Brother Fish (88 page)

But of course she wasn't fooled. ‘Chinese tea is very subtle. Perhaps one day you'll come to appreciate it.' She brought her tea to her lips and I was astonished at the noise she made – a loud, slurping, sucking noise like a pig sucking from a trough, or a child draining the last drops of a milkshake through a straw. Coming from someone as posh as she was, I was pretty shocked. She placed the cup down. ‘The idea is to suck air into the cup at the same time to cool the hot tea. It's quite polite to do it this way – noisy but, like so many things Chinese, really very practical.'

Next she picked up her chopsticks. ‘This is really very simple and a rather pleasant way to eat, and the nice part is that you only have to eat the things you enjoy.' She picked up a piece of fish and placed it in a small wire basket with a handle, which she then dipped into the simmering stock. I watched as the stock bubbled around the morsel of fish. ‘Fish cooks very quickly – the pork and beef will take a little longer,' she explained, removing the fish from the basket with her chopsticks and dipping it into the sauce she'd prepared. ‘Yum!' she said unselfconsciously. Then, after swallowing, she added, ‘The Chinese would normally use sole or pike as the preferred fish, but this is a lovely piece of sea bass I got off Jim Blain's fishing boat this morning.' I was beginning to realise that she'd gone to an enormous amount of trouble on my behalf. If this veritable banquet was by way of an apology, then it was certainly working a treat.

Well, I tucked in and I discovered cooking at the table was lots of fun as well as being delicious. We talked about the boat we were going to buy. I did most of the talking, while dripping and cooking and chopsticking away, washing it all down with champagne so that pretty soon my square plate was empty and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan insisted I eat half of her food, which was no hardship I can tell you. Though I'm afraid I had to give the tea a miss.

Then, when I thought we were finished, I noticed that the noodles and the vegies hadn't been touched. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan now placed them into the stock and cooked them for what seemed no more than a minute, then ladled a couple of spoonfuls into a bowl and handed it to me. ‘Soup is the last course,' she announced, ‘The Chinese tend to do things differently.'

The soup, containing all the flavours of the previously cooked ingredients, was wonderful. I know a fair bit about food today, but at that time it was mostly just stuff on your plate you ate gratefully – usually meat and veg. After the POW camp everything home-cooked tasted good. But this was a truly fantastic meal.

‘I nearly didn't come tonight,' I admitted, pointing to my empty soup bowl and indicating the empty dishes that lay around me, as my host looked at me querulously. ‘Chinese food! I swore I'd never eat it again in my life.' I then proceeded to tell her about the vile millet gruel in the various field hospitals and the prison camp.

‘Jack, how very unfortunate!' she cried. ‘I could so easily have cooked a roast with all the trimmings.'

I grinned. ‘It couldn't possibly have tasted as good as this. Honestly, it was fantastic.'

She smiled, her head to one side. ‘You are so very kind –
really
you are, Jack.'

With the help of the champagne, we were getting along like a house on fire. While in the years to come I would eat food cooked by some of the great Chinese chefs of the world, the banquet Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan prepared for me would always be special in my mind. By the end of the feast, having consumed the lion's share of the champagne, I have to say I was feeling decidedly mellow.

‘Shall we retire to the lounge?' she suggested, rising and reaching for the champagne bottle. ‘Oh dear, it's empty!' She giggled like a young girl. ‘I say, shall we have another?' I wasn't going to say yes, but then I wasn't going to say no either. My head was feeling a bit light, but other than that I felt fine, and decided I'd definitely acquired a taste for the stuff. What's more, I didn't have the usual telltale signs of getting plastered. ‘Why not?' she suddenly decided. ‘This
is
, after all, rather a special occasion. Such a pity James is not with us. Now off you go, make yourself comfortable in the lounge.' She headed for the kitchen with the bucket and empty bottle. Little did I know I would never again taste champagne as good, and it would be many years before I could afford to drink vintage Krug again.

Back in the lounge with my glass replenished and bubbles dancing up my nostrils, life seemed pretty grand. I was still yakking away thirteen to the dozen – whether from the champagne, the splendid meal she'd made me think I'd helped to cook, or the comfortable atmosphere in which an entirely new Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan prevailed, I couldn't say. It was time, I decided, to slam on the verbal brakes and to give someone else a turn to talk.

Emboldened by the champagne, I ventured, ‘You said earlier in the evening, when I opened the champagne, “Oh, what pleasant memories of China the pop of that cork brings back”. Well, I know Jimmy isn't here, but it could be months before he returns. Would you consider telling me the remainder of your story, right up to when you came to the island?' Before she could answer, I hastily added, ‘I have an excellent memory and I promise to tell it to Jimmy exactly as you tell it to me.'

‘Hopefully you'll make a better fist of it, Jack,' she replied modestly. ‘And yes, you're certainly blessed with a good memory – you've just quoted a throwaway line I used at least two hours ago. I only wish my memory were as good. It seems to be getting worse lately – it's curious how one remembers details from the distant past, yet one can't seem to memorise a grocery list.' She sighed. ‘Very well, but you will tell me if I get tedious, won't you? There's nothing quite as exhausting as being cast in the role of polite listener.'

‘It's no hardship, Countess. Last time Jimmy and I were blown away!'

She ignored the expression, though I imagined I saw her flinch. ‘I'm not sure I remember quite where I ended last time?'

‘Your father . . .' I was about to say ‘committed suicide', but stopped myself just in time. ‘You had decided to make a new start in Shanghai. Did you, you know, meet up with Mr Yu, like he asked you to?'
‘As', not ‘like'
, I corrected myself silently. I still hadn't grown accustomed to not being picked up and scolded for such grammatical sins. Our dialogue had been peppered with her corrections for so long that they formed a part of our familiarity, and I found myself almost missing them. I poured myself another glass of champagne and noticed hers was still filled to the brim.

‘Big Boss Yu? Well, a comedy of errors there, but we'll get to that a little later. Now, let me see . . . ah yes, I packed whatever I possessed, together with my father's papers and a few song sheets I'd acquired from the nightclub, into one small cardboard suitcase. I attempted to sell my father's clothes but the second-hand clothes shop near the nightclub wouldn't accept them, claiming the clothes worn by Russian men were too large for the local Chinese population and there was no market for them among the refugees. I ended up giving them to Ah Foo, the rickshaw boy who'd faithfully waited each night to take me home from the nightclub, often refusing drunken patrons who may have tipped him generously. He said he didn't have any personal need for the clothes, but he could sell them easily enough at the flea market. When I informed him of my intended departure he looked terribly distressed. “Ayee! But who will look after you and take you home safely at night?” he cried.' She paused for a moment, and then said, ‘Westerners so often think of the Chinese as people who don't show their emotions and who lack personal loyalty, when in fact they are exactly the opposite. For example, if you've treated your number-one boy well – he is the manager of your household, much like an English butler – should you fall upon hard times, he will accept a cut in salary or even feed you from his own pocket. When I offered my rickshaw boy ten dollars as a farewell gift he refused it. “No, missy. You will need it – the clothes are enough. I wish you good joss.” They truly are remarkable people, often contradictory by western standards, but nevertheless an exceptional race.'

‘I thought they regarded all Europeans as
gwai lo
?' I asked.

She looked at me, surprised. ‘You know what the term means?'

‘Foreign devil. It was frequently used in the POW camp by the Chinese guards.'

‘Well, yes, I admit
gwai lo
and
gwai mui
are common Chinese expressions to denote European men and women, although I'm not sure they carry the same malice as the translation.'

‘I've sidetracked you,' I said, apologising.

‘No, not at all – it helps when you ask questions. Where was I? Oh, yes. Leaving for Shanghai. Well, I bought a second-class ticket on the train. By the way, there were five classes available. Second class was far from comfortable, so I'd hate to think how tedious fifth class must have been. We travelled for nearly four days, stopping frequently to pick up coal and take water and, of course, to allow more people into the already overcrowded carriages. I bought food from the peasants on the platforms at the various stations instead of using the second-class saloon, which served mostly European food. Most of the second-class passengers, like myself, were Russian refugees hoping to find a better life in Shanghai. I must say they were a motley lot, overwhelmed with self-pity and constantly comparing stories while, at the same time, lamenting the unfairness that had brought about their downfall.' She paused and glanced at me. ‘Self-justification is one of the more odious characteristics among humans, don't you think, Jack?'

I nodded, agreeing, but was forced to admit silently that I'd been guilty of it all my life as she continued the story. ‘I was stuck next to a large woman who insisted on telling me her troubles in excruciatingly boring detail. These calamitous circumstances were no more onerous than those of most of the other refugees, but oh how she carried on about them, loudly bemoaning the tragedy of her recent life. Worse still, every few minutes, often in mid-sentence, she'd burst into pitiful wailing and lamentation, beating her ample breasts with her bejewelled fists and commencing a lachrymatory display that befitted a scene in a bad opera, until finally her satin bodice was soaked in tears. It grew so wearisome that when she left to replaster her make-up in the washroom of the next station I hastily moved into a third-class carriage. While it was less comfortable and more crowded, the somewhat better-off Chinese peasants were a much more entertaining and generous lot. I bowed my head and greeted them with the street argot
Lei ho
, which, roughly translated, means “You good?” When they realised I spoke Cantonese their pleasure was quite evident, and a family with several children, the woman suckling a baby, made room for me beside them.' She laughed suddenly. ‘I recall, as evening closed in, holding the baby in my arms and singing him a lullaby in Cantonese until he finally fell asleep. But the applause from the other passengers was so raucous the infant woke with a start and commenced to wail at the top of his tiny lungs.' Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan laughed once again at the memory. ‘The Chinese thought this hilarious, and immediately called for a repeat performance. I continued singing for a while and at the end of each song they'd press upon me some small trifle or gift of food.

‘I had been practising the new thousand-word Chinese calligraphy ever since Ah Lai and I had been in Manchuria. A Chinese scholar who lived in her village had tutored me in return for lessons in English. I had respectfully written to Mr Yu in the new calligraphy to inform him I was coming to Shanghai and the approximate time I was expected to arrive on the Red Rooster, the Chinese name for the train. His secretary scribe had written back by return mail to say Big Boss Yu would send a servant to pick me up but to be sure to get off at South Station near the Chinese City.'

I made as if to interrupt and then thought better of it. Observing my hesitation, she asked, ‘What is it, Jack?'

I was beginning to feel a bit dizzy and decided I'd better lay off the champagne, but felt I still had my wits about me. ‘
Chinese
City? I thought the whole of Shanghai was a Chinese city? After all, Shanghai is in China.'

‘Yes, of course it is. But the largest and wealthiest part of the city was under foreign control. In 1843, soon after its humiliating defeat by the British in the Opium Wars, the Chinese Government was forced to open the port of Shanghai to foreign trade. The British leased a few hundred acres along the muddy flat land of the Whangpoo or Yellow River, where they established the first foreign Settlement. It was not far north of the ancient walled city.' She paused to gather her thoughts. ‘Perhaps now is the time to explain Shanghai to you, Jack. Without an explanation, you may have trouble understanding the remainder of my time in China.'

I nodded, happy to hear about such an exotic place. ‘Sure, I'd like to hear,' I answered.

‘Well then, towards the middle of the nineteenth century the walled city of Shanghai and its surrounding suburbs boasted a town of about 75 000 Chinese, which by the standards of China was a drop in the ocean. But from this unpropitious start, by the 1920s and 1930s Shanghai had become the fifth most important city on earth – the megalopolis of continental Asia with a population of about two and a half million. This increase in population over the previous ninety years had come about because of Shanghai's growing importance as a centre of trade, commerce and industry, and also because it had become a safe haven. Every time an up-country revolt by some misbegotten war lord occurred, the people flocked into Shanghai and its foreign Settlements protected by the foreign rifles and thundering gunboats on the river.