The Communist's Daughter (14 page)

“You're off to the war, then,” I said, “or just an interested Sinologist?”

“Both,” he said. “As a journalist, actually.”

It took me some minutes to realize that I'd read a number of his pieces in
Voice of Action,
a Seattle-based newspaper, including an explosive article five or so years before about an innocent Negro accused of murdering a white man. The newspaper's coverage had obliged the authorities to admit the truth: that their case was racially biased and the accused totally innocent. I told him I'd followed all this as closely as I could, living at the time in Detroit. A member of the American Newspaper Guild, he was off to cover the same war I was headed into. Slim and elegant with a pencil-thin moustache, narrow fingers and a sharp, dimpled chin, he had a strong nose, thick black hair, and—I saw as our crossing continued—he was forever scribbling in a small notebook he carried with him everywhere. I asked what he expected to find in China.

“I hope to get to Nanking,” he said. “What's happening there is fascinating. I understand that Tang Shengzhi's ordered a retreat to the other side of the Yangtze. The city's fallen to the Japanese. There are rumours of a street purge. I have a name to focus on—a Kraut, a Nazi, actually, called John Rabe. He's there with the Siemens China Corporation. Now he's head of the International Committee that's trying to protect whoever they can. They're setting up safety zones and getting embassies to open their doors to refugees. It's a powerful irony, a Nazi sticking his neck out like that given what they've been up to in Europe. It's a compelling story, and news is just starting to trickle out. Incredible stuff, really. The numbers are astonishing if you happen to believe them.”

“The only war people care about these days,” I said, “is in Spain.”

“Causes don't interest me so much as stories. Characters, Doctor. Without heroes and villains a war doesn't sell papers. The man makes the story. Speaking as a journalist, that is.”

“Quite the opposite in my case,” I said.

“How's that?”

I thought of Spain, and then of what awaited us in China. “People don't interest me as much as the cause they fight for.”

*

Earlier this evening I asked Ho to sit for me. He was uncharacteristically still, quietly reading a thin, well-thumbed book. I walked back to my hut to fetch pad and pencil. He regarded me with some curiosity, then simply resumed reading. When I finished drawing I showed him my work. I think I rather like it, but I can't tell from his reaction if he's pleased or not. I'll call it
Chinese Boy Reading.

*

Well, the truth is, I needed to know what Parsons knew about Madrid. What did he think might frighten me? I had nothing to hide, so what blackmail could he have up his sleeve? Perhaps my conversation with Ansell about Nanking had inspired me to take matters into my own hands. Or maybe it was simply frustration. Whatever the reason, I resolved to meet Parsons head-on, since the tomfoolery between us had become time-consuming. I decided to confront him as early in the morning as possible, before the first drink touched his lips. He would, I hoped, be forthcoming, if asked directly what rumours he'd heard, from whom. Then we could have it out. For the first time in days I felt buoyant.

That morning I knocked at cabin C37 and silently stood, waiting. After a moment I knocked again. “Parsons?” I called out. “Listen, open up, it's Bethune.”

There was no answer, so I tried the door and found it unlocked, then pushed it open and looked inside. The bed was unmade, with clothing strewn about, and on the ledge by the porthole sat an empty liquor bottle, beside it an overflowing ashtray. I stepped across the threshold and again called, “Parsons?” I could hear the shower running in the bathroom.

Surveying the cabin, I noticed a stack of envelopes tied with string on the dresser to the right of the bathroom door. Scattered there were a number of folders, a set of keys, a wallet, a loosely knotted necktie and an unframed photograph, curling up at the edges, of a young woman. When I turned it over and read the inscription, I felt a moment of mercy for him. Nothing in it made me think that the pretty young woman on the reverse was dead, but it was somehow obvious enough. Exhibit I. Parsons's entire world was contained within that picture of the young woman of seventeen or eighteen—an only child, I imagined, I don't know why.

I stepped forward and examined the pile of envelopes. The third from the top, bearing the seal of the China Aid Council, contained the money in question. Minus a week's worth of drinking, it was all there. I tucked the envelope into my breast pocket and silently closed the door behind me.

Up on the promenade deck a few moments later, I found it was a chilly, bright and refreshing morning. As I rounded the bow from port to starboard, I spotted Alicia with her Aunt Gwendolyn and thought perhaps this might be an opportune time to engage them in conversation. They were taking the sun, sitting side by side in a pair of rented lounge chairs. “I wonder,” I said, approaching them, “if I might make a request?”

“Anything at all, Doctor Bethune,” Gwendolyn said.

I'd been mulling something over for a number of days, in fact ever since seeing Alicia feeding the seagulls that first morning. “I'm looking to make a portrait, and I'd be greatly honoured if Alicia would agree to sit for me. She is such a lovely child, as of course you know.”

“Oh, yes,” Alicia replied. “Please, I've never had my picture painted! Do say yes, Gwen!”

Gwendolyn smiled and said she had no objections, though I suspected she might herself have wanted a painter to fuss over her.

“You say you've never had your portrait painted?” I was still standing, slightly hunched, cupping my knees with my hands. “Well, then, what about it?”

Only slightly chilled under the weak winter sun, we met every morning on the promenade deck. She was always there, waiting for me, as prompt and energetic as she was young and pretty, and pleased to have an adult taking her so seriously. After a casual greeting and friendly chitchat, she sat perfectly still and without complaint, wrapped in a heavy sweater, for long stretches at a time: with eyes staring out to sea; sitting, standing; lying back on her deck chair; sometimes curling a lock of hair between her fingers. Her aunt was always in the next chair, quietly reading one of her poetry books.

One morning Gwendolyn straightened her back and said, “Will you just listen to this one? It's so lovely it makes me want to throw myself into the ocean and die!”

“After that day she started reading to us while I worked. Her niece listened quietly. I wondered what an eight-year-old thinks when an adult says something about throwing herself into the ocean, but it wasn't long before I saw that she understood her aunt's flights of fancy and extravagant speech. Often, when Alicia began to fidget, usually after half an hour, I recommended a break of ten or fifteen minutes. She skipped rope while Gwendolyn and I spoke about the civil war in China and the subsequent Japanese invasion, and about her interests as a student of poetry. She read the “new poetry,” as she called it, because it was real and unfettered by convention or tradition. Smiling, she admitted she could only ever be an observer of genius. Perhaps, I said, but an astute observer, I'm sure. As I painted in the pale winter sunlight, chilled but comfortable enough, she read Eliot for us and Pound and William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens. The Pacific stretched as far as the eye could see.

We were, by then, well away from where we'd started, yet still many days from where we were headed. The colours of the ocean were muted, but it was always calm, flat and soothing, with browns and greys. Sometimes, if the light touched the surface just so, I could see a shine as of liquid mercury at the forward edge of a soft rise in the water. I painted the young girl sitting, standing, or lying while, hidden in the inner breast pocket of my light green Abercrombie & Fitch jacket, I carried the stolen money.

Time spent with Alicia and Gwendolyn was a welcome respite. I began to enjoy the company of this child and her poetry-loving aunt for their own sake, as well as for the entertainment and diversion they promised. I was appreciative of their indulgence of my painterly musings. I was not as gifted as I may have made myself out to be, though I had dabbled for many years, principally in the portraits of various friends and intimate acquaintances. Yet despite the hours spent painting Alicia, and the calming presence of the smooth ocean, the crossing was by then proving tedious.

At the end of my fourth day at the easel, I turned to glimpse an unusually dark cloud on the far eastern horizon and saw the Captain walking purposefully toward me. Could there finally be a storm on the way? I wondered. The cloud, it turned out, immense though it was, was not in our path. The Captain greeted me and, with some curiosity, regarded my painting for a moment without speaking. “You are a surprising man, indeed,” he said at last.

“How so?” I asked. I didn't turn from the canvas. “Do you play Bach and Mozart too, Doctor?”

“I have far less art in me than you think, Captain. I only entertain myself. It helps fill the time.”

“I wonder if you might have heard,” he said, “the news from Doctor Parsons?”

“What news is that?”

“He didn't tell you? It seems we have a thief on board.”

“A thief?”

“Oh, the doctor was terribly upset. Rightly so, I should say. A fair bit of money's gone missing.” He quoted the amount in question, the precise amount hidden in my inner breast pocket. “This isn't common knowledge, of course,” he said.

“Of course. But you've got established methods on board, I imagine. A protocol for this sort of situation?”

“Oh, yes, we'll get our man, Doctor Bethune. Not to worry. There are certain tricks we have for bringing a man like this forward.”

“Yes, I'm sure you have,” I said.

*

I walked a tightrope. I kept busy, all the while willing the ship to make land. Most mornings I met with the girl and her aunt and painted while listening to the poems of Wallace Stevens.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

When she finished reading the poem, I said, “Did you know we have a macaw on board? An intelligent creature. I will take you both one morning to see him.”

Little by little, the endless expanse of the Pacific began to shape my imagination. The ocean became a vast desert and we a minute organism crawling over its back. I immersed myself in the details of the painting as the words fell from Gwendolyn's lips. The green freedom of a cockatoo. The oranges. The light. The peignoir. When the light faded, however, I yet again set out to begin this story, and yet again failed. I was two men. Busy, engaging and visible by day. But alone in my cabin at night, solemn and introspective, my dreams troubled. The mornings were most productive. Dabbling. Listening. Dreaming as I painted portraits that gave me no end of relief.

Of course, there were options. I considered sneaking back with the money, slipping it under Parsons's door or between that stack of envelopes where I'd found it. But that brought me back to the problem of keeping Parsons sober, and long enough to hold his tongue. Plus he'd polish off another good chunk of money that would certainly have better uses in less than a month's time. One morning, as I touched my brush to a lovely daub of fresh—face pink I'd just created, the Captain rounded the corner. Had I been found out?

“Doctor,” he said with a wide grin. “Good morning. I wonder if you would consider a proposition.” He stopped to consider the painting. “Why, this is coming along nicely.”

“A proposition?”

“I would be honoured if you would deliver an address for us. Something very informal. Unofficial. Something personal, perhaps. I understand you were quite active about Madrid, speaking to audiences on the radio and so on, and back in Canada before joining us. I've talked to a number of passengers who remember you from the wireless.”

I asked him what he had in mind.

“Nothing political, of course,” he said. “That wouldn't do. We shan't get into that on board here. Not quite appropriate, you understand. But something . . . more personal, I wonder? Anything, really. People are interested, Doctor. You've led an interesting life. Made a name for yourself. We have a good many important passengers on board, and I've asked a number of them. Sort of an onboard lecture series. Keeps the mind busy.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Think about it, will you?”

“But I have no idea what to talk about beyond my interest in politics and medicine. This is very flattering, Captain, but personal stories? I'm not so good at that.”

“Well, think about it, anyway.”

Yet I was obliged to admit to myself that the idea had intrigued me. In fact I couldn't stop thinking about the offer, for a number of reasons. Was I flattered? Yes, I was. But I smelled an opportunity here, too, to advance the cause of justice in China.

*

Am feeling buoyed today, despite the cold. General Nieh has promised to secure a dynamo and a small gas engine to run it. Every bit counts, and this is more than a bit. A dynamo-electric machine is as good as gold out here. I have also requested a Chinese dictionary. My language skills are well below what they should be. Mr. Tung helps immeasurably with that, but how I would like to go the extra mile for these fine people here. They bend over backwards to make me as comfortable as possible and all I seem to do is show my impatience with them. Patience never was my strong suit, as I'm sure you've gathered, and this war's fearsome horrors are taking a toll on what little stock I started with. Every morning I remind myself that my medical staff were tilling the fields and tending livestock only nine months ago, never even having heard of such basic materials as a catheter or cotton gauze. The work is drearily repetitive and sad—so many dead and wounded, in cold relentless enough to break a healthy man—but emotionally I'm feeling better these days. Some small signs of hope, starting with the dynamo. Given all the supplies needed and twenty or thirty trained medical staff, I would be the happiest man on earth.