The Fan Tan Players Read online

  ‘‘Perhaps …’’ said Izabel with a nod. She shut her eyes and let out a breath, gently running her fingers along the lining of the basket.

  ‘‘Would you like a break?’’ Nadia said. ‘‘Let’s go somewhere quiet for a cup of tea.’’

  They descended the large stepping stones into the Rua de St. Lourenco, their ears ringing with noise. The town fell away below them, a hodgepodge of red-and-yellow tiled roofs angling down to a shimmering chocolate-coloured sea. Sailing junks passed gracefully, tacking along the inner harbour waterfront, their burnt-sienna masts leaning away from the wind. Dockside activity was minimal. Away from the festival, the city had changed tempo. There was an undertow of langour now, merged with a certain thirst-provoking world-weariness; a type of tropical inertia. This was the Macao Nadia was used to, the Macao she liked. The travesas grew sleepy, the street life laconic and slow. Frayed clotheslines hung slack. Coolies sat on rickety-looking walls, puffing blue smoke through bamboo pipes. An aged lady washed her cabbages on the steps of her front door as her husband slumbered in a wicker chair.

  Nadia found the café she was looking for – a little cha lau with a sprawling white verandah and views of the Pearl River estuary. The two women found a table in the shade, where the breeze cooled their slender arms and an adventurous sparrow hopped about feeding on crumbs. They ordered iced mint tea with limes and sat amongst the working men having their breakfasts of chorizos and congee and assorted dim sums. The cold tea arrived with icy droplets of water sliding down the outsides of the glass tumblers. Toast and fried eggs made their way along the table. And when they shared stories about their lives they spoke as if they’d known each other for years.

  A man with red hair sat nearby with his shoulders hunched and his elbows on the table. He was reading a copy of the South China Morning Post, a Hong Kong newspaper, and perspiring profusely. Nadia’s eyes returned to him from time to time, deeply engrossed as she was in her conversation with Izabel. Once, she thought she caught him looking over at them, but the man looked away quickly, his eyes shining. When she was done eating her toast, she offered him a sideways glance only to find that he had gone, leaving a small roll of one pataca banknotes as payment for his coffee.

  Nadia shrugged and her gaze returned to Izabel.

  ‘‘I simply cannot forget what they are doing to those babies,’’ Izabel said. ‘‘It’s horrible. Nadia, we must do something to help them.’’

  5

  Nadia had an unsuspicious nature and it would never have occurred to her that she was being watched at the cha lau. It was only when the same red-haired man came into the Tabacaria the following day with a roll of one pataca bills, wanting to buy a carton of Lucky Strike, did she think that there was something familiar about him, and something peculiar too. To start with, his voice – all chopped vowels and abrupt syllables – was unimaginably exotic. He spoke Portuguese in a way that she had rarely, if ever, heard before. She could hear a distant land in his voice; there was a ruggedness, a gravelly, chalky earthiness to his tone. It made her think of rain-rinsed sand.

  ‘‘Can you recommend a mild tea-towel?’’ he said, having paid for the Lucky Strikes.

  What an odd question, she thought. Nadia shrugged her shoulders and repeated the word, ‘‘Chatoalha?’’ – tea towel?

  ‘‘Sim, chatoalha.’’

  ‘‘The fellow’s an idiot.’’ Uncle Yugevny said in Russian from across the room, his mad-professor hair sprouting from his head at all angles. ‘‘By the eyes of the damovoi! Last week he was in here looking to buy a dozen kettles!’’

  ‘‘Don’t get excited, Uncle Yugevny. Remember your heart.’’

  ‘‘Excited? This nincompoop wants you to recommend a mild tea-towel and you tell me not to get excited?’’ As he said this, his glasses steamed up and he had to wipe the lenses with his thumb.

  ‘‘Do you mean charuto?’’ Nadia suggested to the man.

  ‘‘Sim, sim, charuto,’’ exclaimed the stranger, at once pointing at a set of cigars.

  Nadia could not take her eyes off him. She saw a man in his early thirties with turbulent red hair, short-clipped with a side parting, and lean, pale cheeks that were only very slightly freckled.

  ‘‘My name is Sutherland,’’ he said in Portuguese, pushing back his head to reveal a flushed face with dark, sun-kissed eyes. ‘‘Iain Sutherland. Sorry, my accent’s bloody awful.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry. You’re just a little off-key.’’

  ‘‘Do you speak English?’’

  ‘‘I do,’’ said Nadia. ‘‘But I’m a bit out of practice.’’

  ‘‘Thank God for that,’’ he said, reverting to his mother tongue. ‘‘’Fraid I never managed to get my head round Portuguese. It’s like learning to speak Gaelic backwards.’’

  He stood between the rosewood glass cabinets; there was an exotic scent of orange peel and rose water lifting off his flesh. Nadia gazed at him with a puzzled look. ‘‘So, how may I help you?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Aye, well, I was hoping you could help me choose a cigar, something not too strong in flavour.’’

  She approached a row of patterned cigar boxes from Cuba and selected a petit corona for his perusal. ‘‘I can recommend Hoyo de Monterrrey,’’ she said. ‘‘Subtle and mild, it can be enjoyed at any time of the day.’’

  Sutherland held the cigar under his nose between thumb and index finger. The cream collar of his shirt was a little loose against his neck. Nadia could see the dappled patina of heat rash on his ivory throat. ‘‘Smells of cedar trees and moist coffee beans,’’ he said. He was staring at her with such familiarity that she had to lower her gaze.

  ‘‘If you find it too overpowering I can show you a Cifuentes which is a much lighter smoke.’’ She ran a finger lightly across the counter.

  ‘‘No, this’ll do fine,’’ he said. Nadia smiled against her will. She didn’t find him especially handsome, yet there was something engaging about him, particularly when the light caught the whitewood edge of his cheeks.

  He leaned his elbows on the counter, amongst the boxes of cigars; on either side of his arms stood two lamps, holding thick, red lampshades. The only other light came from dim bulbs from the four corners of the room and a stain of sunshine that radiated through the display bow window.

  ‘‘So,’’ he said. ‘‘Do you live here?’’

  Nadia sat down on a stool opposite him, ‘‘Why do you want to know?’’

  ‘‘Cos there’s a Tarzan film on at the Dom Pedro and I don’t feel much like going alone.’’

  ‘‘My mother’s free. I’m sure she’ll go with you.’’

  He smiled. ‘‘But I’m asking you.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know you.’’

  The ceiling fan rotated languidly, made soft clicking sounds, cooled the backs of their necks. The silence filled the room.

  ‘‘So is that a no?’’

  ‘‘It’s a no.’’

  Sutherland sighed. ‘‘How embarrassing.’’ He slipped the cigar into his jacket pocket and looked at his hands. ‘‘I suppose I ought to be going then.’’

  A tall, middle-aged lady with a good figure entered the shop. She asked for a box of matches and a packet of Richmonds. Nadia served her and placed the change on the counter. She returned to stand by the rosewood cabinets.

  ‘‘What’s your name?’’ asked Sutherland.

  ‘‘Nadia,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Nadia what?’’

  ‘‘Nadia Sviazhsky Shashkova.’’

  ‘‘Na-di-ahh,’’ he repeated.

  She laughed. ‘‘You say it as if you’re gargling with pins.’’

  ‘‘I’ll have you know that pin-gargling is a very respectable past-time in Scotland. My cousin Murdo was the pin-gargling champion of Troon.’’

  Nadia laughed again. ‘‘Are you some sort of crackpot?’’

  ‘‘Aye,’’ he said, smiling back. ’’Oh, I almost forgot, maybe you can help me. I’m supposed to be meeting a
Senhor Lazar. …’’ He dug his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a torn piece of paper. ‘‘He lives at number 16 Rua dos Mercadoda … Mercadala. … God how do you pronounce it?’’

  ‘‘Rua dos Mercadores.’’

  ‘‘Aye, thank you. Do you know which house number 16 is?’’

  ‘‘Not only do I know the house,’’ said Nadia. ‘‘I’ve been inside it.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’

  ‘‘Senhor Lazar is my uncle’s brother-in-law.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘Uncle Yugevny was married to Senhor Lazar’s sister. It’s the reason Uncle Yugevny settled in Macao. Auntie Amelia’s dead now, sadly.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘Anyway,’’ Nadia said. ‘‘Rua dos Mercadores is the next road down on the left.’’

  ‘‘Will you be in tomorrow?’’ Sutherland asked. ‘‘Around say ten o’clock?’

  ‘‘I might be,’’ she replied. Her breath was taut and high in her throat.

  ‘‘Want to catch the early showing of Tarzan and the Golden Lion?’’

  Her heart quickened. She smiled. ‘‘I already told you, no.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps we can go out dancing sometime,’’ he said, replacing the hat on his head. ‘‘Can you do the Charleston?’’ He bent and straightened his knees, kicked out a heel.

  ‘‘I love the Charleston,’’ she said.

  ‘‘So shall we go out? There’s a good Filipino band at the Rex.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Your mother’s very welcome to join us as a chaperone.’’ He looked round and tilted his hat at Nadia’s mother who had recently appeared in the shop. ‘‘Oh, I forgot. Flappers don’t call it chaperone. What’s the word you like to use?’’

  Nadia paused. ‘‘Fire-extinguishers.’’

  ‘‘Aye, well, your mother’s welcome to join us as a fire-extinguisher.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, but if you want to get into her good books you can make a donation to the White Russian Widows charity.’’ She scraped a tin box across the counter. ‘‘We send what we collect every year to an organization in Shanghai.’’

  Iain dug into his pocket and dropped some coins into the slot. ‘‘Well, some other time maybe.’’ He crossed the room and walked out of the shop through the glass-tinted double doors, allowing a delicate white light to flood through the shop. After he had gone, Nadia was sure the room lingered with an exotic perfume of orange peel and vetiver oil. His smile had made her grip the sides of the counter firmly. She suddenly felt an overriding urge to start cleaning things; she decided to go and scrub the bathroom floor.

  Iain Sutherland returned the following morning armed with a small bouquet of flowers for Mamuchka. He went and stood in front of the counter and looked at Nadia who was standing behind the cash register. ‘‘Come closer,’’ he said, leaning forward on his elbows.

  ‘‘Come closer?’’ she said.

  ‘‘Aye. What’s your name? Nadia?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ She folded her arms over her chest.

  ‘‘You want a dram of whisky, Nadia?’’ He removed a hipflask from his jacket.

  ‘‘No!’’ she said. ‘‘Not especially.’’

  ‘‘The thing is,’’ he said, ‘‘we were going to have this official dinner at the embassy on June 3rd to celebrate King George’s birthday …’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘And I didn’t know who to invite.’’

  Nadia smiled nervously.

  ‘‘And I was thinking maybe you would have liked to come. But the dinner’s now been cancelled.’’

  Nadia didn’t say anything.

  ‘‘What would you have said if, say, the dinner was still on?’’

  ‘‘I would have said no.’’

  She turned to replace some cigar boxes on the shelf.

  ‘‘Don’t turn away. Come closer. We’re too far apart to talk.’’

  She leaned forward on the countertop.

  ‘‘What about tea? You girls like tea.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Sutherland, I don’t want to go out with you.’’

  His little finger reached out and tickled her forearm. ‘‘Tea with honey? You like honey, don’t you?’’ He started laughing. It was a wicked, hushed laugh that made her smile involuntarily.

  ‘‘You know, there’s something very wrong with you,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Aye.’’

  ‘‘You appear to be trying to toy with me. Are you?’’

  ‘‘Am I?’’

  And for the best part of an hour he tried to persuade Nadia to join him for lunch. When she refused, he winced and promised to be back. The next afternoon he arrived with a tin of Scottish biscuits from Nairn, and twenty-four hours later appeared with a phonograph record, a 10-inch seventy-eight, by a man called Jimmy MacKay. Uncle Yugevny removed it from its paper sleeve and played it on his 1921 Brunswick. It turned out to be accordion music performed by a one-legged man from Oban.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’ said Sutherland, doing a little jig.

  ‘‘It’s a little grating …’’ Nadia said. She didn’t mind the music so long as the man from Oban didn’t sing. At one stage she was sure that the accordionist had trodden on a cat.

  ‘‘You should hear him on the bagpipes … tremendous!’’

  ‘‘Don’t you have any records by Ethel Waters or Bessie Smith?’’ she asked, feeling besieged.

  When Iain left the shop he blew her a kiss and touched her chin with his fingertips. Her lips parted and began to itch. She felt as if they’d become enamelled with turpentine.

  6

  A fortnight had passed since the heavy downpours of Quasimodo Sunday, and when he wasn’t in the Tabacaria, Iain Sutherland was entrenched in the airless office on Avenida da Republica, which he shared with his Chinese assistant, Peter Lee.

  The hot, steamy air of summer filled the streets. The sound of cicadas mushroomed over the ruined church of St. Paul’s, and from the line of Banyan trees on the promenade the sparrows began to call. It was the first morning in weeks that it hadn’t rained and the sun, white-rimmed and severe in the sky, was burning off the moss, the lichen and the pools of scummy water from the lanes.

  Seated at his clerical desk, under a fan, Iain peered fixedly at a set of nautical charts of Hong Kong and Macao’s waterways. The charts were pinned to the walls by the window and were encrusted with red and pink tacks. The red pins indicated known drop-off points, the pink ones make-shift jetties where sampans and walla-wallas picked up their illicit cargo. Not for the first time, Sutherland noticed that the maps were beginning to grow yellow with mildew.

  Since the weekend, Iain had started a new routine. He’d arrive at his office in the British Consulate at first light, produce a small notebook from his desk, light a cigarette and stare for over an hour at the words TOBACCO, CODEINE, MORPHINE, OPIUM, and PAPAVERINE at the top left-hand corner of the chalk board. No one else he knew had his ability of concentration, of keeping so still, of working systematically through a problem, as one might explore a new, yet dangerous, puzzle. Every surplus thought, distraction, smell, sound, mood was pushed aside to tackle the obstacle at hand. The room became a closed world, his secret hideaway. Under the heading SMUGGLERS’ ROUTES, he would scrawl the names of people, their organizations and their locality, with question marks beside each one.

  Today he wrote the letters L-A-Z-A-R in thick, white chalk. Beside it he added floating body, skeleton foot.

  ‘‘Why you come into office so early last few days?’’ said Lee, typing furiously, not raising his eyes. ‘‘I work for you over one year and you never come in to office so early.’’ He attacked the keys with nine of his ten digits, the little finger on his left hand useless and broken since childhood, sticking out at an ugly right-angle.

  Iain paused, long enough to light another cigarette, before walking to the far end of the room. Once there, he turned back and paced slowly towards the chalkboard, never taking his
eyes off the scribbled letters. Lazar, he said to himself with each step, Lazar, Lazar, Lazar. Now, nearing his target, he trusted that his intuition would reveal something insightful, something overlooked. But nothing materialized; at least not yet. Sutherland noticed most things; it was just that some things didn’t register until later.

  ‘‘You have unsoemiac sickness, lo baan? Cannot sleep?’’ asked Lee.

  ‘‘Army training. I always rise early. Also, I’m getting these migraines …’’

  ‘‘You were in army?’’

  ‘‘Royal Scots Dragoons.’’

  ‘‘Hey! Me dragon too. I born in 1905. Same you too?’’

  ‘‘Be quiet, you ninny.’’ Sutherland approached the chalkboard one more time. He glared at the name, rolled the l and the z around on his tongue. He consulted his notebook, selected a pen from his inkstand, and made a few jottings in the margin. Then he heard a loud knock on the door.

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ he demanded.

  ‘‘Mail deesh-patch from Hong Kong, from Breetish Colonial Department,’’ said a snub-nosed, sway-bellied man leaning against the doorcase, a straw hat held by his side.

  A purplish shadow fell across the brass plate on the door; the words ‘Passport Control Office’, the SIS operative’s overseas cover, grew distorted in the billowing light. Sutherland kicked a rush-bottomed chair towards the man with the boater. ‘‘Take a seat, Costa, and keep your mouth shut. Lee, please leave us.’’

  Costa raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘‘Bad mood again, Vermelho?’’ he said, handing Sutherland a brown package and letters embellished with British postage stamps. Both men sat as Lee left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Sutherland recognized the handwriting on the letters, and the wax-stamped seal on the brown package, embossed with a royal crown underpinned by a lion and a unicorn, belonged to Government House. He noticed the wax seal had been broken on the package and threw it beside the Remington typewriter. ‘‘Have you been reading my mail again, Costa?’’

  ‘‘Naturalmente.’’

  ‘‘Why can’t you keep your fat fingers out of my things?’’