2

Nearby, looking through the teeming rain, from a spray of light in a basement, a tiny face came to a window and stayed there, looking out through the smoggy glass. The Slavic eyes, blue like the colour of the sea, stared into the darkness like mesmerized buttons. A wicker hoarding belonging to Sun Wing Fotografia was being blown across the sky. It was an advertisement display showing a folding camera with rack-and-pinion focusing, and for a time the tear-bright eyes watched it fly over the ruined facade of the old cathedral, over the labyrinth of passageways that made up the heart of the old city. In the manner of a giant bird it glided and curled across the stuccoed houses with the balustraded balconies, making shadows across the Edwardian-style parlours recently wired for electric light, then fanned out its tail and pitched forward over the Rua Central, descending in a slow tight circle towards the harbour.

The monsoon raindrops tapped on the glass. The young woman remained in front of the window and blanched only fleetingly when something silhouetted and grey pressed past the window only to cut crookedly up a drainpipe. She smoothed her dark hair over her ears and touched the tight skin along her jaw; the pane was black enough to reveal her reflection. The window showed a girl in her late twenties; her face slender, beautiful, slightly frowning. She had eyes so blue they could have been cut from the sky. Exertion had added colour to her cheeks and brought a fullness to her lips. She rubbed the back of her shoulders and dipped her head, revealing an elegant expanse of neck and a shingle haircut that gave her a bob at the front and very short hair at the back. Big and doleful, her eyes returned to the puddles of water that had collected on the floor and with a towel she began mopping up the mess. The water felt cool on her bare toes; she fastened the hem of her low-hipped skirt above the knees – an outfit she usually wore when practising the Charleston in her room – and mouthed the lyrics to a popular American song, removing a ring from her right hand. This was not her normal idea of a Monday morning, but it was something that had to be done.

Against the near wall was a rosewood washstand with a copper basin. The girl turned up her sleeves and got to work. On her left was a zinc bucket. Bits of dirt floated in it. She wrung out the towel and shoved it under the window frame where the wet pools were forming. She was dabbing dry the tiny cracks in the casement when she heard footsteps on the landing. Instinctively her fingers sought the ancient scar-tissue that ran along the flesh of her right arm and she began to roll down the sleeves of her blouse.

Another young woman appeared in the doorway of the linen room at the top of the steps. Her hair was also bobbed, and she wore a loose cotton dress that went straight up and down. In her hand she carried a copy of Diario de Lisboa and a moving-picture magazine. She sported rayon stockings with back-seams and her beige shoes were low heeled with a closed toe. The waistline of her dress was dropped to below the hips, giving her a tomboyish look that was made even more masculine by a flattening brassiere. She would have resembled a man almost entirely had her eyebrows not been plucked and pencilled with thin arches. The wood creaked under her weight as she made her way down the stairs. Having negotiated the slippery floor, she immediately busied herself with work, sorting through a basket of pillowcases, sheets and bolsters. She had a little rouge on her bow-shaped lips and, as the fashion of the time dictated, her lower lip was left unpainted, which made her oily Mediterranean skin appear even oilier.

‘‘Covered in mould!’’ said the girl with the arched brows. She tossed her magazines to the floor, throwing open pages that revealed images of the newly designed Graf Zeppelin airship. She removed a dark cotton slip from the basket; it looked like it was streaked with moss. ‘‘This weather! Merda! How we’re expected to live with damp seeping from the walls and clothes that never dry I’ll never know. And now the mail steamers are stranded. I’ve been waiting to send letters home for days to let them have our change of address.’’

The young woman at the window smiled politely but did not reply. Instead she kept her head down and squeezed another cupful of water into the tin bucket. She continued humming her tune. There was a slight blush to her cheeks and a small beauty mark on her chin. A few freckles were sprinkled beneath her blue eyes and her hair came to crescent points, kissing her cheeks. She had graceful gestures which matched the elegance of her knife-pleated, low-hipped skirt.

The girl with the painted eyebrows remained silent for a few moments, then announced, ‘‘May I introduce myself? My name is Izabel Perera,’’ she said, drawing in a deep breath and speaking quickly. ‘‘We moved into the top floor flat last week. We’re from Barreiro, just south of Lisbon. It took us thirty-two days to get here. We made seven ports of call en route including Algiers, Aden, Bombay and Colombo – what a filthy place Bombay is, decrepit and full of flea-bitten people. We came on the Peninsular-Oriental Line – spent most of the time on the sundeck, writing letters and sipping beef tea. Nice cabins and very clean, but the food!’’ She made a face. ‘‘Sausages, red cabbage, grilled liver! Not nearly enough fish. The fish in Barreiro is wonderful. Barreiro is wonderful. Have you ever been? It’s about six miles from Lisbon and is right on the sea. There’s a lovely church square and a red-roofed town hall and beautiful little white houses that look onto the quiet port. I have a big family there, many cousins. I miss them terribly, especially my brothers and sisters and my cousin Anna.’’ There was a short pause as she took another breath. ‘‘My husband is in the fabric export business. His office wanted him to start buying Shantung and Chinkiang silks and, because Canton is regarded as the centre of the silk-trading world, we ended up in Macao. What’s your name, by the way?’’

The girl at the window took a few moments to digest the astonishing amount of information. Eventually she said, ‘‘Nadia. My name is Nadia Shashkova.’’

‘‘Are you the new maid?’’

Nadia, conscious of her bare feet, smiled. ‘‘No … my uncle’s the landlord here. We run the tobacconist across the road and rent out these rooms. The previous owner forgot to mention the indoor swimming pool when we bought the place. It happens every time we get a bad storm. Have you met my Uncle Yugevny?’’

‘‘No, my husband, Carlos, negotiated the rent.’’ She looked hard at Nadia. ‘‘You are not Portugues?’’

‘‘Russo,’’ Nadia conceded.

‘‘But you speak Portuguese. …’’

Nadia squeezed another cupful into the bucket. ‘‘I learnt it at school. Took me a while to master all the swear words.’’

Izabel laughed at this, causing her olive cheekbones to redden to a carmine velvet. ‘‘Meu Deus. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude, calling you a servant and complaining about the damp walls. In Portugal we are so used to the dryness. Sometimes we don’t see rain for months. It’s been raining here since we arrived.’’ She watched over Nadia like a protective pombo hen as water gurgled from the cracks in the window hinges. ‘‘Please, let me help you with that.’’ Izabel grabbed a dry towel, and hitching up her loose cotton dress, squatted on her haunches.

‘‘No, there’s really no need.’’

‘‘I insist,’’ said Izabel. A rivulet of water swelled around her polished beige shoes. She started mopping, glancing at Nadia through her eyelashes. ‘‘I like your dress. It’s the cat’s meow!’’

‘‘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.