Hers the Kingdom (91 page)

     
One last time.

     That was it, I knew it.

     Willa frowned, but she did not discourage me. I had no compunction about leaving her now that it seemed Charlie Rich was going to prove me wrong and save the ranch.

My timing was perfect. I arrived in San Francisco three days later to find Porter tucked away in a back bedroom at Sara's, both eyes swollen shut and several ribs cracked.

     She told me, "He turned up like this at two in the morning—and do you know what he said? He said, 'Would you pay the taxi, Sara?'"

     I touched his swollen face and he grimaced.

     "The police are looking for him," Sara said, as if Porter were not there. "Inciting to riot, I believe. Connor plans to move him
to another hiding place after dark. It's not only the police who are looking for our brave boy here."

     "I have to lie low a while, Auntie. Can you keep me company?" he asked.

     "I can do better than that," I told him.

     Three days later we were passing through the Golden Gate aboard the
Taiyo Maru
, en route to Kobe, Japan, and Shanghai.

The little missionary could scarcely stand still. He hopped up on his toes and down again and he opened and closed his mouth several times before anything came out. "There, with the spire— that's the Cathay Hotel and, to the right . . . there . . . is Jardine, Matheson, the great trading company, you know . . . and the British consulate, the guards are Sikhs, colorful with their turbans, quite fierce-looking, actually . . . and . . ." He shifted, jabbing a finger in a westerly direction, ". . . The Custom House and the
North China Daily News
. . ."

     The great, gray buildings that lined the Bund, Shanghai's famous waterfront boulevard, might have loomed over almost any European city, only the thousands of junks and sampans that crowded the Whangpoo River reminded one that this was the Orient.

     "Oh it's a wonderful city, wonderful," the missionary's wife, a birdlike woman, trilled. The two had attached themselves to us at Kobe. They were returning from home leave in the States, but clearly China was home to them.

     As we waited for the launch that would take us ashore, I scanned the dock for some sign of Soong, knowing I could not possibly see him, knowing he could not meet us—but hoping nonetheless, now that we were so near. As we stepped ashore we were assaulted by utter confusion—noise and movement, and
crowds that pressed in on us until I thought I might be lost in the crush. Porter put his arm around me protectively. I looked up at him and took confidence from the expression of excitement and anticipation on his face.

     Before we knew what was happening, a giant of a man made himself heard over the din, addressing us by name and, looming directions all about, shepherded us into rickshaws, our baggage into a cart. His name was Sasha Malinovsky, and we were to put ourselves into his hands to be delivered to our mutual great, and very good, friend.

     Soong's name was not to be mentioned, we had been forewarned. It would not do for it to be known that he was trafficking with white Westerners—or White Russians for that matter, not in his own camp, never mind the enemy.

     In a short time we found ourselves entering the French Concession. "My home is humble," Sasha told us, "but it is yours, for as long as you will like." His accents were as lavish as his beard. We stopped at a small, walled house on the Avenue du Roi which was neither humble nor ostentatious but, it seemed to me, perfectly nondescript.

     Malinovsky was a bohemian, an eccentric, a basso who sang in one of the city's many cabarets. He was larger than life, his gestures grand, his voice booming. And he could, we were to learn, be trusted totally.

Soong was waiting for us in the October light that golden afternoon. He grasped Porter by the shoulders and it was all he could do not to cry out. They stood equally tall. They looked so much alike in that moment that I thought—Porter will see!

     "Wing Soong," Porter said, his voice befitting a solemn occasion, "there is no one I've seen less and know better."

     Soong's eyes were locked on Porter's. He stared openly,
appraising, his approval unmasked.

     And then Sasha appeared from somewhere, silent for so large a man. He stoked the samovar and served us tea—a ritual too important to be delegated to the houseboy—and then he left again, as silently as he had come. The three of us talked that long afternoon, our news spilling out in a jumble—the beating Porter took for giving a rallying speech on the docks in San Francisco, Sara and Kit and Connor and the Malibu, the labor movement on the West Coast of the United States and the labor movement that was even then being crushed in Shanghai. There was so much to say. We interrupted each other in our haste, and laughed and said, "Sorry . . . you first." And we looked at each other, searchingly.

     Sasha appeared once more to ask if Porter would, perhaps, wish to accompany him on a small errand on the Bund, so that he might give him a first preview of this city. Porter accepted and left us alone, to share the last light of the day.

     For an awkward moment, we hesitated. I touched my hair, coughed slightly.

     He took my hand.

     "He is a fine man, Lena. A fine son. I am proud."

     "He's as tall as you," I blurted, "my heart stopped when I saw you together—how can he not know?"

     Soong smiled and took my other hand.

     "He must not know, Lena."

     "Why not?" I argued. "Soong, it's time to tell him. I want . . ."

     He was shaking his head emphatically. "No, he cannot. Not now. There are many reasons, but the most important is that my position is far from secure. If he were known to be my son, it would put him in danger. Believe me, Lena."

     I frowned, not understanding.

     "I must be extremely careful, Lena. General Chiang Kai-shek will not tolerate the Communist party. He knows we are the enemy and he will obliterate us, if he can. I am not certain how much longer we will be able to stay here, in Shanghai. But I am certain that I do not
want Porter to be involved in this struggle. If he knew of his heritage, he might well decide that it was his as well. I don't want that."

     "But . . ." I began.

     "No," he said vehemently, "I've seen too many idealistic young men die senselessly. You cannot imagine the carnage, the venality . . . on both sides, Lena. And I don't want our son sacrificed. I am a communist because there is no choice left to me, no middle ground. Blood baths have already killed thousands, and it is not over. It is not over . . ."

     I directed the talk to the Russian, an excuse to turn away from such painful decisions. Soong explained, "Sasha makes a business of being flamboyant. He is a favorite with the international set—the ladies particularly. He tells them his father was a count in Mother Russia. When he is feeling particularly devilish, he dresses up in white tie and wears a blue ribbon with an exotic decoration around his neck. Makes the ladies swoon, he tells me. But he is not so frivolous as he seems, though you must know him for quite a long while to discover that aspect of his character."

     "It seems strange—you a communist and he a refugee from the Bolsheviks."

     "Everything about Shanghai is strange—but I'm not so certain Sasha's background is as White as he pretends, and I think he may be a refugee from something else entirely." He looked at me then with candor and said, "Can I take you to the bed?"

     A hot, wet sensation flashed in my groin. I felt as embarrassed as a girl.

     "Are we alone?" I asked, my heart racing.

     "Yes."

     "I am not so . . ." I began, before he hushed me.

     "You are beautiful, Lena. Age suits you. The gray in your hair suits you. I cannot say how perfectly beautiful you look to me."

     We went together into a room lavishly furnished with Persian carpets and wall hangings, with couches covered with fur rugs and
cushions, and we made love as we had long ago, when we were young and first discovering the pleasures of the body.

In the weeks to come, Soong appeared at odd hours, staying at times the whole of a day and at other times only an hour or two. He did not tell us what he did when he was away, and we did not ask. Occasionally Porter joined him away from the house, but only occasionally. They would go to another house, and there would be men there who would talk of world politics, asking Porter about conditions in America. It occurred to me that this was Soong's way of presenting his son to trusted friends, even if they could not know of the relationship.

     On those days when I knew Soong could not come, I shopped along the Avenue Joffre, or went sightseeing with one of Sasha's many lady friends. Porter set out to explore the city on his own, and soon made friends among the young newsmen who worked for the foreign press. He drank pink gins at the Long Bar in the Shanghai Club, where the English referred to him as a "Yank." He went to the races and to the cabarets. He did, in short, whatever there was to do, moving from the faultlessly appointed dining room of the Cathay to the narrow, twisting streets of the Old City. One evening, after a concert, a group of us stopped at a popular American eating place operated by a retired sailor. It was called Joe's and its specialty was corned beef hash, served in gargantuan proportions, along with a bag. Leftovers, we were told, were to be given to the beggars who lined the sidewalks. They were everywhere, the beggars, some deformed and sitting on tiny platforms. It was Porter who pointed out that, in part at least, the excitement that so permeated this city had something to do with the thin edge of Western elegance, so close to the suffocating evidence of desperate poverty. "Sailor Joe's approach to the problem," Porter had said, "is typically American—peculiarly American."

     "How so?" one of the Englishmen in our group asked.

     "Do you think Sailor Joe is generous?" Porter asked.

     "Indeed I do," the man answered, "he's a good chap, Joe."

     "Then I was wrong," Porter answered, "it's not peculiarly American."

     When the Englishman looked puzzled, Porter added, "We expect the starving peoples to be satisfied with leftovers from our table. They won't be, at least they won't be when they get enough in their bellies to satisfy the hunger pangs."