“I don't care,” she replied, in Spanish to anger me even more. I ignored her.
“Mrs. Zhong, call the girl Fernanda, despite what she might tell you.”
The servant bowed again, accepting my order.
“Your luggage has been taken to monsieur's room, tai-tai, but if you prefer otherwise, please let me know. I've put Mlle Fernanda in the bedroom next to yours.”
“That sounds fine, Mrs. Zhong. Thank you so much for your help.”
“Oh, tai-tai, a letter came for you today,” she added, taking a small step forward and pulling an elongated envelope out of her pants pocket.
“For me?” I couldn't believe it. Who could possibly have written to me at Rémy's in Shanghai?
The envelope was imprinted with an important-looking emblem, and the note inside was written on fine paper. Fernanda and I were invited to dinner on Friday, August 31, at the home of Mr. Julio Palencia y Tubau, consul general of Spain, where he and his wife, along with the most distinguished members of the small Spanish community in Shanghai, would be delighted to make our acquaintance.
My social obligations were beginning to overwhelm me. After I spoke to his lawyer, I'd planned on visiting the French cemetery where Rémy was temporarily buried. However, that didn't look as if it'd be possible, since the consuls of my native and adoptive countries were determined to meet me right away. Why the hurry?
“We'll have to reply one way or another,” I murmured, setting the envelope on a corner of the little table and lifting the lid off my tea to take a sip.
Fernanda reached out and took the note. A smile—this time a genuine smile—came over her face, and she looked at me expectantly. “We'll go, won't we?”
When I looked at her, I realized that the girl was suffering from the malady that all of us feel who are forced out of our country for a prolonged period of time: the yearning for a familiar place and language.
“I suppose,” I said. The tea was really very good, even without sugar. The contrast between the white porcelain and the lovely bright red infusion was absolutely inspiring. I wished I'd had my palette and paintbrushes at hand.
“We can't say no to an invitation from the Spanish consul.”
“I know, but I have a lot to do tomorrow, and I'll be exhausted by evening, Fernanda. Try to understand. It's not that I don't want to go, I just don't know whether I'll have the energy.”
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” Mrs. Zhong announced.
“Let me remind you, Auntie, that duty—”
“Comes before pleasure, I know,” I interrupted, finishing the old saying.
“If you're tired, just have a nice cup of hot chocolate and—”
“I'll be as good as new, because chocolate can bring the dead back to life, right? Isn't that what you were going to say?”
“Yes.”
I sighed deeply and set my cup on its saucer.
“As difficult as it might be to believe, Fernanda, we come from the same family. We were both raised with the same ideas, the same customs, and the same ridiculous clichés. So just remember that I've heard it all before. Okay? Oh, and one more thing. As Spanish as it might be to drink a cup of hot chocolate to recover your strength, that could be rather difficult in China. You'd better get used to tea.”
“Very well, but no matter how you might be feeling tomorrow evening, Auntie, we must go to the Spanish consulate,” she stubbornly insisted with a scowl.
I fixed my gaze on a beautiful bronze tiger with its jaws open wide, its sharp teeth bared, front claws raised and ready to attack. For a second I felt as if I'd become that animal and looked at my niece through its eyes…. Then I took another deep breath and drank my tea.
A ghostly-looking Mrs. Zhong carrying a candle came to wake me the next morning. The house was equipped with gas lighting, and Rémy had a powerful electric chandelier with a large fan installed in his office in one of the other buildings. While his study may have been impressive with its colossal almondwood desk and bronze fittings, shelves filled with strange Chinese folding books—no covers, just bound paper—and his collection of writing brushes and calligraphies adorning the walls, his bedroom was even more extraordinary. There was a deep red wardrobe inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a chest of drawers decorated with exotic bolts and hinges, and a monumental folding lacquered screen painted with a rural scene at the back of the room. The screen hid a tin bathtub and what Mrs. Zhong called a ma-t'ung—nothing more than a seat over a chamber pot. The enormous four-poster bed was enclosed by panels so finely wrought they looked like lace, and each one had a large circular opening covered by lovely silk curtains. The fabric was so fine that it let the night breeze through and acted as a magnificent mosquito net, allowing me to rest at last without being bothered by the pesky things. Being able to sleep, however, was quite a different matter. My mind morbidly recalled far-off times, causing a terribly current pain. My youth had been left behind, and gone, too, was the enchanting Rémy I had married, that fun-loving man I'd had to lead to bed each morning when he'd come home drunk on Pernod, Champagne, and Cointreau, the smell of tobacco and perfume clinging to his clothes from who knows which turn-of-the-century Parisian music hall or cabaret. When morning came, I was still awake, my eyes brimming with tears.
Fernanda joined me for breakfast. Her habitual sullenness had abated somewhat, and she was eager to know our plans before M. Favez came to pick me up at twelve-thirty. I told her I had personal matters to discuss with Rémy's lawyer and was going out on my own. She asked whether she could use the morning to look for a Catholic church in the French Concession where she could attend Mass while we were in Shanghai. I agreed, on the condition that Mrs. Zhong or one of the other trusted servants go with her. I also recommended she read something from Rémy's library. I hadn't seen her so much as touch a book since we met (missal and prayer book aside). Her reaction was outrageous.
“French books!”
“French, English, Spanish, German—what does it matter! Just read. You're old enough to appreciate the works and thoughts of people who've seen the world from a different point of view. It's important to taste life, Fernanda, or you'll lose out on so many enjoyable, interesting things.”
Surprisingly, my words seemed to truly affect her, as if she'd never heard anything like that before. Truth be told, the poor thing had grown up in a very narrow-minded, shortsighted environment. Perhaps she just needed to be taught to appreciate freedom. “I must be off,” I remarked, pushing my chair back and standing up. “My meeting's in half an hour. Good luck finding the church. You can tell me all about it later.”
I was wearing a light cotton skirt, a sleeveless summer blouse, and a white picture hat to protect me from the bright sun beating down on Shanghai. As I crossed the garden on my way to the street, I could see a small rickshaw through the open gates. Mrs. Zhong stood next to it, speaking to the barefoot coolie in Chinese. As soon as they saw me, Mrs. Zhong's voice became shrill and hurried. The coolie rushed to take his place, ready to transport me to rue Millot, where Rémy's lawyer and executor, André Julliard, had his office.
I said good-bye to Mrs. Zhong and asked her to please look after Fernanda until I returned. As we set out on that frenetic trip through the streets of the French Concession, I stared at the coolie's sweaty, skeletal back, his head shaven except for a ring of spiky hair—likely what was left of a queue—listening to his labored breathing and the slapping of his bare soles on pavement. Cars, rickshaws, bicycles, and buses wove in and out around one another as the occupants delighted—in spite of the lovely smell of Shanghai—in the sights of pretty villas and little shops lining both sides of the street.
Short, narrow rue Millot was next to the old Chinese city of Nantao, and M. Julliard's office was located in a dark building that smelled of musty paper and rotting wood. The lawyer, who appeared to be about fifty and was wearing the wrinkliest linen jacket in the world, kindly met me at the door and led me into his office, asking his secretary to bring us tea. It was
a small, glassed-in room from which you could see the other offices, the desks where his typists sat, and young Chinese clerks milling about. In his strong accent from the south of France (exaggerating the r's, like they do in Spanish), he offered me a seat and walked behind a large desk covered in cigarette burns. Without further ado he pulled a thick file from a drawer and opened it somberly.
“Mme De Poulain,” he began, “I'm afraid the news is not good.”
He smoothed his gray mustache, yellowed by nicotine, and set on the bridge of his nose a pair of small, round, wire-rimmed glasses that had surely seen better days. My heart pounded in my chest.
“Here's a copy of the will,” he said, handing me a sheaf of papers that I took and began to flip through. “Your late husband, madame, was a dear friend of mine. It pains me to tell you that he was not a prudent man. I repeatedly told him to put his finances in order, but you know how things are. Moreover, you know what Rémy was like.”
“What was he like, M. Julliard?” I asked in a wisp of a voice.
“Pardon me, madame?”
“I asked you what Rémy was like. I'm beginning to think I don't know much of anything. I'm completely taken aback by what you just said. I always thought Rémy was a good, intelligent man who was decidedly well-off.”
“True, true. He was a good, intelligent man. But he was not well-off, Mme De Poulain, or rather he had less and less money that he spent more and more wantonly. I don't like to speak of my old friend this way, you understand, but I do have to tell you so that … Well, Rémy left nothing but debts.”
I stared at him with incomprehension written all over my face. He placed both hands on the file and looked at me compassionately.
“I'm very sorry, madame, but as Rémy's wife you are now responsible for a series of debts that come to an amount so large I almost daren't mention it.”
“What … what are you talking about?” I stammered, feeling an enormous weight in the middle of my chest.
M. Julliard sighed deeply, as if overwhelmed.
“Mme De Poulain, ever since Rémy returned from France, his financial situation was, shall we say, problematic. He incurred very large debts that he couldn't repay, so he took bank loans and advances from the silk factory that also went unpaid. In addition, he handed out promissory notes for exorbitant amounts. While it's true that everything in Shanghai can be arranged with a signature and that even a cocktail can be paid for in installments, Rémy went far beyond that. The situation became so serious that his family sent an accountant from Lyon to look into his finances. As a result, Rémy's brother, Arthème, had no choice but to send another representative to take over the business. He wanted Rémy to return to France, but given your husband's … poor health, madame, this was impossible. In the end, in order to help Rémy and prevent further damage, Arthème removed his brother from the family business and gave him a monthly stipend to live out with dignity what time was left to him.”
What on earth was the man saying? What was he talking about? Hadn't Rémy been killed by thieves? I felt as if I could no longer hear him; his voice had become muted, and a muffled, buzzing noise began in my head. I was frightened: These were the first signs of one of my anxiety attacks. I'd always been intrepid in terms of thoughts and ambitions, but exceedingly cowardly when faced with physical or emotional pain. I felt as though something terrible was about to happen. My pulse raced, and I thought I'd have a heart attack. Calm down, Elvira, calm down, I said to myself.
“In fact,” the lawyer continued, “Arthème paid many of Rémy's debts but ultimately he refused to cover them all. Your husband, madame, continued to go further into debt until the day he died.”
“You said … What was wrong with Rémy? How was his health?”
M. Julliard looked at me with a mixture of worry and pity.
“Oh, madame!” he exclaimed, taking a rather dirty handkerchief out of a pocket in his blazer and running it over his face. “Rémy was very ill, madame. His health had seriously deteriorated. This will is ten years old, and in it he names you beneficiary of all his assets, except for his share in the family silk mills, for reasons I'm sure you understand. The situation was very different then, of course, but things changed, and Rémy never updated his will despite my suggestions in this regard. He was very ill, madame. According to French law, you do inherit his estate, that's true, but you also inherit his outstanding debts.”
“But why?” I nearly shrieked.
“That's what the law says. You were his wife.”
“No, I'm not talking about that! I mean why didn't I know all this? Why didn't he ever tell me he was sick, that he was in debt? Wasn't he murdered by thieves who broke in to his house? You've been talking in circles without actually telling me anything!”
The legal adviser leaned back in his chair and remained still for a few minutes, staring straight through me, not blinking, lost in thought. Finally, after repeatedly twisting the ends of his mustache, he leaned on the desk and gazed at me over his spectacles with great sadness in his eyes.
“When the band of thieves broke into his house, madame, Rémy was nghien. That's why they were able to do what they did.”
“Nghien?” I repeated with difficulty.
“In a state of need … needing opium, that is. Rémy was addicted to opium.”
“Addicted to opium? Rémy?”
“Yes, madame. I hate to be the one to tell you, but in the last few years your husband squandered his fortune on opium, gambling, and brothels. I beg you not to think ill of Rémy. He was an excellent man, as you know. These three passions tend to corrupt all men in Shanghai, whether they're Chinese or Westerners. Very few escape. It's this city…. This damn city is at fault. This is what life here consists of, madame, this and getting rich if there's enough time. Everyone here spends lavishly, on gambling most of all. I've seen many prominent men fall and more than one fortune disappear. I've been in Shanghai so long that nothing surprises me anymore. It was a foregone conclusion with Rémy, if you'll forgive me for saying so. I'm sure you understand. You could see it coming before the war, and after it … well, he lost control. That was the end.”
I ran my hand over my forehead and noticed that my palms were cold and clammy. My anxiety attack hadn't materialized; perhaps it was staved off by the enormous sorrow I felt. Really, if I was honest with myself, Rémy had come to the only end possible. I wasn't referring to his violent death, which was unjust no matter how you looked at it, but to his plummet into self-destruction. He was the nicest, most entertaining, elegant man in the world, but he was also weak, and fate had unfortunately placed him in the most inappropriate place. If he'd disappeared for days in Paris, arriving home in a sorry state, what must have happened in Shanghai where it seemed that overindulgence was both common and easy? A man like Rémy wouldn't be able to resist. What I still didn't understand, however, was where he'd gotten the money he sent me every now and then through the Crédit Lyonnais. The salary I earned working for Paul Ranson's widow as a teacher at her Académie didn't allow many luxuries, so on occasion I would write to Rémy for help. Nearly as fast as the return post, a generous sum would be waiting for me at the Crédit branch on boulevard des Italiens.
M. Julliard interrupted my train of thought.
“Now, Mme De Poulain, you will have to settle Rémy's debts or face lawsuits and seizures. In fact, there are already cases in progress that won't stop as a result of his death.”
“What about his brother? I don't have any money.”
“As I told you, madame, Arthème paid off most of Rémy's debts a few years ago. The company lawyers and Monsieur Voillis, the new representative, have advised me that the family washes its hands of any problem with respect to Rémy or to you. They asked me to relay the message that you not ask them for any assistance or make any claim against them.”
My pride made me square my shoulders.
“Tell them not to worry. They don't exist as far as I'm concerned. But I repeat, M. Julliard, I don't have a
ny money. I can't make those payments.”
I once again felt my heart race, and no air seemed to reach my lungs.
“I know, madame, I know, and you can't imagine how sorry I am,” the lawyer murmured. “If you'll allow me, I can propose a few solutions that I've been considering in order to tackle this problem.”
He began to rummage through the file so vigorously that the papers scattered all over his desk.
“And the servants, M. Julliard?” I asked. “How am I going to pay the servants?”
“Oh, don't worry about that!” he exclaimed, distracted. “Servants work for room and board. That's the way things are here. There's a great deal of poverty and hunger, madame. Rémy may have given Mrs. Zhong a little money now and then because he was very fond of her, but you're not required to— Ah, here it is!” he interrupted himself, pulling a page out of the disorganized pile. “So, let's see…. First of all, madame, you'll have to sell both houses: the one here and the one in Paris. Do you have any other property we can include?”
“No.”
“Nothing? Are you sure?” The poor man didn't know how to insist, and I could barely breathe. “Any property in Spain? A house, a piece of land, a business … ?”
“I … no.” A slight whistle escaped my throat, and I held on desperately to the edge of my seat. “My family disowned me, and now my niece has inherited it all. But I can't …”
“Would you like a glass of water, madame? The tea!” he suddenly remembered. M. Julliard bolted up and ran to the door. A few moments later, I had in my hand a beautiful Chinese cup with a lid, and the aroma that rose up from it was divine. I took small sips until I felt better. The lawyer was truly worried and had come to stand by my side.
“M. Julliard,” I implored, “I have nothing I can draw on in Europe, and I'm not going to ask my niece for help. It doesn't seem right.”