Tales from Old Shanghai 01

"Mommy," Marjory said, her face even pinker. "We eat American food at school all the time. And of course they know how to use knives and forks." Now she was looking daggers at her Mom as she led her away and we both heard her hissed whisper. "Mommy, I told you that you should have let me ask them. Don't be so rude to them."

"She didn't make a mistake," Hua whispered. "She didn't want us here for dinner and the dancing this evening."

"Of course not," I said. "All she wanted was to show us off at the Garden Party, show everyone else how tolerant they are, inviting Chinese girls to show that their daughter is friends with us to make themselves look virtuous and tolerant and Christian."

"I'm so sorry about that," Marjory said, returning, her cheeks still pink. "You're going to enjoy the dancing. There's some other people coming this evening." She smiled, not meeting our eyes. "Some younger people." Her eyes sparkled now as Emily joined us. "Emily's brother's coming with some friends."

"It's so good that he's back here," Emily confided. "He graduated from Cambridge, you know. He's a griffin with Jardine Matheson now. Daddy talked to Sir William you know and he had him taken on." She smiled at Marjory. "Maybe he could take us to the movies."

"Sure, I'd like that." Marjory nodded. Marjory was like that. She liked men. She talked about men a lot. She went out openly with men in the weekends, and with her parents' permission. It seemed rather scandalous to Hua and I. She'd gone out with American men and Englishmen and she'd even gone out with a Frenchman once. What man could possibly want to marry her after that? And the Frenchman was here too. Her parents had invited him. She pointed him out to us.

"He tried to touch me," she breathed. "Under my skirt." She'd smiled at us, confident in her superiority. "I didn't let him of course but it was so exciting."

Hua giggled. "Everyone knows white men prefer fragrant Chinese jade gates to stinky white girl's jade gates," she'd whispered to me, in Mandarin of course, while Marjory chattered on.

"Her father certainly does," I'd whispered back and we'd both giggled.

"What was that?" Marjory asked, not really interested.

"Those Frenchmen, they have such a reputation," I said. I'd seen Marjory's jade gate in the showers after gym. It was not something I would have wanted to touch. So fat and hairy. If her mother's was like that, no wonder her father's jade stalk felt so much yin energy when he looked at Hua.

"Oh, yes." Marjory was so oblivious.

Neither Hua nor I had ever been to a western-style dinner outside of school before and we were nervous. Where did one sit? What dishes were served? How should one behave?

"Martin!" Emily squealed. We all looked around. I saw what everyone else saw, a group of young white men walking out into the garden, a tall slim blonde haired young man in light trousers, a white linen shirt and a light summer jacket in the lead. He was smiling, a casually elegant wave of his hand to Emily, a hug for her as she flung herself on him in that casual way European girls had, a handshake for Marjory's father, a kiss to the cheek of Marjory's mother, a smile for Marjory.

He looked around, his eyes met mine and he froze, mid-sentence. His eyes looked into mine and it was as if I had suffered an electric shock that jolted my entire body, leaving my heart pounding, my body weak but my eyesight, my senses, it was if a shadow had been lifted from my eyes and everything was clearer, brighter, sharper.

I shall always remember that first glimpse of him. Tall to me, but much the same height as the other Englishmen in that crowded room, Slim, dressed in a cream-colored tropical suit, an open-necked white shirt, casual, elegant, his hair so blonde, his eyes a bright sparkling blue. Alien colors, a westerner's hair and eyes and features, his pale white skin, the shape of his face, his mannerisms as he resumed talking, but his eyes returned to me again and again as I stood there, not hearing a word Hua was saying, confused, my mind whirling, my body full of heat.

The room took on new depth, an intensity of sensations that flooded me. The texture of the polished wooden floor on which I stood, the patterns of the Chinese rug on which he stood, the scent of floor polish and Europeans, the paintings on the wall, the furniture around the walls. It was as if I'd always been asleep and now, suddenly, I was wide awake and I had been transported into a new world as we looked at each other. This blue-eyed Englishman and me.

Emily was at his side, talking excitedly to him, he was talking back and always, always his eyes glanced at me, met mine and it was as if some force beyond myself was drawing me to him. That force tugged at me, but I was unable to move, unable to stir, not even to turn my head and look away and then a gaily smiling Emily was leading him towards us. Towards me and his eyes held mine.

He smiled.

I returned his smile.

"Hua, Chuntao. This is my brother, Martin," Emily said, and his hand took mine in the European way, a strong gentle clasp.

"What does your name mean?" he asked, his hand not releasing mine. "It sounds beautiful."

"Chuntao?" I said. "It means Spring Peach, you know, when the peach trees blossom."

"Spring peaches are beautiful," he'd smiled. "Like you."

I didn't say anything but my cheeks flushed pink and my heart beat a little faster. A lot faster and then my hand was released, he was introducing himself to Hua. He and I and Hua and Emily were talking. He'd grown up here in Shanghai but he'd been back in England for years. Boarding School and then University and he looked the part. Very English. Tall, slim, dressed immaculately in that casual European style and so polite.

We'd talked about school and he'd told us about his boarding school in England. Harrow, and he'd talked about University in England and his job at Jardines when we asked and I'd told him a little about myself, that my family was from Nanking, that my hope was to become an Architect or an Engineer, that I had no idea how one should behave at a European-style dinner party.

"You'll sit with me," he smiled. "I shall explain everything," and he vanished. I found out afterwards he'd cornered Marjory's parents' head boy and slipped him some cumshaw to change the seating arrangements.

At the time and after he'd reappeared, I was just happy to have someone to explain everything to me with no fear of embarrassment. Thanks to his coaching, both Hua and I survived that dinner with no embarrassment and no gauche faux-pas's, much to Marjory's mother's relief.

To our own relief as well.

"We'll dance a little later," Marjory's mother said as dinner came to an end. The food had been strange, but not unenjoyable. Certainly better than the school fare. "Marjory and Emily are going to put on a little musical performance for us."

Emily did play the piano well, and Marjory sang. After all this time I don't remember the songs at all but they were popular hits back then and she sang them well.

"Say, do you girls play any Chinese music?" Marjory's father, Mr. Cunningham, Chuck, asked, and I don't think he was trying to embarrass us, he was just a little drunk and he was curious. "Got a couple here, there on the wall. Never heard what they sound like."

There were more than a couple. A Pipa, a Guqin, and an Erhu, a Sanxian, a Dahu and the centrepiece, a Yunluo. I'd never seen any of them on a wall before.

"Chink music always sounds like cats fighting to me," one of Chuck's friends said, rather loudly.

"Uncle Mike," Marjory nudged him with her elbow.

"What?" he said, then, "oh." He didn't look embarrassed at all though.

My expression didn't change. "I play the guqin, Mr. Cunningham," I said. "This one here." The Guqin, on the wall. "Would you like me to play something for you?"

"Sure, let's hear it," one of the other men said. "Always thought it'd be interesting to hear one of them things played."

"Here, I'll get it down for you," Mr. Cunningham said, standing, taking it from the wall, passing it to me and when I held it in my hands it was truly beautiful. A work of art, an antique, the thirteen hui, the mother-of-pearl dots as lustrous as small moons in the darkness of the midnight sky, the seven silk strings stretched on the soundboard, eager to once more sing their notes.

"Came from the Summer Palace," Mr Cunningham said to the room, as if he'd picked it up in the street. "My grandfather picked it up back in 1860, he was with the British when you chaps stormed the place."

My eyes welled with tears, tears of shame that this part of China's precious heritage had fallen into the hands of these barbarians, tears of shame that this precious relic of the past sat unknown and uncared for on the wall of an unknowing foreigner, but my fingers plucked at those strings, tightening, tuning, and even after seventy five years they were in perfect condition.

"What the heck is it?" another of the men asked.

"The guqin," I said, plucking at the strings, hearing their music whisper into the air of that room. "It is China's oldest stringed instrument, it has been played as you see it for more than three thousand years, its history stretches back into the mists of the past and its music is China. It is inseparable from China and in our past, it was one of the four arts that scholars were expected to master. Legend tells us that the qin was invented by Huang Di, the Yellow Emperor, one of the three great founding emperors of China's distant past. This qin that I hold here, that once dwelled in the Summer Palace of the Emperor of China, this qin was made by the Younger Prince of Lu for himself, he who ruled the Southern Ming Dynasty four hundred year ago. It was captured and taken with him to Peking, where he was executed. That history is written here, on this qin."

Those beautiful notes faded as I caressed the embossed characters that told the story of this beautiful instrument, this treasure of China now in the hands of this American who had no idea of what he had on his walls. I smiled at no-one.

"I will play you High Mountains and Flowing Waters," I said. "This piece was created by the great musician Yu Boya, in the Spring and Autumn Period of China, two thousand five hundred years ago. It is one of the great classics of Chinese music."

I closed my eyes, meditating as my fingers plucked at this piece of our history, letting my mind flow, recreating that music, willing the high mountains from my fingers, willing the flowing waters to emerge, note by note as my fingers moved without thought, for I knew this piece as if it was my own heart, playing until that last note died away.

"That's rather nice," Mr. Cunningham said, but the tone of his voice said otherwise.

"Could you play another one," someone asked, a gentleman whose name I didn't then remember and I could tell he at least appreciated the beauty of the guqin.

My fingers plucked remembered notes. "This is the Song of Chu," I said, the notes accompanying my voice. "It is about the defeat of the Chu general Xiang Yu by the founder of the Han dynasty during the period when the Qin dynasty was falling apart two thousand two hundred years ago. The Chu army is surrounded by the Han army and, his men surrounded, General Xiang Yu says goodbye to his wife Yu Ji, who commits suicide so that her husband will not fear for her fate in the coming battle. He and a few of his troops break free to no avail and at the end Xiang Yu rides off to commit suicide as well. There is a song that goes with this music."

I smiled at Hua, for I knew she knows the words for this song. "Sing for me as I play, sister," I said.

Hua smiled and moved to stand beside me, her voice rising to accompany the music as I drew the notes from this beautiful instrument, plucking, touching, pressing the strings and lifting, my fingers sliding up and down the strings in those complex combinations of finger movements that the guqin demands

"My strength can lift mountains,

My spirit can encompass society;

But the times are not appropriate,

(my horse) Zhui is no longer quick;

When Zhui is no longer quick, what can I do?

Alas, Yu Ji; alas, Yu Ji;

What will become of you?

Recalling his departure from Jiangdong

His spirit wants to consume the Qin rulers

At night he hears an iron di flute

His 8,000 soldiers are scattered

His brave spirit is dissipated

He cries at having to leave Yu Ji

He loses his way at Yin Ling

He will not cross at Wujiang."

Hua sings the words in Chinese, in Mandarin and I translate them softly in English as she sings, telling the tragic tale of the great General and his beloved and heroic wife until that last note dies away and Mr. Cunningham has been watching her as she stands beside me, singing,his face rapt. Martin, Martin has been watching me and, conscious of his eyes, I smile.

"Sounds like a typical Chink general," Uncle Mike says. "Crying, abandoning his men, losing the way and then killing himself. Typical farce."

"It is an honor to hear you play, Miss Chuntao," that other man said, and I remembered his name now, Mr. Standiford. The look he gave "Uncle Mike" was one that even Hua and I could recognize. "Your fingers, the way you play, it's so expressive. I'd like to listen to you play again."

"Enough, enough," Mrs. Cunningham said, clapping her hands. "Thank you girls, that was marvellous. Now, let's dance. Please, this way..." and you can tell right away she shared Uncle Mike's opinion of chink music.

"That was beautiful," Martin said. "I had no idea, I've only ever heard those Chinese opera singers before."

I smiled. "That's for theatres and street performances. Guqin music is for gatherings like this."

"I'm not sure about dancing," I'd said to Hua. "Father might not approve."

"It's a private party," Hua said. "It's not like dancing in a dance all, we're not taxi dancers. And they teach us to dance at school." She smiles. "I'm going to dance and enjoy myself. It's not as if we go to parties like this all the time."

She was right, we didn't, and I didn't think Mrs. Cunningham would invite us again. Especially not after her husband walked up to us and asked Hua for the first dance. She glanced at me helplessly, her cheeks pink, and walked onto the floor that'd been cleared for dancing with her arm tucked in his.

"May I?" Martin said.

I smiled as his arms took me and that first dance was magic. One of his hands holding mine, the other on my waist and just his touch was exhilarating and I was happy now that the School had taught us to dance.

"You better dance with someone else," I said at last, after three dances.

He'd smiled, and he was looking down at me with that expression on his face that electrified me. I was used to men looking at me. I knew I was attractive. Hua and I both. Men looked and not just Chinese men. White men. They looked, and Martin wore that same look. The look men have when they desire a woman but this time there was something different.

The time I looked back and I desired Martin.

In his arms, there was excitement and anticipation. His hands on me sent shivers through my body. His proximity had me wanting him to take me in his arms and hold me tight and somehow we were closer together, almost touching each other and then something did touch me and my eyes widened. He jerked away from me, his cheeks pink.

"I say, I'm so sorry," he said, his cheeks pink, and there was that moment of shocked awareness as I put two and two together and realized what had brushed me.

I smiled, my hear fluttered and my own body responded with a surge of heat and I knew Father would very definitely not approve but I didn't care. Father wasn't here and I was. "You better dance with Mrs. Cunningham for the next couple of dances," I said, smiling, and when that dance ended, I joined Hua.

Her face was flushed, pink, her eyes wide and startled and one of her hands clutched mine as we sat down together.

"Emily's father," she whispered, and her eyes were alive, sparkling. She was smiling now. "He rubbed his jade stalk against me."

"Aiiyaaah," I said. "Really?"

"I think something happened," she said, and she was breathing hard and half-giggling. "He was dancing with me and he was holding me really tight and I could feel it and remember the yang energy, and how your jade gate is supposed to become moist."

"Yes." I could barely speak, my mouth was so dry. "Yes, I remember." I remembered Martin too. Brushing me and all of a sudden there was that heat and, yes, my jade gate was moist.

"He rubbed his jade stalk against me and my jade gate was really moist, Chuntao. I liked it.". She swallowed. "He wants to dance with me again, later. I said yes, and I'm not sure if I should have."

"It's not as if we go to parties like this all the time," I said. "He's not going to do anything with all these other people here." I squeezed her hand, smiled, thinking of Martin. Martin dancing with me and he'd brushed against me and that was his jade stalk. It couldn't have been anything else and now I knew why Chinese frowned on the decadence of these western-style gatherings. I was so happy Marjory had invited us. So happy we'd stayed, despite Mrs. Cunningham so obviously not wanting us. "Let's go talk to Marjory."

But Marjory was talking with her Frenchman, and he did look like he wanted to slide his hand under her dress and the way Marjory was smiling at him, she looked as if she was encouraging him. Mr. Cunningham did dance with Hua again, but Mrs. Cunningham was watching him and he didn't do anything with her again. Martin came over and asked me to dance and we did and I moved closer to him this time, because he was being so careful, but I wanted him to brush against me, I wanted to feel him and I did.

Within me, it was as if some strange flower was unfolding, stirring and his eyes were so blue. Blue sapphires looking down into mine, brushing my heartstrings as I had brushed and plucked at the strings of that guqin and his smile was so natural, not forced, his voice relaxed, unstrained and he was enjoying talking with me, he wasn't pretending. He was interest in me and the flower inside me unfolded, blooming under the sunlight of his eyes.

"I'd like to see you again, Chuntao," he'd said, almost inaudibly, as we danced, brushing together every now and then and every time I felt him I shivered and my jade gate was definitely moist, another flower unfolding.

"Hua and I go to the Saturday matinee at the Cathay Cinema on Avenue Joffre almost every weekend," I'd said, very quietly and I hadn't danced with him again after that.

Mr. Standiford danced with me though. He'd really enjoyed my qin playing. He'd said he'd talk to Mrs. Innes, he'd like to hear me play again.

His jade stalk brushed me and told me he'd like to play something else. I blushed and eased away from him.

I'd told Hua about Martin after we got back to our room.

"You'll get in trouble, Chuntao. You'll get him in trouble too. They don't like their English boys to have anything to do with Chinese girls. Especially girls like us." And we both knew what she meant.

Anglicized Chinese. Chinese on the outside, European inside. Because we were, both of us. Anyone could look at us in our western-style school uniforms and the way we walked and talked and see that. We weren't sing-song girls. They didn't care about sing-song girls. They were there for one thing only and everyone knew that. Girls like us? That was another story.