Xiao Bai - French Concession

In fact, only recently had he learned her name, in the Hotel Continental in Hanoi, when he heard that man call her Therese. Before then, all he knew was that people called her Lady Holly. He gradually worked out that she was White Russian and not German, as she was said to be. She fascinated him. They spent their nights in places like the Astor House Hotel in Shanghai or the Hotel Continental in Hanoi. Spacious balconies, wide corridors, electric ceiling fans whirring discreetly. The air would be thick with the lascivious smell of overripe tropical fruit. The wind would blow open the pale green curtains and dry their glistening backs. He was almost in love with her.

It was now low tide, and the Paul Lecat would have to be moored in a temporary anchorage for twelve hours, until another pilot boarded the ship at the next high tide and navigated it into the Whampoa.

He yanked off the sheets, leaped out of bed, and got dressed. Only when he stepped outside did he realize that they were nowhere near their destination. The horizon grew bright, and the wind pierced his shirt. He decided to go to the restaurant for a cup of hot tea.

The railing, starboard side. Another first-class cabin. Leng Hsiao-man was about to steal out of bed. She could not risk disturbing Ts’ao Chen-wu, sound asleep beside her. According to the plan, she had to go to the telegraph room and send a telegram.

Ts’ao, her husband, had been sent to Hong Kong on a secret mission to arrange the visit of an influential man in the ruling Kuomintang party. He was now returning to Shanghai to meet that man in the French Concession, and accompany him back to Canton via Hong Kong and Shen-chen.

Ts’ao’s snores rose and fell, like his temper. He was brusque and yet gentle, hard to pin down. She was in a pensive mood, though not because of him. She had scoured her memory of their life together, struggling to find things she loathed about him, good reasons for hating him, yet nothing she could think of justified what she was about to do. But surely she had to have a higher cause to live for.

Anchored Wu-sung-k’ou await high tide STOP onshore before ten STOP pier as agreed Ts’ao

The telegraph operator sent these words to a Shanghai wireless shore station with the call letters XSH, to a Mr. Lin P’ei-wen, who identified himself as the man responsible for welcoming the delegation. Half an hour later, at the Telegraph Office on 21B Szechuen Road, the night shift operator opened the glass door and went up to the counter. He handed the telegram to Mr. Lin, who had been waiting there for more than two hours.

The door to the main dining room was shut. Hsueh returned to the room, where Therese was still sleeping. In Hanoi, he had rushed out of the hotel toward the pier in a rage. He had made up his mind to ignore her, to stop sleeping in her room or her bed. But even when he booked himself a berth in third class, all she did was mock him. At the pier, he realized he had stepped on a piece of chewed-up betel nut. Standing beneath a palm tree, he looked at the Vietnamese hawkers dressed in black on the pier, and the stench of sweat made him feel queasy. He found himself wandering back to the hotel.

She hadn’t bothered to pursue him at all — she had known he would come back of his own accord. He was young, and she was seven or eight years older. She had the upper hand. Who is that man? Who is he? he had asked. Mr. Zung, she said. In Hong Kong, she had gone out alone and left him at the hotel all day. At first he assumed she had gone to meet more of those White Russians forced to sell their last few pieces of jewelry. Then on the journey from Hong Kong to Haiphong, he’d seen this Mr. Zung on the boat. Therese pretended she didn’t know him, but he had traveled with them all the way to Hanoi. In the hotel lobby, as he was coming downstairs to buy a packet of cigarettes, Hsueh overheard that man call her by her name — Therese — and saw her slip into his room. She had not come back to the room until midnight. He had questioned her angrily, pushed her against the wall, torn her skirt and silk drawers off, and reached his hand in to touch her. She had not even bathed. She kept smiling at him until he asked, Who is he? Why has he been following us since Hong Kong?

She brushed him off, laughing at him. Who do you think you are? she asked. He thought he was in love with her. He loved the way she smoked. Instead of using one of those agate or jade cigarette holders, she would let the tobacco stain the bright curve of her lips, while her short black tousled hair cast flickering shadows on her pale face.

Now he was sitting on the side of the bed while she slept. Her handbag lay on the bedside table, and he opened it. He had never looked through her things before. A ray of early morning light sliced through the cabin window, illuminating a dark metallic outline. He put his hand inside the bag. It was a pistol—

The bag was snatched from his hands, and someone kicked him so hard he thudded to the floor. It was Therese, sitting on the pillow. The gray sky outside had turned a shade of vermillion, and she sat looking at him, backlit by the morning sun, her bare shoulders almost transparent. His eyes watered. He got up, snatched up his camera, and went outside.

The fog had lifted, and the river was sparkling. The white deck was stained bloodred with the dawn. He went down to the lower deck and toward the front of the ship. Coils of rope, sheets of canvas, and all the odd-numbered lifeboats were lined up toward the front of the boat by number, with the odd numbers on the starboard side while the even numbers were on the port side. A crowd had gathered by the railing to watch the sunrise.

There were a handful of tables and chairs, but the canvas seats were wet, and no one was sitting down. The bow of the ship was even windier, and it was empty. He leaned against the railing. Eight ships were anchored here in a fan-shaped formation, each with her bow pointing southwest toward Wu-sung-k’ou. An American passenger liner, the President Jefferson , was moored nearby. Waves beat on the ship, water droplets spattering its orange body just above the waterline. They looked like beads of sweat on a massive, hairless beast. Floating garbage collected near the surface of the water, while the gulls circled, looking for rotten food. He cursed aimlessly at the sky, and his self-pity turned into anger.

A shadow floated by. It was a silk handkerchief, dancing just beyond the railing like a white jellyfish swelling in the wind. He turned and saw a woman leaning against the railing. She wore a black wool coat, beneath which her dress, a green-and-white-checkered cheongsam, peeped out. The sun shone onto the port side of the ship from beyond the Yangtze, glinting off her hair. Her face was wet with what looked like tears. He had seen her somewhere before. She was pale, and the light shone into her eyes so that her tears glowed. He must have seen her in a movie, but which one? He couldn’t stop himself from staring at her.

The bell rang for breakfast. Leng Hsiao-man wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. She glanced at the irate stranger, and as she was about to leave, she noticed a camera hanging from his long shoulder strap. The lens cover sprang open, and a finger pressed down on the shutter button. She hurried away.

The pilot boarded at 8:30 A.M. from a ladder mounted on the port side of the ship. He was responsible for navigating the ship into the narrow mouth of the Whampoa through Ch’iang-k’ou Channel. The ship would sail a little farther along the Whampoa to its destination, Kung-ho-hsiang Pier, just east of Lokatse on the northern shore of the Whampoa. He was not the only man getting ready to board the ship. At the floating pier just outside the port commissioner’s office, four men in short sleeves were boarding a speedboat bound for the Paul Lecat —most likely gangsters, as they were carrying guns.