The Fan Tan Players Read online

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘Were you born here, in Macao?’’

  Nadia shook her head. ‘‘Russia.’’ She felt impelled to offer a similar level of detail as Izabel had. ‘‘In a village near Tver, about two hundred miles south of St. Petersburg. When I was seven we moved to a city called Chelyabinsk, just east of the Ural Mountains, to live with cousins. We lived there for four and a half years until, eventually, my mother and I came here to be with Uncle Yugevny.’’ Her voice trailed away as she watched a tiny snail crawl up the wall.

  Izabel got to her feet and picked up the almost-full bucket. She shuffled over to the washstand, weaving through an area crisscrossed with flopping strings of washing, and emptied the contents into the basin. When she’d replaced the zinc pail on the floor she cocked her head to her right shoulder and gave a single slow blink of the eyes. ‘‘And your husband? What does he do?’’ she said.

  Nadia couldn’t prevent an involuntary flick of the head. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m not married,’’ she said cheerily.

  ‘‘What? A pretty girl like you?’’

  Nadia smiled, shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘‘A single Yelena, eh? Just like my cousin Anna. Well that’s just doocky.’’ Izabel looked fleetingly out of the window, into the brightening sky. ‘‘I remember the days when I was single. Full of parties and dancing until daylight. With two little children running my life now it’s all a distant memory. Still, Carlos and I set aside a few evenings a month to go out and enjoy a good dance or two. Are you out most nights?’’

  ‘‘No, usually I stay at home.’’

  Izabel made a face. ‘‘Sounds terribly dull.’’

  ‘‘Dull?’’ Nadia said.

  ‘‘Yes, a good-looking thing like you should be out teasing the boys, showing off your new, short hairstyle, your legs, your garconne look. That’s what being a flapper is all about, isn’t it? Being vibrant and enjoying yourself. Before I was married with children I was out all the time. Enjoying men.’’ She gave Nadia a nudge with her elbow.

  ‘‘How do you relieve the boredom?’’ Izabel asked.

  ‘‘I read.’’

  ‘‘What, periodicals? I love periodicals.’’ Izabel glanced at the magazine on the floor. ‘‘I’ve been reading this wonderful article about the design for the new Zeppelin. They’ve decided to make a picture show about it. Do you know they’re going to print their own on-board newspaper?’’

  ‘‘No, I meant books, mostly modern American novelists … Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Sherwood Anderson. I’ve just read ‘The Sun Also Rises’ by a new, young author called Ernest Hemingway. Have you read it?’’

  ‘‘Merda, if only I had the time! My children are little monsters. Where they find the energy I simply don’t know.’’

  ‘‘How old are they?’’

  ‘‘I’ve got two boys, they’re five and six.’’ She paused and gave Nadia a conspiratorial look. ‘‘Maybe we should go out. You, me, and Carlos.’’

  ‘‘Go out?’’

  ‘‘Yes, to try the local giggle water.’’

  ‘‘Giggle water?’’

  ‘‘It’s American slang for alcohol. I picked it up from one of the stage show magazines. ’’

  Nadia smiled, looked a little surprised. ‘‘There’s a strict etiquette of chaperonage in Macao. …’’

  ‘‘Phooey!’’ she said, waving her hand. ‘‘Etiquette is for old ladies and pale, skinny men who read Oscar Wilde.’’

  Nadia continued to look surprised; she didn’t want to say that she often read Oscar Wilde.

  ‘‘Well we’re a fine pair! Me with two brats and a hoggish husband from Barreiro. You, an unmarried recluse from Russia … and here we are mopping up water that belongs in the South China Sea.’’

  Nadia laughed.

  ‘‘What made you come here? Why come to Macao, of all places?’’

  ‘‘My Mamuchka wanted to be with her brother, my Uncle Yugevny. I think she wanted a fresh start, felt she had to leave Russia, leave the past behind. …’’

  ‘‘What year was this?’’

  ‘‘November, 1911.’’

  ‘‘Did you come by ship?’’ said Izabel.

  Nadia shook the hair out of her face. ‘‘The final part of the journey from Vladivostok was by passenger ship.’’

  ‘‘Well that sounds just doocky! – that’s another American expression by the way – so you arrived in Vladivostok then came here by boat. I bet you had to learn Portuguese pretty quickly. What were the first words you learned, apart from the swear words?’’

  Nadia smiled at the memory. ‘‘Mamuchka and I used to have breakfast in a little Macanese café around the corner. The owner was this tiny man with a huge nose who talked in a high-pitched voice. He’s returned to Porto now, sadly. Every morning he’d ask us the same question: would you like your eggs fritos or escaldados. So the first words I learned were ‘Fritos, por favor.’ ’’

  Izabel laughed. ‘‘One day you must try my Barreiro omelet. I prepare it with shrimps and sweetened apples.’’ They held onto each other’s elbows for support as they rose from the floor. There was a tight clap of churchbells in the distance. The pealing chimes stopped just as Nadia wiped up the last remnant of rain with her foot.

  ‘‘Seven-thirty already,’’ said Izabel, looking out the window. ‘‘The rain has stopped. I’d better wake the monsters.’’ She began climbing the steps. Small flies gave up their places on the stairs as she approached. ‘‘It was nice to meet you,’’ Izabel said, placing one hand on the door.

  Nadia disengaged herself from the wet towels and looked up into the landing. ‘‘If the weather clears there’ll be a town parade tomorrow morning, with firecrackers and acrobats. Maybe even a lion-dance. I can take you if you want?’’

  Izabel paused at the top of the steps and looked at the doorknob. She closed her eyes and gave a laugh that shook her tomboyish hair. ‘‘A lion-dance,’’ she said. Her throat made a soft warm sound. ‘‘I used to read about lion-dances when I was a child.’’

  ‘‘It’s a date then?’’

  ‘‘I’ll have to ask Mrs. Lo from across the hall to see if she’ll look after the children …’’ She nodded. ‘‘Yes, all right.’’

  ‘‘Afterwards we’ll have an early lunch at the café around the corner.’’

  ‘‘And watch the acrobats and tumblers perform along the streets.’’ The honeyed thrill of her words spilled down the stairs and settled in ticklish swirls by Nadia’s feet.

  3

  The light was failing by the time Nadia returned from the fruit market. She was very pleased with her evening’s bounty. A fresh shipment of Burmese mangoes – Uncle Yugevny’s favourite – had come in and she was glad to have snapped up five of them before they’d all gone. She ran, lifting her skirt through the downpour, over the pools of water left by the post-monsoon showers.

  The door to her house was dappled and paint-chipped. Nadia squeezed the lapels of her raincoat together and clasped her scarf against the wind. She was standing in mud. Her black shoes, more functional than elegant, dented the springy wet ground, unleashing rude sucking noises with each step. The rain-filtered streetlights made it hard for her to see the keyhole. The stench of the open drains made her want to cover her nose with a handkerchief, but instead she stooped and felt for the keyhole with her fingers. On the third attempt she got the doorknob to twist and open.

  The cavernous ground floor was cool and quiet. A crystal chandelier hung stiffly over the tiled floor, and Nadia could see the ubiquitous spiderwebs that mingled amongst the many tiers of glass. She peeled off her coat and removed her shoes, feeling the coolness of the floor on her feet. She wound her way through the still corridor, past the warren of small rooms that led to the shop, rippled shadows of lantern light trailing her every step. Some of the chambers were painted pale yellow, others a bold blue. At the end of the hallway she looked through the door that opened onto the cigar store, into the wood-panelled du
sk of the Tabacaria. Her Uncle Yugevny was closing for the night, putting up the sign in the window, and she heard the clicking of door locks and the scraping of a heavy drawer. Uncle Yugevny had mad-professor hair that prodded out at all angles from his head; it was a look she had grown to love. She gazed briefly at the glass cabinets, the tidy stacks of cedarwood boxes, the cartons of Abdullahs, the teapoy in the corner; she saw the white porcelain jars labeled with Mild Virginia, Zubelda, Spirit of St. Louis, the bell-shaped packets of pipe tobacco, the 20-unit cartons of Fatima, the carved briarwood and corncob pipes that hung from pegs on a revolving stand. She listened with a faint frown of concentration for the metallic fall of the key followed by the forceful closing of the drawer.

  ‘‘I’ve got a surprise for you,’’ she said, waiting for him to emerge from the darkness.

  ‘‘A surprise?’’ he said, from somewhere within the gloom.

  ‘‘I have,’’ she said theatrically, ‘‘five mangoes from Rangoon, fresh off the boat.’’

  Uncle Yugevny stepped into the light and put a hand on her cheek. He adjusted his glasses and looked into the brown paper bag. ‘‘Fkoosniy,’’ he said, nodding his head. ‘‘Zamyechateel’niy! Have you had oozhin, supper? You will eat with me?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m exhausted. I was up at five. The typhoon woke me and I was worried about the flooding.’’

  He took the bag from her and scuttled back into the shop. ‘‘How is the basement across the road?’’ he cried. ‘‘All dry now?’’

  ‘‘All dry. I met one of the new tenants this morning who helped me mop the floor. Her name’s Izabel. She’s very nice.’’

  ‘‘By the eyes of the domovoi, I am glad. Tell me, did the mail sloop come in today? My subscription to Pravda is due. I hear a rumour that Stalin is planning to form collectives throughout Russia. What will happen to the kulaks? The man is dangerous, I tell you.’’

  ‘‘No, the mail boat is due tomorrow.’’

  ‘‘Tomorrow it is then.’’

  ‘‘Well, good night, Uncle, spakoynenawche,’’ she called, and from within the lamplit dark of the Tabacaria came a reply that resembled the quickly fading cough of a chimney pot.

  She climbed the steps to the second floor in the dark. On every sixth stair was placed a poison-box to snare cockroaches. It was a compact, old house; the breaks in its substructure were so ancient they’d been naturally resealed over the decades with compressed grime. There were cracks along the walls and layers of wallpaper that had grown ochreous with time. The floors had been laid with hand-hewn teak planks shipped in from Java. Broader and thicker than any present-day Southern-Chinese oak, it was sturdy enough to withstand numerous resandings. The problem, as Nadia knew all too well, was that it creaked horribly. The spring of the dilating wood beneath her feet often made her feel like a tightrope dancer. She tried to walk now with a light tread, eager not to disturb her mother. But then she heard the singing.

  Her mother’s bedroom door was open. For a minute, perhaps more, Nadia stood listening to the old world music, surrendering to her Mamuchka’s soft voice. She did not want conversation; she was too tired for talk. She just wanted to hear the sounds that made her think of rolling country, fields of wheat and rye and corn, golden-haired village children taking the cows to pasture, dishes of pickles, potato soup, steaming-hot piroshkis. Nadia waited for her mother’s voice to trail away, for the Russian folk song to taper off. When things went quiet she lingered in the breathless silence for an additional minute before approaching the door. Treading softly, she entered and saw a spacious armchair in which a large, grey-haired lady was fast asleep, her mouth partially agape, a cluster of knitting discarded on her lap. Nadia removed the long metal needles from her mother’s fingers, laid them next to a small bundle of photographs on a coffee table, and covered her legs with a blanket. She looked at the face she knew better than she knew her own. Her Mamuchka’s hair, usually fluffy and unruly, was gathered in a bun using a comb and hairpins, and the bridges of her spectacles had slid to the tip of her nose. Nadia’s love for her mother was strong. The pride she felt in her little family sifted down on her like silver dust; it brightened her apple-cheeked complexion and squeezed a smile from her eyes.

  She looked again at the photographs on the coffee table and for the first time in ages she saw her father. He was standing by a fountain, slouching a little, a straw hat tilted at a rakish angle on his head. Before him, on a stone step, were sitting Mamuchka, grandma and grampapa Petrov, and a little white dog. Their faces were radiant and full of laughter. She stood motionless for perhaps half a minute, then, not wanting to rouse her mother, slipped the bundle into the pocket of her skirt.

  Unhurriedly, she moved away. But then she heard her mother speak. ‘‘Senhor Pinto, the judge, came to call on you this afternoon,’’ Olga Shashkova said in her pebbled voice, cutting through the silence like gravel. ‘‘He’s promised to donate HK$80 to the White Russian Widows charity.’’

  ‘‘I thought you were sleeping,’’ Nadia said. Under her skirt the photographs pressed like a weight against her thigh.

  ‘‘Kto rano vstayot, tomu bog prodayot – God gives to those who wake up early. Anyway, the senhor promised more pledges in the future. He said maybe we should hold a charity ball or a cake bake to raise more money.’’ Olga’s eyes remained shut. ‘‘He left you a set of embroidered handkerchiefs. Beautiful little butterflies, all satin stitched.’’

  Nadia saw his calling card on the bureau with a corner turned down to indicate that he had visited in person. ‘‘He must be sixty, Mamuchka.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’re no spring flower yourself … what are you … thirty-five?’’

  ‘‘You know very well I’m only twenty-eight.’’

  ‘‘Only twenty-eight. And just look at that hairstyle! You look like a stable boy from Mtsensk.’’ Mamuchka’s eyes were now open, and Nadia saw a hint of mischief in them.

  ‘‘Must we go through this every time …’’

  ‘‘Go through what?’’ asked Mamuchka.

  ‘‘Never mind.’’

  ‘‘Your father would have wanted you married at twenty. He would have been so proud. … I was married at twenty and that was considered old then.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  ‘‘Senhora de Souza across the road says Pinto’s annual income as a magistrate is at least fifty thousand patacas.’’ Olga Shashkova looked dreamily at the ceiling. ‘‘Choodeasne! Imagine what I could do with fifty thousand patacas.’’

  ‘‘Buy Senhor Pinto a pair of elevated heeled shoes to start. He only comes up to my shoulder.’’

  ‘‘Not his fault that you’re tall.’’

  ‘‘He’s a midget.’’

  ‘‘A fit midget, nonetheless.’’

  ‘‘How do you know he’s fit?’’

  ‘‘He does all that pulling and grunting in his bedroom.’’

  ‘‘Pulling? Grunting? What are you talking about?’’ Nadia sounded moderately shocked.

  ‘‘Senhora de Souza says he has one of those contraptions in his bedroom. You know, it’s secured to the wall and you have to puff and pull and twist, and then it springs back again.’’

  ‘‘How would Senhora de Souza know?’’

  There was a pause. Olga pressed her lips together. ‘‘Bawzhemoy! I never thought of that.’’

  ‘‘Mamuchka … I’m not interested in that old mountain goat.’’

  Olga’s face loosened. She started laughing, crinkling the wrinkles on the sides of her mouth. ‘‘I know, Nadrichka. … I’m only teasing. Anyway the old fool should know that giving handkerchiefs causes tears.’’ Nadia glanced at the coffee table, at the empty space where the photographs sat only seconds earlier. ‘‘I’ve upset you,’’ said Olga.

  ‘‘No you haven’t.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t mean to.’’

  A moment of silence passed.

  ‘‘I left some food for you in the kitchen,’’ Olga said.

  ‘‘I
’m too tired to eat. I think I’ll go to bed.’’

  ‘‘But it’s not even nine o’clock? You must eat something.’’

  ‘‘I was up before five this morning.’’ She leant forward and kissed her mother’s cheek.

  ‘‘Goodnight Nadrichka, spakoynenawche.’’

  ‘‘Spakoynenawche.’’

  In her own room Nadia glanced at the ikon of the Virgin hanging on the wall of the north-east corner, the so-called ‘beautiful corner’. It looked heavy and awkward in the dark-gravy light. She bowed to the waist before the image and said a quiet prayer to Saint Nikolai Chudotvorets and to the Holy Mother of God. After crossing herself she pressed her forehead to the cool floor then got to her feet. She thought of her Mamuchka again, how she would sit each day behind the shop counter, playing with her hair, always in a long-sleeved, black organdie dress. ‘‘I’ve sat here for so long,’’ she’d say to customers, ‘‘that I think I’m growing roots.’’ Nadia smiled to herself, amused by her Mamuchka’s dry humour. Her personality pulled people into the shop like nails drawn to a magnet.

  She undressed, pulled on a nightgown and hung up her skirt behind the door. The photographs slid from the pocket and fell onto the floor. She knelt to retrieve them, peering at each as she arranged them into a neat stack. There were pictures of her old house, the gardens, Papashka in his white flannels, Mamuchka in bloomers holding a tennis racquet. She leafed through them one by one, but then stopped when she came to a folded piece of worn paper. It was a letter written in Cyrillic. She’d read the words a hundred times before, but seeing the doctor’s signature at the bottom of the letter now filled her with sadness and deep frustration. She squeezed the letter to her breast and then, along with the photographs, pushed the bundle into the bureau drawer and readied herself for bed.

  She pulled the chenille bedspread onto the floor, unfurled the mosquito net and climbed under the sheets. She began thinking about her mother again. If only, Nadia thought, she could find herself a man that she liked. It would please Mamuchka so much. She remembered all the high-hatted and high coloured suitors who used to arrive at a rate of one every fortnight – that was when she was in her early twenties. Things had tailed off considerably since then. It had been assumed by her Uncle Yugevny that Nadia would marry, but the Carvalhos, Ferreiras, Redondo-Wongs and da Fonsecas, to name but a few, had bored her, stifled her even. She had rejected them all, discarded the idea of marrying them as one discards a fountain pen when it draws dry of ink. Was she capable of mending lace curtains? They’d asked. Did she know how to cook arroz de polvo? Or rabanadas? Could she prepare sardines stuffed with crab? Did she know anything about raising a family? Did she worship Our Lady Santa Ana or attend catechism class? Had she ever been to Lisbon? Nadia’s replies to these questions had always been a firm no. Yet despite the fact that she couldn’t do any of this Portuguese housewifery, they still pursued her.