Read Everything Under the Sky Online
Authors: Matilde Asensi
Tags: #Mystery, #Oceans, #land of danger, #Shanghai, #Biao, #Green Gang, #China, #Adventure, #Kuomintang, #Shaolin
“Let's go!” Master Red exclaimed as he started to run.
Without a word we took off after him at full speed. Strangely enough, a small group of assassins followed. I was terrified. Were they going to kill us? Then some of them started passing us, even leaving us behind.
We reached the end of the red wall and turned to the right. We ran and ran. Now there was a large group of us racing toward the shaft. It's not as if I felt sorry for the ones who stayed behind, but I would always be thankful to their boss for sparing our lives. The sole objective of the hunt that had begun in Shanghai and appeared to have just ended had been to find the mausoleum; the Green Gang's two employers, the imperial family in Peking and the Japanese, had wanted nothing more. All we had to worry about now was getting out of there. We were somewhat lucky the thugs had decided to flee with us, because their torches lit the way and we were able to move more confidently. Even though Master Red had his
luo p'an
and would have gotten us to the shaft, I knew what it was like to run in the dark and was thankful I could see the floor in front of me and not be running into those thick black columns that were everywhere.
We passed the walls that circled the palace at the precise moment I would have sworn that the two and a half hours the antiquarian had given us were up. As soon as I realized this, I grew weak with fear. We were escaping on borrowed time, and I hoped the antiquarian's dynamite and fuses had failed, that his plan had fallen through. I was puffing like a bellows and began to feel a twinge of pain in my right side. I wouldn't last much longer. If the shaft didn't appear soon, I was going to drop right there. No air was reaching my lungs, and that sensation had always been my worst nightmare, the horrible end to one of my anxiety attacks.
“Come on, Auntie, keep going!” my niece said, taking me by the arm and pulling.
Fernanda. I had to keep going for Fernanda. Who was going to look after her if I stayed behind? And then there was Biao. I had to take care of Biao. I couldn't give up.
That's when we reached the ramp. That beautiful ramp made of white clay bricks made me dream of living to see another day, and another, and another…. Something had obviously gone wrong on the sixth level. Something had failed, and the Green Gang assassins were going to find Lao Jiang and his explosives. I didn't know if I felt sorry about that or not. All I could think of was the lovely, lovely ramp I was setting foot on. I was so tired and yet so optimistic, so happy!
We charged up the ramps. The thugs escaping with us had no qualms about pushing and elbowing to get past us, even in the middle of those narrow platforms. The way we were running had clearly convinced them that Master Red's story was true, and they were desperate to reach the surface now that the exit was in sight. We only hoped they wouldn't toss us into the shaft as they raced past, so it was best to get out of the way, up against the wall, and let them pass. They were the first to reach a sturdy rope ladder hanging down from up above to the platform where Biao and I had fallen. The assassins began to climb, punching, pulling, and pushing one another. Looking up at that piece of sky and the golden midafternoon light coming in through the circle that signified salvation, I realized that those brutes could attack us without mercy as soon as we were at the top and they discovered that the mausoleum wasn't going to explode. The antiquarian's failure—and it did seem as if his plan had failed—meant we were once again in danger. We had to find some way to defend ourselves, and I whispered this to Master Red. He nodded and tried to allay my fears.
“There are only seven of them, madame,” he murmured confidently, “and they don't have firearms. Don't worry. I can handle them.”
I only half believed him, but it was enough to make me feel somewhat better. The four of us were finally able to climb the ladder. Fernanda and Biao went first. As I waited, I thought back on the explosion that had opened up that funnel where the Dragon's Nest used to be and smiled bitterly. At the time I hadn't been able to understand why Lao Jiang, a respectable old antiquarian from Shanghai, was carrying explosives in his bag. How blind we had been!
When I reached the top, the children were sprawled exhausted on the ground.
“Get up!” I shouted. “This isn't over yet. We've got to move away from here.”
Our animals were right where we'd left them. The Green Gang assassins rushed past them toward their own mounts grazing quietly nearby.
That's when it happened. At first we felt a slight tremor in the ground, barely noticeable, but it kept increasing in intensity until it was an earthquake that made us stumble and fall. The horses reared up and whinnied in fright as the mules brayed madly, kicking their feet in the air and jumping as I'd never seen a quadruped jump before. One of them broke its reins and, dropping the bit, galloped off, only to fall hard a moment later. The ground was rocking like a stormy sea. Several waves—that's exactly what they were—rose up over the countryside and shook us like little boats adrift, rolling us from side to side as we screamed desperately. Suddenly there was a dull roar, a thundering from deep inside the earth. Volcanoes must sound like that when they erupt. The ground seemed to be made of rubber, sinking down as if it were about to form a giant funnel, then rising again into a slight hill, and finally leveling out. Everything ceased. All of us, assassins included, stopped yelling at the same time. Only the animals continued making a racket but gradually calmed down until they stood still and silent. A terrible calm fell over the place. It was as if death had passed through, brushing each of us with its cloak, then moved off and disappeared. The entire world had fallen quiet.
I looked around in search of my niece and found her beside me, facedown with her arms stretched out above her head, shaken by silent convulsions that could have been either stifled sobs or spasms of pain. I moved closer and turned her over. Her face was covered in dirt and sticky with tears that formed a white paste around her eyes. I held her tightly.
“Is everyone all right?” Master Red asked.
“The two of us are fine,” I replied, the last words I spoke before bursting into tears. “What about Biao?” I sobbed after a minute, letting go of Fernanda and looking to see if the boy was okay.
There he was, getting up off the ground, filthy dirty but alive.
“I'm fine,
tai-tai,
” he murmured weakly.
The Green Gang assassins were slowly getting to their feet a certain distance away. They seemed frightened.
“Master Red,” I whimpered, trying to speak coherently, “tell those men that the First Emperor's mausoleum has been destroyed. Ask them to tell their boss in Shanghai, that damned Pockmarked Huang or whatever the hell he's called, that it's over, that Lao Jiang is dead, and the
jiance
and the hundred-treasure chest have disappeared. Tell them.”
Raising his voice in that heavy silence, Master Red started into a long speech. You'd think the assassins would have been grateful we saved their lives and shown at least a little gratitude by paying some attention, but they simply got on their horses and rode away.
“Are we free of them?” my niece asked through hiccups and tears.
“I think so,” I replied, rubbing to clear my eyes and watching happily as they moved off into the distance, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
“What do we do now?” Biao asked. “Where do we go?”
Master Red Jade and I looked at one another and then at the solitary verdant mound in the middle of that great plain, encircled by the river Wei and the five peaks of Mount Li. It continued to mark the impressive mausoleum of Shi Hang Ti, the First Emperor of China, as it had for the last two thousand years. Nothing appeared to have changed up top; everything was just the same.
“Master Red Jade,” I said. “How would you like to spend a few days in Peking?”
“In Peking?” he asked in surprise.
I reached into the outer pockets of my jacket and pulled out handfuls of precious stones and little jade objects that sparkled in the twilight.
“As I understand it,” I explained, “there is a large antiquities market around the Forbidden City, and since it's the great capital of this enormous country, I'm sure we'll find buyers willing to pay a good price for these lovely jewels.”
W
hen we reached Peking on the express from Xi'an, the city was in the midst of one of its usual yellow dust storms from the Gobi Desert, and the wind, a wind that never stopped the entire time we were there, stirred up nasty whirls on all the streets, avenues, and alleyways. Yellow sawdust covered everything—it got in your eyes, your mouth, your clothes, your food, even your bed. It was also very, very cold. People went about in fuzzy earmuffs and wrapped in enormous fur coats that made them look like polar bears. That and the leafless trees, branches bare, lent a sad, ghostly air to the imperial capital.
Once again Fernanda and I were able to look and dress like Europeans. Using what was left of the money I'd brought with me from Shanghai, we went shopping at the stores in the Legations Quarter. This small foreign city within the larger Chinese one was strongly protected by armies from every country with a diplomatic presence (the fifty-five days of terror they'd lived through during the famous Boxer Rebellion of 1900 was still very present in their minds). Wearing pretty new clothes and with our hair done, we were able to find lodging at the stately old French-style Grand Hôtel des Wagons-Lits, with bathrooms, hot water, and room service. In order for Biao and Master Red to be allowed into the Legations Quarter, where they were safer, they had to pose as our servants and sleep on the floor in the hallway outside our room. So as not to call attention to ourselves in public, Fernanda and I were forced to follow colonial customs and treat them in a despotic, contemptuous manner that felt terrible. Thankfully, we didn't plan on staying in Peking any longer than necessary. We would leave just as soon as we'd sold the valuables from the mausoleum.
Not all of us would return to Shanghai, however. Master Red yearned to go back to his quiet life of study at Wudang and could do so only by returning to Xi'an, picking up the horses and mules we'd left with the owner of the store at that little station in T'ieh-lu, and once again crossing the Qin Ling Mountains heading south. As soon as we had the money, we'd divide it into three equal parts: one for the monastery, another for Paddy Tichborne, and the last for the children and me. We still had to come up with a plausible story for Paddy, to justify the money we were giving him without disclosing the dangerous secret surrounding Lao Jiang's death.
On our first day, we went to the most important gold merchants in Peking and negotiated until we obtained a fair price. Not one of them seemed surprised to see two European women with such valuable Chinese pieces, nor did they ask where we got them. The next day we called on the most reputable dealers in precious stones with the same results. Finally, on our last day, we visited the antiquarians on “Gate of Earthly Peace” Street who'd been recommended as being very discreet and reliable. Everything Lao Jiang had said about the sale of antiquities from the Forbidden City was absolutely true: Furniture, calligraphies, rolls of paintings, and decorative objects were sold in surprising numbers and at ridiculous prices. All of it was obviously too valuable to have come from anywhere but the other side of the high wall between Peking and Puyi's palace. It was hard to believe that the young, ambitious Puyi we'd been running from all those months was right there, so nearby. The overthrown emperor had never once left the Forbidden City, and it was rumored in the Legations Quarter that if he ever did, it would be to go into exile.
We obtained such an absolutely shameful amount of money that we had to quickly open several bank accounts at various entities in order not to draw too much attention to ourselves. This strategy proved useless, however. The Banque de l'Indo-Chine, Crédit Lyonnais, and Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corp. branch managers simply had to pay their respects as soon as they were told how much I was depositing at their banks. All of them offered me unlimited letters of credit; presents and invitations to dinners and parties began arriving at the hotel as well.
Once the French ambassador and the minister plenipotentiary for Spain, Marqués de Dosfuentes, learned that the rich Spanish Parisian whom all the bankers were talking about was staying at the Grand Hôtel des Wagons-Lits, they insisted on organizing official receptions to introduce me to the most prominent members of both communities. I had to repeatedly send my regrets. Apart from wanting to stay out of the social pages in the international press, our luggage was already in the car we'd hired to take us to the station, where we were to board a luxury express train to Shanghai. In an effort to protect the security of the foreign and affluent Chinese passengers traveling south, our train would be guarded by soldiers in the Republic of the North's army.
We were so absurdly rich we could have bought the train or the very Legations Quarter itself if we'd wanted. Some of the pieces had been so valuable—especially those made of that magnificent and virtually nonexistent variety of jade known as
yufu
—that a bidding war had ensued between merchants, and we were able to obtain exorbitant prices. Wudang monastery could now afford to be completely renovated, and Paddy Tichborne would be able to buy Scotland's entire production of whiskey. As far as I was concerned, apart from paying off Rémy's debts and taking care of Fernanda and Biao until they came of age, I hadn't any specific ideas about what I wanted. My only desires were to go home, continue painting, and show my work—oh, and buy beautiful clothes, expensive shoes, and pretty hats, of course.
During the few days we spent in Peking, we scoured both the Chinese and foreign papers each morning to make certain that no one—not the Kuomintang, the Kungchantang, the Chinese imperialists or the Japanese—mentioned the mausoleum
affaire.
There was no room for error in China's political situation, so everyone kept the matter quiet and let it run its course. Some did so fearing how the foreign imperialist powers, as they called them, would react, while others didn't want to suffer the condemnation and disrepute of world opinion. After all, the First Emperor could no longer play the part that those who had sought restoration wanted for him. As for those who had wanted to prevent the restoration, now that they'd achieved their goal, why sully themselves by publicly confessing to having destroyed a colossal, historical work such as Shi Huang Ti's mausoleum?