sneering tones. 'Run along and report it then, there's a good boy.' Then, as Denton turned away, 'Only don't forget he's on leave. And don't forget to let me have the Marseilles' manifest first, either. All right?'

Denton went instead to the Superintendent of the Wharves. He was kept waiting outside his office while the clerks covertly eyed him and whispered smilingly to each other as if they knew already what was going on. Denton waited uneasily, licking his lips. How was it that he felt almost guilty for being there? He had to keep reminding himself that it was Mason who had something to answer for, not himself. And yet he still felt uneasy.

Superintendent Smith was burly, irascible and said to be a heavy drinker, which the hectic flush on his face suggested was true. He'd never got far in the service and was bitter about it. He'd been a 'tide-waiter,' and 'outside' man, for most of his career, and the 'inside' men, who could pass examinations, had taken the top jobs and sat in cool offices while he was sent to remote posts from one end of China to the other.

A voice boomed angrily behind the heavy wooden door and a clerk scurried out with anxious, humiliated eyes.

'Now what's all this nonsense about, Denton?' Smith's protuberant, bloodshot eyes stared at him impatiently. 'Mason wants to do the Marseilles. What are you making a fuss about it for? Can't you arrange a swap between yourselves without running to me?'

'It was my section, sir,' Denton began falteringly, on the wrong foot already. 'And I....'

'You what?'

'I didn't see any good reason for changing ships.'

'Good god, is that all?' Smith shook his grey head in mock amazement. His fist rose and thumped the desk in front of him, making the pens and pencils quiver. 'Mason tells me he wants to speak to a friend on the ship. Isn't that a good enough reason? What's wrong with that? A bit of a swap, that's all.'

Denton hesitated, pressing his lips together. He sensed he was about to cross some boundary, although he couldn't have said what exactly it was.

'Well? Don't mind walking a couple of hundred yards to the Wonosobo, do you?' Smith laughed bluffly, his ill-temper apparently draining away at the sight of Denton's abashed hesitation. 'Young feller like you? Bit of exercise'd do you good!'

'Did Mr Mason tell you what he wanted to talk to these friends about?' Denton said at last, plunging suddenly across the unknown boundary.

'What d'you mean?' Smith's thick brows contracted like two stiff grey brushes. 'Talk about? What d'you mean? Are you trying to accuse anyone of improper conduct, Denton?' He jutted his chin forward over the desk grimly, the brief, false heartiness swept from his face. 'You'd better be careful what you're saying, you know. That's a serious matter. Have you got any evidence?'

Denton swallowed. 'I only meant that Mr Mason's reasons didn't seem good enough to me, sir.'

'Oh, they didn't, didn't they? They didn't seem good enough?' He leant back slowly, nodding, his head on one side. 'So they didn't seem good enough to you, Mr Denton, eh? Well, let me tell you something, lad,' he leant forward again, speaking in a growling whisper. 'Let me tell you something. They're good enough for me. And if they're good enough for me,' his voice began to rise slowly, ominously, 'they should bloody well be good enough for you!'

Denton stared rigidly in front of him, at the brass buttons on Smith's uniform. 'You are satisfied with Mr Mason's reasons, then, sir?' he asked stiffly.

'That's just what I've been saying, isn't it, lad? How many times do I have to repeat myself?' He glared at Denton with those bulging, bloodshot blue eyes that seemed to have a film of anger over them. 'And what's more, I don't like young officers getting above themselves and coming in here suggesting all sorts of things about their brother officers, without a shred of evidence! I don't like it at all! Is that clear?'

Denton felt the muscles growing rigid in his cheeks. 'Yes, sir.' After a pause, he heard his voice speaking sarcastically, almost of its own accord. 'Very clear.'

'And don't you cheek me, young feller!' Smith's voice rose to a shout and his eyes bulged dangerously, as if they might pop out. 'Just yes sir, no sir, understand? I don't want any of this suggestive “Very clear” stuff from you. I don't know what you're thinking, lad, but you'll keep you tongue under the lock and key if you know what's good for you! Understand?'

'Will that be all, sir?' Denton heard his voice as if speaking of its own accord again, small but unbending.

'Yes it bloody well will.'

He felt Smith's eyes glowering at his shoulders still as he opened the door and went out.