Ekaterina Sedia - Heart of Iron

Olga pulled at my sleeve to draw my attention to three young men reclining on the couches in a state of extreme languor. Long-stemmed pipes held by their weak hands exhaled wisps of sweet-smelling smoke.

Chiang Tse frowned. “Opium,” he said. “A terrible affliction of my countrymen, for which they cannot be faulted. Please come with me, and do not let the weaknesses of a few color your perception of the many.”

We followed him through the parlor and into a room dominated by a single long table, covered with crisp linen cloth of European fashion. The servers, dressed in less elaborate versions of Chiang Tse’s black and red silk robes, hurried along, pouring fragrant pale tea into small cups. The men sitting around the table were engaged in animated conversation, which politely halted once we walked in. Chiang Tse introduced Olga and me to the rest of the gathering, while Anastasia blushed and remained standing until one of our hosts brought her a chair at Chiang Tse’s urging, and she settled in the corner of the room, by a spacious window, where she could keep an eye on me, and the street.

“You’re trying to stick her as far away from you as possible,” I whispered to Chiang Tse. “You’re afraid that she might be condescend you again.”

He smiled at my teasing, and even blushed a little.

Olga and I took seats at the table. She looked a little apprehensive, I thought, in her striped black-and-white two-piece dress and hat with a thick veil. But soon enough the friendliness of our hosts dispelled lingering doubts, and she chatted with one of Chiang Tse’s friends, Lee Bo, who was in our physics class. By mutual consent, Ipatiev’s name was never mentioned, and instead we laughed about some of the unsuccessful static electricity demonstrations we had all witnessed.

I waited for a lull in the conversation and turned to Chiang Tse. “You’re very quiet,” I said. “Do you miss home?”

Chiang Tse sighed wistfully, and for a moment I was entranced by the way his thick eyelashes cast a shadow over the steep curve of his cheekbone. When he looked up, his eyes reminded me of blackberries, dark and shiny in the eyelash thicket. “Sasha,” he said, “I wish you had been there, I wish you’d seen it. It is so difficult to explain when you have nothing to compare it to. When my family lived in Canton for several years, there were boats and ships sailing from the sea to the delta of the Pearl River. I cannot forget the way the golden ships — the color of the sun — would push softly through the emerald reeds. Ships, winged dragon boats, war junks… There were so many ships in the harbor you could not see the water under them. There were boats that sold books and actors on boats that put on plays — floating theaters! There were boats selling moon cakes and sweet rice, dumplings and slices of mango, sweet bean paste and wood-smoked chicken.”

“From the boats?” I asked. “Where did they all go?”

He shrugged. “They kept floating along the shore and into the mouth of the river, and up the river and then back down. When I first saw it, it was like heaven — green reeds and the river, and the beautiful stately buildings… I thought of taking my examinations there, in that city, when I was old enough, and I thought of what happiness it would be, to live in that place of floating palaces and theaters and bookshops. In Hong Kong, there are ships, but nothing like I saw in Canton. And back then, there were no foreigners allowed in Hong Kong, although there were smugglers. But in Canton, the foreigners had a whole sector to themselves. We would go outside of the city walls to watch those solemn men in their strange clothes.” He looked up from his teacup, smiling at the fading sunlight in the streets outside of the Crane Club. “And now I cannot help but feel there were little hints then of things to come, as if my life prepared me for being here.”

I smiled back, content that his life — and the lives of his friends — turned out the way it had. I was certainly happy he was here now, and that I was fortunate enough to have met him.

Wong Jun, another student at the university — distinguished by his luxurious golden robes — sat across the table from us without joining in our conversation. “He’s Manchu,” Chiang Tse whispered into my ear. Noticing Olga’s uncomprehending look, he explained, “Qing, the ruling dynasty of China, is Manchu, while most of the people — including quite a few students here — are Han. So if you notice any tension… ”

“There’s no need to whisper,” Wong Jun said with a wave of his hand and a grimace of mild irritation. “Then again, there’s no need to bring up petty disputes either.”

“I’m interested,” Olga said.

Wong Jun shrugged and grinned. “See how most of the students here wear black or dark blue robes with red ones underneath? That’s xuanduan , Han formal dress. My robes are Manchu.”

Olga and I nodded politely. “It can’t be just about clothing,” she whispered to me.

I shook my head and gestured that I would explain later — thankfully, my friendship with Chiang Tse prepared me for at least a vague discussion of Ming and Qing differences, and the commonly professed Han hostility toward the Manchu.

Wong Jun and Chiang Tse expressed no outward enmity toward each other, but instead joined forces in explaining the Opium War to Olga; apparently, dislike of the British brought the Manchu and the Han together. We drank the tea that smelled faintly of flowers — a taste both familiar and strange, and watched the sky change color from almost white to blue to streaked with pink. Just as the sun was touching the roof of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, Anastasia squawked from her perch by the window. “You have to see this, Miss Alexandra,” she called. “That’s the man I told you about.”

Olga and I both bolted for the window, arriving just in time to see a stocky man cross the street toward the club. He was dressed in a non-descript blue coat and trousers splattered with mud at the hem. His top hat was pushed low over his brow obscuring his face, but Anastasia insisted he was the man she had seen at the shop.

Chiang Tse joined us at the window, and watched our discussion with a somewhat puzzled expression. I hurried to explain the rumors of the secret informers to him.

“We’re not doing anything untoward,” he said. “We have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Except the opium smokers in the parlor,” I said. “You might discourage their public consumption. It is not illegal, but… ”

Wong Jun left the dining room, and his whispered words spread a mild agitation among the students. Some hurried to the parlor to make sure that there were no non-presentable activities, and opened windows to chase away the sweet, lingering smell of the opium smoke.

Olga and I traded looks, unsure if we were in any danger. If we were to leave right away, would the Nikolashka outside start questioning us? I suddenly realized what my aunt had meant with her attack on Prince Nicholas. The idea of the Nikolashki was somewhat sinister; the appearance of one outside the Chinese club betrayed the prince’s proclivity for unsavory business.

“Do you think the Chinese are truly are spies?” Olga whispered into my ear.

I have to confess the question had not previously entered my mind, but I now weighed the possibility. “No,” I finally said. “They are just students, just as we are.”

“They could still be spies.”

I sighed and pulled Olga away from the window, and made her sit down by the table. “Listen. They are our friends. Shouldn’t we trust them?”

Olga’s eyes filled with doubt but she said nothing.

“Come on,” I said. “What did they ever do to you?”

Olga stood, and would not meet my gaze. “I better go.”