Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 06

8/3/2019 Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 06

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IS IT SATANS DOING or simply a trick of fate thatdisaster will so often strike when all is going well? Ithappened to George and Agnes DArc on the night of

January 18, 1904 when re destroyed their hotel. It hap-pened to Hazel Sawyer, Dennis Fulton, Jimmy Larsen,and scores of others from Chefoo School when on theafternoon of January 5, 1935 their ship was boardedand captured by pirates. It happened to me on Sundaymorning February 9, 1936 when our warm and securefold came asunder (at least to my thirteen-year-old mind)

with the departure of Patrick and Jocelyn for England,

and Brian soon to follow.As can be seen on the next page, North China Star

considered Pat a popular enough gure to warrant himequal billing with Adolf.

Never mind that the paper had it wrong (Joss, notPat, was joining the RN), a large crowd of well-wishersgathered at Tientsin East to see the boys off on theirseventeen-day journey that was to take them acrossSiberia, Russia proper, Germany, and France. Thesight of Pat waving at the carriage window as the traininched along the platform brought copious tears to thebevy of young maidens present. And no wonder, as a

crooner on Tong Fang Radio ( Smoke Gets In Your Eyes ),he was quite the heartthrob. Weeping being the mostcatching of human emotions, the tears on all thosefaces launched me, despite my manly efforts to containmyself, into a barrage of sobs.

THE FABLED LAND OF PEACH BLOSSOMS


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his abundant progeny the names Norman, Findlay,Esther, Florence (who married Eric Liddell) spring tomind gave two hoots about our climbing their wall.It was always the servants who came running out tochase us away with shouts and threats.

I had never experienced a bleaker time.Someone ( Doong Ji?) dug up that needlinglabel I thought I had long outlived Dismal Desmond , the popular childrens toy of the day, a spotted dog with droopy ears,

droopy snout, droopy expression. I had yet to learn thatdark clouds really can have silver linings. And for methe silverest of linings came with Tai-tais announce-ment that with our numbers depleted we could go toPeitaiho for the whole summer. The whole summer,Heavens to Betsy, when wed never ever stayed longerthan a fortnight in that most beguiling spot on planetearth! Beguiling? Yes, for sure. Who could fail to bebeguiled by Peitaihos perfumed air, tranquil bays,verdant hills, which some sage once likened to Shi Wai Tao Yuan the fabled land of peach blossoms beyondthe living world?

I still cant believe its happening,but here we are, only two days afterschool has broken for the summer,being led by Tai-tai onto the second-class carriage at Tientsin East for theseven-hour journey along the north-ern coastline of the Gulf of Peichihli.Our excitement reaches fever pitch

when with bells clanging and whistlesshrilling and the locomotive letting off tremendous blasts of steam, we lurchinto motion. Soon we are rounding thegreat salt pans of Tangku and runningalongside ancient junks plying ancient

waterways, and all the time drawing closer to the vastrange of purple mountains. Pretty hair-raising whenthe train slows to walking pace as it crosses the shakyLuan Hsien Bridge a hundred feet above the river bed.

Tai-tai keeps her eyes shut. Hard to say whether itsa case of nerves or whether she has been lulled by allthat rocking and swaying. Not me. Not once do I closemy eyes. When there is nothing to look at, I reach up


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to retrieve my kit bag from the overhead rack to takestock of my treasure: the spool of gut line, the hooks,sinkers, sheath knife, catapult, scouts compass, ftycents small money.

At Linsi, hawkers crowd the window with trays of fei luo ji mouth-watering red-smoked chicken. How can

we forego so wondrous a treat? Risking a storm, werouse Tai-tai. And we do the same at Changli, NorthChinas fruit capital, where cherries grow as large as

walnuts, and the apricots are said to be perfumedby the gods. As we munch away, Tai-tai remarks: I

wonder how the poor dears are doing. And by poordears she means, of course, our amahs family, allthree generations, back in third class, who, from themoment of departure, have surely been laid low by theirold nemesis motion sickness. Tai-tai has good reasonfor bringing them. She herself can stay only two days.We are going to be under the amahs until she returnsin August for the fortnights vacation due to her as asecretary in the Hongkong & Shanghai Bank.

But for now shes still boss, and she shows it as wearrive at our hotel (it was Peaceful Hotel that year) byscotching our plan to race for the beach. Dont you

dare. Were all too tired. To supper and to bed. Itll bemorning before you know it.

Every few minutes I toss and turn on my creakingcamp cot. Morning before I know it? Doomsday willget here rst!


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But the very next thing it is morning brilliant white- yellow morning. I rush through my ablutions. I makea bee-line for our table on the verandah. I attack mybreakfast. Jie-jie wont have it. She adjures me withher Man-man, go slow. But never mind what shesays, I make quick work of the porridge ooded withlukewarm milk of a peculiar taste, of the eggs turnedand fried crisp, of the bacon hardly fried at all, of thesoft sweetish rolls into which I stuff unrestricted lash-ings of butter and strawberry jam.

Soon as Tai-tai quits the verandah, Tony and I areoff, leaving the amahs howling in our wake. The salttang and the roar of breakers speed us on, but weresmart enough to keep an eye out for stones, the soles of our bare feet cradle tender. Not so in a fortnight whentheyll be thick as cowhide.

Suddenly, we are at West End Beach, that great stretchof golden sand, and there it is, the ocean immense,sweeping, magni cent. A mad dash to see whos in rst.Surprising sting to the eyes. Mouthful of salt. Youch!

Jelly sh! The small inch-round transparent ones thedeadliest. They get into the swimsuit. They sting thatmost private part of ones private parts. Scamper upthe burning beach. Rub sand on the sting. Bask in thedazzling rays. Squint at the endless void of blue.

When Tai-tai arrives, bedecked inher yellow beach kimono, we, that is

Tony and Betty and I and our amahsand other peoples amahs and fruitvendors and shermen and the oddpasser-by, collect at the hotels peng (straw-matting sun shelter) to hearher hold forth in her aristocratic Man-darin. Its an age before she catchesmy eye and gives the nod. At once Imake my way along the rocky trailthat skirts Anchor Bay. I catch sightof a lucky fellow down there in the surf, his rod doubled,playing a sh. Two years back I had a ne catch of speckled sea trout shing that exact same spot. Howmy ngers itch for my own rod! But its too late to headall the way back to the corner of the hotel verandah

where I left it. I turn my gaze on that old familiar sight,


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the shermens summer camp dozen junks pulled upon the sand, the three at the edge of the coarse grassoverturned to provide shelter from the sun. I descendto beach level and proceed past the big hotel, PeitaihoHotel, past the rich muckamucks lounging in the shadeof their Taj Mahal of a peng . I wade ankle deep in thesurf between Baby Beach and Tiger Rocks. Now beforemy eyes is the curving inlet of American Beach. I knowthat if I climb the steep promontory at the far end, Illbe gazing down onto English Beach and Legation Pointand Temple Bay. Better turn back, its a long haul toPeaceful Hotel.

The Fleuriets are there on the verandah, all seven of them: Pre, Mre, Andr, Roger, Ren, Madeleine, andbaby Aime. Theyve got the bungalow next to ours.

Theyre all jabbering away with Tai-tai who has totalcommand of French, just as she has of German andChinese. Ren clutches my arm. He wants to come shing with me in the morning.

At rst light were at Tiger Rocks with rod and tackle,and the handful of sea worms we bought for ten centsfrom a grizzled sherman who dug them up at low tide.In no time I locate the swirling blackness of that under-

water chasm where Patrick and Leslie McKenzie tookthose whopping rock bass two years back and where Itriumphed with my very rst trophy half-pounder last

year. Gently, gently, lower the gut line, feel for the bot-tom, raise the rod which raises the sinker about teninches. No reel. We sh Japanese style. We depend onthe pliability of the rod tip to play the sh.

The rst tug. The heart takes off. Thump-thump-thump-thump! How can the rib cage stand such buf-feting? Dont strike, not yet. Agonizing wait. Threesharp tugs in rapid succession, and the rod tip ploughsbeneath the surface. Strike! Opposing forces gone mad.Breath-stopping thrill. That powerhouse down theresurges this way and that hope its not a dog sh givea bit, take a bit, use the next big swell to draw it intothe long narrowing tide pool. Furious bout of thrashing,and there it is on its side, gills gaping, eyes angry, dor-sal spikes fully extended. It glistens with the luxuriantblack-brown-yellow markings of a hei lu zi rock bassto us. Watch out! Get spiked, and youll know about itfor the next forty-eight hours.


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Have to wait for my ngers to stop their crazy trem-bling before I can re-bait the hook. Split open thestringy seaweed-matted outer covering to get at themoist orangey creature inside. Never mind its searchingincisors; the worst it can do is give a little nip.

Ren is shing some ways off on a large smoothslab. A dry, comfortable place. I know it well. Thoughit juts a good thirty feet farther out into the sea than

where I am standing, theres a sand bank there, the water too shallow for bass. Okay for bream later on inthe year. Hope he hasnt seen me get my bass. Dont

want company. Tug-tug-tug-tug, little jerky tugs, Dammit! Egg sh,

rascally egg sh. Variegated blue-white-green sprinkled with orangey freckles. Eye-catching for sure, but deadlypoisonous. And with their razor-sharp teeth they cancut your line as if it were cotton thread. Even when youmanage to land one, its stomach will blow up like aballoon making it devilishly hard to retrieve your hook.Worst of all, once they arrive they never leave.

I move to a new spot. Ten oclock. Can see families arriving on American

Beach. The younger kids screech and holler, the brawnierones swim out to the raft which is anchored about fty

yards from shore. Theyre diving off it. Too far to disturbthe sh, but the bass have stopped biting anyway. Canget sand sh in shallower water if I want them, but Idont, and its too early in the season for bai lu zi , thoseblack-speckled silver beauties. Doesnt matter, thebaskets loaded with rock bass and red- nned perch.


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Ren wants to head back to the hotel. I want to stay.He hobbles off. Hes got a gammy leg. Seems like hesalways had one. I clamber over one string of rocks tothe next. I stop at the deepest tide pool. Zebra-stripedrock sh, spotted sculpin, and blue crab vanish at myapproach. Stay perfectly still and they emerge fromunderwater caverns concealed in the seaweed jungle. Atop-heavy hermit crab begins its tedious trek across aclearing. A stickleback darts out of its private domain.A shoal of minnows ash silver as they scatter. Its a

wondrous world within a world. Could stay and watchfor hours, but breakers are exploding against the rockfaces. The spray stings my face. The tide is encroachingfast. Better get back to the beach before I have to swimfor it. Theres a long walk ahead, and the late morningsun is already beating down. . . .

Thought you were never getting back, Tony callsout to me. Igor Kapoostin came looking for you. Hesaid you could nd him tomorrow morning at his fam-ily peng on West End Beach. But if you hurry, you cancatch up with him. He just went up the cliff steps andis heading for Main Road.

I raced up the steps and turned inland towards MainRoad. Not a trace of him. Might as well head home bythe upper route. I went past the familiar shop front of provisioner Hop Kee and that of Tientsin Book & Sta-tionery and also Kiesslings, famous for its pastries, and nally past that once-seen-never-to-be-forgotten signat the entrance to S. Tom the tailor.

And sure enough next day I nd Igor and his pal Uraon West End Beach caulking and painting their at-bottomed paddle boat, proudly named the Standadt after Tsar Nicholas IIs royal yacht.


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When the paints dry well go jelly sh hunting, Igorannounces.

Jelly sh hunting! How can he have forgotten whathappened last year? We had gone out in Standadt abouta hundred yards from shore and were idling in thegentle swells, peering three feet down for the occasionalpastel-hued jelly sh, its top large as a washbasin, itsundulating tentacles two feet long at least. Igor wantedone to take back to the shermen who made them ed-ible by drying them out in the sun after scooping outtheir soft underbellies. He soon had a monster pinkin his landing net. Then a blue. Then a gray-white.

Ura and I began lending a hand. We loaded the boat.Crazy thing to do. A sudden movement, and the boattipped. Next thing we were sloshing around in jelly shconcentrate, not an inch of skin escaping the crueleststinging imaginable. . . .

I dont mince my words. You wont ever catch me jelly sh hunting again. Lets go to Lotus Hills.

Terri c idea, says Igor. Well hire donkeys.Ill bring my kid brother, Tony.For sheer adventure, hard to beat an expedition

to Lotus Hills, especially when mounted like BuffaloBill. No sooner do we take our pick from the parade of

donkeys and ponies for hire than the triumphant mafu (groom) speeds us onto the quilted saddle and hands usa switch to fend off not only the attacking horse ies, butthe disappointed mafus who grab at our feet, swearingto the heavens their steeds are superior.


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Igor takes inordinate time over his selection. He evenlooks into the donkeys mouth, heavens sakes. The waitis unbearable. We yell at him to get a move on, but hisonly response is a teasing shrug.

At last were off, galloping with cowboy exuberance.But do cowboys gallop all the way across the GreatDivide? No sir, not even Tom Mix. So we likewise settleinto a canter, and pretty soon to a sedate walk; its agood long way to the ancient Guan Yin temple at thebase of the hills. An hour later, after we have teth-ered our faithful steeds beside the temple wall, we arebreathing air thick with the resinous scent of pine as

we snake our way along the footpath through highlandforest, through clearings carpeted with bluebell and

yellow-petalled lotus, through stands of wild azalea,until at last we stand triumphantly on the lichen-cladoutcroppings of the peak.

I point out First River, which from our height is asilver ribbon etched on a green velvet plain.

Its real name is Tai River, instructs Igor, always inthe know. Peitaiho means North of the Tai River.

Okay, then whats the real name for that range of mountains that everyone calls Queen Victoria On HerDeathbed? And there it is, though not as striking asat sunset, but recognizable all the same, the eerie sil-houette, formed by distant crags, of the Queen Empresslying in state.

Nu Huang Shan The Empress Mountain, Igorretorts with an impish grin.

What are you saying, Igor? Why would the Chineseeven begin to think of naming . . .

I can see AnchorBay, Tony chimesin, and LighthousePoint.

Arent those thesand dunes?

Yes, that blob of shimmering whitemust be the sand

dunes, the starting point of the great crescent bay, on whose far side, if its a clear day, you can discern theshapes of ocean vessels anchored at the coaling portof Chinwangtao.


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Can you see the Great Wall? Igor asks, sweeping hishand across the vast panorama of mountains, whichhave been from time immemorial Chinas northernbulwark.

No way.Can you see it, Ura?Nope.But people say they can see the Great Wall from

here.With a telescope.No, with the naked eye.Most unlikely when you cant even spot Shanhaikuan,

where the Wall sweeps down to the sea. Tony cries out, Look, theres Eagle Rock.Where?There, to the left of East Cliff.East Cliff! Thats where Leslie McKenzie landed a

giant rock bass the other day.Lets go shing there tomorrow.

And thats how our summer went, doing as we wanted when we wanted. What a shock then to lose that free-dom when Tai-tai and Doong Ji arrived, obliging us tothink the unthinkable Time to pack! Where had thedays gone?

Little Foreign Devil 2010 Chapter 06

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