Shanghai (114 page)

—

Later, in his office, the Confucian looked at the Serving Man and asked, “Are you sure?”

“No. But as I said before, it makes sense. There are posters up everywhere, everyone's looking for the red-haired
Fan Kuei
—but you haven't been able to find him. Where can you hide a White man in an Asian city?”

The Confucian nodded and smiled. Even as this little man was “tattling” on his fellow actor, the Warrens were filling with water—a plan that the Dowager had advocated long ago. As the river water rushed into the tunnels, the Confucian's men were working their way methodically from the south toward the Bund.
No red-haired
Fan Kuei
yet—but soon,
he thought,
very soon
.
And the
Fan Kuei
will lead me to the Assassin. And once Loa Wei Fen is dispatched, my position will be secure—Confucians will be secure. And I will have fulfilled the oft-repeated request of the ancient Confucians' writings: “Make China safe for us to govern.”

—

The Carver watched the water rising in the tunnels and knew that there was nothing he could do to save the statue of Chesu Hoi.
It's stone,
he reminded himself.
If the tunnels hold, it will survive
. But he knew it was a big
if
. The pressure of the onrushing water would break through walls, and the water itself could undermine the stability of the earth holding the ceiling panels in place. The entire Old City sat atop the Warrens. It could sink if the tunnels gave way. Then it occurred to him that the Confucian didn't care if the whole city sank—perhaps that was exactly what he wanted.

He discarded that thought and returned to his work on the History Teller's two large faces. He completed them just moments before the light dawned on the day before the performance.

* * *

Rehearsal, Day Six

 

Maximilian's eyes snapped open. The History Teller was

in his room, the Monkey King's costume in his hand.

“What are you …?”

“Time for you to change character.”

“But I'm still—”

“Miles away from mastering the Peasant. That's an understatement.”

“Then why?”

“Because I think they know about you.”

“How did they …?”

“Have you been watching the actor playing the Serving Man?”

“Not much.”

“Well he's been watching you—far too much. Now get up and sit here while I put on your Monkey King makeup.”

“What about the actor playing the Monkey King?”

“I gave him the morning off. He seems jittery, something's wrong there too. He keeps saying someone is watching him, but I don't have time for that now. Sit over here and let's get going.”

—

Rehearsal that day was run by the stage manager. The rehearsal began strangely and got stranger and stranger as time passed. The Serving Man's absence was never mentioned but was on every actor's mind. And where was the History Teller?

Then the Confucian struck.

With surprising efficiency, every door and egress from the old theatre was shut, bolted, and guarded as the actors were herded out onto the stage by soldiers who were none too gentle.

The soldiers lined the actors up across the front of the stage and told them to stand still.

In the darkness at the back of the auditorium the Confucian turned to the Serving Man beside him. “So?”

The actor paused only for a moment, then ran to the stage, pointing directly at the Peasant.

Soldiers immediately threw the Peasant to the stage floor and pulled off his wig.

The Serving Man stepped back. Something was wrong. The man's hair was traditional Han Chinese black. “Scrape off his makeup!” he shouted. A filthy rag was brought out and the Peasant's makeup was swiped from his face—and there was the History Teller, smiling at the actor playing the Serving Man.

“What is this?” the Confucian demanded of the Serving Man.

“I swear …”

“No, I swear that you had better be careful not to forget that you are no more than an actor—just an actor. Now put on your paint. It is no doubt time for you to learn your role—since the new role you tried to assume is clearly beyond your ability.”

The Confucian turned on his heel and left the theatre.

Maximilian, in his Monkey King costume, released his son's hand and let out a long breath.

“Are we all right, Father?”

“For now, thanks to your grandfather.”

Above them on his rafter beam Loa Wei Fen put his swalto blade away and felt the snake on his back uncoil, its hood fold, and the great serpent return to its resting place.

“Enough,” the History Teller said. “Let's run the last half, and with a bit of pace this time. We haven't earned even half of the pauses we're taking, not half.” Then he said softly, quoting the oldest of old theatre wisdom, “They can't all be great, but they can all be faster.”

Mao marched at the head of the Lantern Festival as it made its illuminated way through the maze of streets in the Old City. It was bitterly cold and had begun to rain. A flick of lightning momentarily brought Mao's face to light. He did his best to smile. At the theatre he waved a brief goodbye to the crowd and walked up the old steps to the front door.

The entrance made by the Chairman of China's Communist Party was choreographed with as much care and executed with as much pomp as the arrival of any emperor to a public performance. A special dais had been built in the centre of the auditorium for him—so that his view was not obstructed, and to keep others at a distance.

Upon Mao's entrance the entire theatre rose to its feet and applauded. A large red banner praising the great new leader hung over the proscenium arch—a last-minute order from the Confucian that the History Teller had simply had no energy to fight.

Mao took his seat and then, after an appropriate pause, signalled the audience that they might sit also. As they did, Red Army soldiers with weapons drawn filled both side aisles. Several more leaped up onto the stage, pushed aside the edges of the large curtain, and took up places in the wings.

This part of the Confucian's plan was carried out exactly as he had diagramed it four hours earlier in his office, after the actor playing the Serving Man had returned and insisted that the red-haired
Fan Kuei
was still in the acting company. The Confucian doubted this, but when the actor mentioned that the History Teller had a necklace with seventy baubles on it, he mobilized his forces.

The musicians entered from prompt-side, sat downstage in front of the stage curtain, and, as is their ancient tradition, tuned their instruments with absolutely no regard for who was sitting in the audience waiting for the evening's festivities to begin.

This was fine with the History Teller, who was still busy backstage with his technicians figuring out how to use the second of the Carver's set pieces. He finally thought he understood exactly how it worked, and he signalled the other actors to take their positions. He ignored the soldiers who were standing at attention in the wings and sought out his grandson. The boy waved at him. His smile blossomed beneath the magic of his Peking Opera makeup. The History Teller waved back, then turned from the boy and took a deep breath.
He looked at the empty stage. It had been his home for a very long time—and now it might well be his grave. He loved the moment before the curtain rose. Before it all began. Standing there in no man's land—not actor's territory or audience territory—open, unmarked space, the place between.

He took another breath and smelled the slightly oil-rich air. His eyes traced the perimeter of the stage, sighting the opening to the channel.

He touched each of the seventy baubles of glass around his neck, one at a time.

He nodded to the stage manager, who gave the musicians a signal, and they stopped their tinkering.

Jiang, near the back of the auditorium, lifted her Japanese daughter onto her lap. Above, Loa Wei Fen shifted on his rafter beam. Fong, in the wings, stepped past the soldier who was blocking his view, his eyes big as rice bowls.

A moment of utter silence. Then a cymbal clashed and the house lights snapped out. As the echo of the cymbal faded, the lights slowly rose on a tableau that the History Teller's celebrated ancestor had made famous.

—

The Serving Man is downstage, the Princess upstage—parted by their mutual fate. The Prince of the West's servants and sycophants enter to the sound of horns and begin the dance that whisks the Princess away to the royal harem. It ends with the Serving Man alone, all the way upstage centre, and a single sustained note from the high string of the arhu. The Serving Man's head drops to his chest, his shoulders slump, and he
looks to the heavens. A truly moving image of a man profoundly alone, the woman he protected and loved now gone, forever. The music abruptly stops—then he takes his first step—the first of many thousands in his journey to the east—back to his master—and the sea.

Howls of praise come from the audience. Jiang's daughter bounces up and down on her lap and claps loudly. The piece is executed with a confidence that comes only with years of performance. The elegance of the Princess, the fortitude of the Serving Man—the repetition—like prayer, familiar and comforting.

Fong, in the wings, wants to cheer but doesn't know if it is permitted.

* * *

THE CONFUCIAN pulled his coat tightly around him to keep out the rain that was now closer to sleet. He surveyed his troops and smiled. The bulldozers and other heavy earth-moving equipment were in place, all around the high walls of Silas's Garden.

A sheet of lightning lit the western horizon.

He picked up his field phone and dialled a number. His lieutenant, down by the Bund docks, picked up on the first ring.

“Are they all there?”

“Yes, sir, 688
Fan Kuei
are now registered.”

“Is that the lot?”

“We are missing only a few, and I'm sure they will be found.”

“How long have you made them wait?”

“Some as long as six hours, sir.”

“In the rain?”

“Yes, sir, as you instructed. None were permitted to stay in cars or wait in buildings.”

“And their umbrellas?”

“Taken from them, as you ordered.”

“Good. Now throw their hats and coats into the Huangpo.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Throw their suitcases in the river too. They are to leave the Middle Kingdom with nothing but the sodden shirts on their backs.”

* * *

IN THE SUZU CREEK workshop they heard the cheering as the last of the lanterns passed them by and knew the time was upon them. One by one they entered the belly of the dragon—the old Emperor at the head—Brother Matthew, almost a hundred feet behind him, supporting the very tip of the tail.

—

The music picks up—the arhu strikes a haunted pitch and the lights change. The History Teller, now in full courtesan costume, enters the harem. A red banner descends from the flies: “A Princess Humbled.”

Cheers rise from the audience. It startles the History Teller, until he realizes that they are from the Communists, who would have no problem with the humbling of a princess.

The History Teller lifts a foot high in the air, then brings it down as the first step in a long dance run.
Without scenery or props, the audience follows the Princess as she runs to the extremities of the room, then bounds back toward the opposite wall. Each time she turns, more and more women, dressed very much like her, step forward, until the stage is littered with courtesans. She who is special is made mundane by repetition.

The entire stage is aswirl in colour and motion. The sequence moves from dance to song to a complex tableau of women asleep.

The arhu sounds a long, mournful note, and as it extends, the sleeping women roll away from the centre of the stage, leaving only the Princess, asleep. There is a pause—no music, no motion. Then a shadow elongates from stage left and crosses her body.

Jiang holds her daughter, who, terrified, buries her head in her mother's chest.

Fong takes a step back, while the Assassin stands on his rafter beam to get a better look.

Mao shifts uncomfortably in his elevated chair.

Lights slash across the Princess's sleeping figure. Horns scream. The shadow grows—the danger approaches.

Then the lights snap out. Darkness.

A low-angled shaft of light hits the Princess from upstage, bounding past her into the audience, momentarily blinding them. The audience, as one, gasps. A huge figure rises from the upstage floor with a gentle clacking.

A cymbal crash.

The light turns from the audience to the Carver's huge figure.

The audience gasps again—it is the face of Chiang Kai Shek! The audience immediately makes the connection
between Chiang Kai Shek and the indifferent power of the Prince of the West. The Princess leaps to her feet, grabs a feather from her headdress, bends it into her mouth, and strikes an astounding pose. She holds it for a long breath, then screams a single word, “Devil!” She backs away, lets out a second, even more ear-piercing scream and races toward the huge face. At the last moment she leaps high in the air toward its centre. Her body goes through the thin shell visage right between the monstrous eyes. Chiang Kai Shek's image shudders, then shatters into a thousand pieces, and the audience—led by Mao—rises to its feet as one great thing and howls its approval.

This time Fong doesn't care if it is allowed—he cheers his voice hoarse.

Jiang's daughter claps her little hands until they hurt.

Loa Wei Fen on his rafter beam reaches for his swalto.

* * *

ON THE HOUR, the Confucian's street wardens, backed by Red Army troops, went door to door arresting every Chinese person who had ever had anything to do with the
Fan Kuei
and shipped them off to Ti Lan Chiou Prison. Then they set about pulling down every non-Chinese street sign, every non-Chinese poster, shop advertisement—every vestige of English, French, German, Dutch, or Russian from the city. Many foreign words were painted on storefronts, so the windows were smashed—thousands of store windows were shattered.