“Thank you, Master. I will never forget you.”
The children, who had followed my lead and still had their heads bowed when I straightened up, murmured their thanks as well.
Master Red was extremely moved and bowed to the three of us. Then, smiling warmly, he turned and walked toward the station door.
“We'll miss our train,” Fernanda suddenly declared, pragmatic as always.
Over the next thirty-six hours, we crossed China from north to south inside deluxe sleeping compartments, lovely club cars with pianos and dance floors, and magnificent dining cars where Chinese waiters served exquisite meals. The dishes made with duck or pheasant, which were as common in China as chickens, were by far the best. Before being roasted, the meat was painted with a fine coat of lacquer—the same kind used on buildings, furniture, and columns—to make lacquered ducks or pheasants, a delicacy that was once reserved for emperors.
The soldiers who guarded the train were an uncomfortable presence, rough and brutish, but they allowed us to pass without incident through truly dangerous areas controlled by warlords or bandit armies. The weather improved during our second day of travel, and while still cold, it wasn't the glacial cold of Peking, so we were able to spend time on the balconies enjoying the scenery. We neared the Yangtze, and though it might sound absurd, I felt connected to that river after so many days traveling on it to Hankow. If our lovely, cultured travel companions had even suspected that the children and I had journeyed upriver aboard filthy barges and sampans, dressed like beggars and escaping something called the Green Gang, they'd have avoided us as if we'd had the plague. How long ago those days were, and how wonderful they'd been!
Immense, water-filled rice paddies flew past for hours on end before we reached Nanking, the former Southern Capital founded by the first Ming emperor, a city I recalled as dilapidated and where Lao Jiang had walked the filthy streets happily recalling his student days. I'll never forget Nanking's immense Jubao Gate, or Zhonghua Men as it was now called, and the underground tunnel containing a Wei-ch'i problem on the floor. Known as “The Legend of Lanke Mountain,” it was over twenty-five hundred years old, and our intelligent Biao had solved it. That was where the Green Gang had attacked us for the second time, resulting in the loss of Paddy Tichborne's leg when he boldly stepped in front to protect the children and me. I would be eternally grateful for that gesture, and although I wouldn't be able to tell him the whole truth, I would of course give him his full share of the treasure.
We disembarked once we reached Nanking and were ferried across the immense, interminable Blue River on lovely steamers that agilely dodged the little junks, sampans, and numerous seagoing vessels with apparent ease. Back on the train by nightfall, we carried on to Shanghai, just a few hours away. The stations became more plentiful, and we could see crowds waiting in the light of red paper lanterns as we sped through.
Our convoy finally stopped near midnight at one of the platforms in the Shanghai North Railway Station, the very station we'd departed from three and a half months earlier, when Fernanda and I were newly arrived in China, carrying our bags and dressed as poor peasants. We were now returning in first class, looking so refined it would have been impossible to recognize us.
Although we'd left Shanghai in the stifling heat of summer and it was now the middle of winter, it still wasn't cold enough for fur coats and sable hats. Nevertheless, we left them on so as to stay warm on that late-night rickshaw ride. Since I was certain that Monsieur Julliard, Rémy's lawyer, would have sold the house and auctioned off the furniture and artwork as I had instructed, I decided we should stay at a hotel in the International Concession, far from the French Concession, controlled by Pockmarked Huang's police. One of our travel companions had recommended the Astor House Hotel, and that's where we spent our first night. Thanks to his imposing height, elegant Western clothing, and a considerable sum of money paid to the manager, Biao was allowed to stay in a small room in the servants’ quarters. We'd been granted a very special favor; giving lodging to a yellow could seriously damage the hotel's good reputation.
I soon realized that getting around in areas reserved for Westerners was going to be a serious problem with Little Tiger. Outside the pretty public gardens near the Astor was an English sign that read “No dogs or Chinese allowed.” The next morning I left the children at the hotel with the solemn promise from them that they were not to leave under any circumstances and took a rickshaw to see M. Julliard at his office on rue Millot in the French Concession.
It was a pleasure to ride through that city. Christmas was approaching, and some of the buildings had already been decorated for the season. I didn't recognize any of the well-known sites or places, because I hadn't had time to visit them when I was first in Shanghai, but I was thrilled to be traveling along the famous Bund, that great avenue on the west bank of the dirty, yellow Huang Pu River that we'd sailed up on board the André Lebon as far as the Compagnie des Messageries Maritimes docks on the day we arrived in China. There were so many cars, trams, rickshaws, and bicycles! So many people! The wealth and opulence were unlike anything I'd seen anywhere else in that enormous country. People from all over the world had found in Shanghai a place to work and live, revel and die—like Rémy. If not for the corruption that reigned in that city, if not for the gangs, the mafia, and the opium, Shanghai would have been a wonderful place to live.
We passed through the wire fence that separated the concessions without being stopped by the gendarmes. I was profoundly relieved, fearing that my name might set off alarms with Pockmarked Huang's Sécurité. I was no longer afraid of the Green Gang after what happened in the mausoleum, but I didn't want to stir up already turbulent waters before leaving Shanghai.
Nothing had changed in André Julliard's office on rue Millot: the same smell of must and rotting wood, the same glassed-in office, and the same Chinese clerks milling around the young typists’ desks. M. Julliard was even wearing the same sorry, wrinkled linen jacket as last time. He was pleasantly surprised to see me, greeting me warmly and asking what I'd been doing those last few months, as it had been impossible to locate me. I gave him a vague story about a sightseeing trip into the interior of China, which he didn't appear to believe. Over a cup of tea, he pulled the thick file containing Rémy's documents out of a drawer and explained that he had indeed sold the house and auctioned off the other effects. He'd obtained nearly 150,000 francs, enough to cover half the debt, but the other half was still outstanding. Creditors were growing impatient, and more than one lawsuit had been decided against me, making me practically an outlaw.
“Oh, but don't worry about that!” he commented in his strong accent from the south of France, smiling widely. “It's quite normal in Shanghai!”
“I'm not worried, M. Julliard,” I replied. “I have the money. I'm going to write you a check for the full amount, plus a little more should some other unforeseen debt arise and to cover your services.” His eyes grew wide behind the dirty lenses of his small, round, wire-rimmed glasses, and a question he never managed to ask formed on his lips.
“No need to worry, M. Julliard. The check won't bounce. Here's a copy of a letter of credit from the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank, and here,” I said, pulling out a brand-new checkbook and taking the pen he offered, “are the two hundred thousand francs that will put an end to this nightmare.”
The poor lawyer didn't know how to thank me for such a generous honorarium and launched into a thousand courtesies and niceties. At the door to his office on my way out, I asked him to please be discreet with respect to payment, not to pay all the debts at once, but little by little in order not to draw attention.
“Don't worry, madame,” he replied with a complicit gesture I didn't quite know how to interpret, “I completely understand. Rest assured that's what I'll do. If you want or need anything, if I can be of service to you in any way, please don't hesitate to ask. I would be delighted to do what I can.”
“Well, I do have one favor to ask,” I
replied with a beguiling smile. “Would you purchase three first-class tickets on the next ship to set sail for Marseille or Cherbourg?”
He once again looked at me in surprise but nodded his head.
“Even if it were to leave tomorrow?” he asked.
“Even better if it leaves tomorrow,” I answered, handing him a thousand silver dollars. “Please send them to my hotel as soon as you have them. I'm at the Astor House.”
We said good-bye, exchanging pleasantries and mutual gratitude, and I left with the lovely sensation of being debt-free for the first time in ages. It felt good to be rich; it was a sort of protective shield that kept any unexpected setback or mishap at bay.
My next stop that morning was the Shanghai Club. I hoped Paddy Tichborne would be fully recovered and hadn't been drinking too much. I was quite surprised when the concierge told me he no longer lived there, that he'd moved to other lodgings in the Hong Kew area—and from the look on his face, I presumed it must be somewhere cheap and shabby.
It turned out that the neighborhood of Hong Kew was between the railway station and my hotel; we'd been past it, but it had nothing in common with the Shanghai I knew. It was a miserable, filthy place where the people seemed extremely dangerous. Everyone on the street looked like a criminal, and I trembled as if I were seeing the Green Gang assassins again with knives in their hands. I ignored the curious stares and hurried out of the rickshaw as soon as my coolie stopped in a narrow Chinese alley in front of a brick building with the darkest entranceway I'd ever seen. There, on the second floor, was where Tichborne lived. Something very serious must have happened for this to be his new home.
I worriedly knocked on the door, unsure what to expect on the other side, but it was the same fat, gray-haired Paddy Tichborne who opened it. After he'd stared disconcertedly at me for a few seconds, a bright gleam lit up his eyes and an enormous smile came over his face.
“Mme De Poulain!” he nearly shouted.
“Mr. Tichborne! It's so good to see you!”
It was true. Hard to believe, but true: I was happy, very happy to see him again. Then I noticed his crutches, and my eyes traveled down to his right leg, which was gone below the knee. His pant leg was pinned back.
“Come in. Please, come in,” he invited, struggling to move out of the way on his crutches.
It was a sorry-looking hovel, consisting of only one room. On one side was a dirty, unmade bed; on the other, a tiny kitchen stacked with unwashed dishes; in the middle were a couple of chairs and an armchair around a rickety table covered, of course, in empty whiskey bottles. At the back, next to a small bookshelf, was a door that likely led to the communal patio and washrooms. It smelled terrible, and not just because the house was filthy: It had been some time since Paddy had seen soap or water either. He was unshaven, generally slovenly, and unkempt.
“How are you, Mme De Poulain? And how are the others? Lao Jiang? Your niece? The Chinese boy?”
I laughed as we slowly walked toward the seats and didn't make a fuss when I had to sit on one of the greasy, stained chairs.
“Ah, Mr. Tichborne, I have a very long story to tell you.”
“Did you reach the First Emperor's mausoleum?” he asked anxiously, falling like dead weight into the poor armchair, which creaked dangerously.
“I see you're impatient, Mr. Tichborne, and I do understand—”
“Call me Paddy, please. It's so good to see you!”
“Then call me Elvira and we'll be equal.”
“Would you like a drink of …” He paused, glancing around the miserable, dirty little room. “I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you, madame … Elvira. I don't have anything to offer you, Elvira.”
“Don't worry, Paddy. I'm fine.”
“Do you mind if I pour myself a little whiskey?” he asked, filling a dirty glass on the table.
“No, not at all. Please, go ahead,” I replied, though he was already taking a long drink, nearly emptying the entire glass. “But tell me, why did you leave the Shanghai Club?”
He avoided my eyes. “They threw me out.”
“They threw you out?” I asked, feigning surprise.
“When I lost my leg, you remember, I wasn't able to work as a journalist or for the Royal Geographic Society any longer.”
“But losing a leg is no reason to fire you,” I objected. “You could still write, you could get around Shanghai by rickshaw, you could—”
“No, no, Elvira,” he interrupted. “They didn't fire me because I lost a leg; they fired me because I started drinking too much when I got out of hospital and wasn't able to fulfill my obligations. And as you can see …” he said, refilling his glass to the rim and taking another long drink. “As you can see, I still drink too much. Now then, tell me, where is Lao Jiang? Why didn't he come with you?”
The most difficult part of our meeting had arrived.
“Lao Jiang's dead, Paddy.”
His face fell. “What?” he burst out, completely stunned.
“Let me tell you the whole story, starting from when you were wounded in Nanking.”
I explained that luckily a detachment of Kuomintang soldiers was passing through Zhonghua Men at the exact time we were being attacked by the Green Gang. They saved our lives that day and took him to their barracks, providing him with medical attention.
“Yes, I know,” he commented. “I was feverish and don't remember all the details, but there was something about an argument with a Kuomintang officer. I wanted to be transferred to a hospital in Shanghai when they said my leg would have to be amputated.”
“Exactly. The Kuomintang took charge because you were a foreigner and a journalist. As soon as we told them, they offered to take care of everything.”
There was the first part of the new story. Not bad. As he drank glass after glass of whiskey, I told Paddy about our trip by sampan to Hankow, our time in Wudang, how we got the third piece of the jiance, more attacks by the Green Gang, our trek through the mountains to the mausoleum at Mount Li, how we managed to get in, thanks to Master Red Jade and his Dragon's Nest, and everything else. I spoke for a long while, giving him all sorts of details—thinking about the book he might write one day—but deliberately omitted all political details. I never mentioned the Kuomintang again, nor did I tell him about the young Communist militiamen or Lao Jiang's revelation in the room with the First Emperor's coffin. Instead I told him that the five of us left together and that when we were on the third level, going up the ten thousand bridges, one of the old walkways came loose and Lao Jiang fell over three hundred feet. There was nothing we could do; on the contrary, we had to run for lives because the gigantic pillars had started to come down, smashing into one another, causing a quake that shook the entire funeral complex. I described my trick with the mirrors on the level with the methane gas as well as our run-in with the Green Gang as we were leaving the throne room. I explained how they tried to stop us but then, seeing how the whole mausoleum was collapsing, they escaped with us and galloped away as soon as we were outside, leaving us there.
“All they wanted was the First Emperor's tomb,” Paddy muttered, slurring his words. The death of his old friend Lao Jiang, the antiquarian from Nanking Road, was obviously very painful.
“Which brings us to the conclusion of this story,” I replied happily, trying to cheer him up. “The Green Gang is no longer after us. However, since they're aware of everything, if you or I were to go about Shanghai with this,” I said, taking the check I had filled out at the hotel before leaving that morning and setting it on the table in front of him, “they might want to make life difficult for us.”
Paddy reached out, picked up the check, unfolded it very slowly, and read the figure I had written on it. He turned deathly pale and started to sweat so profusely that he had to pull a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and wipe it, trembling, across his brow.
“That's … that's not … that's not possible,” he stammered.
“Oh, but it is. We sold every
thing we took from the mausoleum in Peking and divided the money into three equal parts: one for Wudang, one for you, and one for me.”
“What about the children?”
“The children will stay with me.”
“But I didn't run all the risks you did. I didn't even get to the mausoleum. I—”
“Would you be quiet, Paddy? You lost a leg saving our lives. We'll never be able to thank you enough, so not another word.”
He smiled widely and put the check in the pocket with his handkerchief.
“I'll have to go to the bank,” he murmured.
“You'll have to wash up first,” I recommended. “And listen to me, Paddy: Don't stay in China. We can't trust the Green Gang, and you're too well known in Shanghai. Get on a ship and go back to Ireland. You don't need to work anymore. Buy yourself a castle and write books. I'd like nothing more than to go to one of my favorite bookstores in Paris and buy a great novel about the First Emperor's treasures. The children and I could visit you, and you could come to our house and stay as long as you like.”
He furrowed his brow. He had stopped drinking; a full glass sat abandoned on the table.
“You'll have to get Biao's papers,” he commented worriedly, “if he has any. He won't be able to leave China without documentation.”
“I'm speaking with Father Castrillo, superior of the Augustinian mission, this afternoon,” I told him, “but it doesn't matter what he says. Biao has certain contacts and could get forged papers within a few hours. Money's not an issue.”
“How you've changed, Elvira!” he exclaimed, letting out a laugh. “You used to be so fussy, so prudish—” He suddenly realized how insulting that was and came to a full stop. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.”
“You didn't, Paddy,” I said. That was a lie, of course, but the polite thing to say. “You're right. I have changed a great deal, more than you can imagine, and for the better. I'm happy. There's only one thing that worries me.”