FRANK AND BASIE
A CHARCOAL STOVE burned softly in the center of the cabin, its sweet fumes lifting through an open skylight. The floor was covered with oily rags and engine parts, brass portholes and stair rails. On either side of the stove were a deck chair, with “Imperial Airways” stitched into its fading canvas, and a camp bed covered with a Chinese quilt.
The American flung his tools into the heap of metal parts. His large head and shoulders almost filled the cabin, and he slumped restlessly in the canvas chair. He peered into the saucepan on the stove and then gazed gloomily at Jim.
“He’s getting on my nerves already, Basie. I don’t know whether he’s hungrier or crazier . . . .”
“Come in, boy. You look like you need to lie down.”
A small, older man emerged from beneath the quilt and motioned to Jim with the cigarette he was holding in his white hand. He had a bland, unmarked face from which all the copious experiences of his life had been cleverly erased and soft hands that were busy powdering each other under the quilt. His eyes took in every detail of Jim’s mud-stained clothes, the tic that jumped across his mouth, his pinched cheeks and unsteady legs.
He dusted the talc from the bed and counted the pieces of salvaged brass. “Is that all, Frank? That’s not a lot to take to market. Those Hongkew merchants are charging ten dollars for a bag of rice.”
“Basie!” The young sailor drove a heavy boot into the heap of metal, exasperated more with himself than with the older man. “The boy’s been sitting on the pier for two days! Do you want the Japs in here?”
“Frank, the Japs aren’t looking for us. Nantao Creek is full of the cholera—that’s why we came here.”
“You practically put up a sign. Maybe you want them to look for us? Is that it, Basie?” Frank dipped a rag in a can of cleaning fluid. He began to rub vigorously at the grime that covered a porthole mount. “If you want to work so hard, try going out there—with that kid watching you all the time.”
“Frank, we’ve got my lungs, you agreed to that.” Basie inhaled a little smoke from his Craven A, soothing these delicate organs. “Besides, the boy didn’t even notice you. He had other things on his mind, boy’s things that you’ve forgotten, Frank, but I can still remember.” He made a warm place for Jim on the bed. “Come over here, son. What did they call you, before the war started?”
“Jamie . . .”
Frank threw down his rag. “All this scrap isn’t going to buy us a sampan to Chungking! We’d need the Queen Mary out there.” He treated Jim to a dark glare. “And we don’t have enough rice for you, kid. Who are you? Jamie—?”
“Jim . . .” Basie explained. “A new name for a new life.” As Jim sat beside him, he reached out a powdered hand and gently pressed his thumb against the hunger tic that jumped across the left corner of Jim’s mouth. Jim sat passively as Basie exposed his gums and glanced shrewdly at his teeth.
“That’s a well-kept set of teeth. Someone paid a lot of bills for that sweet little mouth. Frank, you’d be surprised how some people neglect their kids’ teeth.” Basie patted Jim’s shoulder, feeling the blue wool of his blazer. He scraped the mud from the school badge. “That looks like a good school, Jim. The Cathedral School?”
Frank glowered over his heap of portholes. He seemed wary of Jim, as if this small boy might take Basie from him. “Cathedral? Is he some kind of priest?”
“Frank, the Cathedral School.” Basie gazed with growing interest at Jim. “That’s a school for taipans. Jim, you must know some important people.”
“Well . . .” Jim was doubtful about this. He could think of nothing but the rice simmering on the charcoal stove, but then remembered a garden party at the British Embassy. “Once I was introduced to Madame Sun Yat-sen.”
“Madame Sun? You were . . . introduced?”
“I was only three and a half.” Jim sat still as Basie’s white hands explored his pockets. The watch slipped from his wrist and vanished into the haze of cologne and face powder below the quilt. Yet Basie’s attentive manner, like that of the servants who had once dressed and undressed him, was curiously reassuring. The sailor was feeling every bone in his body, as if searching for something precious. Through the open hatch Jim could see a flying boat about to take off from the naval air base. A Japanese patrol boat had closed the channel, giving a wide berth to the currents that formed huge whirlpools around the boom of freighters. Jim returned to the cooking pot and its intoxicating smell of burned fat. Suddenly it occurred to him that these two American sailors might want to eat him.
But Basie had removed the lid from the saucepan. A flavorsome steam rose from a thick stew of rice and fish. Basie produced a pair of tin plates and spoons from a leather bag under the bed. Still smoking his Craven A, he served portions for himself and Jim with the deftness of a waiter at the Palace Hotel. As Jim wolfed the hot fish, Basie watched with the same wry approval that the Japanese soldier had shown.
Basie tucked into the stew. “We eat later, Frank.”
Frank rubbed at a porthole, his eyes on the saucepan. “Basie, I always eat after you.”
“I need to think for us both, Frank. Besides, we have to look after our young friend.” He wiped a grain of rice from Jim’s chin. “Tell me, Jim, have you met any other Chinese big noises? Chiang Kaishek, maybe?”
“No . . . but his name isn’t really Chinese, you know.” The hot food made Jim’s brain swim. He remembered a word his mother had used, which he had always tried to work into his conversations with adults. “It’s a corruption of Shanghai Czech.”
“A corruption . . .?” Basie was sitting up now. Having ended his meal, he began to powder his hands. “Are you interested in words, Jim?”
“A bit. And contract bridge. I’ve written a book about it.”
Basie looked doubtful. “Words are more important, Jim. Put aside a new word every day. You never know when a word might be useful.”
Jim finished his stew and sat back contentedly against the metal wall. He could remember none of his meals before the war and every one of them since. It annoyed him to think of all the food in his life that he had turned away, and the elaborate stratagems which Vera and his mother had devised to persuade him to finish his pudding. He noticed that Frank was staring at a few grains he had left in the spoon and quickly licked it clean. Jim glanced into the saucepan, glad to see that there was enough rice for Frank. He was sure now that these two merchant seamen were not going to eat him, but the fear had been sensible—there had been rumors at the country club that British sailors torpedoed in the Atlantic had taken to cannibalism.
Basie served himself a small spoonful of rice. He made no attempt to eat this second helping but played with the plate under Frank’s burning gaze. Already Jim could see that Basie liked to control the young sailor and was using Jim to unsettle him. Jim’s entire upbringing could have been designed to prevent him from meeting people like Basie, but the war had changed everything.
“What about your daddy, Jim?” Basie asked. “Why aren’t you at home with your mother? Are they here in Shanghai?”
“Yes . . . .” Jim hesitated. All his experience of the previous two months told him not to trust anyone, except perhaps the Japanese. “They’re in Shanghai—but they’re sailing on the Idzumo.”
“The Idzumo?” Frank jumped from his deck chair. He seized a mess tin from his haversack and helped himself vigorously to the saucepan of rice. Between mouthfuls, he shook his spoon at Jim. “Kid, who are you? Basie!”
“Not the Idzumo, Jim.” With his white hands Basie selected a piece of charcoal from a bag under the bed. “The Idzumo’s heading for Foochow and Manila Bay. Jim’s having you on, Frank.”
“Well, I think they’re on the Idzumo.” Jim decided to fan the small doubt still in Basie’s eyes. “My father often goes to Manila.”
“Not on a Japanese cruiser, Jim.”
“Basie!”
“Frank . . . .” Basie mimicked the sailor’s voice. “Someday you’ll want to trust me. I imagine Jim’s folks had themselves picked up with all the other Britishers, and now Jim’s looking for them. Jim?”
Jim nodded, taking the last liqueur chocolate from his blazer pocket. He unwrapped the silver foil and bit into the miniature chocolate bottle. Then, remembering what Vera had drummed into him about the need to be polite, he handed half the chocolate to Basie.
“Curacao? Well, things have been looking up, Jim, since you arrived. All these new words, and now this fancy candy; we’re getting a little of that Palace Hotel style.” As Basie sucked at the chocolate cup with his sharp teeth, he resembled a white-faced rat teasing the brains from a mouse. “So you’ve been living at home, Jim, all by yourself. Down there in the French Concession?”
“Amherst Avenue.”
“Frank . . . . Before we leave Shanghai we ought to take a ride out there. There must be a lot of empty houses, Jim?”
Jim closed his eyes. He was very tired but awake, thinking of the rice he had just eaten, retasting every fishy grain. Basie talked, his devious voice circling the fume-filled air and its scent of cologne and Craven A. He thought of his mother smoking in the drawing room at Amherst Avenue. Now that he had met these two American sailors he would be seeing her again. He would stay with Basie and Frank; together they could go out to the boom of freighters; sooner or later the Japanese patrol boats would notice them.
•
A hot, fishy breath filled his face. Jim woke with a gasp. Frank’s huge body leaned across him, heavy arms on his thighs, hands feeling in his blazer pockets. Jim pushed him away, and Frank calmly returned to his deck chair and continued to polish the portholes.
They were alone together in the cabin. Jim could hear Basie on the bamboo catwalk below. The door of the truck slammed, and the elderly engine began to throb, then stopped abruptly. There was a distant blast from the Idzumo’s siren. With a meaningful glance at Jim, Frank buffed the faded brass.
“You know, kid, you have a talent for getting on people’s nerves. How is it the Japs haven’t picked you up? You must be quick on your feet.”
“I tried to surrender,” Jim explained. “But it isn’t easy. Do you and Basie want to surrender?”
“Like hell—though I don’t know about him. I’m trying to get Basie to buy a sampan so we can sail upriver to Chungking. But Basie keeps changing his mind. He wants to stay in Shanghai now the Japs are here. He thinks we can make a pile of money once we get to the camps.”
“Do you sell a lot of portholes, Frank?”
Frank peered at Jim, still unsure about this small boy. “Kid, we haven’t sold a single one. It’s Basie’s game, like a drug; he needs to keep people working for him. Down in the yard somewhere he has a bag of gold teeth that he sells in Hongkew.” With a knowing smile, Frank raised an oil-stained spanner and touched Jim’s chin. “It’s a good thing you don’t have any gold teeth, or—” He snapped his wrist.
Jim sat up, remembering how Basie had searched his gums. The sound of the truck’s motor vibrated through the metal cabin. Jim was wary of these two merchant seamen, who had somehow escaped the Japanese net around Shanghai, and realized that he might have as much to fear from them as from anyone else in the city. He thought of Basie’s secret bag of gold teeth. The creeks and canals of Nantao were full of corpses, and the mouths of those corpses were full of teeth. Every Chinese tried to have at least one gold tooth out of self-respect, and now that the war had begun their relatives might be too tired to pull them out before the funeral. Jim visualized the two American seamen searching the mud flats at night with their spanners, Frank rowing the dinghy along the black creeks, Basie in the bows with a lantern, prodding the corpses that drifted past and exposing their gums . . . .