Read Online Jack of Spies by David Downing - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Downing
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inside the nearest Chinese city gate—and climbed up beside her.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him another smile.
Like most of the buildings that surrounded it, the teahouse looked shabby from the outside, but the carved wooden screen beyond the door was truly beautiful. “To keep out the bad spirits,” she murmured to herself, as if she were remembering a line of homework.
Inside, numerous round tables were scattered across a huge room, and upwards of a hundred people were talking, shouting, laughing, eating, or playing mah-jongg. None of the faces were white, and if the stares the two of them received were anything to go by, European patronage was far from a common occurrence. Once they were seated, she showed no hesitation in staring back, her eyes aglow with excitement. When McColl asked her what tea she wanted, she just waved an arm and told him to order for both of them.
He did so.
“There’s no deference,” she noted with satisfaction. “They’re just being who they are.”
He had never thought of it that way, but she was right. “This is their city,” was all he said.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I hear you’re a journalist,” he said.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“On which paper?”
She reluctantly turned her face to his. “It varies. I’m here for the
New York Tribune
. Supposedly to report on the revolution.” She smiled wryly. “But it seems to have been postponed.”
“Yes.”
Their tea arrived, a green brew with floating jasmine blossoms.
She sipped at her cup and grimaced slightly. “You must know China well?”
“No, not all …”
“But you speak the language.”
“I speak quite a few. They just come easily, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him with what he hoped was interest. “How lucky. I wish they came easily to me.”
“I suspect you have other talents.”
“Perhaps, but not speaking the local language is such a handicap. I feel more than a little lost here, to be honest. I came to stay with a college friend—her name’s Soong Ch’ing-ling—but when Yuan Shih-kai attacked Sun Yat-sen, her family all fled to Japan. Ch’ing-ling made sure I had somewhere to stay, but it’s not the same as having a friend who knows her way around.” A thought occurred to her. “How long are you here for?”
“Oh, quite a while.” He felt absurdly reluctant to put any limit on his availability.
“Well, if you have any spare time for chaperoning, I’d love to see the Chinese city—the rest of it, I mean. And eat some real Chinese food. And maybe see some of the countryside …”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.” She pulled a watch fromher purse and consulted it. “I’m afraid I have to go in the next few minutes—there’s someone else I’m meeting. And I have an engagement tomorrow. But can we do something on Friday? I could come to your hotel if that’s easiest.”
McColl felt faintly shocked by the suggestion. “No, I can pick you up. Just tell me where and when.”
She gave him the address. “It’s just off Bubbling Well Road.”
“Ten o’clock?” he suggested.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He called for the bill, which arrived almost immediately.
She leaned across to look at it, and he felt the warmth of her breath. “Look,” she said, “I almost dragged you here. Let me pay my half.”
“No, of course not,” he said, again feeling slightly shocked.
“All right, but on Friday we must share. Or I won’t come.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “If you insist.”
Thursday passed slowly. McColl wandered idly around the European city in the morning, in the vain hope that he might run into her. He was behaving like a schoolboy with a crush, he realized, and reminded himself that he knew next to nothing about the woman. Merely that she had modern ideas—and lips he dearly wanted to kiss.
Passing a shop with postcards on display, he went in and bought two—a photograph of a rickshaw and coolie for his mother and
“Thank you,” she said, giving him another smile.
Like most of the buildings that surrounded it, the teahouse looked shabby from the outside, but the carved wooden screen beyond the door was truly beautiful. “To keep out the bad spirits,” she murmured to herself, as if she were remembering a line of homework.
Inside, numerous round tables were scattered across a huge room, and upwards of a hundred people were talking, shouting, laughing, eating, or playing mah-jongg. None of the faces were white, and if the stares the two of them received were anything to go by, European patronage was far from a common occurrence. Once they were seated, she showed no hesitation in staring back, her eyes aglow with excitement. When McColl asked her what tea she wanted, she just waved an arm and told him to order for both of them.
He did so.
“There’s no deference,” she noted with satisfaction. “They’re just being who they are.”
He had never thought of it that way, but she was right. “This is their city,” was all he said.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I hear you’re a journalist,” he said.
“Yes, yes I am.”
“On which paper?”
She reluctantly turned her face to his. “It varies. I’m here for the
New York Tribune
. Supposedly to report on the revolution.” She smiled wryly. “But it seems to have been postponed.”
“Yes.”
Their tea arrived, a green brew with floating jasmine blossoms.
She sipped at her cup and grimaced slightly. “You must know China well?”
“No, not all …”
“But you speak the language.”
“I speak quite a few. They just come easily, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him with what he hoped was interest. “How lucky. I wish they came easily to me.”
“I suspect you have other talents.”
“Perhaps, but not speaking the local language is such a handicap. I feel more than a little lost here, to be honest. I came to stay with a college friend—her name’s Soong Ch’ing-ling—but when Yuan Shih-kai attacked Sun Yat-sen, her family all fled to Japan. Ch’ing-ling made sure I had somewhere to stay, but it’s not the same as having a friend who knows her way around.” A thought occurred to her. “How long are you here for?”
“Oh, quite a while.” He felt absurdly reluctant to put any limit on his availability.
“Well, if you have any spare time for chaperoning, I’d love to see the Chinese city—the rest of it, I mean. And eat some real Chinese food. And maybe see some of the countryside …”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.” She pulled a watch fromher purse and consulted it. “I’m afraid I have to go in the next few minutes—there’s someone else I’m meeting. And I have an engagement tomorrow. But can we do something on Friday? I could come to your hotel if that’s easiest.”
McColl felt faintly shocked by the suggestion. “No, I can pick you up. Just tell me where and when.”
She gave him the address. “It’s just off Bubbling Well Road.”
“Ten o’clock?” he suggested.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He called for the bill, which arrived almost immediately.
She leaned across to look at it, and he felt the warmth of her breath. “Look,” she said, “I almost dragged you here. Let me pay my half.”
“No, of course not,” he said, again feeling slightly shocked.
“All right, but on Friday we must share. Or I won’t come.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “If you insist.”
Thursday passed slowly. McColl wandered idly around the European city in the morning, in the vain hope that he might run into her. He was behaving like a schoolboy with a crush, he realized, and reminded himself that he knew next to nothing about the woman. Merely that she had modern ideas—and lips he dearly wanted to kiss.
Passing a shop with postcards on display, he went in and bought two—a photograph of a rickshaw and coolie for his mother and
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