“I owe you an explanation, Mme De Poulain.”
“And I've been waiting for one, Mr. Jiang,” I asserted, confronting him.
Some of the soldiers began to hoist the dead bandits over their shoulders without a second thought, while others got started throwing sand on the floor to soak up the blood.
“I've been a member of the Chinese Nationalist Party, the Kuomintang, since 1911, when it was founded by Dr. Sun Yat-sen, a man I'm honored to know and consider a good friend. He is financing this expedition and placed this battalion of soldiers from the Army of the South at our disposal here in Nanking to protect us from the Green Gang. Captain Song,” he said, nodding at the man with the saber, who was standing a respectful distance away while his subordinates cleaned up, “knew of our arrival as soon as we disembarked yesterday and has kept us under discreet surveillance in order to help us if necessary.”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was having trouble understanding that this crazy adventure had been politically motivated from the very start.
“Do you mean to say, Mr. Jiang, that the Kuomintang knows what we're looking for?”
“Of course, madame. As soon as I learned what was in the hundred-treasure chest and guessed at the scope of the Qing and Japanese imperial restoration project, I immediately called Dr. Sun Yat-sen in Canton and explained the situation. Dr. Sun was equally alarmed and ordered me to secretly continue searching for Shi Huang Ti's lost mausoleum. However, there is no need to worry: My part of the treasure will undoubtedly go to the Kuomintang, but the rest of you will get what was agreed upon. My party simply wants to avoid the folly of a monarchical restoration any way we can.”
One group of soldiers was sweeping the blood-soaked sand into baskets, while another came behind, throwing buckets of water over the areas that had already been swept, so as to finish putting the tunnel back in order. Soon the only sign of what had happened here would be the bullet holes in the walls. But no, not even those would remain. A couple of young men wearing military caps and bearing a small blue flag with a white sun in the middle25 began to fill the holes with mud. This was obviously a very well-organized cover-up operation. What were we going to do now that Tichborne was out of commission?
“We have to carry on, madame. We can't stop now. The Green Gang is nipping at our heels, but just like the Kuomintang, they don't want this whole affair to come to light. It would be a national scandal with unimaginable repercussions. China cannot allow that. Western powers would try to take control of the discovery and exploit it in their favor or in favor of whoever they most wanted to keep bleeding this country dry. There is much at stake, and remember, we still need to find the lost mausoleum. Let's do this right, wouldn't you say, madame?”
“But what about Tichborne?”
“He knows nothing of the Kuomintang. He'll stay here for now and can follow us if he recovers quickly. In the meantime he'll be well looked after by Captain Song.”
“Does Captain Song know anything about all this?”
“No, madame. He had orders to watch us from a distance and intervene if we were attacked. That's all. Dr. Sun and the two of us are the only ones who know.”
“And the Emperor Puyi, and the imperial eunuchs, and the Japanese, and the Green Gang …”
Lao Jiang smiled. “Yes, but we have the jiance.”
“Actually, Mr. Jiang, I have the jiance,” I corrected him, leaning down to pick up the bronze box that Tichborne had dropped when he was wounded and that now lay by Fernanda's feet.
Mr. Jiang smiled even wider.
“I just have one last question. Do the Green Gang and everyone else know that the Kuomintang is involved?”
“I hope not. Dr. Sun doesn't want the party officially connected to this.”
“He's afraid of ridicule, isn't he?”
“Yes, something like that. He believes that the Kuomintang is in a delicate situation, madame. We don't have the support of foreign imperialist powers. They think we're endangering their economic interests. They know that if we unite China under a single flag, we'll take away all the abusive commercial prerogatives they acquired by means of trickery over the last hundred years. Dr. Sun's Three Principles of the People—Nationalism, Democracy, and the People's Livelihood—mean the end of their huge economic benefits. If all this came to light … well, they might destroy the Kuomintang.”
“And who's going to protect us on the rest of our trip? I don't need to remind you that not only are we being followed by the Green Gang, but we're about to go into areas that are controlled by warlords.”
“I still have to sort that out.”
“Well, make it quick,” I advised, taking the still-terrified Fernanda and Biao by the hand. “These children are frightened to death. You deceived us, Mr. Jiang, by hiding an important aspect, une affaire politique, with respect to this dangerous journey. I don't think you're as honest as you try to appear. In my opinion you're putting your political interests above all else and are simply using us. I admired you up until now, Mr. Jiang. I thought you were an honorable defender of your people. Now I'm beginning to think that, like all politicians, you're a greedy materialist who doesn't consider the personal consequences of your decisions.”
I don't know why I said all that. I was really very angry with the antiquarian, but I wasn't entirely sure if it was for the reasons I had listed or because I was so frightened. In any event, I'd just been through the most terrifying experience of my life and had actually come out of it with grace, feeling stronger than ever. I was beginning to note great changes inside. Still, there was nothing wrong with chastising Lao Jiang. He appeared livid, and I think my words had truly hurt him. I felt a little guilty but then immediately thought, He lied to us! And I no longer felt bad.
“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. “I'm simply trying to save my country, madame. You may be right, and up to now I may have been using you. I will meditate on it and give you a more satisfactory explanation. If I need to apologize, I will.”
We left Jubao Gate and climbed into the back of an old truck that bounced over the cobblestones through the devastated streets of Nanking to Kuomintang headquarters, an ugly building painted the colors of the party's undulating flag and protected by tall barbed-wire fences. Inside, the soldiers on guard were playing cards and smoking. We were given something to eat and allowed to wash up. Tichborne lay on a cot in a dark, smelly little room, bleeding profusely, until a doctor in Western clothing arrived and began to treat him. By then someone had brought our things from the inn, and Biao, calmer now, told Fernanda and me that in the next room Lao Jiang and Captain Song were making arrangements for us to leave that night. I couldn't remember what our next stop was and therefore had no idea where we'd be heading. I did, however, have in my possession, safe and sound, the little box we'd removed from beneath the bricks at Jubao Gate. Since we were alone and no one was paying the least bit of attention to us, I decided it was the perfect time for the children and me to take another look at what was inside.
“You're going to open it, Auntie?” Fernanda asked, quite shocked. “What about Lao Jiang?”
“He can look at it later,” I replied, lifting the greenish bronze lid. The little bundle of bamboo slats with the tiny spots of ink was still inside. Biao leaned curiously over it as soon as I held it out on my open palms. There was electricity in the Kuomintang barracks, and thus the little marks were clearly visible. “Mr. Jiang said it was a map, Biao. What do you think?”
I don't know what inspired me to put such faith in that wiry-haired young man. If he'd been bright enough to solve the Wei-ch'i problem all on his own, why wouldn't he be able to see something I couldn't because of my Western education?
“Yes, it's got to be a map, tai-tai,” he confirmed after looking at it for a while. “I don't know what these tiny little characters next to the rivers and mountains say, but the drawings are quite clear.”
“All I see are lines and dots,” Fernanda said, jealous of her servant's impor
tant role. “A small round dot here, a square over there …”
“These dotted lines are rivers,” Little Tiger explained to her. “Can't you see by the way they're shaped, Young Mistress? And these lines are mountains. The circles must be lakes, because they're on the dotted lines or near them, and this square here might be a house or a monastery. There's something written inside, but I don't know what it says.”
“Would you like to be able to read in your own language, Biao?” I asked.
He thought for a moment, then shook his head and snorted, “Too much work!”
It was the answer any school-aged child in the world would have given, I thought as I hid a smile. I felt for Biao, but Lao Jiang wasn't about to let another day go by without teaching him more of the ideograms in their thousand-year-old writing system. So, between the French that Fernanda was teaching him and the Chinese calligraphy Lao Jiang would surely teach him, Little Tiger was in for a very busy trip.
“Do you know what we could do while we're waiting for Mr. Jiang?” I cheerfully asked the children. “We could play Wei-ch'i.”
“But we don't have any stones,” Fernanda objected, brightening up nonetheless. She'd been very withdrawn ever since the firefight in the tunnel, and I'd been worried.
Biao had jumped up and was running to the door.
“I saw a board!” he exclaimed, beaming. “I'll ask if we can use it.”
He came back with a rectangular wooden board under his arm and two soup bowls filled with black and white stones.
“The soldiers loaned it to me,” he explained. “They'd rather play Western cards,” he added disparagingly.
Well, I thought to myself, some of the antiquarian's ideas were taking hold.
Shortly after they brought us dinner, Mr. Jiang finally appeared with a smile that became even more affable when he saw the three of us completely absorbed in the Wei-ch'i board. In all truth, such an exquisitely difficult game wasn't my cup of tea but Fernanda caught on right away.
Biao surrounded my stones easily and with amazing speed, devouring entire large groups while I was focused on some ridiculous attack I never managed to carry out. Fernanda was better at defending herself and at least didn't let him massacre her as he had me. Over the next nine days, as we headed up the Yangtze to Hankow on board a sampan, mistress and servant spent many an hour bent over the board (Lao Jiang got the soldiers to give us the game), caught up in fierce battles that began right after the morning classes and sometimes lasted until dark.
We weren't able to say good-bye to Tichborne, because the doctor was still operating on him when we left the barracks. Not much of his right knee remained, we were told. Even if it healed, he'd always limp. I had the impression it was extremely unlikely that he'd meet up with us later on our trip; his situation seemed quite dire. In any event, and even though I had always found him repulsive, I had to admit he'd been very brave during the confrontation, and the children and I would always be thankful for his protective gesture.
Our sampan was an authentic houseboat that, compared to the barge we'd taken to Nanking, could almost be considered a luxury hotel: It was big and wide, with two enormous sails that opened like fans, a couple of rooms inside the cabin—covered by a beautiful red roof made of sagging, woven bamboo—and a deck flat enough for Lao Jiang and me to do our tai chi. The only problem was the river current, which at times was quite rough. The skipper was a member of the Kuomintang, and the sailors under his command were two of Captain Song's soldiers, charged with looking after us until we reached Hankow. There, another military detachment would take care of our security. Lao Jiang was afraid the Green Gang might attack us on the river, so he had the soldiers watch the riverbanks day and night while he studied all the boats we passed, whether Chinese or Western, with an eagle eye. He hoped that heavy traffic on the river would make us invisible or that Pockmarked Huang's men would have thought we'd taken the Nanking-Hankow Express. For my part, whenever we passed a large city, I was afraid he'd say, “Let your rapidity be that of the wind, your compactness that of the forest. In raiding and plundering be like fire, in immovability like a mountain,” and off we'd go, carrying our bundles, leaving the sampan to take some other, much less comfortable, means of transportation. But days passed, and we arrived in Hankow without any difficulty.
I remember one night of that trip in particular as I sat in the bow, engulfed by the incense the skipper used to ward off mosquitoes, watching the oil lamps sway to the rhythm of the current. In the distance you could hear the water as it lapped up on shore. I suddenly realized I was tired. My Western life seemed far, far away, and everything of value there seemed absurd here. Traveling has that magic power over time and reason, I thought, forcing us to break the habits and fears that have become thick chains around our necks without our even noticing. I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else right then, nor would I have exchanged the breeze off the Yangtze for the air in Europe. It was as if the earth were calling out to me, as if, all of a sudden, the immensity of the planet was begging me to explore it, to not lock myself up again in that petty little circle of trickery, ambition, and jealousy that is the world of painters, gallery owners, and art dealers in Paris. What did I have to do with all that? Now they were mandarins in the original sense of the word: pedantic officials who decided what was art and what wasn't, what was modern and what wasn't, what the public should like and what it shouldn't. I was sick of it. I just wanted to paint, and I could do that anywhere, without competing with other artists or having to fawn over gallery owners and critics. I would search for the First Emperor's tomb in order to settle Rémy's debts, but if it all turned out to be nothing more than madness and we were unsuccessful, I would never be afraid again. I would start all over with nothing. Surely the nouveau riche in Shanghai, so snobbish and chic, would pay well for a Western painting.
That very special night for me was September 13. Two days later we arrived in the port of Hankow. Shortly after disembarking, Fernanda and I learned from the international cables they received at Kuomintang headquarters that General Primo de Rivera had led a coup d’état in Spain on that day. Backed by the far right and with King Alfonso XIII's blessing, he had dissolved the democratically elected constituent assemblies and declared a military dictatorship. Martial law, censorship, political and ideological persecution now reigned in our home country.
Chapter
3
We hadn't even arrived, and the antiquarian was already anxious to leave Hankow. He said that it was a dangerous, violent city and we weren't safe there. Indeed, not only were there sampans, junks, tugs, and merchant steamships crowding the river, there were also a good number of huge warships from various countries, a sight that both terrified me and also convinced me we had to leave as soon as possible. However, it seemed we had to wait until the Kuomintang provided us with a detail of soldiers for protection. The captain of our sampan was clearly nervous, gripping the wheel and maneuvering through the fog, steering clear of those enormous metallic hulls.
Hankow,26 located at the confluence of the Yangtze and one of its largest tributaries, the Han-Shui, was the last port upriver from Shanghai, over nine hundred miles away, before the great Blue River became impassable. For commercial reasons, Western powers declared the city a free port and built magnificent Concessions. Unfortunately, these had experienced nothing but bad luck: The city was practically razed to the ground during the 1911 revolution to overthrow Emperor Puyi, and just seven months before we arrived, there had been serious clashes and killings between members of the Kuomintang, the Kungchantang (the Communist Party, founded just two years prior in Shanghai), and the military troops that controlled the area.
The two soldiers who had accompanied us from Nanking, dressed as sailors, ran barefoot alongside our rickshaws to Kuomintang headquarters, their hands on the revolvers hidden beneath their clothes. I was beginning to dislike being in the hands of a militarized party more than attacks by the Green Gang and would much rather have found lodging
in some insipid lü kuan. Still, I was well aware that we needed their protection. Now that we were back on dry land in Hankow, how much longer until the thugs who'd had been chasing us since Shanghai attacked again?
We passed crumbling old walls and were leaving the once-elegant British Concession when a superb Victorian building caught my eye, its façade destroyed as if by gunfire. This beautiful, Colonial-style architecture was everywhere, and everywhere it had been blanketed in an unfathomable destructive hate. As had happened in Europe not that long ago, the war in China had forced people to revert to vandalism, vulgarity, and barbarism. Hankow was a powder keg. We definitely needed to leave this place as soon as possible.
Luckily, everything was already prepared at the barracks. The commander had received a telegram, and our transportation, gear, and escorts had been ready and waiting for several days. It was then we heard of the coup in Spain, and I had to explain the scope of the disaster to my ignorant niece. Seeing that there was a phone, Mr. Jiang asked if he could call headquarters in Nanking to check on Paddy Tichborne. Unfortunately, the news was not good.
“There's gangrene in his right leg, and they're going to have to amputate,” Mr. Jiang said when he joined us in the back patio, where the horses were stabled. “They transferred him to a hospital in Shanghai just yesterday, because he refused to be operated on in Nanking. It seems he created quite a ruckus when they gave him the news.”
“That's awful,” I murmured, deeply saddened.
“Let me give you your first lesson in Taoism, madame: Learn to see the good in the bad and the bad in the good. They're both the same thing, like yin and yang. Don't worry about Paddy,” he recommended with a smile. “He'll have to forgo alcohol for a while, and later, when he's better, he can write about the experience in one of those insufferable books of his, and it will do very well. Europeans love stories about the dangerous Orient.”