‘Breathe,’ she murmured.
He dragged air deep into his lungs, again and then again. His head was spinning but his eyes were open. It was dark, with just a whisper of light from a street lamp slinking under the curtains, enough for him to make out shapes in the room, the clothes cupboard, the table with the mirror and the medicine bottles. Her. He could see the slender silhouette of her, hair all rumpled and wild-edged. Her hand had left his mouth and was hovering above his damp forehead, fearful to touch. He breathed once more, picked up a rhythm for it.
‘You’re shivering,’ she said.
‘I need a bottle.’
There was a slight pause. ‘I’ll get it.’
She turned on the light. Not the overhead one with the cream shade and silk fringe but the small green lamp that was on the table of medicines. He would have preferred the dark for this task. She came with the wide-necked bottle and lifted the quilt and blankets from his body. He rolled on his side, felt his head swim from just that simple movement, and said nothing while she slid the bottle over his penis. The flow of urine was laboured and sporadic; it took time, too long. He was aware of her embarrassment, just as he was aware of the nakedness of his loins where she had clipped away the black hair when he was unconscious. He hated her doing this, but his own hands were bandaged into useless swollen stumps. Neither he nor she were yet used to it, and the sound of the liquid trickling into the glass bottle made his ears burn.
At the end when she held the bottle up to the light and said, ‘Looks like a good vintage,’ he had no idea what the girl meant.
‘What?’
‘A good vintage.’ She grinned at him. ‘Like wine.’
‘Much too dark.’
‘Less blood in it than last time though.’
‘The medicines are working.’
‘All of them.’ She laughed as she gestured to the colourful row of bottles and potions and packages.
On the table they formed a strange mixture of cultures, Chinese and Western, and yet she seemed totally at ease with both in a way he admired. Her mind was so open and ready to make use of whatever came her way. Just like a fox.
He lay back on the pillow. Sweat trickled from his forehead. ‘Thank you.’
The effort had exhausted him, but he remembered to smile at her. Westerners threw smiles around like chicken feathers, another sharp divide in customs, but he had seen how much a smile mattered to her. He gave her one now.
‘I am humbled,’ he said.
‘Don’t be.’
‘Look at me. I am empty. A hawk without wings. You should despise such weakness.’
‘No, Chang An Lo, don’t say that. I’ll tell you what I see. I see a brave fighter. One who should be dead by now but isn’t because he will never give in.’
‘You blind your mind with words.’
‘No. You blind your mind with sickness. Wait, Chang An Lo, wait for me to heal you.’ She reached out and rested a cool hand on his burning forehead. ‘Time for more quinine.’
Throughout the rest of the night she dosed him and bathed him and battled the fever. Sometimes he heard her speaking to him and at others he heard himself speaking to her, but he had no idea what he said or why he said it.
‘Spirit of nitre and acetate of ammonium with camphor water.’
He recalled her voice wrapping around those difficult words as she spooned things into his mouth, but they were just sounds with no meaning.
‘Mr Theo said the herbalist claimed this Chinese brew will work miracles on a fevered brain, so… no, please, no, don’t spit it out, let’s try again, open up, yes, that’s it. Good.’
More sounds. Mistertheo. What is mistertheo?
Always the cooling cloth on his skin. The smell of vinegar and herbs. Lemon water on his dry lips. Nightmares stealing his mind. But at dawn he could feel the fire in his blood at last begin to stutter. That was when he started to shiver and shake so violently he bit his tongue and tasted blood. He felt her sit beside him on the bed, felt the pillow dip under her as she rested back against the wooden headboard and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She held him tight.
The doorbell rang. The hairs on his neck rose and he saw Lydia lift her head as though scenting the air. Their eyes met. They both knew he was trapped.
‘It’ll be Polly,’ she said in a firm voice. She went over to the door. ‘I’ll get rid of her, don’t worry.’
He nodded and she left, closing the bedroom door behind her. Whoever this Polly person was, he called a thousand curses down on her head.
39
‘Good morning, Miss Ivanova. I hope I haven’t called too early.’
‘Alexei Serov. I… didn’t expect you.’
The Russian was standing on the doorstep, tall and languid as ever in his fur-collared coat, but he was the last person she wanted to see right now.
‘I was concerned about you,’ he said.
‘Concerned? Why?’
‘After our last meeting. You were very upset by the death of your companion in the street.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, my mind is… Yes, it was unpleasant and you were very kind. Thank you.’ She took a small step back, preparing to shut the door, but he hadn’t finished.
‘I called at your previous address and Olga Petrovna Zarya told me you live here now.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She said your mother has remarried.’
‘Yes.’
‘My congratulations to her.’ He gave her a small bow, and she thought how much more graceful Chang was at that movement.
‘Thank you.’
He gave her the edge of a smile. ‘Though your mother wasn’t so pleased to see me at your previous house, if I recall correctly.’
‘No.’
An awkward silence settled between them that she did nothing to break.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m sorry but I’m in the middle of something at the moment.’
‘Then I apologise. I won’t detain you any longer. I have been very busy myself or I would have called on you before now to make sure you are well.’
‘Busy?’ Her interest sharpened. ‘With the Kuomintang forces?’
‘That’s right. Good-bye, Miss Ivanova.’
‘Wait.’ She found a smile. ‘I apologise for keeping you standing on the doorstep like this. How rude of me. Maybe you’d like a cup of tea. Everyone needs a break sometime.’
‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
‘Please, do come in.’
Now that she had him in a chair with a cup of tea in his hand, a beautiful bone china one with a handle so fine you could see through it, Lydia was having difficulty finding out what she wanted to know. As often as she steered the conversation toward military matters, he sidestepped the subject and talked instead about the Chinese opera he’d seen the previous evening. Even when she asked outright about the numerous Communist posters she’d seen in the town demanding the right of access for the Chinese to the parks in the International Settlement, he just laughed that lazy superior laugh of his.
‘They’ll be wanting access to our clubs and croquet lawns next,’ he said.
She had no idea whether he was teasing her or was deadly serious. His tone was amused and languorous but she wasn’t fooled. His green eyes were quick and observant, watching her, taking in at a glance her new surroundings. She had the feeling he was playing a game with her. She sipped her tea warily.
‘So the Communists are still active in Junchow,’ she commented, ‘despite the efforts of the elite Kuomintang troops.’
‘It would seem so. But driven into holes in the river bank like rats. The Kuomintang flag flies everywhere to remind people who is in charge now.’ He smiled through half-closed eyes. ‘At least it’s a fine banner to display and cheers the place up a bit with its bright colours.’