White Gardenia (23 page)

‘I’m Joe like Poe, like Poe,’ Joe muttered to the cement.

Nobody else said anything for a good half-hour.

T
he storm had transformed the island into a stagnating swamp. At first light we emerged from the wreckage and gathered in the square. We looked small among the fractured and tottering trees. Muddy roots protruded from deep, gaping holes in the earth. People were staggering down the path from the mountain, their clothes ripped and wet and their hair caked with sand. I searched for Ivan, holding my breath until I saw him towards the rear, coils of rope slung over his shoulders like limp snakes.

The hospital was still standing and a crowd milled around it. Ruselina was stationed in the doorway, directing people into groups with her walking stick. There were hundreds of them, dishevelled, hobbling, bleeding. The doctors and nurses, themselves bedraggled and weary, administered whatever they could from their meagre supplies. A young doctor sat on a crate opposite the
dusha-dushi
woman, stitching her lip. The procedure must have been
excruciating painful without strong anaesthetic, but the woman sat quietly, her agony given away only by the trembling hands she clutched to her chin.

Irina and I embraced Ruselina and then ran ahead of the others to the camp. The sight of it struck us with mute heartbreak. Torn flies and strips of canvas flapped in the morning breeze like rotting clothes on a skeleton. The roads were deep gullies, their surfaces stamped with the pulverised remains of bed linen and broken crockery. Many of the things people had struggled so hard to salvage from China had been devoured. The endless piles of broken chairs and tables, upturned beds and scattered toys was too much to bear. An old woman brushed past us, holding up the torn, water-damaged photograph of a child. ‘It was all I had left of him. And even it is gone,’ she cried, looking at me. Her sunken mouth quivered as if she expected an answer. But I had no words to say.

Irina returned to the hospital to help Ruselina. I walked through the camp towards the Eighth District, loose stones rattling under my feet. I had nothing to fear from the coconuts any more. The trees were bare of fruit and the shells lay cracked and scattered on the ground. There was an unpleasant scent in the air. I traced it to the body of a puppy on the path, a snapped tent pole speared into its swollen stomach. Ants and flies were busy at work on the wound. I shuddered when I imagined a child searching for her pet. I picked up a strip of palm bark and dug a shallow grave. When I had finished, I tugged the pole from the dog’s belly and dragged her by the paws into the hole. I hesitated a moment before covering it with sand, unsure if I was doing the right thing. But I remembered my own
childhood and I knew that there were things a child should never see.

The dense jungle surrounding the Eighth District had saved it. The tents had collapsed and drifted limply to the ground, but they weren’t shredded beyond repair like those in the Third and Fourth Districts. Beds were strewn across the area but few of them were broken, and at one site, although the tent itself had been flung into the trees, the furniture was upright and neatly arranged, as if the owners had only stepped away a minute before.

I bit my cracked lips until they bled when I saw my trunk. It had been lashed against a tree with a skilfully knotted rope and was still intact. I was filled with gratitude to whichever girl had taken the trouble with it in my absence. The lock was jammed and I couldn’t pry it open. I grabbed a nearby rock and smashed the clasp with it. The evening clothes inside were damp and gritty with sand but I didn’t care about them. I fumbled underneath the fabrics, praying that my hand would find what I searched for. When I touched wood, I screamed with relief and pulled out the matroshka doll. It was unscathed and I kissed it over and over again, like a mother who has found her lost child.

The sea was the colour of milky tea. Bits of vegetation and flotage bobbed on its surface. The morning light glinting on its surface made it seem harmless, nothing like the enraged monster that had threatened to swallow us last night. Nearby, on the small strip of sand that remained, a priest was leading a group of people in a prayer of thanks. I
didn’t believe in God, but I bowed my head in respect anyway. We had a lot to be grateful for. By some miracle, not one human life had been lost. I closed my eyes and gave in to the balm of numbness.

Later I found Captain Connor standing in front of the IRO office. The metal walls were full of pits and some of the filing cabinets were overturned. He looked surreal in the midst of the catastrophe, with his neatly pressed uniform and the part in his hair so straight that the red of his sunburned scalp shone through. The only sign of the storm on him was a splash of mud on his boots.

He smiled at me as if this was just another day and I was arriving for work as usual. He pointed to the cluster of Nissen huts that were used for storage. Some were in worse condition than our office, their walls bent so badly out of shape that they probably could no longer be used. ‘If one good thing comes of this disaster,’ he said, ‘it will be that they realise they have to get us off this island sooner rather than later.’

By the time I returned to the hospital, the Filipino and American soldiers from Guam had arrived to help. Ivan and the other officials were lifting jerry cans of fuel and drinking water from the back of an army truck, while the soldiers busied themselves erecting tents for the patients who couldn’t fit into the hospital. Volunteers were boiling water to sterilise the hospital instruments and bandages, or preparing food under a makeshift canopy.

The beaten, soggy grass was crowded with people sleeping on rugs. Ruselina was one of them. Irina sat next to her, stroking her grandmother’s white hair. Ruselina had said that she would sacrifice herself for Irina or me, and that we were all she had in the
world. I watched the two women from behind a tree, clutching the matroshka doll to my chest. They were all I had too.

I saw Ivan drag a sack of rice to the cooking tent. I wanted to assist too, but all the courage had drained out of me. Ivan straightened up, rubbing his back, and his eye caught mine. He strode towards me, a grin on his face and his hands on his hips. But his expression changed when he saw my face.

‘I can’t move,’ I said.

He reached out his arms. ‘It’s all right, Anya,’ he said, clutching me to his chest. ‘It’s not as bad as it seems. No one is seriously hurt and things can always be repaired or replaced.’

I pressed my face against him, listening to his steady heartbeat and letting his warmth flow into me. For a moment I was home again. A treasured child in Harbin. I could smell freshly made bread, hear the fire crackling in the parlour, feel the softness of bear fur under my feet. And for the first time in a long while I heard her voice:
I’m here, my little girl, so close you could touch me.
A truck engine started up and the spell was broken. I stepped back from Ivan, opening my mouth to speak but unable to utter a word.

He took my hand in his rough fingers, but gently, as if he were afraid of breaking it. ‘Come on, Anya,’ he said. ‘Let’s find somewhere for you to rest.’

The weeks following the storm were full of hopes and heartaches. The American navy based in Manila arrived in ships laden with supplies. We watched the sailors march up the beach, sacks slung over their
broad shoulders, and in a matter of two days re-erect Tent City. The new city was much more orderly than the old one, which had been laid out in a hurry, with no forward planning and insufficient tools. The roads were rebuilt with deeper gutters and paving and the jungle was cleared from around our bathroom blocks and kitchens. But the neat construction filled us with unease rather than pleasure. There was something uncomfortably permanent in the way the new camp was built and, despite Captain Connor’s hopes, there was still no word from our ‘countries of settlement’.

The Russian Society in America heard about the disaster and sent us an urgent message: ‘Tell us not just what you need to survive, but what you need to be happy.’ The society gathered material from its members, many of whom had become wealthy in the United States, but also from companies who were prepared to donate spoiled stock. Captain Connor and I spent a night working on a wish list that included one small present for each person. We requested records, tennis rackets, playing cards, pencil sets and books for our library and lending store, but also asked for scented soap, chocolate, writing journals, sketchpads, hair combs, handkerchiefs and a small toy for each child under twelve. We received a reply within a fortnight: ‘All items requested have been obtained. We are also sending you Bibles, two guitars, a violin, thirteen bolts of dress material, six samovars, twenty-five raincoats and one hundred copies of Chekov’s play
The Cherry Orchard
with the cover missing.’

The barge was due to arrive a month later and Captain Connor and I waited for it, excited as two mischievous children. We watched for the ship for six weeks but it never arrived. Captain Connor made
investigations through the IRO office in Manila. All the goods had been intercepted by corrupt officials and sold on the black market.

Ivan came to see me at the IRO office one afternoon. I squinted at his figure in the doorway, not recognising him at first. His shirt was pressed and his hair was clean, not sprinkled with sawdust and leaves as usual. He was leaning idly against the doorpost, but his fingers were thrumming on his hip and I knew he was up to something.

‘You’ve been spying on me,’ I said.

He shrugged and glanced about the room. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘I just came to see how you are.’

‘Yes, you have,’ I said. ‘Captain Connor left just a minute ago on an errand. And then you appeared. You must have watched him go.’

Ivan’s eyes fell on a frayed wicker chair we saved for guests. His face was turned away from me but I could see him smile. ‘I have a plan to boost everyone’s morale,’ he said, ‘and I didn’t know if Connor would approve.’

Ivan dragged the chair in front of my desk and then perched on it like a giant on a thimble. ‘I’ve built the projector and the screen. All I need is a movie.’ His hand moved to his eye. I didn’t like the way it hovered there, as if he were trying to mask it. Was he still conscious of his disfigurement in front of me? He needn’t have been. The scar was prominent but you only had to know Ivan for a day before you stopped noticing it. His personality was the thing about him that stayed in your mind. My own cheek twinged. I didn’t like to see weakness in Ivan, or
vulnerability. He was my rock. I needed him to be strong.

‘We’ve got plenty of movies.’ I pointed to the crate of film reels that Captain Connor had resorted to using as a footrest. ‘We’ve just never had a projector.’

‘Come on, Anya,’ said Ivan, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. The nails were scrubbed, another change. ‘Those are old. The kind our parents would have watched. We need a good movie.’

His good eye was clear like water. It was dark blue and bottomless. I imagined if I looked closely enough into that eye I would see Ivan’s past etched there. His dead children, his wife, his bakery, floating just below the surface. If I peered deeper perhaps I would see right into his boyhood and know who he was before his face had been disfigured. His eye belied the youthfulness of his voice, his boyish vigour, just as his scarred face belied the gracefulness of his body.

‘I need you to persuade him,’ Ivan said.

It required no effort at all to convince Captain Connor of the value of Ivan’s plan. The captain was infuriated that we were still on the island with the typhoon season approaching and was determined to milk the guilty conscience of the IRO. I requested a recent movie; Captain Connor demanded no less than a Hollywood prerelease. He must have been convincing. We did not have to wait in disappointment this time for a barge that never arrived. The film was airlifted to us within a fortnight, under guard, along with medical supplies.

The premiere of
On The Town
was announced in the
Tubabao Gazette
and everyone on the island
talked of little else until the opening night. Ivan built seats for Ruselina, Irina and myself out of palm logs and we sat in style next to his projection box. Ivan was in high spirits. ‘We’ve done it, Anya!’ he said, pointing at all the people. ‘Look at this happy crowd!’

It was like the old days, before the storm. Families set out blankets and cushions and spread before themselves miniature feasts of tinned fish and bread. Young boys dangled their legs from tree branches, couples reclined arm in arm under the stars, and the more ingenious gawked from their self-created ‘box’ seats, complete with bedsheet canopies in case of rain. Frogs croaked and mosquitoes nipped incessantly at our exposed flesh, but no one cared. When the movie began we all jumped up to cheer. Irina threw back her head and laughed. ‘You funny girl,’ she said to me. ‘You know most of us won’t understand this. It’s all in English.’

Ivan glanced up from the projector and wiped his brow. He smiled at me. ‘It’s a love story. What’s there to understand?’

‘It’s a musical,’ I said, pinching Irina’s arm. ‘And it’s set in New York. So you’ll get to see the city you’ve been dreaming about.’

‘Good for you, Anya!’ Ruselina said, patting my back. ‘Good for you!’

It was true that when Captain Connor had shown me the list of possible movies, I had chosen
On The Town
with Irina and Ruselina in mind. But when Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra and Jules Munshin sprang from their naval ship and began to dance and sing their way through New York, it was me who was watching them with amazed eyes. New York was a place such as I had never seen before, more dazzling
than Shanghai. Its monuments loomed up like pillars to the gods: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square. Everyone moved with energy and zest, the traffic buzzed and tooted, and even the office girls were dressed in haute couture. I drank in every movement, every note, every colour.

When the leading men returned to the ship and their pretty girls waved them farewell, I had tears in my eyes. All the way back to my tent I sang numbers from the musical.