Klim emerged from Chen’s apartment. “It looks like we’ve agreed on a price: we pay ten dollars a month and get a room and boiling water in the dorm kitchen. I’ve told the landlord that you are my concubine; otherwise he wouldn’t let us stay together. The Chinese are very strict when it comes to moral standards.”
Now even Ada’s ears were flushing with embarrassment.
Klim laughed. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to check.”
Chen, a stooping Chinese man with a long thin pigtail, led them upstairs on squeaking wooden steps.
He didn’t stop at the third-floor but took them even higher.
“We’re in the pigeon-loft,” Klim said to Ada.
“Please, please,” Chen repeated as he pointed to a low cracked door.
Behind it was an unheated cubbyhole that smelled of damp wood and was only a tad bigger than a train compartment. A stove fashioned out of a metal barrel and labeled Kerosene stood in one corner, and a bunk bed, made out of boards and bamboo poles, was positioned by the wall.
“Where’s the lavatory here?” Ada asked.
“Chinese houses don’t have sewage systems,” Klim explained. “Everybody uses night pots with lids. Early in the morning, they put them outside, and the night-soil man collects them and then returns them clean.”
“So there’s no bathroom at all? How are we supposed to wash ourselves?”
“You can lug water up here, heat it up, and wash yourself. Or you can go to the river. But I wouldn’t recommend it: it’s full of cholera.”
“Are you going to bring water up here?”
“I’m going to use the public bathhouse.”
While Ada was spreading her blanket on the top bunk and arranging her books along the wall, Klim procured some wood chips to heat the samovar and, taking several cents from Ada, went to get some food. He came back with a packet of boiled rice and six little sticks beaded with something brown.
“What is it?” Ada asked suspiciously, remembering Klim’s tales of Chinese fertilizer.
“These are frogs’ brains. They’re a real local delicacy,” said Klim, laughing at Ada’s look of horror. “Just kidding. I’ve got no idea what it is.”
The Chinese food was too greasy and not salty enough, but Ada ate all of it ravenously.
“Mr. Chen swore to me there are no bedbugs here, and that’s the most important thing,” Klim said as he shook the remnants of the rice into his palm. “The first time I came to Shanghai, I ended up renting a bedbug colony. It got so bad that in the middle of the night I sought shelter in the landlord’s shed and ended up falling asleep on what I thought was a trunk or a chest. In the morning, I was woken by the landlord screaming his head off at me, ‘You dirty blasphemer! How dare you sleep on my grandmother’s coffin!’”
Ada smiled. Today had really been her lucky day: she had found someone who could protect her, got a job in a restaurant attached to a brothel, had to pretend that she was someone’s concubine, and to top it all, she had eaten frog’s brains. If only her school friends in Izhevsk could see her now!
Once it had got dark, Klim escorted Ada back to Martha’s.
There wasn’t a single light in the back lanes and alleys, but the main shopping streets of Shanghai shone with huge electric signs and billboards.
“It’s so beautiful!” Ada whispered, looking around.
Klim was surprised, too. He didn’t remember the city being like this the last time he was here. Everything had changed—national flags, automobiles, fashion, and signs. Martha had told him the tea company that he used to work at no longer existed; it had been replaced by a riding accessories store. The little red-tiled house where Klim used to rent a room was also long gone.
He would have to start all over again.
Dressed in her new clothes, Ada felt like Cinderella going to the ball. She was terrified and exhilarated at the same time, keeping up a constant stream of nervous chatter.
A fifteen-year-old shouldn’t be working as a taxi-girl, Klim thought grimly. But there was no chance of her finding another job, and without money, Ada would be doomed to starve for a couple of days and then start walking the streets.
Reluctantly, Klim told Ada the rules of the Havana. “While the taxi-girls sit at the designated tables, their customers buy fifty-cent tickets at the box office and then choose a girl to dance with. If the client is very unpleasant, she is entitled to refuse him, but if she’s too picky, she’ll end up earning nothing. After a dance, you should ask your client to buy you some wine and snacks. You’ll get a commission from the proceeds.”
“What if I’m offered an alcoholic drink?” Ada asked.
“Try to make sure that he buys you a different bottle for yourself. The waiter will bring you weak apple cider, but will charge the client as if it were champagne. If the client insists on pouring you a drink from his bottle, be sure to only take small sips. Just try not to get drunk, otherwise you’ll never be able to dance through the night. If it all gets too much, and you can’t handle it any more, take your shoes off. It’s a sign you’re tired.”
“How do you know all this?” Ada asked, surprised.
“I used to have a friend who worked as a taxi-girl.”
“Where is she now?”
“Went up in the world: got married.”
Klim’s first love, a Chinese girl named Jie Jie, had come to Shanghai from Canton, a big city not far from Hong Kong. There, in the south, they didn’t bind girls’ feet, and Jie Jie had been free to dance. She had been so good that Martha had made an exception and offered her a job, even though the Havana was meant to be a strictly “whites only” establishment.
Klim had fallen in love at first sight. He would spend all his money on dances with Jie Jie and then walk her to her house in the morning. He would even get into fistfights with the sailors, if they ever dared to insult his “chinky” girlfriend.
When his employer, a chronic racist, had found out Klim wanted to marry an Asian, he had banded together with his friends to send the “black sheep” out of China. The Shanghai ex-pats perversely believed it was their duty to protect the purity of the supreme race, and they were prepared to do everything to prevent the very idea of interracial marriage.
Klim had been kidnapped and taken to the port, but the Russian steamer had already left, so they had thrown him on a ship to Buenos Aires instead. That was how Klim had found himself in Argentina. He had worked like a dog just to save enough money for a return ticket—first in a printing shop, then at a newspaper. He would write Jie Jie passionate letters every day, promising his sweetheart that he would soon return and take her to Russia. But one day he received a telegram from Martha saying that Jie Jie had left Shanghai with some rich merchant, becoming another adornment in his considerable harem. She had never learned that Klim had become one of the best journalists in Argentina and had even been well received by the president.
Klim had thought he would never forget her, but life had proved him wrong. He had met Nina, and it had started all over again—the glow in his eyes and the delightful mess in his head. But he had lost that woman as well, to the horror of the civil war and to typhus that had shaken her mental state.
At the Havana, Klim escorted a trembling Ada to the dressing room and then went down to the restaurant hall. It was already packed with tourists and sailors from the Great Powers. Two huge bouncers at the door made sure that no Asians or blacks, except servants, would be allowed onto the premises.