Well, I’m not going to put to paper some of the notions that come into my head at times like this.
Now that everybody knows who Nina is, it’s not been difficult to track down her address, and yesterday I went to negotiate our divorce and put an end to this vile farce of a marriage.
It turns out my wife is living in a white mansion with a perfectly clipped lawn in the front yard. She’s managed to acquire all the material things that she always dreamed of, but it would appear that all her well-laid plans have come to nought now that she is pregnant and no longer of any value to her sugar daddy lover. Alas, even the most gregarious and gorgeous courtesans don’t remain in a powerful man’s affections for long.
I wonder what will happen to my “sing-song girl”? Who will take care of her now?
While I was standing there looking at her house, a black Ford with bright white lights and yellow wheels came out of the gate, and I spotted Nina’s face in the car window. I don’t know if she saw me, or maybe she chose not to recognize me. Anyway, we never did meet.
For months I have been trying to work out what it was that brought Nina to Lincheng. Now it’s all as clear as day to me. She went there for the sake of Daniel Bernard. But if that’s the case, why did she bring me back to her compartment that night? I’m afraid I’ll never get to the bottom of it.
I keep trying to accept that Nina will soon be giving birth to another man’s child. Even though I have no rights over her any longer, it all appears to be some kind of sacrilege to me, a gross violation of the most basic laws of life. Now it seems incredible to imagine that at one time, little more than a couple of years ago, we were lying in each other’s arms thinking up names for our future children. I wanted to call our daughter Katya after my mother, and if we had a boy we would have called him…
But there’s no point writing any of this now. I’m only rubbing salt into my own wounds.
In his heart Klim’s was dying to find someone to pick a reckless fight with, it didn’t matter who. Being employed to write the newspaper’s regular column on the city’s criminal underworld, he didn’t have long to wait for an opportunity to let out his pent-up frustration.
A police team in plain clothes had surrounded a house with a sign in English and Chinese saying: “Magic Cloud Pharmacy. Reliable remedies for all ailments.”
The pharmacy’s owner was not there, and Klim was waiting for him on the corner of the street, along with the head of the Drug Enforcement Division, Johnny Collor, and his assistant Felix.
Felix, a tall, dark-haired and hook-nosed young man, had been a former Russian cadet.
“What foul weather!” he grumbled, shoving his reddened hands into the pockets of his great coat. “But who’s complaining? This is much better than having to hide in barrels on the docks in the summer heat. The sun roasted us from above, and the mosquitoes were biting our butts from below. It was a whole fortnight before I could sit comfortably again after that operation.”
Johnny peered around the corner.
“Here’s our pharmacist,” he whispered excitedly, pointing at the elderly Chinese man climbing up the pharmacy porch.
Short and stocky, Johnny resembled a gray-haired fox terrier, ready to lunge for his prey’s throat. His eyes were shining, and he was constantly reaching for the holster under his jacket.
“Don’t give any quarter, boys,” Johnny warned Klim and Felix. “The pharmacy belongs to the Green Gang. Those bastards won’t hesitate to put a bullet through your brain.”
He looked at his watch and raised his hand. “It’s time!”
Klim ran behind the policemen into the pharmacy and stood squinting under the bright light of a lamp. The policemen searched the place as calmly and efficiently as if they were on a training run. Glass crunched under their shoes, and the air was filled with ashes from a raked-up oven.
Klim looked around the cluttered rooms. Along the walls there were dark red cabinets with lots of drawers. The shelves were crammed with sealed pots, and on the table, next to the brass weights and writing implements, lay a large white doll studded with long needles. Its body was covered with lines showing the flow of qi, life energy.
Klim heard the sound of heavy boots on the stairs.
“There’s a safe in the bedroom on the second floor, sir,” cried Sergeant Trots.
Johnny had the pharmacist by his lapels.
“Ask him where the keys are,” he told the translator.
The pharmacist started to babble something, spraying the policemen with his saliva in his terror. Johnny pushed him away in disgust.
“What is he saying?”
The translator pulled a sour face. “He doesn’t understand a thing, sir. It seems he’s from a different province and doesn’t speak Shanghainese.”
“The bastard’s lying.”
Johnny pulled a revolver out of a holster and shot the wall behind the pharmacist’s back. The man gave a whimper and fell on the floor face down.
“Feeble people,” said Felix through his teeth.
Johnny searched the pharmacist’s desk. “Here are the keys. Let’s go.”
They went up the stairs. In the bedroom, a woman with two terrified children sat in the far corner of a big bed with a red cover on it.
“Clear them out,” ordered Johnny, and the policemen quickly took them out of the room.
Behind the bed was a huge iron safe covered with an embroidered spread. A bronze candlestick and vases were placed on top of it. Johnny removed the spread and, after fiddling with the keys for a few seconds, finally had the safe open.
Klim craned his neck to see what was inside.
“Wow!” he whistled looking at the parcels piled up one on top of the other.
Felix pulled out a pen knife and cut several of the parcels open.
“It’s Indian opium,” he said after trying the dark sticky paste. “And here’s some cocaine.”
Johnny took a thick binder out of safe and called the translator over. “What are these papers?”
The Chinese glanced through it. “These are lists of suppliers, sir.”
Johnny’s eyes lit up. “Well, this should see our friendly neighborhood pharmacist in prison for a while.”
There was stamping on the stairs, and a boy of about fourteen burst into the room. He was hiding something under his green shirt.
“Grab him!” screamed someone from downstairs.
Sergeant Trots grabbed the youngster by his shoulder, but the boy took a revolver from inside his shirt and fired at him.
The sergeant, bleeding heavily, fell down the stairs. The youngster headed to the window and, crashing into Klim on the way, pointed his revolver at him.
This is it, Klim thought.
The revolver went off again, the boy yelped, and something heavy hit the floor.
A moment later Klim realized what had happened: Felix had hurled the heavy candlestick at the boy, breaking his wrist.
More police arrived on the scene followed closely by reporters and photographers. All of them wanted the full story from Felix, but he was too modest and left his boss to do the explaining.
“Felix Rodionov is that rare breed of man whose actions speak louder than his words,” Johnny said proudly. “He came to our station hoping to get a job, but he was so emaciated that the commissioner was about to turn him down. However, I asked him, ‘What can you do?’ And he told me to try to attack him with a knife. What do you think happened? The son of a gun knocked the knife right out of my hand! If I’ve told you once, gentlemen, I’ve told you a thousand times: We shall continue to man our forces on the basis of race. The Russians are an asset to the force that the Chinese can never be.”
Johnny then saddled up his hobby horse and began to hold forth on the perfidious Chinese and their numerous conspiracies against the ruling whites.