Читать книгу A Cold Season In Shanghai - S.P. Hozy - Страница 11

By the time Tatiana was fifteen, she was a regular visitor to Lily's home. Lily's three older brothers regarded her as a younger sister and treated her the same way they treated Lily. That meant they lectured the two girls, chided and teased them, and played tricks on them. Once, when the girls had dressed themselves in Lily's mother's cast-offs, including her French high heels, and had painted their lips red with a lipstick stolen from her dressing room, the brothers had charged into the room and tossed a bucketful of water from the fish pond at them, drenching them and leaving them covered in the tangled roots of the lily pads. Several large gold fish lay squirming on the carpet, gasping for air. Lily's brothers roared with laughter, their half-boy, half-man voices cracking with glee. Lily and Tatiana were furious and embarrassed at having been caught playing childish games. They screamed at the boys, and Tatiana picked up one of the fish and threw it at Number Two Brother.

“You're stupid, and I hate you!” she yelled, as Number Two Brother picked up the fish and threw it back at her.

“And you're a baby and ugly, just like my sister, only uglier because you have big feet!” he yelled back, still cackling as his brothers laughed like maniacs at the girls' fury. Lily started to cry, and that made the whole thing worse. Tatiana wanted her to behave like the women warriors she'd heard about in Chinese mythology, avenging angels who punished the evildoers who had wronged them. But Lily, perhaps because she was the youngest in the family and dominated by both tradition and three older brothers, could no more be a warrior than Tatiana could be a fairy princess. Lily needed protecting, but Tatiana had vowed she would never ask for protection from anyone. She would rather die.

The brothers were never punished, no matter how much of a mess they made. There was always someone to clean it up, usually one of the amahs, who would cackle and complain, but who was clearly amused by their antics. China belonged to men and boys, especially to privileged men and boys.

Lily's Number One Brother eventually went to France for a university education in business and philosophy. It was where the most privileged Chinese sent their eldest sons. He would be his father's successor in business and financial affairs. Number Two Brother would go to Japan to be educated. After 1906, China had abolished the Confucian system of education and moved toward Western-style learning. This meant students no longer had to memorize the Chinese classics and pass a series of examinations called wen-chang to obtain a position in the civil service. In Japan, university students learned history, geography, foreign languages, political economy and law. Number Two Brother would also be exposed to the secret societies that were forming among Chinese students in Japan, who wanted in time to take control of their country. When he eventually returned, he would be given a key position in government, reflecting the family's status. Number Three Brother's destiny was to attend a military academy and become an officer. Thus, Lily's family would be represented in all levels of Chinese society: financial, civil and military.

Luckily, because her parents were more modern, Lily had escaped the tradition of female foot binding that had been the fate of her grandmothers. It was a tradition that had persisted in China for nearly a thousand years, since an emperor had fallen in love with a concubine who had especially small feet. A man seeking a bride would examine her feet before he looked at her face. A married man would never see his wife's naked foot, but he might occasionally be given a glimpse of his concubine's.

Young, wealthy Chinese women spent their time learning to embroider the delicate silk slippers that covered their grotesquely misshapen feet, the toes of which were folded under and tightly bound from the age of four. As the young girl's foot grew, the front portion would be pushed toward the heel and securely wrapped in cotton binding, increasing the instep to an extreme and agonizing degree. Walking was painful and nearly impossible, so women were transported in covered sedan chairs carried by four bearers. What little walking they did was thought to strengthen the muscles around a woman's private parts, enhancing sexual excitement in her partner. Even some country girls had their feet bound in an effort to attract a better class of husband. Unfortunately, these women were still required to work in the fields, so they developed a waddling walk by balancing on the outsides of their mangled feet. Tatiana saw many of these women hobbling on the streets of Shanghai, elderly and stooped, but wearing slippers that would fit a small child. It made her angry at what she saw as the unfairness of Chinese society.

Through her exposure to Lily and her family, especially her brothers, Tatiana became more familiar with Chinese ways and Chinese ways of thinking. Her interest did not, however, extend to language, the strange, singsong cacophony of sounds that encompassed many languages and even more dialects spoken by the Chinese. Both she and Olga resisted their father's attempts to persuade them to study one of the Mandarin dialects.

“Oh, Papa,” they would say to their father, “we're never going to have to speak it properly. Everyone we know speaks either English or French. It's enough.” But truth be told, the girls were not eager to study something they were sure they would never be able to master. The best they did was to pick up the vulgar Pidgin English used by Europeans and Chinese alike to bridge the wide gap between them.

Rather than being repelled by the strangeness of what she learned, Tatiana in time became more interested in the complexity of ancient Confucian tradition mixed with the emerging modernity of China as it entered the twentieth century. In a way, her father had been right. China was looking to the future in its own complicated way, while Russia was still mired in the nineteenth century of landowners and indentured peasants.

“‘Governments need armies to protect them against their enslaved and oppressed subjects,’” said Sergei, again quoting his favourite author. “Russia,” he said, “will not change until those who govern Russia change their thinking. Tolstoy said it best: ‘Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.’ Remember, Tatushka, never be afraid to embrace new ideas. Without them, your mind will cease to grow and your spirit will harden.” Tatiana had taken to spending her study hours in her father's library, surrounded by the many leather-bound books he had brought from Russia. Sergei would often take the opportunity to talk to his daughter about the ideas he had gleaned from those books and that were always forming and re-forming in his mind. He hoped to inspire her to embrace a life of books and learning, as he had dreamed of doing before their life in Russia had been interrupted by politics. He knew she was the brighter of his two daughters, but he recognized that she had a stubborn streak that would cause her to resist if pushed too hard.

“I fear for poor Nicky and his family,” Sergei told her. “They are living in the past and cannot see that Russia is changing for the worse. How long can they ignore what is happening in the streets?”

Although it sometimes took weeks, even months, for them to receive news from Russia, they knew of the terrible things that were happening there. The peasants were still virtual slaves under the autocratic rule of the nobles, who were under the autocratic rule of the Tsar. When Nicholas began to reverse the reforms he had promised after the first revolt in 1905, the level of discontent rose and spread. Unfortunately, the Tsar chose the route of greater repression, not understanding that he was, in fact, helping to create a political underclass that would gain its support from the oppressed workers and peasants who had nothing to lose. Tatiana would be twenty years old when the Bolsheviks murdered her Romanov cousins and took over her homeland. In the meantime, in the rapidly changing city of Shanghai, she was becoming a young woman and experiencing life on her own terms.

As Tatiana grew into womanhood, Shanghai was developing into a place that catered to the tastes of thrill seekers and the reckless. Anything could be had in Shanghai for a price—and the price was relatively low. Those looking for excitement, from gambling and drinking to uninhibited sex and drugs, were drawn to Shanghai. Nightclubs and cabarets began appearing in the International Settlement, and every hotel had a ballroom with a dance band that played all night.

When Tatiana was sixteen, she started going out with Olga and her French boyfriend, Jean Paul. In those early days, their parents thought there was no harm in it. People went out to have fun, not to indulge in depraved and lewd behaviour—and the girls were instructed to be home no later than ten o'clock. At first they would go to a restaurant or teahouse, then go dancing at one of the fashionable hotels. As soon as they left the house, Tatiana would put on red lipstick so that she looked older, and she began to cultivate what she thought was a sophisticated look. She pinned her hair up and when she sat down, she crossed her legs and exposed her ankles and part of her calf, which was very daring in 1913.

Olga was horrified and embarrassed that her younger sister was behaving this way in front of Jean Paul. “Tatiana,” she whispered hoarsely in her sister's ear, “sit up straight and pull your skirt down. Do you want people to think you are a—”Olga stopped, not wanting to say the word.

“A what,” Tatiana said, loud enough for Jean Paul to hear. “A whore?”

Olga was mortified, but Jean Paul, who seemed to understand that Tatiana needed to be outrageous in order to test the limits and the patience of those who loved her, was more tolerant. He was older than Olga by a few years, the son of a good family from France that had prospered in the textile business in China, the land of silkworms and cheap labour. Jean Paul had been to university in France. He had seen young women behave far more outrageously than Tatiana. During those years, he had enjoyed hanging out with painters and poets—and their women. Jean Paul was neither handsome nor talented, but he was gentle and kind, qualities that appealed to Olga, who was neither as beautiful nor as bright as her younger sister. But Jean Paul, neither tall nor short, his hair thinning but not yet bald, fair and pale-skinned and needing to wear glasses to read, was attracted to the shorter, darker, more sensible sister, possibly because she reminded him of his mother, who was also short and dark and sensible. Her ancestors from generations back had come from the Basque region of Spain, where plain looks could hide a fiery temper and a passionate spirit. Jean Paul found that possibility appealing.

One night, when the three of them were at a cabaret, a young woman approached their table. She was a little wobbly on her feet, and she spoke to them in English with a heavy French accent. “’Allo, kids. Wanna buy me a drink and hear l'histoire de ma vie?”

“Sure,” said Jean Paul and signalled for her to join them. Olga didn't look too pleased, but what did it hurt to talk to someone? He called to the waiter, “Catchee gin tonic, chop chop,” and the waiter scurried off.

To Tatiana's inexperienced eyes, the woman was very beautiful. She was probably in her late twenties and had thick, curly red hair that she had piled on top of her head so that some of the curls cascaded over her forehead and ears. Her green eyes and milky skin were dramatically set off by the emerald green silk shawl she wore draped over her pale shoulders. Her full bosom was enhanced by the cut of her dress, but she was otherwise slender, with long legs and slim ankles. She wore startling red lipstick on her full lips that emphasized the paleness of her beautiful skin. She introduced herself as Annette and began to tell them her story.

She had been born in France but had grown up in Saigon, in Indo-China, where her father had owned a small textile factory. Her family had fallen on hard times, however, when her father had become ill, and she and her brothers were forced to leave school to find work. Annette and her mother had worked as seamstresses, but sewing bored Annette. “So I found myself a rich lover,” she said. But he was Vietnamese and had been betrothed since childhood to the daughter of a wealthy Saigon family. “I knew he would never marry me, but what did I care about marriage? I was only sixteen.”

On the day of his marriage, Annette discovered she was pregnant. “That's when I decided to leave Saigon and the whole mess behind. I came to Shanghai to have my baby.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “I know what you're thinking,” she said. “Why didn't I try and get money from him? I could have had a comfortable life, right? And raised my son, who would be called a bastard and half-breed, in some backstreet in Saigon. No, thank you. Not the life I wanted.” She indicated that her glass was empty, and Jean Paul ordered more drinks all round. When Tatiana, who had listened intently to every word, asked for a gin and tonic, Olga raised her eyebrows in annoyed surprise, but Tatiana ignored her and turned to Annette.

“Qu'est-ce que vous avez voulu?” she asked. What did you want?

“I wanted adventure. I wanted to be surprised by life, not to have every day the same.”

“And what about your child?”

“My son, my Daniel, is six years old, and he's beautiful, the best part of my life.”

“But how do you support him?” Olga asked.

Annette just laughed. “Shanghai is full of opportunities, if you know where to look. Maybe I'll show you someday, chérie.”

Tatiana looked at Olga and laughed, but Olga frowned and shook her head. Tatiana was fascinated by Annette and wanted to know more—about everything.

They were to run into Annette often after that night. She was usually in the company of a man or with a party of men and women. The men were always in well-tailored evening clothes, mostly French but sometimes British. Occasionally she would be on the arm of an American businessman who wore cologne and smoked large, smelly cigars. Olga usually clucked her disapproval, but to Tatiana it was all very glamorous. To be out drinking champagne and dancing every night with rich men didn't seem so bad to her.

“You are so innocent,” said Olga. “Can't you see she's a whore?”

“She is not. Do people call you a whore because you dance with Jean Paul?”

Olga was clearly annoyed. “I can't believe you're being so stupid.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” said Jean Paul. “She's just a kid.”

But Tatiana wasn't a child any more, at least not in her own mind. She was almost seventeen and ready for life to surprise her, like Annette. Lily was going to leave for finishing school in Switzerland soon and would be away for a whole year. Tatiana wasn't sure what she was going to do without her friend. Read books and listen to her father's lectures? Hang around with Olga and Jean Paul? The prospect was not appealing.

Tatiana and Lily cried the whole afternoon before Lily left for Switzerland. They gave each other diaries to write all their thoughts in and promised, promised, promised to write letters every day. Tatiana had begged her father to let her go to Switzerland with Lily, but he said it was impossible. It would cost more money than he made in a year. The truth was, he was afraid to let Tatiana spend a year away from home, even if she went with Lily. He saw that Tatiana was becoming restless, a dangerous thing in a young girl. Boys, he knew, could take care of themselves. Restlessness was a good quality in a young man. It made him curious and adventurous. Young men needed to take risks, find out what they were made of, especially before they settled down to marriage and a family. They needed to get that energy out of their system so they could take on the responsibility of work and family. But young women were a different thing altogether. No man wanted to marry a restless girl, and Sergei wanted his daughters to be married to fine and responsible men who would take care of them and their children, his grandchildren. Olga he was not worried about. Tatiana, he could see, was going to be a problem.

Tatiana did not believe her father when he told her they weren't rich. She knew they were rich, especially when she compared how they lived to the way most of the Shanghai Chinese lived. She had no concept of real wealth, however, and assumed that because they lived in a large stone house and were well-dressed and well-fed and had servants, they must be very rich. Her mother, who remembered how wealthy they had been in Russia, smiled sadly when Tatiana complained to her about her father's decision not to let her go to Switzerland and said, “My darling Tatiana, you have no idea.”

They had been in Shanghai for almost a decade, and with each passing year, Katarina missed Russia even more. They had made friends in Shanghai, of course, mostly through Sergei's business connections, and the few Russians who had left, like them, before the situation became critical and even dangerous for people of their class. But these were not people that Katarina ever felt close to. These were not the people who inhabited her soul the way her family did. She could never replace that feeling of profound connection that had nourished her every minute of her life. She loved her husband and daughters desperately, but they were a fragment of the broken bowl that had been her life, one that had once been filled to the brim with meaning and life, with people whose love and support went to the heart of who she was and where she had come from. Katarina needed this more than her husband and daughters did. They did not understand how bereft she was and why her world got smaller while theirs seemed to grow larger. Why can't I be like them? she often wondered. Why can't I let go of what I once had and can never have again?

As I grew taller, my mother seemed to get smaller and smaller. I could practically touch fingertips when I put my hands around her waist. She rarely left the house and lived for news from home. I didn't understand how she could just let her life float away on a cloud of sadness. It seemed like such a waste to me. Wasn't life to be lived? To be experienced? Why couldn't she pull herself together and just get on with it? Sometimes I was angry with her because her sadness and melancholia made me unhappy.

“It isn't fair,” Tatiana complained to her father.

Sergei once again summoned Tolstoy. “‘Happiness does not depend on outward things, but on the way we see them.’ Unfortunately your mother does not see joy in Shanghai. She left her happiness behind in Russia.”

“But, Papa,” she protested, “it's been nine years. I don't understand how someone can be sad for nine years.”

“Be patient, Tatushka. Someday you will understand. ‘The strongest of all warriors are these two—Time and Patience.’ Even though you are growing up in China, you were born with a Russian soul. This you cannot escape.”

Riddles, she thought. My father talks in riddles. “Tolstoy is dead!” she shouted and flung herself from the room.

Sergei couldn't decide what to do with his second daughter. He wanted her to have an education because he believed she had a good mind. He had thought briefly about sending her to Paris but had immediately rejected the idea. He could see the danger of letting his headstrong daughter go off on her own, so far from his influence. Besides, he was hearing too much about political instability and threats of war in Europe, and it made him uncomfortable with the idea of sending the impressionable Tatiana off into the middle of it. He was leaning toward designing a schedule of study for her, based on his own library and readings, and hiring a tutor to supervise it. He hadn't yet discussed it with Tatiana; he wanted a plan that was appealing enough that she would at least consider it before rejecting it outright.

In the summer of 1914, war broke out in Europe. Many of the young men began leaving Shanghai to take up arms for their home countries. The lives of a generation of young men and women would be disrupted for four years by a conflagration whose extent none of them could have anticipated. By the time the conflict ended, Shanghai would be a very different place.

Sergei could see his youngest daughter already beginning to drift away from him, and he initiated a campaign to draw her back into the world of books and ideas he had hoped she would embrace. He saw that the window of opportunity was very small, and if he did not capture her imagination now, she might be lost to him forever.

When I look back now, I understand how much I underestimated my father's wisdom. He had to work so much harder at raising me than he did Olga. He knew she would be all right. She was centred and uncomplicated, like a compass. True north was never a problem for her. She always knew where it was. I was different, however. I wasn't willing to settle for anything without exploring the possibilities, and I think, in this way I resembled him more than I realized. It was many years before I understood that taking on the responsibility of a family had anchored my father. He had accepted the yoke of family life because, quite simply, he loved us.

Sergei's family had been wealthy landowners in Russia. He was the third son, so he had fewer obligations than his older brothers. This had allowed him to indulge to his heart's content his love of reading. He was fascinated by history and what he thought it could teach the world. He was a philosopher at heart and lived in a world of ideas. Because everything had been given to him, Sergei could afford to be the optimist he was by nature. He saw something in Tatiana that he recognized, perhaps the legacy of his own insatiable curiosity, but he could not fathom her capacity for sadness—perhaps she had got that from her mother. He did his best to encourage the side of his daughter that was imaginative and perceptive, but he could not control the part of her that grew sullen and angry.