The Last Mandarin (13 page)

The waiter had returned with wine; he set down the cruet, and admiration settled on his wise old features as he backed off. “The lion roars east of the river!” Burnham said; it meant, for reasons he had never fathomed, “What a temper!”

He was rewarded. She laughed her deep tuneful peal and said, “Oh, you scholar. Oh, you show-off. I suppose you have about twenty of those and you rehearse them.”

“For you only,” he said, moved. “You are a fox in disguise.” That meant “a bewitching woman.”

“Next you will be wanting to hold hands again,” she said severely.

“Humbly I retreat to my duck. Go on.” He poured wine.

“Oh well, a dull story,” she said. “The angry young woman. The furious rich bitch: The winter of '46, and the rice bowls empty. The five constant virtues notably lacking. The same wolves barred the roads, and it took a peck of gall—you know the term?”

“Great courage.”

“Full marks, Burnham major. It took great courage to talk about medical care for the ordinary people or other such radical fantasies. And I was just back from England, where they'd fired Churchill in favor of fair pay and free dentures. So when my certificate was lost in the celestial swamp, and the marsh gas told us the government was rotting, I went to work at the Children's Clinic, where I can pretend to be a doctor. Half the time I feel noble and half the time I'd give anything to get out. When I think of a real hospital, with X-ray machines and labs—I'm wasted. My whole life could be wasted.”

“Times are changing,” he said.

“Ah, the Communists. They care more, I suppose. But I'm tainted with foreign heresies, and I'm not sure I want to be reeducated. I seem to be a woman of the world.”

“A society girl,” he said. “Spoiled rotten. Who pays you?”

“Nosy.”

“Not the government.”

“Of course not the government. Our doctors aren't certified, you see. I'm a woman and cosmopolitan. Shen's a suspected Communist. We have a colleague, Teng, who'll never be certified because his father was a Shanghai gangster who feuded with Chiang Kai-shek in 1928. The fact is, we're hardly paid at all. The beggars' union supports us as times permit. We beg of rich friends—missionaries and other foreigners.”

“The beggars. Astounding.”

“It is. You know about them?”

“That they're organized, yes. There are many odd stories. In other countries too. Beggars who each pay a penny to a kind of alderman who sits on the beggars' council. Beggars' committees to deal with the police or with famine or cold spells. Delegates who resolve geographical disputes: who, and how many, shall work Embroidery Street or Bead Street. And when a woman's time comes there are beggar mid wives. Also, there's a Head Beggar. So. They contribute to your clinic?”

“As in America,” she said. “Hospitals for crippled children, and so on. You have one group that collects eyeglasses for the poor, and one that fights tuberculosis. So why not Chinese beggars? There are so many of them!”

“I ask because both my leads to Kanamori touch on beggary.”

“Then go to the beggars and ask.”

“I may,” he said agreeably. “Do you know Sung Yun?”

She tapped her cup impatiently with a chopstick; Burnham chucked an apology and poured. “I know of him,” she said. “Rich and corrupt, and therefore important. If he's still in Peking it's a wonder. When the Reds come he'll be the first to be boiled in oil.”

“A splendid fellow. Why is he rich?”

“The usual mystery. A little of this and a little of that. Gold bars in time of war. Shipments of rice diverted. Adolescent girls, opium, favors. The country's full of such.”

“He has a connection with the clinic?”

She paused, shocked, chopsticks high. “Madness.”

“All right. Inspector Yen.”

Mouth full, she shook her head and mumbled, “Never heard of him.”

“If he, or any policeman, comes to see you, please tell me.”

“What are you dragging me into?” she complained. “Your Japanese is none of my business.”

“I am beginning to think he's none of mine.” Burnham sighed. “Things have changed around here.”

“And are about to change more. I need some soup to wash this down.”

Burnham cast about for the waiter. Other diners caught his eye and glanced away. Colors seemed rich and dim at once, the blues and blacks of gowns, here a red shirt, the smoked walls. Behind the open fire sat a cook, fat as a bonze, nodding and dreaming, a cigarette shrinking in his drowsy hand.

The waiter bowed, and Burnham ordered hot walnut soup. It was of all soups the most exhilarating, homely yet exotic, whetting the appetite it appeased. It was also expensive, and Hao-lan chuckled. “You're plying me.”

Burnham nodded vigorously, and their eyes conversed. A welcome confusion warmed him: desire, but something more, much more, the watchdog's ferocious instinct, protective, brotherly. He hoped so. If it were merely the fucker's possessive jealousy? Unworthy. A rare woman indeed, calling forth quality and class, that best of oneself so seldom required. Her brows were straight and almost bushy. Her look was honest. So were her hands, a doctor's hands, no lies or false moves.

Now as if by accord they did a pleasant thing: took soup in silence, chatting only in half-smiles. Then tea, and Burnham called for the bill, and paid it, and they started downstairs. As always at the Black Duck, the waiter thundered the amount of the bill, and the amount of the tip—and Burnham had been generous, as was only fitting; it was taxpayers' money, after all—so a great roar of “Hao! Hao!” rose behind them: “Good! Good!” As they stepped into the cold, animating night air Hao-lan said, “‘With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow—I have yet joy in the midst of these.'”

“If a foreigner come with money,” Burnham asked, “is it better for the poor that he keep it, or spend it?”

Feng rode toward them. The shadowed alley was home for an instant: must Burnham leave this woman? Desperately sad, he grumbled, “Well, back to the hospital, I suppose.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You will take me to your lodgings, please, and seduce me.”

He could hardly speak, only squeezing her arm and swallowing nervously, choking on walnut fumes. Finally he said, “How not?” tossed his package to the seat of the ricksha, took her by the shoulders and said, “Until this moment my life has been all sky and no sun.”

“You talk too much and too well,” she scolded, and said to Feng, “Your master is sodden and maudlin. We must wring him out, and restore him to his former childlike simplicity.”

Feng gaped and blinked, then smiled like the dawn and said, “Simplicity indeed. ‘What does a man need, but a bamboo hat and a gourd?'”

11

August 1938. Even Kanamori's voice was at attention: “Sir!”

The colonel smiled. Kanamori's heart swelled. “My dear Captain Kanamori!” said the colonel.

Dizzied, Kanamori fought for control. A double promotion! How Kurusu would wail and stamp!

“You have fought well and bravely,” the colonel went on, “but we are past mere brawling now, and have better use for our best.”

Kanamori thought perhaps he should say “Sir!” again but stood rigid.

“At ease, my boy, at ease.”

Kanamori stood at formal ease.

“Prince Asaka has suggested that you join us in military government.”

Kanamori never forgot those words. The room pitched, and he almost staggered. Prince Asaka! Twice now, such distinguished notice!

“I think you must sit down,” the colonel said kindly.

Kanamori sat, and heard the rest in a dream. Part of Kiangsu province was to be his, and part of Anhui. Thousands of square miles, millions of people. His own vehicle and a full company of infantry. He listened with the joy of a child. “You will be responsible to Military Accounting and not to Division. More directly, to Lieutenant Colonel Shizumi.” Provinces? Nanking and Wu-hsi and Soochow? Who was this Shizumi?

“We are transferring you,” the colonel continued, “to social services.”

Kanamori's heart sank.

“More specifically, to narcotics.”

“But, but—”

“Speak out, Captain.”

“But I am not a policeman, sir! I am a warrior!”

“A warrior of renown. And your duties will not be a policeman's.”

Kanamori bowed his head and waited.

“You will be in charge of the distribution of heroin cigarettes and processed opium. It is a tremendous responsibility, and a step toward the General Staff.”

The General Staff!

“Opium will henceforth, in all public announcements, including shop signs, be known as kuan-t'u.”

“Controlled earth.”

“Or if you like,” the colonel smiled, “government dirt.”

Shakily Kanamori laughed.

“Let me explain further,” the colonel said, and did so. Kanamori listened with respect, but an inner voice protested: Opium? But I am a soldier!

Some minutes later the colonel struck a bell on his desk, and an aide appeared. “The man Wang,” said the colonel.

A Chinese entered; the aide vanished. The Chinese was a civilian, a tall man of large bones, thick shoulders and a peculiarly feline aspect: snub nose, prominent teeth, mustache like a cat's whiskers. His eyes were veiled, his manner bland. He remained standing.

“Wang is a leader,” the colonel said. “That is, a man with followers.” Wang was forty-five, perhaps a bit older. He stood smiling faintly; Kanamori scented false humility. “He will be your link with the Chinese world.”

Kanamori said farewell to his platoon, his home. A family of brothers. They would return to the line. In the courtyard he assembled them. He announced his promotion. He introduced Lieutenant Nakasawa, who would replace him and who had asked, at their first meeting, if he might make one swipe with Kanamori's famous sword. An engaging boy. Kanamori walked the ranks and bowed to each man. In the silent morning no one spoke; his heart cracked. He returned to Sergeant Ito, who stood at ease front and center. Kanamori almost embraced him—an impulse, no more. He made a brief speech: if he was exiled to Staff, they were the glorious Line. Asia was theirs because they had fought well. In days to come they would fight even better. In his oblivion he would envy them; in their triumph they must not forget him. He called them to attention and saluted them, then walked away. Behind him three banzais ripped the air.

A captain! Staff! But narcotics?

He did as he was ordered. The colonel represented Prince Asaka, who represented the Emperor, who represented Heaven.

The line between the Chinese and the Japanese was the line between Wang and Kanamori. Kanamori was importer and distributor; Wang was buyer and technician. The method was the same as in Shanghai. But there the apparatus, the bureaucracy, the commercial organization, had not been destroyed. In Nanking, in all of Anhui, officials had fled or been murdered. Rails had been torn up, bridges blown, vehicles demolished by the thousands, towns razed. Here they began painfully, with a skeletal administration. Wang did the donkey's share of the work, but his manner was always aristocratic. In Nanking he maintained a private ricksha, like the last of the mandarins. He and his minions roamed the two provinces. He reported faithfully to Kanamori and received nothing that he did not pay for. Kanamori never asked whence came the money. Their relations were correct.

At first they set aside special nooks in ordinary shops. They ordered signs painted:
KUAN-T'U.
They commandeered what remained of a cigarette factory and commenced the manufacture of heroin cigarettes, powdered heroin mixed with cheap tobacco from the uplands of Kiangsi. At Wang's suggestion they took two fish with one hook: they ingratiated themselves with young laborers, from ten to thirty, by supplying them with free cigarettes at the end of the workday, and at the same time began the process of addiction. The old-time dealers complained to Wang; the official dealers were undercutting them. Wang advised them to be patient; the official dealers were building trade for them.

Even when food was short, cigarettes were plentiful. Soon they opened special shops. Little signs above the door:
KUAN-T'U.
Smoothly Wang diversified, and they encouraged yen kuan, old-fashioned opium dens. Kanamori was sure that Wang invested in pipes, perhaps even couches, perhaps even lamps; no item was too small, no profit negligible. Wang lived for business. One local trader had turned up eight hundred pounds of ordinary charcoal and wanted to ship it into Nanking by dory. Only eight hundred pounds. Yet Wang, shuttling here and there in his silent, gleaming ricksha, arranged it and exacted a share.

By late fall local newspapers carried advertisements: this number on that street, kuan-t'u. A far cry from old men in obscure back rooms! Now it was an industry.

And the work! Combat was indeed preferable. Kanamori was “responsible only to Military Accounting,” which meant that no one on his level or lower must see his records. He listed shipments by grade, by weight, by origin, by cost, by resale value. He listed distribution by region, district, town and ward, relying on Wang for information. Wang enriched himself, of course, but Kanamori received his price, and Wang's swindles were not his affair.

Kanamori's work was praised by his superiors. His dreams remained confused. Still he saw the woman in labor; still he saw the man-child spring full-blown and full-armed. But he dreamed those dreams in a pleasant house of four rooms with ginkgo trees in the courtyard. He went to his office in the morning and to restaurants in the evening. Wang hired a houseboy for him. This one was called Ping-ping; he was perhaps sixteen, and he in turn hired a cook who was comely and surely his woman. Each evening a woman awaited Kanamori, and sometimes two, and he would see one again if he expressed approval; yet he was not always interested. Often he assured Wang that the women were indeed gracious and not at fault, but the stress of work, the importance of his task, the responsibilities of the occupying powers … Wang understood, and the neglected women were not rebuked.