4

Through their porthole they caught a glimpse of land, a small cluster of islands, dark and green and thickly wooded. ‘‘O console dos Ladroes,’’ Nadia said, ‘‘It’s the name the Portuguese first gave Hong Kong – the island of thieves.’’ They went up on deck. It was nearly twilight. Water glittered at the mouth of the Chai Wan headland. A quarter hour later they were in the harbour, passing buoys, tiny fishing junks, lateens, sampans, wallah-wallahs. Hugging each other with delight because they were almost home, Nadia and Iain watched the emerald hills of the colony unravel in the setting sun.

Having dropped anchor in a score of ports – Alexandria, Aden, Bombay, Galle, Rangoon and Singapore – they were now a six-hour steamer ride from Macao. Their journey had been an exhausting one; sharing the boat with a ribald group of twenty Dutch timber merchants had been particularly trying, as was having to share a bathroom with three other cabins. Their fellow passengers were loud and bawdy by day, and, fueled by gin and schnapps, even louder and more bawdy at night. Still, she’d managed to finish A Passage to India and two other Forster novels. But after thirty three days at sea, enduring lumpy beds, regimented mealtimes, clotted-cream teas and endless toads-in-the-hole, reception rooms decorated with musty peacock feathers, and a shipboard social life that resembled a knees-up in a hencoop, they were, finally, almost home.

 

They took the overnight steamer and despite the noisy engine, slept for three hours in their tiny cabins, in reed rockers. When they woke at dawn they found that they were only half a mile from land. The welcoming committee was assembled on the dock, full of laughter and exuberance. Even from a few hundred yards away she could make out her parents as well as Uncle Yugevny with his mad grey hair, Mrs. Lo, Costa and Senhor Pinto. There were even representatives from the Pinto-Perera orphanage to welcome her home. Only Izabel and her family were absent.

As soon as ropes were looped over the mooring poles, the passengers disembarked in a hurry. Nadia embraced Mamuchka first, then her father. Papashka, though a little wobbly on his walking stick, was buoyed with excitement and brimming with questions – what was it like going through the Suez Canal, he asked, was Bombay teeming with snake charmers and astrologers, did they swim in the Red Sea, did they take curry tiffin in the Taj Mahal Hotel, what was the tea like in Galle, were they allowed to visit the Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon? Was there much news in Europe about a possible war with Germany? Was there talk of Russia going to war? In fact, it seemed to Nadia that everyone was trying to talk at the same time. It made her think of a bunch of cuckoo clocks all cuckooing out of time with each other.

Wearily, Iain thanked everybody for coming and announced that they both needed some rest. However, they should all meet for supper. Uncle Yugevny removed his hat to fan his face and paid three coolies to carry the trunks up the hill.

‘‘Kak dela?’’ Nadia asked, holding onto her mother.

‘‘I am well, spasiba.’’

‘‘How’s the house?’’ Nadia said, climbing into a rickshaw.

‘‘Prevaskawdnee. In the three months you were gone I went every day, did a bit of dusting and cleaning, just to make sure everything would be nice on your return,’’ said Mamuchka, waving her off as the rickshaw trundled away.

‘‘Thank you, Mamuchka. I’ll see you all tonight!’’ Nadia called over her shoulder. ‘‘Thanks for coming to meet us! Dasvidanya!’’

The rickshaw made its way along the Praya. It had just skirted the mouth of the bay when Iain told the puller to stop. He alighted and went into an alley that housed a ramshackle assortment of buildings. Nadia waited for him in the shade, under the spreading limbs of a Banyan tree. She knew where Iain had gone. He was paying his respects to Peter Lee’s mother.

 

Nadia and Iain lived on Penha Hill, just behind the British Consulate building. It was approached through a pair of metal gates and past a company of stunted maples and overgrown bamboo.

When they got to the house, Nadia walked from room to room, taking everything in as if for the first time; she felt almost intoxicated at being back in her own home again. After changing into a kimono, she flopped headlong onto her bed and emitted a sigh of satisfaction. The house was an oasis when contrasted with the bustle of the ship and the noise of the dock; a warm welcoming place compared to the chill of Dr. Goode’s clinic. This, she thought, was heaven. Closing her eyes she blew out a deep breath, felt her muscles relax. But something hot and unpleasant writhed within her chest. Their move to Hong Kong hovered before her like some indistinct ghost. She didn’t want to think about leaving this all behind.

As Iain took a shower the telephone rang and Nadia picked it up.

‘‘Welcome back!’’ said Izabel. ‘‘Sorry I wasn’t there at the pier to meet you, but I had to take two of the little girls from the orphanage to church. I’m back now and Cristiano and Victor want to see you. Can we come over?’’

‘‘Of course you can!’’

‘‘We’ll be there before you know it.’’

For the next few minutes Nadia leant against her pillows, listening to the sounds of Iain singing in the shower. When he finished, she went and splashed some cold water on her face. Then she emptied her pockets of loose change and placed the coins and small notes in an envelope marked White Russian Widows Charity, before slipping into a summer dress. At length, she busied herself with her travelling trunk, unpacking her things, hanging her safari blouses in the wardrobe and putting away her shoes.

She was still tidying up her evening pumps and satin lounging mules when she heard voices in the driveway. She turned to see Izabel’s boys, aged fourteen and fifteen, pressing their faces against the window. ‘‘Auntie Nadia!’ they called. Tapping the glass with their fingers.

Nadia raced outside and embraced them. She took each one in her arms. ‘‘And look how you’ve both grown! The two of you must be at least an inch taller. How is this possible? I’ve only been away twelve weeks!’’ After a pause she asked, ‘‘But why aren’t you at school today?’’

‘‘It’s Sunday,’’ replied the eldest, Cristiano.

‘‘Of course, it is. Silly me.’’

Izabel, whose hairstyles had changed with the times, stepped forward to show off her new coiffure. ‘‘What do you think?’’ she inquired, batting her eyelids like a matinee idol.

‘‘Very Bette Davis.’’

‘‘You like it?’’

‘‘Yes, I think the cut suits you.’’

‘‘Oh, I’m so pleased. I think it looks just doocky,’’ said Izabel, clearly chuffed. ‘‘And this is Anna, my cousin from Barreiro. Do you remember I wrote you about her?’’

Nadia saw a tall, olive skinned woman with stunningly dark eyes; a raven-haired Greta Garbo, what her mother would call an ‘explosive Latina’.

‘‘Anna Lopes,’’ she said and extended a hand.

‘‘She’s a nurse,’’ Izabel continued.

‘‘Delighted to meet you,’’ said Nadia.

‘‘And you,’’ Anna rejoined, smiling broadly.

‘‘Come inside, please,’’ Nadia said, suddenly conscious of her messy hair and unmade face.

‘‘Have you seen the invitations to the ball yet?’’ asked Izabel. Nadia said that she hadn’t. Izabel handed her an elegant looking card printed in relief on thick, rich paper.

‘‘They’re beautiful,’’ said Nadia. ‘‘Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll go make some tea.’’

As they entered the house, Iain strolled out of the bedroom in a pair of linen trousers but no shirt.

‘‘Izabel! How lovely to see you!’’ he cried in Portuguese, smoothing Vitalis into his hair. ‘‘Como está?’’

‘‘I’m well,’’ she said. He gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘‘Did you have a good trip?’’

‘‘Yes, thanks.’’

‘‘Let me introduce you to my cousin, Anna.’’ Nadia watched as Anna – tall, olive-skinned, stunning Anna – stepped forward. She saw them shake hands. Iain was looking at her admiringly. She also thought she saw something glint in his eyes. And if she knew one thing about her husband, it was that his eyes never lied.

Feeling an unexpected tinge of jealousy, Nadia excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

She returned a minute later with an armful of gifts.

‘‘For you,’’ she said to Izabel. ‘‘I have some Irish-linen tea-towels. For you, Cristiano, a bull-whip from Bombay. It’s made from genuine leather. Be careful not to take your brother’s eye out. And for you, Victor, a spinning rod from Scotland. There’s a box of lures for you too. You’ll be able to fish off Barra Point. Do you know I caught a twenty pound salmon?’’

‘‘Really?’’ the boys said in unison.

‘‘Yes. Uncle Iain was there. You can ask him. It took me ages to bring the salmon in.’’

‘‘You should have seen her face when we landed it,’’ said Iain.

‘‘I thought my arm was going to fall off.’’ She stole a look at her husband who had slipped on a shirt. Beside him, Anna was looking at his hands as he buttoned his sleeves. She was smiling at him.

He smiled back.

A sudden chill prickled the hairs on the back of Nadia’s neck. Her mouth grew parched, as if she’d consumed a packet of intolerably dry biscuits. She had never felt this way before.

‘‘Bawzhemoy!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘The kettle must have boiled by now. I’ll go and fetch the tea.’’

 

Dinner that night was held in a little open air restaurante which was known for its steamed garlic clams and cosy atmosphere. Everyone attended except for Papashka who was resting at home. On the sprawling red-and-white checked tablecloth there were jugs of sangria blanco, baskets of freshly baked walnut bread, a platter of Brazilian broad beans with roast pork, curried crab sprinkled with coriander, a fat ceramic tureen of lacassa (shrimp and noodle soup), piquant fried rice with salted cod, and, of course, the house specialty, finger-licking garlic clams steamed in white wine and lemon juice, served with toasted broa.

Nadia could see herself in the mirror that hung over the far wall. She thought she looked pale and splotchy; the red lipstick she’d applied earlier resembled a wound. She rubbed her cheek with the back of her wrist, brushing the smooth scar-tissue that ran along the flesh of her arm against her chin.

‘‘You must be tired from your trip, Nadrichka,’’ said Mamuchka who was seated beside her.

‘‘A little.’’

‘‘You haven’t told me what the doctor in Scotland said.’’

For a moment Nadia felt scared of the words that might escape from her mouth. She had deliberately avoided broaching the subject. She had also failed to tell her mother about the move to Hong Kong.

‘‘We’ll talk about it later,’’ she replied, placing her fork on her plate of untouched pork.

She glanced across to Iain who was seated with Mrs. Lo to his left and Anna on his right. He was telling jokes, recounting a story about a rope dancer they’d seen in Bombay. Over the years his Portuguese had improved dramatically. He’d gotten used to the ooshing and shooshing of the language. Nobody made fun of his accent anymore, Nadia observed, least of all Anna. Nadia’s mouth turned dry again and the skin prickled across the back of her neck.

Her eyes fell on Anna. The girl was laughing at something Iain had said, covering her mouth coyly. Was it her beauty, her youth, her wantonness that threatened her so? She couldn’t quite decide. Was it her ears, her lips, her breasts, her hair? Maybe it was her flat, olive-chocolate stomach? Or was it those dark eyes boring into her husband? Whatever it was, Nadia took exception to her. Here was a woman with her hand on Iain’s arm, for God’s sake!

‘‘Iain,’’ she said attempting to assert herself. ‘‘You should tell Uncle Yugevny about the fish. How I caught my salmon.’’

‘‘Not now, darling,’’ he replied, stifling her.

Hot-cheeked, Nadia felt a pain in her hand. She looked down to find her own nails had dug into the flesh leaving four red dimples on the mounts of her palm. She had her eyebrows raised. She was angry. She could almost touch the electricity in the air.

Nadia glared at Anna, offering her a thin smile of dislike. Anna in response moved her hands over her chest furtively, as hushed and sly as lust. Were those her nipples poking like strawberries through her thin cotton dress, she asked herself. What a blatant hussy! Why couldn’t she have been pimply and buck-toothed and shaped like a duck?

Across the table, she saw Iain take a pen and scribble something on the paper menu. Anna laughed, threw her head back. For a moment Nadia had an unpleasant feeling that the note was about her. No, that’s not possible, she thought, Iain wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be making fun of her, would he? Unsettled and feeling slightly wounded, she began to pinken, as pink as a guinea pig’s nose, yet she kept staring at them.

Nadia was determined to find out what he had written, but just then Anna glanced her way and both women looked at each other for an instant. Nadia wanted to scratch the smugness from her eyes.

‘‘What did Iain just write?’’

‘‘What?’’ said Mamuchka.

‘‘On that piece of paper, what did he write?’’

‘‘What paper?’’ Her mother sounded baffled.

‘‘The paper Anna’s just hidden under the table. The bloody cow.’’ Iain looked over towards her. It was the wrong thing to say and she knew it.

‘‘Cow? What cow? What are you talking about Nadrichka?’’

‘‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’’

A chill crept over Nadia and she felt goosebumps on her skin. She turned away, and focused her attention on the window that overlooked Rua das Lorchas. Her gaze fell onto the giant cinema poster across the street, a billboard promoting ‘Anna Karenina’, Greta Garbo’s new film. Greta Garbo! Wouldn’t you know it, she said to herself. Wouldn’t you just bloody know it!

‘The hell with it!’ she decided. She grabbed her glass of sangria and downed the contents in three eye-watering gulps.

Noticing her sudden passion for alcohol, Costa drained his own glass and, wiping his mouth, ordered more wine. Soon a cry of ‘Slainte Mhath!’ rang around the table, followed by its Portuguese equivalent, ‘Tchim-tchim!’ and Russian ‘Na zdorovje!’

The wine arrived in a chilled flask-shaped bottle. Costa topped her up and as she knocked it back, he hooted loudly; his laughter as deep and chasmic as a giant’s cleavage. Just this once, she decided, she was going to get thoroughly and extravagantly drunk.

After her fifth glass, Nadia tapped the empty bottle with a spoon to get everyone’s attention. ‘‘I have something important to say,’’ she said, climbing off her seat.

Her mother looked at her expectantly – could this be the baby announcement she had long wished for, she wondered? Mamuchka clasped her hands together and pressed them to her lips. But any hopes that the Shashkov home would soon ring with the pitter-patter of tiny feet were quickly drowned.

‘‘I’m sorry if this comes across as a bit formal, but I wish to say a few words. This may come as a shock to many of you, but Iain has been offered a new posting.’’ Nadia’s mouth contorted, struggling to maintain her composure. ‘‘It is a great opportunity for us and although I will be very sad to leave you all, and to leave Macao my home, Iain and I hope to have your blessings. We will be moving to Hong Kong next month in preparation for the King’s coronation.’’ She settled back in her chair, regretting her actions almost immediately. Embarrassed and furious with herself, she wondered why she’d been so blunt, so cold – was it to get at Anna, had it been an attempt to claim her rights to Iain? Something trembled in her throat. The gathering had grown silent. Nadia’s eyes made a nervous pass across the table then turned to stare at the floor. She didn’t want to look at the expression on Mamuchka’s face.

 

Nadia sat in the sunny corner of the little patio behind the Tabacaria holding her father’s frail hand. His walking stick was leaning against the bauhinia tree, beside the swaying laundry drying on the line.

She tapped the toe of her left shoe against one of the thick gnarled roots that split through the pavestones.

‘‘Papashka,’’ she began. ‘‘I have some news. News which I don’t think you’re going to like. You know how I told you about Iain’s job, how one day he may be asked to move to another country. Well,’’ she paused. ‘‘He’s being posted to Hong Kong.’’ She felt his fingers tighten around her hand.

He remained quiet for a while. Lifting his face to hers, he asked, ‘‘Your mother told me last night after your dinner. But what about your house on Penha Hill?’’

‘‘We’ll sell up, I suppose.’’ She shrugged.

‘‘How soon will you be going?’’

She gazed into his washed-out expression, at his pale, unsunned skin. ‘‘In less than a month’s time.’’

The old man was blinking quickly.

‘‘Papashka, it pains me to leave you.’’

‘‘Nadia,’’ he was looking hard at her face, drinking her in. ‘‘We’ve had nine wonderful years in Macao together – something I never thought would be possible, considering what happened to me in Russia. I may have another nine years or another nine months left, but this is not for me to determine. This is for our good Lord to decide. What I will tell you, however, is to be by your husband’s side when he needs you. He is a good man, Nadia.’’

‘‘I know he is.’’

Ilya gave his daughter an involuntary look of pride. ‘‘And you have grown into a fine woman.’’

‘‘I will miss you, Papashka. Please forgive me for having to go away.’’

Shushing her, he stifled her apologies with a smile, softly smoothing away the lines on her forehead with his knuckles. ‘‘But, what are we getting all teary eyed about. Hong Kong is not on the other side of the world. It’s only forty miles away. We can still spend our Christmases together,’’ he assured her. ‘‘Maybe even meet up for our birthdays. I’ll be seventy-two this year. We can have a big celebration. You’ll come and visit me, won’t you?’’

‘‘Of course I will, Papashka.’’ She pressed her smooth glass charm, the one he’d given to her as a child into his good hand. ‘‘In the meantime, I want you to have this.’’

Ilya Shashkov touched it to his lips with tenderness. There were tears welling in his eyes. ‘‘Chto eta? Goodness gracious, I recognize this. You were only five when I gave this to you. I recall finding it in the stream. Look, it’s still shaped like a crown. You’ve kept this all this time?’’

Nadia nodded and closed her eyes. Remembering. Eyes still closed, she said, ‘‘I bought some Rangoon mangoes for Uncle Yugevny this morning. Let me go peel one for you. Ya sichas virnus.’’ She made to get up from the chair.

‘‘Wait,’’ he said. He raised his bad arm and banged it against his side, laughing. ‘‘Still as useless as a fire hose in the desert. I was trying to give you a hug.’’

‘‘Here let me help you.’’ Nadia draped his clumsy arm over her shoulder and held her father with the sun streaking through the bauhinia leaves. A shadow fell over one side of his face. And for the briefest of moments she thought that he resembled Lionel Barrymore again, just as he had done all those years before.