The Private Papers of Eastern Jewel (36 page)

'There is room for only one imperial house in Japan's territory,' he said. 'Pu Yi's usefulness will run out as soon as our hold on Manchukuo is complete. We didn't pay for it with the blood of the Kwangtung Army to make a gift of it to that pathetic creature. It is an embarrassment for Japanese soldiers to have him as their commander-in-chief,'

Wan Jung truly hated Doihara, with good cause. She felt disliked and powerless in his company. After his visit she was upset for days, going about her life nervously, as though his intention had been to assassinate her. I assured her that if he had been ordered to oversee such a dreadful act, the deed would have been accomplished before she had the luxury of worrying about it. Both Wan Jung and Pu Yi were paranoid about being poisoned. Pu Yi had a servant who tasted everything for him, yet still he would not eat the rice sent to him by his Japanese sister-in-law Saga Hiro, even though it was of the finest quality and might have saved him from his piles. Wan Jung, fearing that poison might be slipped into her champagne, never drank from an already opened bottle.

Fuelling her suspicions that the Japanese had murder in mind, a bill had been passed by the authorities naming her husband's brother Pu Chieh as the successor to the Manchukuo throne. Pu Chieh was married to Lady Saga Hiro, a relative of the Japanese Imperial Family. That way, through the maternal line at least, the throne of Manchuria would be occupied by someone from a Japanese bloodline.

Wan Jung veered between the view that, under world pressure, Japan would have no option but to return the Pu Yis to their Chinese throne, and the belief that an assassin was behind every curtain. She always locked a servant in her room to make sure that no one entered it while she was away and kept a rope ladder under her bed, so that she could escape if a fire were set under her door.

My views were in tune with Doihara's insomuch as I believed that only samurai blood was strong enough to hold and rule Manchuria as one state. I did not believe, though, that Wan Jung's life was in danger. Pu Yi might have to die, but his wife, a mere woman, childless and clouded with opium, would, I believed, simply lose status and be returned to the care of her family. I took comfort from that belief, as I had come to count Wan Jung amongst those that I loved.

After Doihara had left to return to Mongolia, Pu Yi questioned me about my own meeting with the Major General. He was angry at the way Doihara had treated him and wanted me to reassure him that all was well. I told him that Doihara's only concern had been for the Empress's health and his hope that the royal couple were adjusting to their new life in Hsingking.

Pu Yi nodded as though he was pleased, but persisted, 'Major General Doihara seemed distant in his attitude. Perhaps there was something not to his liking in the palace?'

'No, your Majesty, I am sure not. I think the Major General's mind was on Mongolia where he has important unfinished business.'

He accepted my explanation of Doihara's behaviour, but it was obvious that he remained unconvinced. Yet, whatever slights and bad behaviour Pu Yi had to put up with from his Japanese masters, he always managed the formalities and the appearance of calm himself. Those close to him knew that he released his stored-up anger on his pageboys in late-night beatings. The boys, chosen from local orphanages, were frequently seen with black eyes and ugly bruises on their faces. Sometimes they tried to run away, which only gave the Emperor a good excuse to give them another beating.

In Tientsin, the Pu Yis had enjoyed the freedom to shop, to visit the cinema, or to dine with friends. They had, at least in the early days, enjoyed a degree of family and social life. In Hsingking, though, they were not allowed to leave the Salt Tax Palace unless on official business. Even then they had to be accompanied by one or other of the Kwangtung hierarchy. Wan Jung complained to me that she could not even walk in the park, which she longed to do. I easily obtained permission to accompany her, and her childlike excitement at the idea of our outing was touching. But she was tired out in ten minutes and could not stop coughing for an hour. Her health was so bad that I imagined that the beautiful Empress would be dead within the year.

One evening, as we were looking through old copies of American
Vogue
and smoking pink Russian cigarettes that Tada had obtained for us, news came that the Pu Yis had been summoned to make a state visit to Japan. Wan Jung was horrified, not only at the thought of visiting Japan, but also at how difficult it would be for her there without recourse to her habitual intake of opium. She thought of the Japanese as her enemies and did not wish to appear at a disadvantage in their company. Her reputation as 'She of the Beautiful Countenance' was too hard for her to live up to any more.

Pu Yi told her that he preferred to go without her, as he would have many duties of state and did not wish to be embarrassed by her unreliability, but he insisted that she prepare herself for the visit, in case the Japanese required her presence.

A team of dressmakers was brought to the Salt Tax Palace to outfit Wan Jung with a completely new wardrobe. She was to have both western and traditional clothes. Her court robes, which were held in the keeping of one of the high consorts, were sent for and a new set of pigskin luggage arrived by air from Tientsin, along with twenty boxes of handmade shoes. In the hope that her health and looks would improve, Pu Yi had her opium intake cut drastically, but she became so ill with shaking and delusions that it had to be restored.

Our time together was spent with me attempting to assure her that she was not being called upon to attend her own execution in Tokyo. I reminded her that through Pu Yi's brother's Japanese wife she was now distantly related to Emperor Hirohito himself. He would hardly allow one of his own relatives to be murdered. I think she took comfort from that. As it happened, Wan Jung was not required to accompany her husband to Japan. Doihara had advised that she was too ill to travel and that her erratic behaviour would be an embarrassment in the Imperial Palace.

So excited was Pu Yi by the prospect of his state visit, and distracted by his preparations, that, yet again, he failed to take proper leave of his wife. He made his farewell in the company of Japanese officers without so much as touching her hand. Wan Jung was left in the cold Salt Tax Palace as she had been left in the Quiet Garden when Pu Yi had fled in fear from Tientsin. She told me that she knew when the time came for her to die that he would not be at her side. She had no expectations of him as he had never been with her when she had needed him.

'He makes much of loyalty,' she said. 'But he has none.'

Shortly after Pu Yi's departure, I received new orders from Doihara. I was to resettle myself in Peking and report to the Secret Service Organ there to fulfil a new assignment. Major Muto's secretary in the Shanghai office would arrange my journey and accommodation and would forward my belongings from the villa. Wan Jung was upset but composed, she seemed resigned to being alone and said it would be better for me to resume my life before, like her, I forgot how to live it. She was happy that I would be waiting for her in Peking when she returned to the life fate had determined for her.

I said my goodbyes to Tada, who was sure that we would meet again, but I did not think we would. I would miss him a little, not just for the relief of his company, but because he admired me both as daughter of Japan and of China. Apart from Tanaka, none of my other lovers had accepted me quite so completely as Tada had.

On our last night together, so that I would always remember him with warmth, he gave me a gift of three unset stones. A diamond for luck, a deep red garnet to keep my blood warm and jade, the stone of heaven, for happiness. With painted eyes and bare feet I played his grateful concubine for the last time. I bathed and massaged him and after we had made love I slept across his feet. I would miss our games, but knew that my place in his bed would be taken by a series of small-boned, pearl-toothed Chinese prostitutes, who in their submissiveness would find him a good master.

I made Wan Jung a present of my dragonfly brooch, although I think she would have preferred my writing case, which she much admired. Used now to partings she remained calm, simply taking my hand and pressing it to her cheek.

'I don't believe that either of us will make old bones, Eastern Jewel, but for what time is left to us I would rather live your life than my own,' she said.

Her affectionate leave-taking brought a lump to my throat and with tears in my eyes I kissed her hands and said goodbye. I never saw her again, although years later I heard the legend that she was alive and living somewhere in the Long White Mountains. It wasn't true.

Fish Congee and a Duck Egg

I set up home in one of the spacious apartments on the first floor of the Hotel de Pekin, which was situated a short distance from the pink walls of the Forbidden City. It was an elegant nineteenthcentury building decorated in the style of the Belle Epoque, full of French furniture and foreigners. There was a ballroom with a hall of mirrors that imitated the famous salon in the palace of Versailles, and a busy international bar that never closed.

Peking was a city of walls within walls, built to keep out the dust and deaden the clamour of its busy citizens. As wood was scarce, the houses were built with brick and wattle and had shapely roofs and slender windows. In the streets there were mules and donkeys pulling carts and on my first day I saw camels swaying along the broader avenues carrying coal and coconuts. The streets were narrow unpaved alleys where pedestrians vied for space with bicycles and wheelbarrows. After the modernity of Shanghai, I felt as though I had stepped back into the old century. Although the city had water, electricity and trams to ferry its citizens, it was still at heart the capital of ancient China. Its opium dens, known as 'swallows' nests', had inky carbon walls smudged by a hundred years of smoke, a unique darkness that powdered your clothes when you brushed against it. Peking's scent was of dung and toil and, for those who recognised it, the faintly gassy smell of corruption.

The office of the Special Service Organ was a ten-minute walk from my hotel. On my way there I ate a breakfast of pancakes cooked in the street on a charcoal burner. As I looked around me at the old buildings, at the solidity of the Forbidden City with its myriad roofs and gates, I was surprised to discover that nothing in the city of my birth seemed familiar to me.

My superior in the Peking office was Colonel Sumida, a cunning man in his late sixties who loved his work in the secret service. He had what looked like a fencing scar below his left eye, which he had a habit of tracing with one finger. He was of medium height with cropped white hair that contrasted with his iron-grey eyebrows, giving him an owl-like appearance. In certain lights he could look brutal, but I discovered him to be a man of culture with somewhat dainty tastes. Sumida was a snob, not as intelligent as Tanaka, but nor was he as narrow-minded as Muto. He was lazy but good at delegating and had Tanaka's attention to detail. Although I sensed that he liked women well enough, I think that in general he preferred the company of men.

He told me that I had been brought to Peking to make friends with influential foreigners and to infiltrate the ranks of the wealthy and upper-class Chinese. I was to ascertain who amongst them were secret Chiang Kai-shek collaborators, so that they could be brought to justice and made an example of. He said my task would not be easy, as Chiang's creatures took a perverted pleasure in showing a smiling face while stabbing us in the back. Japan, he said, was doing well in its bid to consume China, but the Chinese weren't without their successes and we couldn't rest on our laurels. He had been told that I was expert in gaining the confidence of foreigners, and that I spoke good English, assets that he said were sorely needed in Peking.

'Become well informed and keep me informed, Yoshiko,' he said. 'If you live up to your reputation I will be more than pleased.'

After our first talk the Colonel gave me a box of papers that Muto's secretary had forwarded from Shanghai. Amongst the accounts and files there was a letter from Jack, enclosing the print of his last photograph of me. It was dated two weeks after our parting and said that he had returned to New York as his father was gravely ill. He gave me the address of where to find him and said that he would be waiting for me. If I needed money for the fare I could get it from Teddy Black, the reporter from the
Chicago Tribune.

I cursed Muto for not sending it on to me in Manchuria. It would have saved me months of pain and perhaps altered the course of my life. But I had already let Jack go in my mind and I wasn't sure that I wanted him back in my life. Yet just the sight of his handwriting made my heart race. Trembling even though the day was warm, I sat on my bed in the Pekin reading the letter over and over again. My body felt light, as though it were shedding the rust of years. I looked at the photograph of the girl in the blue dress and wondered if she still existed, if she had ever truly existed.

I wrote Jack a few brief lines explaining what had happened to his letter. I said that I loved him, that I had to stay in Peking for the duration of the posting and I asked him to write to me. His reply was quick but matter-of-fact, as though he too had reservations and did not wish to expose his hurt on paper. He wanted me to come to him and said that America would be the safest place for me. He was sure Japan would not be able to hold China, and that when it fell I would be in danger of falling with it. So there it was again: Japan was the essence of what divided us. I was torn, but as ever in my life I chose Japan. On the Pekin's thin notepaper I wrote him four words. 'You come to me.'