China Boat

Chapter 67

* * *

* * *

The trip back across the Pacific seemed to pass quickly.

It also seemed to pass, with agonizing slowness.

It actually was a slower trip. Our ship, the President Taft, was slower than the President Hoover; which added two days to the entire journey. It also was smaller, older, and less luxurious.

I did not care. The voyage out had been painful, almost torture; each hour, each day taking me farther from where I wanted to be, with an uncertain future ahead. Now, I was headed back in the right direction, with Jack waiting at the end of the line, at home. The feeling of relief, of anticipation, of yearning, colored all of my days. I only, deeply wished the ship could go faster.

Although … at the same time, I was very much aware, of who I was leaving behind. Of the miles of distance, growing between us … And that colored my days, too.

* * *

Father and I fell into the habit of taking long walks together, after luncheon and dinner — the ship's doctor had recommended it, as an aid to his digestion — and so we made circuit after circuit of the Promenade Deck, in companionable silence.

Slowly — very slowly — we began reaching out to one another.

One night after dining, we'd paused for a moment at the leeward railing, while Father filled his pipe, and lit it. I looked out, at the sea, and the clouds just beginning to redden with the setting sun — and I took a deep breath.

"I wish you could have seen more of Shanghai, sir," I said, quietly. "It's a shame you did not have the chance."

I said it in French.

There was a pause. He puffed on his pipe, getting it going; I could feel him looking at me, sideways.

"It was not that kind of a trip," he said, at last. "And under the circumstances, I would hardly have enjoyed it."

He said it in German.

It was a peace offering, from both of us. We both knew it.

Another few puffs, on his pipe. The sound of the water against the hull; the slight heave of the ship, in the gentle waves.

"However," he went on, eventually — still in German — and there was a certain, ironic, tone in his voice, now — "I believe that you may possibly have seen enough of Shanghai, for the both of us … I understand that you visited a rather, shall we say, disreputable night-club, with Miss Lloyd, and Doctor Yang — ? And that several of the acts were of a rather exotic nature — ?"

I looked out over the water, and tried not to smile.

"That is true, sir. Although, there were a number of other people from Miss Lloyd's studio present as well. She was doing research into her film role."

A short silence, between us. Left unsaid, was that I had not asked his permission to go. I had reckoned that I was old enough; and in any case, we both knew that we had not really been on speaking terms, at the time.

"Research," he said, at last. "Ah." He puffed on his pipe again, and exhaled the fragrant smoke. Another, slight pause. "And how, may I ask, did the caliber of the performances compare to those of the burlesque houses of New York City — ?"

I looked at him, sideways; still playing it straight. Still keeping the smile from my face. Enjoying this.

"Actually, sir, I have not been in any of the burlesque clubs in New York … yet. But I do confess, that a friend and I once managed to visit a certain club in the Place Pigalle, in Paris — "

'Managed to visit' was hardly the right expression. The touts and doormen of the exotic theaters in the Place Pigalle sweep in as many paying, male customers as humanly possible; and it being France, nobody much cares about the customers' ages. The real trick is to get away from them, once they latch on to you.

" — and I must say, they do things a little more, well, professionally, there … "

Father had said nothing, but there had been a slight upwards curl at the corner of his mouth, as he looked out to sea, and puffed his pipe; and I felt just a touch, a touch of the kind of closeness we'd had, touring Europe by car, all those times — 

* * *

My nightmares did not come into full blossom, until a few days after we'd left Yokohama.

Why there should have been such a delay, I do not know. Perhaps my subconscious mind had kept them largely at bay, in Shanghai, because it had thought I was still in some real danger … and, now that we had left Shanghai, and Asia, behind, I was free to suffer them in peace.

How thoughtful of my subconscious mind.

As nightmares go, there was nothing subtle about them. Nothing that would interest a psychotherapist. They were all quite straightforward.

The Berlin nightmares came back, with a vengeance … In my dreams, I relived the beating death of the blond boy, in horrifying, exquisite detail; except, with even more blood, than had actually spilled. Much more. And a good deal of that excess blood, somehow spilled on me. But worse, was the look of evil, the absolute profundity of the evil, on the face of the hatchet-faced stormtrooper leader, as he looked at me; and, somehow, that evil paralyzed me, made me incapable of moving, as he slowly approached me — 

 

Nothing new, here; except for the frequency of their reoccurrence. I was used to them.

 

The Shanghai nightmares, however, were new. Predictable, perhaps, under the circumstances. That theoretical psychotherapist would probably have been actively bored by them.

I wished I could have found them boring.

The most common ones involved running, endless running, fleeing from a relentless, faceless pursuit … of course. Of course.

Sometimes, the pursuers were mere, faceless men, unseen humans, and the experience was not unlike what had really happened to us, to me — 

Sometimes, it was a singular Pursuer. Some, thing; some animal, perhaps, or worse. Unseen, of course, and all the more terrifying for that … but, somehow, tireless, deadly, wholly evil, and getting ever closer, as I ran, and twisted, and dodged around corners — 

*

These were the easy nightmares. They did not usually wake me up.

 

The ones involving Monsieur Simonov, or at any rate his body, did.

 

In these other dreams, I would be creeping through the dark, deserted streets, alone — sometimes, in the Neighborhood of Perpetual Prosperity; sometimes, in and around our place on Park Avenue, of all things, as if Manhattan could ever be dark, and deserted — and, in those dreams, I would enter Monsieur Simonov's house, and I would discover his mutilated, violated body, all over again — 

And I would know he was dead, dead and ruined, amid all the stink, and the blood, and the wreckage — 

But then he would try to speak.

And the horrible thing was, that he would try to use the gaping wound in his throat as a kind of mouth; I would see the edges of it, working, and the severed arteries and muscles and whatever, twitching, and a sound would issue out … but he could not form understandable words, and the sound was horrible, and his eyes were dead, I knew he was dead, and ruined, in my dream, and what was trying to make the sound was, was, a thing, but was still, somehow, Monsieur Simonov, and I felt pity for it, but also horror — 

 

Sometimes, the dead thing wasn't Monsieur Simonov.

 

Once, it had been Tom … Once, against all logic or reason, it had been the history teacher at my school, Doctor Hewitt. And then, it had been Tom, again … 

 

Once, it had been Jack.

 

With these nightmares, I made noises, when I woke up. I knew it; I could feel myself making the noises, trying to form words of my own, as I jerked to consciousness … 

Not screams; not loud noises. Something more along the lines of, 'Noooo', or a more inchoate, 'Uhhhhhh — !'

 

These nightmares became persistent companions, as we headed East, back towards Honolulu.

 

I worried, about making the noises. I worried whether I would make them, once I got back home.

Jack would understand, once I told him everything. He would sympathize; and find ways to show his concern, and love.

But, I did not want to mark those rare and utterly precious summertime occasions when we got to actually sleep together, in the same bed, with my outcries … and the thrashing about, which I was pretty sure accompanied them. I also did not want to wake up my dormitory-mates at school, night after night, once the new term started.

Just possibly, I thought — just possibly, the dreams will moderate, once I get back to the States. I devoutly hoped so.

* * *

I did not mention my nightmares, in my first letter to Tom.

I considered it. I wondered if he was suffering from nightmares of his own; and if so, I thought I might at least provide a little comfort, by telling him that he wasn't alone … 

But, in the end, I couldn't bear to write about something so dark, in my first letter to him; I just couldn't. I would find a way to mention it, obliquely, later. 'Obliquely', in case his parents might read his mail. I had no way of knowing.

*

* * *

A week out from Yokohama, we learned the news about Miss Amelia Earhart, the famous aviatrix. She was lost in the Pacific, down somewhere near Howland Island, on one of the last legs of her around-the-world flight.

By coincidence, we were then at nearly the same longitude as Howland Island; we were almost directly north of it. There was some excited speculation among the passengers about the President Taft being diverted to join the search; but a look at my battered school atlas told me how unlikely that would be.

I was right.

The Captain came on the loud-speaker system, to explain. We were much too far to the north, he said; it would take four days' steady steaming to even get to the general vicinity. And in any case, the Navy and Coast Guard had a number of ships already in the area, joining the hunt; and the Navy had airplanes looking, too.

And then he added that he'd volunteered our services regardless, and been turned down.

Miss Earhart's disappearance was a blow.

Miss Earhart was very famous, as I said; we'd all seen her in newsreels, and newspaper and magazine stories. It was as if we all knew her. And apart from her exploits and records, she is the author of several popular books on flying, which Jack had of course devoured.

Jack had mentioned in one of his letters that he was following her progress, closely.

I hoped against hope, that she and Mister Noonan, her navigator, would somehow be found alive … but the prospects seemed bleak.

It wasn't quite as heavy a blow, as spectacular a blow, as the loss of the Hindenburg. No civilian passengers were lost; and an around-the-world flight, over water, is inherently risky. But as I said, Jack had simply devoured her books … 

I drafted another loving and sympathetic cable to him, with a heavy heart.

* * *

The very next day, news came on the BBC Empire Service of a clash between Chinese and Japanese military forces, at a roadway bridge near Peking. The announcement came after the several minutes of coverage devoted to the search for Miss Earhart.

I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. I was only glad that Peking was so very far away from Shanghai, and Tom, and his family.

Father and I listened very attentively to the next few broadcasts; and, to our surprise, however, it began to seem as though a negotiated settlement had taken effect, and that perhaps this Incident wouldn't be the trigger for another war, after all.

Perhaps.

* * *

The daily, and nightly, ritual of walking the decks with Father, continued.

We continued to open up, to one another; in surprising ways.

Actually, the opening-up was far more on his part, than on mine. He surprised me, more than once. He told me things he had never told me before; and I do not know why, except perhaps that he now realized that I was no longer a child … Not, perhaps, a full-grown man, yet; but no longer a child.

He started by telling me, about his future plans. That he was considering staying involved with the Bank, if his nomination as Director was not withdrawn by the full Board.

"You would do that, sir? After — all this — ?"

'All this', being, his secret charge to negotiate a pact with the Japanese Government to subvert U.S. financial sanctions on the Japanese Empire. And the revealing of that charge, to the United States Government.

He'd looked at me, dryly, as we paced along.

"I would hardly be popular with the Bank's senior management … but. I am aware of several potential allies whom I could approach, on the current Board. And in any event, the Bank needs oversight; and that is the role of a Director. You do understand that, do you not?"

He peered over at me.

"Election as a Director essentially signifies retirement, for me. Directors do not do the Bank's work; they oversee. They audit. They assume responsibility — and personal liability — for the Bank's activities. And, given enough votes, the Board can change management policy, and even oust senior managers." A thin smile, from him, as he looked out over the water.

I had the distinct impression, that he would relish the task. The Bank meant a great deal, to Father. And at the same time, and very much more profoundly, Father was fiercely loyal to his country.

I would not like to be one of the senior managers, who incurred his displeasure.

"Your grandfather serves as Director, on the Boards of several different companies," he went on, as we strolled. He looked sideways, at me. "It is very likely, that you will be asked to to do the same, someday. It would be as well if you started to pay attention to such things sooner, rather than later … "

I'd swallowed. I'd absorbed the mild rebuke. And I dreaded the thought.

"Yes, sir."

*

Later that same night, another revelation.

"No. I do not believe that the negotiations were sincere, on the Viscount's side. Any more than they were, on mine."

 

I'd turned to look at him. "Sir?"

 

He'd glanced at me, expressionlessly.

"As I said; he and I have known of each other, for years." Father puffed, once, on his pipe. "He is a Viscount, from one of the oldest noble families in Japan. For such individuals, honor is more than a code of personal conduct; it is, rather, the organizing principle of life, and far more precious than life itself."

I'd blinked at him. He had never given any indication of being familiar with Japanese culture, before. But then, he had hidden a great many things from me, during this trip.

"Meaning, sir — ?"

"Meaning, that Viscount Kō would never have consented to speak to me, if he'd thought I was truly prepared to betray my country. And he certainly would never have spoken to us in such a candid fashion, about his country's intentions … No. I am sure, that his true purpose was sub rosa communication with Washington. And that is how I have reported it, to Washington." He'd paused then, to take another puff on his pipe; and his face grew a little bleak. "It was nevertheless galling to me, to even play the part of a potential collaborator. Particularly in front of him."

I'd digested this, for a long moment, as we walked.

"Sir … By telling us of his country's intentions … was he not, in a way, betraying his country?"

Father had given me a dry look.

"The Viscount is of the faction desiring peace. He was educated in the West, he went to school at the Sorbonne; he knows that war with the United States would be suicidal, perhaps literally, for the Japanese Empire. We are a continental power, with far, far greater resources, in every sense, than they; the ultimate outcome could hardly be in doubt … No. I believe that by passing on his candid information, he hopes to goad Washington to measures that would prevent a war, and so perhaps avert disaster for his country."

We walked on in silence, for just another moment; the only sounds, the clip of our shoes on the teak decking, the creaking of the ship, and the sound of the water.

"Father … " I started; and then I hesitated, before going on. I glanced over at him. "The Viscount said, that he expected to be assassinated. Soon. Do you think that is true — ?"

I could only imagine the horror of knowing it was coming, but not knowing precisely when. Or where. Or how. The running pursuers, in my nightmares … 

Father's expression became remote, and somewhat bleak, again.

"He said it, so you can be sure that it is true." Another puff, on his pipe. A long pause. "And when that day comes, I shall mourn."

* * *

Jack's wire came when we were four days out from docking in Honolulu. At first, I just stared at it, reading it over and over again. And I'm not ashamed to admit, that it made so happy, that I actually cried, a little.

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