3

The late-afternoon sun danced on the water, sparkling like jadeite charms, angling in, still hot. The sea was no longer rising. The waves had softened. In the distance, to the east, dozens of fishing junks broke the horizon, the peaks of their ribbed sails snapping like hungry barracuda at the flaring sun. To the west, unstirred by the robust wind, a nest of orange-fringed clouds reddened with the twilight.

Under the cover of a withering sky, the junk entered Hong Kong waters from the south, skirting the Po Toi Islands. The sail hung, as it always did, on the starboard side of the mast. Nadia watched the land spread out before her, its colours contrasting against the blue of the sea. She saw mountainous terrain, bamboo forests, shanty towns caked to the lower valleys like ant nests, barren rock peaks and thin waterfalls that gleamed like streaks of bone. The junk entered a narrow stretch of channel. This must be the East Lamma Strait, Nadia said to herself, her heart beginning to thump. It was the first point marked on her map, beyond it, marked with a red circle, was the place she was to be dropped off – Aberdeen Bay. She folded the map carefully along the crease lines and slipped it within the lining of her tunic.

There were fewer buildings on this side of the territory, only a sprinkling of European-style houses, sword-blades of white that stood out against the green. Instead, she saw the dense shade of hills, the tropical foliage, the crowded settlement of sampan communities with their own floating boutiques and restaurants. Here the water gypsies lived, the tang-kah. The stern of their junks were the working and living quarters of their homes. Dressed in pajamas, the boatgirls did their house chores, grew vegetables in tubs of soil, bred chickens and pigs under the mizzens of their crafts.

Nadia was being smuggled into Hong Kong by the water people known as the Hoklo, sea gypsies who specialized in opium running and piracy. They had been paid a handsome sum for the privilege of getting her out of neutral Macao and into occupied Hong Kong. Only the Hoklo knew how to avoid the mines that plagued the waterways. They agreed on a delivery date – April 30th, the day following the Emperor’s birthday, in the hope that the Japanese patrol boat captains would be nursing hangovers, or better still, be off-duty.

The sun sank into the horizon. Nadia stood under the foremast in the sun-dappled shadows, tight against the bow, invisible against the blackened scoop of deck. The floor under her feet was slick with ocean spray. She gripped the scummy ropes of the foremast as if her life depended on it. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat and the dark, loose trousers of a fisherman made from coarse cloth. Her collarless tunic was fastened down the sides and a length of sash, like a Japanese obi, had been wrapped round her chest. Using hooks and eyes, she’d pulled it tight to flatten her breasts. She touched her compressed bosom fleetingly, nudging first the left breast, then the right, just to see if they were still there. Moments later, her ringless hands went to the back of her neck. Her elbow-length hair had been cropped short at the nape to resemble a boy; as short as it had been when she was in her late twenties; the feeling of bareness felt alien to her, yet comfortingly familiar. Using fabric scissors, she’d cut away the braid which she had been growing for six years, finding the sensation strangely liberating, as though she were Joan of Arc about to enter the battlefield.

Meanwhile, with great deftness, the Hoklo began to haul in their trawling nets, the drag of the trawl bridle showing the fishermen how good the catch was. Because of the mines their fishing was restricted to the six-mile horshoe between the twin Lamma Channels. ‘‘Yut, yee, saam!’’ they crowed in unison, arms straining, ‘‘Yut, yee, samm!’’ Within minutes the fishing holds were alive with pomfret, flowery grouper and humphead wrasse.

A strong breeze pushed against Nadia’s body. The sails slapped against the wind, like the sound of a giant canvas bird flapping its wings. The sky grew greyer, closing on her like a hand, its colour darkening like a palm painted with henna. She was thinking about what lay ahead for her – it was as if her blood had turned cold and her lungs emptied of air. Her guts had been churning ever since they passed Lantau Island and a couple of times she had to lean forward and moan, the back of her throat sensing bile. She watched shadows dance on the rippling water and hated herself for feeling seasick.

Her hands seized the euphroe, a long wooden slat that secured the cord holding up the awnings of the sails. Her cotton sacks of belongings were tucked between her legs, her bare feet wet against the teak deck. She looked up into the night, beyond the elliptical curves of the masts, and her mouth moved in silent prayer. She crossed herself. Increasingly groggy and light-headed, she tasted the acid climb up and burn her throat once more. She dry-heaved and felt tears well in her eyes.

Costa grunted, scowled at her as if to say forty-three-year-old women weren’t meant to get seasick. He bent his head forward and shook it. Nadia could see the olive sheen of his scalp where his hair had thinned. Wheezing and sweating, he emitted a snigger and scratched his belly though his shirt.

‘‘What are you laughing at?’’ she said.

‘‘I knew thees wash a bad idea.’’

‘‘Shut up.’’

‘‘You shut up.’’

Nadia felt her mouth fill with thick globs of saliva.

‘‘Move!’’ she said.

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I said move, Zasranec!’’ She scrambled over Costa’s massive frame and was sick over the side of the boat.

 

Shooting-stars fell from the sky, tails poppling like molten silver. Neither Costa nor Nadia had seen sleep for thirty hours. The anxious, animated thoughts racing through their heads defeated slumber. Beneath Costa’s conical fishing hat, his face radiated anticipation. Looking though a spyglass, he could see the Japanese soldiers patrolling the avenues along the Aberdeen seafront, their rifles and bayonets catching the smattering of moonlight as the slope dipped into a rocky ridge. He shook his head no, paying no attention to the borborygmus of his whining stomach.

With careful deliberation Nadia pressed a pair of black coolie shoes to her feet and made a mental note of all the items she had in the two sacks by her ankles: thirty-two cartons of cigarettes, five tins of Pall Mall tobacco, a pocket-book full of Japanese Military Yen and false identification papers, a Swiss-made wristwatch with luminous hands and hour markers, four tangerines, a bottle of iodine sealed tight in newspaper, biscuits, wire cutter pliers, several beeswax candles, wrappings of preserved fruit, dried meats, two canteens of water, a much-used folding map of Hong Kong and a stack of European postcards depicting naked women in various breezy poses. There was also a single photograph concealed in a manila envelope, which she kept hidden from view.

‘‘It ish too dangerous to get you ashore here,’’ Costa said, shaking his head once more, his voice a dull rumble. He handed her the spyglass, which she placed in her bag.

‘‘But it’s the meeting point,’’ Nadia protested. ‘‘Father Luke will be waiting.’’

Costa threw his head from side to side and his chin swung like that of a Bactrian camel. ‘‘No, I cannot allow it. We will try to get you onto one of the shmall beaches around Repulse Bay.’’

‘‘How will we contact Father Luke?’’

‘‘Leave that to me. When we get you on land, head wesht, but shtay clear of the roads and Japanese patrols. We’ll get word to Luke and egg-shplain that you’ll meet in Deep Water Bay. There are three tall palm trees at the neck of the bay. It ish not hard to find.’’

Nadia nodded uncertainly. She knew nothing about Father Luke. All she’d been told was that since the occupation, the Catholic diocese had come under the control of the Portuguese Eurasians, and as one of their senior clerics, he’d expressed a willingness to help her.

‘‘Are you nervish?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Don’t be. You will be in good hands. Would you like to hear a balada? It will ease the tenshyn. My mother used to shing to me whenever I shuffered the calamities of conshtipation.’’

‘‘No, please no. Bawzhemoy, I don’t think I could tolerate your singing right now.’’

Regardless, Costa began to croon a quiet song. ‘‘Oh, her nose was full of blackheads, and she was the belle of the ball …’’

Nadia shook her head and reproached him with her eyes. Despite herself, she smiled.

The junk moved slowly eastward. Somewhere along the coast Nadia saw stretches of overgrown lawn that might have been part of a golf course. Images of Iain practicing his swing welled up in her mind – the tilt of his shoulders, the graceful arc of his backswing, the pivot of his hips, the extension of his arms. The thought remained with her for some time. She stayed quiet, her right hand caressing the jade monkey pendent by her throat. She had not seen Iain since he was interned in January 1942, thirty-nine months ago. He was allowed to write to her once a month. During that time she had received twenty-six letters, each one written in a progressively faltering hand; she’d reread each one so often she knew them all by heart. In her left hand she clutched the last of the correspondence. There was just enough light for her to make out her name on the front. She looked at the flip side of the envelope where the words ‘Prisoner of War Mail’ and ‘Passed by Censor 3287’ were stamped in Chinese writing.

As usual, Iain had told her about his prickly heat, the awful meals, the continuous waiting, the never-knowing-what-day-it-was, how he’d had to make his own food receptacles out of old bully beef tins, and his imminent move to new billets. He mentioned that an anaemic baby had been born in Block F – three pounds, two ounces, a girl. She was not expected to survive. He also said that his address would remain as before until further notice: Block C, Room 11, Stanley Civilian Internment Camp. His message seemed mundane enough, yet, there had been other parts of the letter that had been picked up by the censors who’d drawn black ink over two paragraphs of text. Nadia tried to guess what it was that Iain had written. Was it something to do with BAAG, the resistance organization that helped prisoners escape? Was it a signal maybe, a tip-off? Or the failed escapes Costa had told her about? For a while she wondered what might have spurred them to run a black pen over his words. Had he been warning her of something? Was there something she needed to know? What had he said that made them so worried?

The junk approached a tiny bay.

‘‘You know,’’ Costa said, reverting to Portuguese, his eyebrows lifting with amusement. ‘‘Iain and I used to go into Coloane every month or so, whenever we could really, and play football against the teenage Macanese boys in the village. He ran fast down the right wing and had a mean cross. Your husband was louco about football and he was pretty good too. He was talented in the air as well, won many, many headers. Afterwards we would all go down to one of the pousadas on the beach and eat spicy prawns, salted codfish, suckling pig wrapped in hot bread. We never got home before sunrise. That was the year before he knew about you … 1927. I never thought he could be any happier. But I was wrong. Because then he met you and I never ever saw that big mouth of his smile and laugh so much.’’ Their eyes met briefly. ‘‘You realize he is my best friend.’’

‘‘I do.’’

‘‘And you will find him for me?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

Costa’s breath came in a turbulent rush. ‘‘You are shoor you are ready to do thees?’’ he said, speaking now in his deep mellifluous English. ‘‘Thees ees not an offee-cial mission. If BAAG finds out about thees, we’ll all be in terrible trouble. You are an amateur. Naturally, I would go myself, but the Japanese probably have a file on me. If they catch me, they’ll egzeecute me for shertain.’’

‘‘This was my choice, Fernando. I have to do this, especially with the new camp commandant arriving any day. If he recognizes Iain, he’ll shoot him. I have to get him out of there as soon as possible.’’

‘‘You have four days. We will be waiting for you at the designated point on the map. You remember where that ish?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ she replied. Though there was an undertone of anxiety in her voice, she held no fear in her heart. She felt that she was drawing ever nearer to Iain. Soon she would be able to help and comfort him. She looked into Costa’s eyes once more and was surprised to see that they were pools of tenderness despite his blunt exterior. She realized with a flush of compassion that the big Macanese man was almost as close to Iain as she was.

‘‘I owe it to Vermelho to get you here,’’ he said. ‘‘And to get you back shafely.’’

She stretched forward and touched Costa’s hand. ‘‘I know. Thank you,’’ she said, looking now towards the land, determined to be with the man she loved, the man who had inhabited her thoughts, night and day, for seventeen years, forging an unbreakable emotional and spiritual connection.

‘‘I’m going to find him, Fernando, and bring him home.’’

There was a pause, a fleeting moment of reverential silence. A whisper of hope that hung between them before it was whipped away in the wind. He nodded in assent. ‘‘I know you will, Senhora. May God go with you.’’

 

Costa let the cotton sacks fall into the sampan with a thump.

Nadia stood for a long time under the quartermast, her mind seething with thoughts. Her eyes were closed, her face tipped toward the sky. She fingered her father’s lucky glass charm that hung on a thin necklace round her neck. Costa puckered his lips and made an indistinct whistling sound.

Nadia secured the buttons of her tunic.

She peered down at Costa, whose raised, clenched fist meant it was time to go. She adjusted the broad brim of her woven hat and lowered herself onto the sampan; the rope ladder creaking and clicking under her weight. The sea was getting rough again. The sampan woman was looking at her as if she was some kind of sea demon, as though she was the first Caucasian woman she’d ever set eyes on.

Nadia felt her legs lurch, her knees fighting to keep upright. The sampan bumped along the top of the surf. The water was jet black. She was aware of salt spray hitting her lips, gleaming wet on her face. She looked behind her and saw Costa’s round-rumped bulk, his black-shadowed shape on the curved prow of the junk. She waved at him once, but he did not respond. His last words to her were to head west along the waterfront road and to look out for Father Luke the following morning by the beach with the three palm trees.

She was on her own now.

Over the side. Her legs hit the current and immediately she felt the rush of tidewater snatch at her thighs, pulling her to and fro, bending her knees. She fought her way through to the shore and slumped on all fours, cotton bags draped over each shoulder, hat falling off the back of her head. The only light came from the moon, temporarily hidden by a freckle of cloud. The tide was out so there was about eighty feet of sand between the shrubline and the sea.

She moved closer to the ragged row of trees, her shoes squishing water and sand, to within fifty feet of the road. Her head swivelled round. A mile from the junk now, and the slightest sound – the wind through the trees, the hiss of surf, made her flinch and look into the invisible frontier, straining to make things out in the darkness. Apart from a few frantic crabs, the beach appeared completely deserted. She stooped low and ran, feet catching in the contours of the sand, bags thumping against her spine. She ran as if propelled by a mighty, unseen hand. She could hear herself heaving for air. The drips of cool on her face felt like light rain.

She was about ten yards from the road when she fell. She’d caught her foot on something round, like a large coconut. With a powerful wrench, she pulled herself up and stared hard at the ground. What she thought were big, black stones lay scattered about the head of the beach. She bent down and reached forward with her fingers. The bit she touched felt like soft coir or straw. A streak of light appeared; the moon came out from behind the clouds, reflecting enough radiance to see by, throwing ghostly blue phosphorescence onto the sand. She pulled her arm away. Her blood turned thick and cold. Her hands bunched into fists and covered her mouth. A man was gazing up at her, a terrified, breathless, accusing expression on his face. His teeth looked brilliant, the darkish hair rigidly curled. The orbits of his eyes were full of fly larvae, writhing like syrupy grains of rice. A few feet away another man was gawping at the stars.

A hushed fragrance of death filled her nostrils. There were more decapitated heads to her left and right, one was still wearing spectacles. She saw, about five yards to the distant, a group of headless bodies lying on their backs, abdomens torn open, the sand around them sodden with blood and entrails. Their flesh was like slaughterhouse sullage where the pye-dogs had feasted upon the mutilated meat. In the stillness of the night she counted eleven cadavers in all.

The sand started blowing in gusts. Sparrows began to squabble over scraps of knotted muscle tissue. A chill came over Nadia’s arms and neck. She narrowed her eyes. All of a sudden the trees appeared to light up in front of her. She heard the rumble of a lorry’s engine bouncing and roaring, and wheels sizzling to a stop on the wet road. Another lorry loomed before her and pulled up. Headlight beams crossed in the darkness, branching out across the beach. She climbed hand over hand up a small ridge, and hid herself behind the scribed edges of thistles and spruces, her cloth shoes digging into the earth to get a hold. She made no movement, held her breath; the pulse points on her neck began to throb.

A steely, braying voice shouted, ‘Sousou, sousou!’ She caught the twisting glint of bayonets. A Japanese officer, the side vents of his tropical tunic open to the breezes, was shepherding a procession of shackled men towards an exposed area of tall grass. One of the captives struggled and was struck with the butt of a rifle. There was a shrill cry, a shriek for mercy. Nadia thought it sounded English. The lorry’s headlights showed up a man’s agonized face. She saw five figures, kneeling, their heads bowed as though for Sunday prayer. Dry-mouthed, she forced herself from delivering a shuddering sob. The officer secured the chin strap of his cap over his jaw, laid the black lacquered scabbard on the floor and lifted his long sword high above his head. He swung from the shoulders.

Amongst the shadows, her hands locked against her breasts, Nadia couldn’t stop trembling. She wanted to look away, but her eyes were determined to see. She felt the blood grow cold beneath her bones. The world went still and mute.