The Last Mandarin (42 page)

“Sir!”

The girl gazed timorously at her own feet. Olevskoy patted her head. “No one will harm you and you are for me alone.” Of the three girls remaining to the old madam one had dyed her hair orange; Olevskoy rejected her out of hand. The second was an urchin who fled when he threatened slow death in revenge for venereal disease. This one was far the best: shy, good teeth, large and well-defined nipples, a deep navel, fine and downy between the legs. Fifteen, he had guessed. He and the madam had haggled, the madam had brought scales and Olevskoy had shaved silver. He had treated the old bitch to a valedictory vodka from the brothel's skimpy bar.

The corporal led her off, this young one. Olevskoy took the steps two at a time and strode into General Yang's suite, knocking for the sake of form as he flung the door open, tossing a salute as he reported, “Lu Han is under lock and key, General.”

“Colonel. Nice to see you again,” said General Yang. Major Wei sat in hostile silence.

“Passing through,” Olevskoy said, in high spirits. “On my way to the cellars. Full of loot, these grand hotels.”

“Go with my blessings,” Yang said. “When you can spare a moment, we have work to do.”

“I love my work. Won't be a moment,” Olevskoy promised, and left them.

Yang heaved another sigh. “Sorry, Major; but would you be kind enough to close the door?”

Obliging, Wei said, “I cannot like him, sir.”

Yang said, “It hardly matters. This is such a charade! And every chance that we shall all be eaten by savages within a month.”

Major Wei was startled: “In Tonkin?”

“What remains of us,” the general went on, ignoring the question. “Two months ago we had a full regiment and two colonels. Now a company and a half and two majors. I ought to promote you. The lowliest private should be at least a lieutenant.”

“With the Order of the Tripod, third class.”

“And sunburst. Those quitters on Taiwan will believe anything. Ah well,” he said wearily, “we're all deserters now.”

Later a knock interrupted their review of stores, fuel and ammunition. Again the major played his doorman's part. A private stood, approximating attention, straining under the weight of a wooden crate.

“But that's whisky,” the general cried. “These princes have a nose for the commissary. I tell you, Major, if we'd had the colonel in charge instead of that—well, instead of the high command, we might have won this miserable war. From each according to his ability, to each according to his thirst. Over here, man. Set it down.”

“Orders of Colonel Ou, sir,” the private panted.

“Natürlich. Out, now.”

The private snapped to, and saluted.

General Yang sighed. “You will salute only when covered.”

Blankly the private repeated, “Covered.”

“Only,” the general explained carefully, “when wearing something on your head. A hat, for example. You know which part of you is your head?”

“Head,” the private repeated, baffled.

“This part.” General Yang patted his own gray hair. “You understand?”

“I understand, sir!”

“Good. Dismissed.”

“Sir!” The private saluted.

“Drive him out of this room,” the general groaned.

Major Wei gestured sharply. The private trotted away, leaving the door open. Before the major reached it, Olevskoy marched in. “Voilà du vrai,” he said. “Johnnie Walker rouge. Crates of it in the basement.”

The general flung his arms wide in hopeless admiration. “So now we have defeat and whisky. What more can the superior man ask?”

“What indeed?” Olevskoy exclaimed. “Step in, child, step in.”

General Yang said, “O by the gods! Again?”

The girl wore a simple blue gown and was plainly frightened. “A consolation in time of retreat,” Olevskoy maintained.

“We are not retreating,” Yang said. “We are withdrawing in good order.”

“An improvement,” Olevskoy said. “Until now my whole life has been a retreat. Withdrawing in good order is like a victory.” He rummaged in the crate. “Cups, we need cups.”

“Will you excuse me, sir?” Major Wei was stiffly correct; Olevskoy scarcely noticed; Yang was amused. “There is that matter of fuel.”

“Yes, dismissed,” Yang said to the major, who left immediately. Yang turned to the girl. “Please be seated. There, yes, go ahead, no one will harm you. I am General Yang.”

The girl sat like a doll.

“Poor Major Wei,” Olevskoy said. “How he dislikes me! Well, General, what's new?”

“We're resupplying, using Lu Han's treasury. I'll give the men forty-eight hours for rape and pillage. We're all exhausted. If Lu Han had a bow and arrow we'd be in trouble.”

“He hasn't. That Major Ho is a fine officer.” Olevskoy sniffed at the open bottle. “The real thing. A few cases won't slow us up. The basement here is like a department store. I bashed in a door and there it was. American leftovers somebody forgot to sell off.”

“No champagne, I suppose? A hamper of cold chicken and a few bottles of Mumm's. A picnic at the border, while Lin Piao sulks because he wasn't invited.”

“I always preferred Bollinger,” Olevskoy said, “about five years old. Never trust a champagne over ten or twelve years old. Here we are. And one for the whore.” To the girl he said, “Whisky. You know whisky?”

The girl's gaze darted from man to man. She nodded hesitantly and then astonished them: she giggled.

“To victory,” Olevskoy said.

“Not funny.”

“No.” Olevskoy drank off the small cupful. “To defeat, then.”

“To defeat.”

“Funeral baked meats and Scotch whisky.”

“‘Did coldly furnish forth the marriage table.' You remind me of Hamlet, you know. You look as I always imagined him.”

“And why not? Am I not a prince? And my ancestors were Scandinavian.” Olevskoy accepted a cigarette.

Yang's brow rose. “You never told me that last.”

“The original Russians were a Swedish tribe. My line goes back to Ivan Kalita Moneybag—”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I never joke about my family. You can look it up. And from Ivan back to Nevsky, Vsevolod, Igor and Rurik.”

Yang said, “Mon Dieu.”

“Good idea. We ought to stick to French now. March into Tonkin chattering away like Parisians.”

The men replenished their cups. The girl sat like a child at a puppet show, only sipping from time to time. Olevskoy raised his cup and said, “Tonkin!”

General Yang raised his and said, “Pawlu!”

Olevskoy checked. “What the devil is that?”

“Not ‘what,'” Yang said. “‘Where.' Pawlu is a place. It is a small, happy village either in China or in Burma, and it is where we are going, and for once in our lives we shall visit decent people and do no harm.”

The argument lasted half an hour; the quarrel for the rest of their lives. Olevskoy stormed off with his juvenile concubine and appeased anger, lust and ennui at once by taking her in cold fury; she seemed to respond, which eased him, and when she breathed finally, “Ah! Foreign devil!” he chose to take the hackneyed compliment for truth. Calmer, he joined his fellow officers at the evening meal and made small talk correctly. A prisoner, he learned, had been taken, a sniper, and was under guard in the former laundry.

General Yang's kidney had commenced to twinge again.

The Red Bandits seemed to be regrouping; at any rate there were no reports of lightning dashes or encirclements.

Olevskoy rose when the general rose; the formal nod, replacing bows and salutes among this motley command, was offered; Olevskoy retired to nurse his grudges, helpless now short of outright mutiny, doomed to a mysterious and primitive village called Pawlu instead of the cosmopolitan Hanoi he longed for, the vin rouge and the poules de luxe and perhaps a commission in the Legion.

At the third dawn of this fleeting conquest the occupying troops assembled in the grand plaza before the governor's yamen. Rolls were called. One hundred and two men remained. Also thirteen vehicles of which seven were rachitic or tubercular. Arms and ammunition galore, another irony: they might never again fire a shot in anger. Olevskoy carried the carbine and the American .45, being fond of the latter. The Luger, he felt, was grossly overestimated. An American .45 stopped anything. This he proved before the caravan moved out.

General Yang received reports with satisfaction, saw personally to the safe stowage of fuel, and delivered a pithy lecture on smoking in the vicinity of same: he would personally execute any man found smoking within ten meters of the fuel carriers. “Discipline,” he said to the ragged, wounded young sniper whom Major Wei had just delivered to him. “That much we have in common. You claim to be the fish, and the people are the sea; fish swim in schools. Have you watched fish in great shoals? Mysteriously hundreds of them will veer or leap at once.”

“They survive,” the wounded man said lightly.

Yang surveyed his line, his order of march. “Major Ho. Major Wei.”

“Sir!”

“Your sections are ready to move out?”

“Sir!”

The general told the sniper, “Your famous Governor Lu Han is in there,” and waved a swagger stick toward the compound. “Tell him for me he is a fool, but a lucky fool. Any other Nationalist general would have razed his little palace and hung him by the plums. Tell him that, and good luck to you.”

“Well, good luck to you too,” the sniper said, but General Yang, stately and erect—command presence a habit now, a necessity—was already taking his place in a presentable jeep, which promptly chugged across the plaza to the head of the line. Orders eddied in the morning light. Metal clattered and clanked. A motor hawked and spat.

“Who is this man?” Olevskoy asked.

“The enemy,” said Major Ho. “A sniper.”

“A genuine Red? The one who killed my driver?”

“The same, sir.”

“The war is over, Colonel,” said Major Wei.

“And my driver meant less to me than a Soochow whore. All the same, to kill him was an insult.” Olevskoy and the young man performed a mutual inspection. Olevskoy saw a blunt but intelligent face, disheveled hair, tattered clothes and utter, ultimate defiance. He knew what the sniper saw: officer, breeches, boots, round eyes, big nose.

“You Americans are betting on the old stag,” the sniper said. “You should have backed the young tiger.”

“Not American,” Olevskoy said. A cry echoed across the square, a tailgate slammed shut, another engine turned. “Russian. An old stag.”

“Not Red.”

“Not Red,” said Olevskoy. “I am afraid you have made a mistake.”

After a moment the sniper blew his nose through the fingers of his good left hand, and wiped the hand on his torn and stained trousers. “I have never seen a Russian, and I have been a Red for fifteen years.”

The head of the column was moving out. A barrage of racing motors and clashing gears assaulted them, a drift of exhaust fumes washed over them.

“Long enough,” Olevskoy said. “Out of my sight. Go to the bastard Lu Han and deliver your message.” His voice was barely audible in the clamor.

The sniper frowned, as if this world were proving more complicated than he had been led to believe, and turned away, padding toward the compound, the knot of his sling bright white against the black of his jacket.

Olevskoy's hand went to his holster. Major Wei said, “Colonel!” but too late: swiftly Olevskoy drew the pistol and extended his arm, loudly he cried “Red Bandit!” The sniper halted, hesitated, finally looked back, scarcely stirring then, only his eyes widening a fraction, perhaps in fear, perhaps in a last impossible effort to glimpse the future, perhaps even in disgust. Olevskoy relished this second or two of shock, of finality, of a perplexity so deep and paralyzing that no one could speak, not even Wei, who had already spoken; and Olevskoy hoped, as he often had before, that when his own time came he would have notice, and could look death in the eye. He fired. The young man toppled. Olevskoy tucked away his pistol and turned to the majors.

“Just another Chinese,” Wei said quietly.

“I've killed more Russians than I have Chinese,” Olevskoy said, “and more Japanese than either.”

“And the general's message to Lu Han?”

“On your way, gentlemen,” Olevskoy said. “Keep your sections moving and remember we're just one long flank on both sides. Keep those flanks covered.”

Major Ho said, “Sir!”

Deliberately, Major Wei turned his back.

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About the Author

Stephen Becker (1927–1999) was an American author, translator, and teacher whose published works include eleven novels and the English translations of Elie Wiesel's
The Town Behind the Wall
and André Malraux's
The Conquerors
. He was born in Mount Vernon, New York, and after serving in World War II, he graduated from Harvard University and studied in Peking and Paris, where he was friends with the novelist Richard Wright and learned French in part by reading detective novels. The recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, Becker taught at numerous schools throughout the United States, including the University of Iowa, Bennington College, and the University of Central Florida in Orlando. His best-known works include
A Covenant with Death
(1965), which was adapted into a Warner Brothers film starring Gene Hackman and George Maharis;
When the War Is Over
(1969), a Civil War novel based on the true story of a teenage Confederate soldier executed more than a month after Lee's surrender; and the Far East trilogy of literary adventure novels:
The Chinese Bandit
(1975),
The Last Mandarin
(1979), and
The Blue-Eyed Shan
(1982).