Brother Fish (83 page)

‘I was taken aback. “I don't think I could charm the gentlemen into buying champagne, madam,” I answered truthfully.

‘“Can you dance?”

‘“Oh yes, and play the piano.”

‘“Modern dancing?”

‘I nodded, keen to impress her. “All the steps.”

‘“We'll see. Are you a virgin?”

Jimmy and I both shifted in our seats, but Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan continued her story.

‘I was suddenly terribly embarrassed, and when I answered my voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Yes, madam.” At that moment the general walked in. He was a large man with a girth that gave him the look of one of those Russian dolls you can't knock down. I suppose to keep the idiom I should say he was a bear of a man, with a blunt, bullish face, a great bulbous whisky nose, walrus moustache and a wild shag of grey hair that looked like scouring wire. In appearance he resembled a peasant and did not seem to come from good stock. Yet, it was claimed, he had been an important general and a personal favourite of the tsar. I curtsied to him as he approached, keeping my eyes glued to the floor. “Good evening, general,” I said shyly, trying to conceal the fact that I'd been crying.

‘He ignored me and addressed Madam Olga directly. “What's the kitchen girl doing here?” he demanded. “She ought to be with the servants!”

‘“I am terminating her employment, Rudi. We no longer need a translator,” Madam Olga replied. Then her tone changed. “I thought perhaps a cocktail waitress – what do you think?”

‘General Rudi Alexei Kolkoffski looked down at me and grunted. “What do I think? She's got no titties.” He pointed a tubby finger at me. “How old?”

‘“She's fifteen,” Madam Olga said, before I'd had a chance to reply. ‘“
Poulet
,” he grunted. “A young chicken. Give it to her – at least her barrel hasn't been reamed too large to take a cartridge like the rest of the bitches.” Whereupon he walked over to a large cupboard and, withdrawing a key attached to a chain from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked it and removed a bottle of Chivas Regal. He locked the cupboard once more and lumbered towards the door. As he reached it, he turned and said, “Maybe I'll break her in for the establishment, eh, Madam Kolkoffski?”

‘I could see he thought this was very funny and he went off chortling to himself, his huge shoulders moving up and down and no doubt his stomach wobbling with mirth. Terrified out of my wits, I observed his departing back, too young to know if he was truly joking. For months afterwards I would have nightmares where his huge and disgusting corpulence lay on top of me.

‘“Well you've got the job, child,” Madam Olga said. “Do you have an evening gown?”

‘“No, Madam Olga.”

‘“Surely, from your mother?”

‘“She's dead, madam. There's just me and my father, Count Nikolai Lenoir.”

‘“Yes, well, titles don't mean anything any more. I have two countesses on the floor, and the bartender, Petrus Chernikoff, is also a count and not a very good bartender – he keeps overfilling the champagne glasses and forgets to water the gin. The second-hand shops are full of evening gowns. Find yourself one that fits and let me know the price – we'll take it out of your tips.”

‘“My salary, Madam Olga. How much will it be?”

‘“Salary? You won't get a salary, child.”

‘“But . . . but how will we live?” I asked her tearfully.

‘“Tips. You work for tips, my dear.”

‘I hesitated. “I don't think I could be a hostess, Madam Olga.”

‘“Why not? You said you could dance, and you're a pretty little thing – the rest will come naturally. We Russians can't afford to be choosy any more.”

‘I was trembling, but stood my ground. “Thank you, Madam Olga.” I could feel the hot tears running down my cheeks. “But I can't,” I whispered.

‘“Suit yourself, child. But you soon will – life makes us do lots of things we think we'll never do. Take my advice – this place is better than most. Fifteen is not so young – do you have your periods yet?”

‘“Yes, madam,” I sniffed.

‘“There you are, you're a woman now.” But I remained firm and I shook my head. “You'll be back,” she said. “There are no more fairytales for little Russian girls – the prince does not appear on a white charger to carry her away.”

‘“No, Madam Olga.”

‘Just then the maître d knocked on the door. “May I see you, madam?”

‘“What is it, Yuri?” Madam Olga asked.

‘“The pianist – he's drunk again, madam.”

‘“Throw him out – he's rubbish! Nothing but trouble, that one!” Madam Olga said, suddenly furious.

‘“But tonight – the cabaret?” the maître d protested.

‘She sighed. “Can't you sober him up?” she demanded. “It's only seven o'clock – the first show is at nine.”

‘“I can try, madam, but he's pretty far gone. The vodka's gone to his legs.”

‘“He doesn't need his legs, he sits down!” she said impatiently.

‘“Yes, madam, but last night he fell off his piano stool.”

‘“Do
something
! she yelled. “Must I do everything around this place!” She was suddenly aware of me standing there, sniffing. “What? You still here, girl?” she shouted. “I thought I told you to go!”

‘“I can play all the cabaret tunes, Madam Olga,” I said, shaking like a leaf.

‘“Don't talk absolute rubbish, child. Now please go, I'm busy.” ‘I walked slowly from the office, Yuri, the maître d, stepping aside to let me pass. He'd spoken to me on several occasions in a friendly manner when he'd needed to translate something to one of the Chinese staff, but now he ignored me. He'd seen too many desperate refugees come and go and was probably clinging onto his own job for dear life.

‘I walked into the semi-dark club, where the air still carried the pungent smell of last night's liquor and cigarette smoke. Small electric lamps with chintz shades sat at the centre of each table and provided the only source of light in the club, except for a red strip of neon across the top of the bar that spelled “The General's Retreat”, the name of the establishment. When the cabaret came on, a spotlight worked across a small stage constantly changing colour, which was wholly unflattering to the performers.

‘Slumped sobbing over one of the small tables, with his head and shoulders caught in a circle of light, was the drunken pianist. I was too caught up in my own misery to feel sorry for him and started to walk towards the door, a lump in my throat. Then, on a sudden impulse, I turned back and walked over to the piano, a Steinway baby grand resplendent in brilliant scarlet lacquer. The club was deserted except for the barman, who was polishing glasses and arranging bottles, and the maître d, still in Madam Olga's office. The hostesses usually came in around seven-thirty to do their make-up and change into their evening gowns in time for the doors to open at eight. It had been a while since I'd played but, like you, Jack, I have a good ear for a tune and it wasn't exactly Mozart or Chopin. I sat at the piano and began to play, tears streaming down my face. I have no idea how long I played, but certainly for quite some time.

‘“That will be enough!” I suddenly heard Madam Olga say from across the floor. “You have the job.”'

‘Hey – dat good, Countess. Yoh got some luck,' Jimmy said, happy for her. We'd both been hanging on her every word and I don't know about Jimmy, but I was dead anxious she was going to have to take the job as a hostess. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan as a child prostitute was more than my imagination could bear.

‘I was just a tiny little thing and all the evening dresses I tried on in the various second-hand shops made me look laughable, like a child dressing up in her mother's clothes. Eventually, Madam Olga consulted the redoubtable general. “Hmph, schoolgirl,” he grunted.

‘“You are a genius, Rudi,” Madam Olga exclaimed ecstatically, bringing her hands up to her large breasts.'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan sighed. ‘So they dressed me like an English schoolgirl in a very short gym frock, Panama hat, black stockings and a pair of button-over black shoes. They plaited my blonde hair and tied it with ribbons to match the colour of the Steinway. I was made to wear bright-red lipstick and a little mascara and kohl on my eyes, my pale cheeks slightly rouged. I suppose it was an improvement on the evening gown, but every time I glanced into the mirror I got a horrid shock and I'd scrub my face for half an hour before taking a rickshaw home in the small hours of the morning. Of course, at the time, I had no idea of the sexual connotations of my costume.

‘Anyway, the schoolgirl concept was sufficiently bizarre to take off in quite a big way. I was billed as “Little Countess, the Schoolgirl Maestro” and soon the General's Retreat became one of the leading supper clubs in Harbin. I began receiving
billets-doux
, that is to say, love notes, from male patrons. These usually included a five- and occasionally a ten-dollar bill. Mexican dollars were the stable currency at the time in Harbin and Shanghai, the Chinese currency being practically worthless. One Mexican dollar was worth around thirty-five cents American, or two shillings in English money.'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan stopped and felt the side of the teapot. ‘Oh dear, it's lukewarm. I'll get some hot water.' She rose and went into the little kitchenette adjoining her small office.

Jimmy shook his head sympathetically. ‘Sheet, Brother Fish – dis sad, man!'

I agreed, but I was also beginning to see where Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had acquired her practical sense of money and the need to look after it. While we didn't know just how well off she was, and might never know, she lived a frugal life for someone seemingly so refined. She drove a little Ford Prefect, and while it was unusual at that time for a woman to own a car, hers was the smallest and cheapest you could buy – hardly ostentatious. While the letterpress printer that produced the
Gazette
must have cost a pretty penny, even second-hand, she certainly didn't flash or throw her money around, and lived in a modest cottage on the cliffs facing out to sea.

She returned with a jug of hot water and offered me another cup of tea and Jimmy another plunger coffee, and seemed disappointed when he refused. Taking her freshly topped-up cup to her lips, she sipped.

‘Ah, that's much better. Now, where was I? Oh yes. I soon learned to respond to the overeffusive male patrons between sets. I would sit at the table of a patron who had been particularly generous with a larger-denomination note wrapped in his
billet-doux
and drink orangeade. The fact that I sipped on soft drink while coyly refusing their offers of French champagne seemed to further excite them. I was the real thing, forbidden fruit. I quickly learned to choose my mark – if the promise of a big tip seemed forthcoming I would sit on a patron's lap, slapping roving hands away and pretending to be very cross to the point of tears if he dared attempt to take a liberty. This seemed to drive them mad with further desire and, if they were sufficiently inebriated, almost tearful remorse. Either way, it invariably resulted in a very generous tip, whereupon I would skip away to play my next set at the Steinway. It was dangerous posturing, but I didn't know any better. I guess God looks after the young and naive.

‘My mother had always said that some day I would become a singer – claimed I had a pure soprano voice. So I began to add singing to my repertoire, at first some of the lovely Russian lullabies and folk songs I'd learned as a child. Then I included those contemporary songs that suited a young soprano voice. To a homesick Russian, songs about Mother Russia and songs he'd heard in the cradle created a sensation – grown men would often weep with nostalgia, which opened purses like nothing else.'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up with a smile, and Jimmy said, ‘She hustling, man! She da sugar chile!'

‘Indeed – the more lachrymose the display, the greater the forthcoming gratuity. By the standards of the time I was making a good living as a club pianist and singer. There remained only one setback. Even though we'd moved into better accommodation, two rooms of our own with a bathroom and kitchen we shared with three other couples, my father didn't seem to be getting any better. His deep melancholy seemed to have become a permanent part of him and he would spend hours in bed hidden under the blankets or simply sit staring at the wall, occasionally protesting that he was useless and I would be much better off if he were dead. I felt terribly guilty that I couldn't spend more time with him – the nightclub would often stay open until four a.m. and I'd sleep from six in the morning until one p.m., then do the shopping. It had been suggested to me by the three couples with whom we shared kitchen and bathroom facilities that we jointly employ a cook and cleaning
amah
, and I had readily agreed to this. But my father then decided he couldn't digest Chinese food and I was forced to cook Russian meals for him. This entailed tedious hours of shopping, and after I'd cooked his dinner I would have to be at the nightclub by seven in the evening to rehearse.

‘We could now afford a visit by Dr Chung, the doctor who “looked after” the girls at the club. I now realise what he looked after, as Madam Kolkoffski insisted that every girl who worked at the club must have an examination “down there” once a week. Dr Chung was a little man who wore spats resting on highly polished boots, argyle socks, beige trousers, and a mandarin jacket in black. It had the effect of making him appear half-Western and half-Chinese, which was exactly the look he wanted, having once studied at Guys Hospital in London. He was delighted that I spoke Cantonese and refused to charge me for the visit. He examined my father and then reported back to me. “He's got the great sorrow that I cannot cure,” he confessed. “But I recommend the opium pipe – at least it will give him pleasant dreams, Miss Countess.”