The Master of Rain

Thirty-eight

Field set about the record books in the Immigration Department with renewed energy, burying himself in his work, frustration and anger driving him until lack of sleep began to overtake him.

The sweat settled on his brow and it was as much as he could do not to lower his head onto the book in front of him.

He took numerous cigarette breaks and, all through them, Pendelby plowed on, never seeming to lose concentration, until he stood and announced he would be breaking for lunch. Field was suddenly alone in the room, listening to Pendelby’s retreating footsteps on the stairs.

He leaned back in his seat, wiped his brow again, and cursed the heat silently. He stood and walked along the corridor and down the stairs to the back of the immigration counter, where he asked the woman politely if he might be able to borrow a telephone. She took him through to her office.

Field called Yang and asked if he had any messages. There was one from Caprisi, asking him to ring back. Field stared at the phone, then picked up the receiver and asked the operator if she would again put him through. The taste of betrayal was in his mouth. He thought himself a fool to have trusted anyone here.

“Caprisi, it’s Field.”

“Polar bear.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You called me,” Field said.

“Yes, where are you?”

Field hesitated. “The Immigration Department.”

“Hunting for addresses?”

“Yes.”

“Well, keep hunting. Macleod has called it off; the door-to-door boys were being tailed.”

“By whom?”

“The French.”

Field could hear the sound of his own breathing.

“Still there, polar bear?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very quiet again.”

“Am I?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Call me when you get back to the office.”

“Sure.”

“And polar bear . . .”

“Yes.”

“Be careful with that woman.”

“Which woman?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

Field felt his anger flaring.

“You were around there last night, so don’t kid me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

Field could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. “How do you know?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s funny how they always seem to know what we’re doing.”

There was another silence.

“What are you saying, polar bear?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Doesn’t sound that way to me.”

Field didn’t answer.

“You need to wise up. I know where you were, because I can see it coming. It’s impossible, Field. Trust me. And dangerous for both of you.” Caprisi breathed in sharply. “If you won’t believe me, then there is nothing I can do.”

“Then do nothing.”

“The possibilities are not endless, Field.”

“So I’m told.”

“Told by whom?”

“Never mind.”

“If she is loyal to him, then you are being manipulated. If she is seeking a bit of fun, or if she really loves you and seeks an escape, then you are playing a dangerous game.”

Field sighed quietly.

“You may be free, Field, but she is not. By association with her, you come into his orbit. He does not allow his assets to escape, or behave as they please. She may not be a concubine, but there is no way she is leaving this city if he doesn’t want her to. Please tell me you understand that.”

“I think I understand perfectly.”

“It is too easy to die here, Field. If you anger him, if you make him lose face, he dispenses death with the flick of a finger. Your death, her death, those of anyone connected to you.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Field put the phone down before Caprisi could say anything more. The desk in front of him was neatly ordered, with two wire trays—one IN, one OUT—in the center, next to a mug full of pens and a stapler.

Field returned to the files. He was still working through the latter half of 1921: 21st November, Ivanov, Dr. Oleg. Change of address: 21c Boulevard des Deux Républiques. Now conducting business from 78a Avenue Joffre. Alongside this entry, a clerk had written: Information passed to SMP S.1 dept upon request. Field looked at the name again. He had never heard of Oleg Ivanov.

He continued with dwindling concentration for another half an hour or so, until he felt himself awash with meaningless names. Eventually, he stood and walked through the still-packed immigration room and then down the stairs to the Bund.

Field crossed the road and strolled under the trees by the wharf, watching the sampans and steamers on the choppy waters of the river. He passed a cargo boat that was unloading. It was small, so must have come from upstream, carrying goods from the Chinese hinterland. The coolies and deckhands were shouting at each other, all stripped to the waist, their bodies glistening with sweat. Field put on his hat and squinted against the sunlight. He was not wearing his jacket, and his holster was visible, so he attracted a few curious glances as he passed. A fresh breeze from the sea was pushing the pollution inland, and the air here was relatively fresh, save for the ever-present aroma of dead fish.

He ended up in the public gardens, opposite the British consulate. He sat down on a bench facing the sun.

Ahead of him, two young expatriate children—a boy and an older girl—were feeding the birds in the midst of an arrangement of wooden flower boxes and triangular lawns ringed by low iron fences, while their uniformed nanny stood by, holding a packet of seeds. When they had finished, she produced a metal flask from inside her blue pinafore and poured each of them some water in a green mug.

Field was grateful that Chinese were banned from the park. It was a peaceful haven in the heart of the city.

He stood and retraced his steps along the wharf to the Customs House. He glanced up at Big Ching to see that it was already almost two o’clock.

Pendelby was at his desk but did not raise his head as Field came in.

Field returned to his books, soon lost in the rhythm of his quest as his finger progressed down the page.

They did not take another break. They sat like assiduous students, Field almost nodding off in the afternoon heat, wiping his forehead periodically with the back of his hand before returning his finger to the page. It was soon black, so he had to continue the task with the tip of an inch or so above the paper. Frequently, he would realize that he’d not been concentrating and be forced to retrace his steps.

As a result, he missed the entries the first time and only spotted them at the second sweep. Perhaps he’d become too focused on his search for Simonov and Ignatiev.

He stared at the page.

January 21st, 1922, it read. Medvedev, General Feodor. From Kazan on the Volga, via Vladivostok. Temp address: 71 Avenue Joffre, Hostel Margarite.

Field’s heart started to thump.

Medvedev, Anna Natalya. As above.

Medvedev, Natasha Olga. As above.

He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Natasha had arrived here with her father in 1922. He had not died at sea, nor been buried in Harbin.

Field swung around. “Pendelby?”

The man looked up, startled by the sound of a human voice. “Russians have to inform Immigration of a change of address, but only for a few years?”

“Three years.”

“So, after three years, if they haven’t informed you of a change of address in the meantime, they have to come and tell you and that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“So if I find the entry of an arrival, then go forward three years and work back, I should find a recent address.”

“In theory. Did you find something?”

“Not what we were looking for; something else.”

Pendelby looked disappointed and Field turned back to his ledgers. He went forward three years and then began to work backward.

He did this for about twenty minutes, then stood. “I’ll be back,” he said.

“It’s almost time.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

The immigration room was closing, a clerk waiting by the door to lock it after the last of the people inside had left. Field slipped through and then ran quickly down the steps outside, into the slightly cooler air of the Bund. He beckoned a rickshaw puller brusquely and climbed in. “Avenue Joffre,” he said. “Church, Russian. Ruski.”

The light was fading when they reached the churchyard, leaving a crimson stain tinting the horizon. He had to look closely at the lettering on the headstones that were not engraved in gold.

Field completed his task methodically. He started in the corner closest to the church and walked slowly down each row. As the light faded, he had to lean closer to each stone.

It was almost dark by the time he found them.

He stood stock-still.

The two graves were alongside each other. The inscriptions were in Russian, but Field could make out the name and date on the first:

General Feodor Medvedev.

1.4.1871—7.6.1923.

The second was newer, the inscription free of moss, the gold lettering still bright:

Anna Natalya Medvedev.

1.7.1896—1.5.1926.

Field could not understand the rest of the inscriptions, but on both he recognized another name: Natasha Olga Medvedev.

Field squatted down. He stared at the graves until his knees and thighs ached.

He put his head in his hands.

At length, he straightened, ran his hand slowly through his hair, then smoked a cigarette in the darkness.

Field had not known her father was a general. He imagined an old man, in fading uniform, trying to cling to his respect in a city that must have damned him at every turn.

Field walked away fast, then broke into a run. He did not know if his haste was driven more by the need to get to her, or to get away from the graves behind him.