Everything Under the Sky (6 page)

My niece came in at around seven to remind me it was time to go. I got out of bed under her scrutinizing stare and began to get ready. Fernanda stood immobile in the doorway, following me with her eyes until I couldn't take it anymore.

“Don't you have to get changed?” I asked brusquely.

“I'm all ready,” she replied. I looked her over carefully but didn't notice anything different. She looked the same as ever in that old-fashioned black dress, her hair in a ponytail, and that perennial fan in her hand.

“Are you waiting for something?”

“No.”

“Well, go on, then. Get.”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment and finally left. Looking back, I think she might have been worried about me, but at the time I was so overcome with sorrow I couldn't respond properly to anything.

After curling my hair and perfuming it with Quelques Fleurs, I put on a delightful, brown silk evening dress with large tulle bows on both sides. The result in the mirror was spectacular. Why deny it? After all, it was my best dress, a copy of a Chanel made from a piece of silk Rémy had given me. Satisfied, I adjusted the thin straps on my bare shoulders, put on my bisque-colored shoes, and straightened the seam up the backs of my stockings. It was strange to think about everything that had happened that day as I examined my reflection. Primping certainly does wonders for your constitution. I felt much better by the time I held the wave over my forehead in place with a delicate multicolored barrette shaped like a dragonfly.

We left the French Concession for the first time that night, passing through the border post in two rickshaws and entering the International Concession. Huge new cars—mostly American models—sped through the streets with their headlights on. I should point out that they drive on the left in Shanghai, like the English, and that it's the impressive Sikh police, sent by the British from their colony in India, who direct traffic. These subjects of the English Crown, with bulging red turbans and thick, dark beards, use long batons to do their job—batons that become lethal weapons in their hands should the need arise.

The Spanish consulate wasn't far. In no time we found ourselves in front of a modern, Mediterranean-style villa with a lush garden, lit up like one of those bright Chinese lanterns. The national flag fluttered from a pole on the second floor. Two or three luxury cars were parked to one side, a sign that other guests had already arrived. Strangely enough, my niece was a bundle of nerves, repeatedly snapping her fan open and closed, chattering uncontrollably in our native language as soon as she stepped out of the rickshaw. I had to smile realizing that the silliest little things could still lift my spirits, even on a day as awful as this.

The consul, Julio Palencia y Tubau, was an extraordinary man
³
with a wonderful personality and the warmest of manners. Not only was he the son of the actress María Tubau and the playwright Ceferino Palencia, but his brother, also named Ceferino, was married to Isabel de Oyarzábal,
⁴
my favorite author. I'd had the great pleasure of meeting her two years prior during a fascinating conference she gave in Paris. One of Isabel's many commendable positions was as president of the National Association of Spanish Women, an organization fighting for equal rights in our extremely difficult country. She was extremely cultured and firmly believed it was possible to change the world. I was thrilled to discover she was related to the consul and immediately liked him and his wife, an elegant lady of Greek origin. While I was conversing with them and a few of the guests (Spanish businessmen who'd made their fortunes in Shanghai, along with their wives), Fernanda was having a lovely time in the company of a priest with a quixotic beard and an enormous bald head. The seating arrangement at the table was such that the two were able to continue talking uninterrupted. I learned that he was Father Castrillo, superior of the Augustinian mission from El Escorial monastery and a distinguished businessman. He'd known how to put his community's money to good use, buying land in Shanghai when it was worthless and then selling it for a fortune in later years. In this way the Augustinians had come to own many of the city's principal buildings.

Another peculiar character in attendance was a bald Irishman in his fifties who hovered around me most of the night. His name was Patrick Tichborne, and the consul introduced him as a distant relation of his wife's. Tichborne had a great potbelly and the bronzed skin of a country man. A journalist, he worked for various English papers, primarily the Royal Geographic Society's
Journal.
He followed me all night, milling about nearby and awkwardly looking away whenever our eyes met. He was so annoying that I started to feel uncomfortable and was about to mention it to the consul.

I'd just finished a very interesting chat with the wife of a Mr. Ramos, wealthy owner of six of the best movie houses in Shanghai, when Tichborne dashed over to speak to me. All the other guests were occupied in conversations; fearing the worst, I adopted a surly expression.

“Might I speak with you for a moment, Mme De Poulain?” he mumbled in French, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“Go ahead,” I replied, looking displeased.

“Thank you. I must be quick. No one else can hear what I'm about to tell you.”

Oh, dear! This Irishman was really starting off on the wrong foot.

“A friend of your husband's needs to speak with you urgently.”

“I don't understand all the secrecy, Mr. Tichborne. He can leave his card at my house if he'd like to see me.”

He began to grow nervous, glancing furtively left and right.

“Mr. Jiang can't go to your house, madame. You're being watched day and night.”

“What?” I asked indignantly. I was no stranger to the various ways a man can approach a woman, but this was really ridiculous. “I think, Mr. Tichborne, that you've had too much to drink.”

“Listen!” he exclaimed, gripping my arm urgently. I pulled away sharply and tried to walk toward the consul, but Tichborne grabbed me again, forcing me to look at him. “Don't be a fool, madame. You're in danger! Listen to me!”

“If you dare touch me again,” I warned him coldly, “I will inform the consul at once.”

“Look, I don't have time for silly games,” he declared, letting me go. “Your husband wasn't killed by thieves, Mme De Poulain, but by hired assassins from the Green Gang, the most dangerous mafia in Shanghai. They broke into your house in search of something very important. When they didn't find it, they tortured your husband to make him confess. But Rémy was
nghien,
madame, and couldn't tell them anything. Now they're after you. They've been following you since you disembarked yesterday. You can be certain they'll try again, so your life and your niece's life are in grave danger.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don't believe me,” he said haughtily, “interrogate your servants. Don't accept the official story without investigating first. Get to the truth with a sturdy rod; yellows won't talk unless they're afraid. The Green Gang is extremely powerful.”

“But what about the police? The French consul told me today that the police report—”

The Irishman let out a guffaw.

“Do you know who's in charge of the French Concession police force, madame? Huang Jin Rong, better known as ‘Pockmarked Huang’ because of the smallpox scars on his face. Pockmarked Huang is also the boss of the Green Gang. He controls the traffic of opium, prostitution, and gambling, as well as the police who're watching your house and wrote the report concerning your husband's death. You have no idea what things are like in Shanghai, madame, but you'll have to learn quickly if you want to survive.”

The anguish I'd felt since speaking with Rémy's lawyer that morning suddenly returned with a vengeance. I had heart palpitations and felt as if I were suffocating all over again.

“Are you serious, Mr. Tichborne?”

“Look, madame, I never joke unless I'm drunk. You should meet Mr. Jiang. He's a respectable antiquarian from Nanking Road who was a good friend of your husband's for many years. Since you're being followed, Mr. Jiang can't go to your house and you can't go to his shop. You'll have to meet somewhere the Chinese aren't allowed. That way your pursuers will have to remain outside, like now.”

“But if the Chinese aren't allowed in, Mr. Jiang won't be either.”

“He will if I bring him in through the back door. I'm speaking of my club, the Shanghai Club, on the Bund. I live there, in the hotel, in one of two rooms the Royal Geographical Society keeps for members who travel to this part of the Orient. Mr. Jiang will come to my room through the kitchen, and you'll come in normally, through the front door. Let me warn you that it's an all-male club, so you won't be able to go into the parlors or the bar. You'll have to come to my room on the pretense of bringing me this book.” He surreptitiously pulled a small, leather-bound volume out of his jacket pocket. Luckily, it just fit into my purse. “Say you're coming to have me sign this book I wrote. Hotel guests receive all sorts of female visitors—secretaries, American businesswomen, Russian jewelry merchants—so you won't arouse too much suspicion or endanger your reputation, especially since we met here tonight. Don't even think of bringing anything the Green Gang assassins might mistake for a piece of art. Mr. Jiang is convinced they're looking for something like that. They would kill you in plain sight just to get their hands on it.”

I tried to reflect on that flood of information but still didn't understand what this Mr. Jiang could want with me.

“Mr. Jiang is convinced that if you can discover what the Green Gang wants and give it to them, then you and your niece will no longer be in danger,” Tichborne hurriedly explained, staring fixedly over my shoulder. The expression on his face was clear: Someone was approaching. “He has a few ideas in this regard…. Of course I can sign my book for you, madame!” he exclaimed, suddenly sounding happy. The consul's smiling wife entered my field of view. “Come by my hotel tomorrow at noon, and I'd be delighted to dedicate your copy.”

“I've come to rescue you, Elvira,” Julio Palencia's elegant wife declared in her slightly accented Spanish, giving me a wink. “Patrick can be rather annoying at times.” Then, in English, she asked him to bring her a glass of champagne.

“She's read my book, darling. That's what we were talking about,” he said snidely in French.

The consul's wife was wise enough not to ask questions as she kindly led me to the largest group of guests, who were discussing the threat of a military uprising in our country. I'd always followed events in Spain with a certain amount of interest, such as the opening of the first big department stores or the construction of the first subway line in Madrid. I'd never been very interested in politics, perhaps because it was so confusing and problematic that I didn't quite understand it. I had, however, been very worried by the recent attacks and riots. I simply couldn't imagine that the military would once again attempt to take power. Consul Palencia maintained an impartial silence as Antonio Ramos, owner of the movie houses, and Lafuente, an architect from Madrid, expressed worry about an imminent coup.

“The king won't allow it,” Ramos offered hesitantly.

“The king, my dear friend, backs the military,” Lafuente objected. “Moreover, he backs General Primo de Rivera.”

The consul's wife intervened to bring the thorny conversation to an end. “What do you say we play some Raquel Meller on the gramophone?” she asked out loud, with that slight accent of hers.

That was all it took. Enthusiasm rippled through the guests, who exclaimed jubilantly and rushed moments later to dance enthusiastically. It was then I began to feel tired—exhausted, in fact. I was suddenly so worn out I could hardly stand. Thus, when “La Violetera” came on and everyone began to sing the refrain
“Llévelo usted, señorito, que no vale más que un real”
at the top of their lungs, I decided it was time to leave. I collected Fernanda, who was still chatting with Father Castrillo, and we said good-bye to the consul and his wife, thanking them for everything and assuring them we'd visit again before we left China.

As we crossed the garden on our way to the street, I began to worry about what Tichborne had said. Were the Green Gang's henchmen really out there? It was a frightening thought. Once we were through the gates, I glanced all around but saw only a couple of slender, ragged women bent under the weight of the baskets they were carrying and a few coolies dozing in their vehicles as they waited for their patrons. Everyone else was European. In any event, that night I would have every single one of the servants stand guard once they'd secured the doors.

Fernanda and I got into the rickshaws as Meller's piercing voice drifted out the consulate windows; it was a truly extravagant experience in that Oriental setting. Much later, after I'd heard the intolerable caterwauling that Celestials consider the most exquisite of operatic songs, I realized that Meller actually had a very beautiful voice.

I
was so exhausted I slept deeply all night long and woke feeling completely rested. What I needed most that morning was the time and tranquillity to organize my thoughts. It would have done me good to sit and sketch for a while, take a few notes in the garden, and regain the clarity I'd lost due to nerves the day before. My head was filled with noise. Fleeting images and bits of the conversations I'd had with M. Julliard, M. Wilden, Consul Palencia and his wife, and especially Tichborne sped through my mind, out of control. The fear of ruin weighed on my soul like a stone. I was usually quick and efficient at making decisions—the result of living alone for so long and having had to stand on my own when I was just a girl. And yet these problems that had come crashing down on me rendered me dim-witted, slow; they aggravated my panic attacks. I resignedly told myself that even if I couldn't sketch, I should at least try to get out of bed and make an effort to rally.