The Master of Rain

Thirty-three

Outside, Field leaned against the wall by the stairwell, out of sight of the lobby, and sank down until he was sitting on the step.

He stared at his battered, scuffed shoes. He hated his damned shoes, hated the poverty of the past and the unexplained wealth of the present. He hated himself for wanting friendship and love and being weak enough to seek it in the wrong places.

He placed his head in his hands, his eyes closed.

“God,” he whispered. He felt tired. He could not raise his head.

Field heard footsteps on the stairs and knew that he should move, but could not.

They stopped close by. “You all right, polar bear?”

With an effort, Field raised his head. Caprisi was looking at him, concerned.

“Had some bad news?”

Field sighed. “In a way.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

Caprisi smiled. “Then we’d better get going.”

Field watched him walk away, then stood, took off his jacket, and adjusted his holster. He followed the American out onto the stone steps. The dark cumulus had been replaced by a limitless azure sky and scalding heat.

They climbed into the back of the Buick.

Field assumed that they were going to the Russian church, as Caprisi had suggested earlier, but the driver continued on past its distinctive spires to Route Père Robert and the imposing modern stone building that housed the Hôpital Ste.-Marie. He parked by the wide, circular veranda at the front. Field squinted as he stepped out into the sunlight.

“All right?” Caprisi said as they entered the cool hallway.

“Fine.”

“You seem tense.”

“I’m fine.”

Caprisi shrugged, leaving it.

They stood before the reception desk. With its black-and-white-checkered floor and swaying tropical plants, the hospital reminded Field of the police stations they’d visited in the Concession.

The French receptionist directed them up the wide stone steps to the floor above. They passed two nurses in starched white uniforms helping a man in pajamas with a broken leg and then another lying on a makeshift bed, fast asleep. The landing was tall and airy, enormous windows on their right open to the barely perceptible breeze.

Chen’s room was at the far end of the building. He was asleep. A tiny woman sat by his bed, her head bent. As soon as she saw Caprisi, she stood, bowed, and began to speak with machine-gun rapidity in Shanghainese. Field understood enough to know that she was thanking Caprisi and that he was trying to say it was nothing.

Chen suddenly awoke and spoke sharply to her, and she bowed once more, eyes down, and darted from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chen pushed himself up. He pulled the pillows up behind him. The windows were large in here, too, the whiteness of the walls and sheets making Field squint again.

“I’m sorry for my wife,” Chen said. “She is most grateful.”

Field nodded, not understanding what she was grateful for.

In the silence that followed, Caprisi took out his cigarettes, lit one, and then tossed the packet to Chen.

“Better not,” he said. “The nurses.”

“French nurses,” Caprisi said. “You lucky bastard.”

Chen smiled.

“How is it?” Field asked.

Chen nodded.

Field wondered how much Chen knew of Lu Huang and what exactly Caprisi had meant about them growing up together. “I guess you’ll need a long rest,” he said.

“Not long.”

“A long rest,” Caprisi repeated.

“Not long.”

“If you think we can’t get along without you, you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Caprisi smiled again. “You’re an obstinate bastard.”

“We must survive.” Despite his determination, Chen was clearly still weak. He kept closing his eyes and letting his head rest against his pillow before remembering they were there and snapping them open again.

Eventually, he did drift off to sleep and they let themselves out.

Chen’s wife was sitting on a bench in the corridor. Caprisi spoke to her briefly, but her gratitude began to embarrass him, so he touched her shoulder and they went down to the main hall.

“I guess,” Field said as they emerged into the sunshine, “the commissioner does take care—”

Caprisi looked at him sharply.

“It’s not the cheapest hospital,” Field said.

“The commissioner doesn’t pay for a thing.”

Field frowned.

“Are you all right?” Caprisi asked again.

“You’ve asked me that already.”

“You keep staring at me like I just fucked your sister or something.”

Once inside the car, Field offered to pay half of Chen’s medical costs, but Caprisi just shook his head curtly and continued to stare out of the window.

His mood seemed suddenly as somber as Field’s.

“Do you know Lu?” Field asked.

“In what way?”

“Was our interview the other day the first time you’ve had any direct dealings with him?”

“More or less.” Caprisi thought about it. “Yes it was. Why?”

“No reason,” Field said.

They stepped through the gate of the Russian church a few minutes later and walked down a stone path, past the dark gravestones, with their extravagant gold lettering.

Inside, the church was dark, the air heavy with the smell of incense. Their footsteps on the flagstone floor echoed around the dome above them. The altar was covered in a white satin cloth, upon which a gold cross stood between two oil paintings. The first was of the Virgin Mary with her infant son; the second showed Christ on the cross. The atmosphere of the place was both opulent and forbidding, in stark contrast, Field thought, to the deprivation of a significant proportion of its congregation.

It made him think of his father. At least he had practiced what he preached. Generosity to others—outside the family—was, Field supposed, one of his few redeeming features.

A priest in a long black robe and beard appeared from behind a pillar and walked toward them. He wore square glasses.

“Good morning,” Caprisi said.

The man nodded.

“You speak English?”

He shook his head.

“Vous parlez français?” Field asked.

“Bien sûr.”

Field glanced at his colleague. “Nous sommes policiers, et nous enquetons sur les morts . . . non, les meurtres des femmes Russes. Deux femmes. Irina Ignatiev et Natalya Simonov.” Field enunciated the names with exaggerated care. “Nous pensons . . . nous croyons qu’elles sont . . . enterrées ici, les deux. Vraiment, oui?”

The priest shrugged.

“Si elles habitaient ici, il suit, je crois qu’elles seraient enterrées ici—oui?”

“Exactement—ou d’ailleurs?”

“Natalya etait mouri le premier mai; Irina un mois avant. Nous avons besoin de leurs addresses—vous avez les papiers, je crois?”

“Bien sûr.”

The priest studied them for a moment and then quietly turned away. Field felt unreasonably tense and thought that Caprisi was, too.

“You explained?” the American asked.

“He has the papers. He seems cooperative—he’s just gone to look them up.”

Field wanted to smoke but thought it would be inappropriate here.

After about ten minutes the priest returned, walking with his head down, as if deep in thought.

“Mais non—Irina, elle, je me souviens, je me souviens faire les papiers, mais ils n’existent plus. Pardon.”

“Les papiers sont . . . disparus?”

“Il m’apparait que oui.”

“Translate, please,” Caprisi said.

“He remembers Irina, but her papers have gone.”

“Mais, vous vous souvenez de l’ecrire?”

“Oui.”

“Vous vous rappelez l’addresse d’Irina?”

“Non.”

“Et Natalya?”

“Je ne me rappele pas. Peut-être un autre prêtre.”

“Nous pouvons voir les papiers?”

The priest shrugged. “Servez-vous.”

“Come on,” Field said.

“What?”

“He says we can look at the papers.”

They were led into a cramped office with a desk and three metal filing cabinets. It had a picturesque view of a garden through a mullioned window, and was much lighter than the church. The priest opened a drawer and gestured with his hand. Field stepped forward and began to flick through the papers. They were filed in alphabetical order. He looked through “I” and then “S,” which was in another drawer. He pulled out the forms on either side of where “Ignatiev, Irina” and “Simonov, Natalya” should have been and handed them to Caprisi. They were all the same, written in black ink, with the name at the top and an address next to the section that was headed Residing at. The names of close relatives were listed in the bottom right-hand corner. The next of kin for each of the deceased had signed at the foot of the page. For some, this section had been left blank.

Field took the forms from Caprisi, put them back into the cabinet, and pushed the drawer shut. He turned to face the priest. “Nous vous remercions pour votre assistance—y-a-t’il un autre moyen des apprendre?”

The priest shrugged again. “Je suis désolé.”

Field and Caprisi walked slowly through the church, the priest following them noiselessly. As they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he stood behind them and pointed toward the corner by the gate. “Là-bas.”

“Irina?”

“Irina, oui. Là-bas.”

They found her in the far corner, the earth newly turned around her grave. It was shorter than Field had imagined, with gravel scattered on top and a simple, black stone. Irina Ignatiev, the inscription read, 1899–1926.

Only the year dates were given, and there were no homilies or expressions of affection, regret, or loss. It was as if she had never really existed. They looked at the grave in silence. In the center was a small stone flowerpot, but it was empty.

“Give me a minute, will you?” Caprisi asked.

Field hesitated.

“Alone.”

Field walked to the gate, lit a cigarette, and smoked it. Caprisi had moved over to a grave, two or three rows in from the far wall. As Field watched, the American sank to his knees, his head bent in prayer.

Field felt like a voyeur and turned away. He finished his cigarette, smoked another, then waited with his hands in his pockets.

Caprisi walked back in silence.

As they got back into the car, they both saw the gray Citroën parked opposite. Two men in suits sat in the front seat, with the windows shut.

“French?” Field asked, looking over his shoulder as they drove off.

“Seems like it. The French police are in Lu’s pocket. Maybe he has set them onto us.”

“How did they find out we were here?”

Caprisi stared at him. “Perhaps there is a leak.”

Field felt his face reddening again and turned back to face the road. The Frenchmen had not followed them.

“To save you having to go back to look,” Caprisi said, “I did meet someone else here. Her name was Olga and she thought I wouldn’t propose to her because she was a Russian tea dancer, but she never understood that it was about Jane, or rather that it was about me. I wanted to keep a sense of distance. I couldn’t bear any more loss. She got pneumonia, but her friends say she died because I had said I would never marry her and she’d given up hope. Was that selfish of me?”

Field saw the hurt deep in his colleague’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Her friends didn’t tell me she was ill, and by the time I found out, she was dead.” The American shook his head slowly. “That’s why I say be careful. Sometimes, if you’ve suffered as much as they have, love can create an unbearable sense of expectation, of hope.” Caprisi appeared almost to be pleading with him. “Do you understand, Field?”

Field cleared his throat and nodded in response, not trusting his voice.

“Guilt is a heavy burden.”

“I know.”

Field turned around once more, to check again that they were not being followed.

“Just so that we’re clear, the papers were stolen,” Caprisi said.

“From the church? Yes.”

“The girls were buried there, but their papers have been removed.”

“Irina was buried there, as you saw, but the priest didn’t remember Natalya Simonov.”

“Someone is cleaning up,” Caprisi said. He glanced again in the mirror.

Caprisi invited Field to join him for lunch in the canteen. It was now almost deserted, only a few dishes left in the big metal serving trays. Field again ordered beef. He wished, as he sat down, that he’d been able to think of a quick excuse for taking lunch somewhere else.

“Macleod has got two Chinese tecs in plain clothes doing door-to-door down Avenue Joffre,” the American said. “They’ll be less conspicuous and should turn up the Russian girls’ addresses.”

“Good.”

They ate for a while in silence. Caprisi went to get two glasses from the side and a jug of purified water from the end of the table. Field nodded when he was offered some.

“You going to say anything?” the American asked.

Field shook his head. “Probably not.”

“Get out of bed on the wrong side?”

“Something like that.”

“You going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Field hesitated. He recalled the catch in Caprisi’s voice as he’d talked of the dead Russian girl, and the compassion in his eyes. Then he thought of the telephone call. “Are we right to trust each other?” he asked.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just a question.”

Caprisi sighed. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Field.”

Field held his stare.

The American gestured with his glass, his dark eyes again intense. “I tell you what. I’m going to make a conscious effort not to be insulted by this, my friend, and, as an act of sentimental generosity, I’m going to put it down to the fact that you’re new to all this.”

Field shifted uneasily in his seat.

“You were making an accusation?”

Field closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted. “No.”

“Just a sense of disillusionment?”

“Yes.”

“It comes to us all.” There was a long silence. Caprisi put his glass down. “You asked about Al Capone.”

“Yes.”

“Everybody knows about Capone, but he started as the lieutenant to someone else.”

Field shook his head.

“John Torrio. After Prohibition, he began bootlegging in Chicago when Big Bill Thompson was mayor. He was clever. Sophisticated and diplomatic, not a thug like Capone. He believed in total control. All officers got bribed according to their rank. All elections were rigged.” Caprisi paused. “They didn’t throw you out if you weren’t on the take, but you couldn’t get anything done, and everyone thought you kind of strange. Prohibition was the enemy. Everyone in the city thought it was crazy, everyone drank. But you know what? That let the genie out of the bottle, and now it’s out, no one will ever get it back in.” Caprisi picked up a forkful of food. “John Torrio retired to Italy last year. Know how much he had in the bank?”

Field shook his head again.

“Thirty million U.S. dollars. Thirty million in five years. No one in organized crime ever made that much money before.”

“Did you know Capone?”

Caprisi shook his head.

“Then why are you telling me about it?”

“I’m trying to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“You don’t understand the nature of this city. Every man who comes to serve here comes to escape or to enrich himself. No one belongs here, so I guess that makes it worse than Chicago. Men come out to make something for themselves and the choice is simple. They can be honest, save a little, go home with a pension and live a modest life. Or they can get rich in a way they never imagined, by turning a blind eye . . . turning their eyes toward home and dreaming of the house and the green fields they’ll own.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“What I’m saying is that the disease has already spread. Macleod has something that is priceless in this city. He’s chosen to be honest when he could be rich. Don’t ask me why he is the way he is, but he pathologically hates corruption.” Caprisi pushed his food away. “He is the last chance—the last, Field—and we have no choice but to stand behind him and to trust each other.”