In the summer months in Hsingking, I had taken to occasional walks in the gardens of Tatung Park, where the boys who rutted with Japanese soldiers strolled prettily. It was the only place where I allowed myself to dwell on Jack and sometimes to weep sorry tears for myself. But now, in the cold leafless season with the benches deep in snow, even that dubious pleasure was denied me. By mid-afternoon it was dark and, as in Mongolia, the white moon of winter kept its promise of nights so cold that they slowed the blood and made your eyes ache.
It was no longer a pleasure to ride out on horseback. The ground was so hard, the air so frigid that even the horses complained. I did sometimes drive with Tada to the Kwangtung Army's headquarters to play poker in the cell-like rooms of my favourite captains, where I felt obliged to reacquaint myself with them. Under their rough blankets, skin to skin in the pale warmth of their oil stoves, those friendly couplings only made me desolate.
I suggested to WanJung that perhaps it was time for me to return to Shanghai, but she wouldn't hear of my leaving. As I had no orders from Doihara to leave, I had to make the best of things and see the winter out in the dark Salt Tax Palace. I apologised to her for wanting to go, explaining that I had always hated the cold and that I had too little of her company for my liking.
'You should smoke with me more,' she said. 'Then your days would not seem so long.'
As it was, I was indulging in the poppy more than was safe. It kept the cold, and thoughts of Jack, at bay. Tada said that he could tell when I had smoked opium because my eyes were clouded and for days after my saliva tasted as bitter as melon seeds.
Wan Jung told me that she herself had begun to dream of the Forbidden City. In those comforting slumbers she said that she was at peace with herself, secure in the knowledge that she was the honoured Qing Empress. She slept in rose-scented linens and bathed in silvery pools big enough to swim in. In the company of her elegant ladies-in-waiting, she floated over ponds filled with water lilies of such unusual colours that she had no words to describe them other than that they were filled with light. She was so happy in those dreams that I feared her opium intake would increase to the extent that there would be no part of the day when she would be her real self. Tada said that he didn't think it mattered that much, for in his opinion Wan Jung wouldn't live for much longer; he thought she might as well spend the time left to her in a world where she could be happy. He had a way of getting to the heart of things that was difficult to argue with.
Pu Yi was talking about taking another bride, as Wan Jung, he said, was no longer fit to show herself in public. The idea of it added to WanJung's misery. If Pu Yi were to have a son by another consort, then she would have a stronger power base than the Empress herself. The thought of it turned the knife in Wan Jung's heart and made her more anxious and insecure.
Doihara visited only once from Mongolia. He greeted me familiarly and said that I had lost none of my beauty since he had last seen me in Tientsin.
'Your lover Tanaka does well enough,' he said. 'But I am not convinced that an officer so like his men in nature will ultimately succeed in his objectives.'
It seemed strange to me to hear Tanaka described as my lover. I had not seen him for almost three years, two of which I had spent with Jack. But his letters to me were frequent and they often spoke of our future together. Even though I had reluctantly made the decision to let Jack go, I could not get him out of my mind and every time I received a letter from Tanaka, I wished that it had come from Jack.
Pu Yi ordered a banquet to honour Doihara, which was attended by Tada and the senior officers of the Kwangtung Army, as well as some successful Japanese entrepreneurs doing well out of Manchukuo. Apart from Wan Jung and myself, the only other women at the meal were two geishas attending their owners. Like Wan Jung, they did not eat.
I think that Doihara, despising the Emperor's company, would have preferred to go without the banquet, where he was seated next to him, but for appearances' sake he had to attend. He could barely observe the formalities towards the royal couple and managed to make even his deep bow appear insulting. His attitude was abrupt to the point of rudeness and sometimes he would completely ignore the Emperor when he spoke, pretending he hadn't heard him. Upset and, as always, a little afraid of Doihara, Pu Yi reacted by drinking too much and resorting to the flattery that Doihara despised.
Tada had arranged for Doihara a liaison with a beautiful Japanese prostitute known for entertaining only those of high rank. In his impatience to be out of the Emperor's company and in that of the prostitute's, Doihara excused himself and left before the oranges were served. In the Forbidden City no one would have dared leave such an occasion before the Emperor and so it was not surprising that Doihara's departure filled Pu Yi simultaneously with fear and anger. When Wan Jung wished him goodnight, he told her spitefully that Doihara had left because he could not bear her company. She replied that Doihara could not bear the company of any Chinese, least of all that of the hungry- for-approval Emperor. I was pleased to see that even though her health was poor, her skill at fencing was as good as ever.
The next day I was called to a meeting with Doihara. I asked him if he had enjoyed the company of his night companion. He said that he had, and that she deserved her reputation, but she was a little too fleshy to be perfect. After the pleasantries were over, he quizzed me about the Empress. What did she talk about? How extravagant was she being? How anti-Japanese were her sentiments?
'For instance, Yoshiko, who in the house is loyal to her?'
'No one in this palace, not even the Emperor,' I replied.
Despite the fact that I was betraying Wan Jung's confidences, I was truthful with him. I confirmed to him that Pu Yi did not visit his wife's bed and he said it was a good thing that he did not, as a Qing offspring would only complicate matters. When I told him of her dreams he laughed and said that it would never be part of Japan's plans to return Pu Yi to his Dragon Throne.
'There is room for only one imperial house in Japan's territory,' he said. 'Pu Yi's usefulness will run out as soon as our hold on Manchukuo is complete. We didn't pay for it with the blood of the Kwangtung Army to make a gift of it to that pathetic creature. It is an embarrassment for Japanese soldiers to have him as their commander-in-chief,'
Wan Jung truly hated Doihara, with good cause. She felt disliked and powerless in his company. After his visit she was upset for days, going about her life nervously, as though his intention had been to assassinate her. I assured her that if he had been ordered to oversee such a dreadful act, the deed would have been accomplished before she had the luxury of worrying about it. Both Wan Jung and Pu Yi were paranoid about being poisoned. Pu Yi had a servant who tasted everything for him, yet still he would not eat the rice sent to him by his Japanese sister-in-law Saga Hiro, even though it was of the finest quality and might have saved him from his piles. Wan Jung, fearing that poison might be slipped into her champagne, never drank from an already opened bottle.
Fuelling her suspicions that the Japanese had murder in mind, a bill had been passed by the authorities naming her husband's brother Pu Chieh as the successor to the Manchukuo throne. Pu Chieh was married to Lady Saga Hiro, a relative of the Japanese Imperial Family. That way, through the maternal line at least, the throne of Manchuria would be occupied by someone from a Japanese bloodline.
Wan Jung veered between the view that, under world pressure, Japan would have no option but to return the Pu Yis to their Chinese throne, and the belief that an assassin was behind every curtain. She always locked a servant in her room to make sure that no one entered it while she was away and kept a rope ladder under her bed, so that she could escape if a fire were set under her door.
My views were in tune with Doihara's insomuch as I believed that only samurai blood was strong enough to hold and rule Manchuria as one state. I did not believe, though, that Wan Jung's life was in danger. Pu Yi might have to die, but his wife, a mere woman, childless and clouded with opium, would, I believed, simply lose
status and be returned to the care of her family. I took comfort from that belief, as I had come to count Wan Jung amongst those that I loved.
After Doihara had left to return to Mongolia, Pu Yi questioned me about my own meeting with the Major General. He was angry at the way Doihara had treated him and wanted me to reassure him that all was well. I told him that Doihara's only concern had been for the Empress's health and his hope that the royal couple were adjusting to their new life in Hsingking.
Pu Yi nodded as though he was pleased, but persisted, 'Major General Doihara seemed distant in his attitude. Perhaps there was something not to his liking in the palace?'
'No, your Majesty, I am sure not. I think the Major General's mind was on Mongolia where he has important unfinished business.'
He accepted my explanation of Doihara's behaviour, but it was obvious that he remained unconvinced. Yet, whatever slights and bad behaviour Pu Yi had to put up with from his Japanese masters, he always managed the formalities and the appearance of calm himself. Those close to him knew that he released his stored-up anger on his pageboys in late-night beatings. The boys, chosen from local orphanages, were frequently seen with black eyes and ugly bruises on their faces. Sometimes they tried to run away, which only gave the Emperor a good excuse to give them another beating.
In Tientsin, the Pu Yis had enjoyed the freedom to shop, to visit the cinema, or to dine with friends. They had, at least in the early days, enjoyed a degree of family and social life. In Hsingking, though, they were not allowed to leave the Salt Tax Palace unless on official business. Even then they had to be accompanied by one or other of the Kwangtung hierarchy. Wan Jung complained to me that she could not even walk in the park, which she longed to do. I easily obtained permission to accompany her, and her childlike excitement at the idea of our outing was touching. But she was tired out in ten minutes and could not stop coughing for an hour. Her health was so bad that I imagined that the beautiful Empress would be dead within the year.
One evening, as we were looking through old copies of American Vogue and smoking pink Russian cigarettes that Tada had obtained for us, news came that the Pu Yis had been summoned to make a state visit to Japan. Wan Jung was horrified, not only at the thought of visiting Japan, but also at how difficult it would be for her there without recourse to her habitual intake of opium. She thought of the Japanese as her enemies and did not wish to appear at a disadvantage in their company. Her reputation as 'She of the Beautiful Countenance' was too hard for her to live up to any more.
Pu Yi told her that he preferred to go without her, as he would have many duties of state and did not wish to be embarrassed by her unreliability, but he insisted that she prepare herself for the visit, in case the Japanese required her presence.
A team of dressmakers was brought to the Salt Tax Palace to outfit Wan Jung with a completely new wardrobe. She was to have both western and traditional clothes. Her court robes, which were held in the keeping of one of the high consorts, were sent for and a new set of pigskin luggage arrived by air from Tientsin, along with twenty boxes of handmade shoes. In the hope that her health and looks would improve, Pu Yi had her opium intake cut drastically, but she became so ill with shaking and delusions that it had to be restored.
Our time together was spent with me attempting to assure her that she was not being called upon to attend her own execution in Tokyo. I reminded her that through Pu Yi's brother's Japanese wife she was now distantly related to Emperor Hirohito himself. He would hardly allow one of his own relatives to be murdered. I think she took comfort from that. As it happened, Wan Jung was not required to accompany her husband to Japan. Doihara had advised that she was too ill to travel and that her erratic behaviour would be an embarrassment in the Imperial Palace.
So excited was Pu Yi by the prospect of his state visit, and distracted by his preparations, that, yet again, he failed to take proper leave of his wife. He made his farewell in the company of Japanese officers without so much as touching her hand. Wan Jung was left in the cold Salt Tax Palace as she had been left in the Quiet Garden when Pu Yi had fled in fear from Tientsin. She told me that she knew when the time came for her to die that he would not be at her side. She had no expectations of him as he had never been with her when she had needed him.
'He makes much of loyalty,' she said. 'But he has none.'
Shortly after Pu Yi's departure, I received new orders from Doihara. I was to resettle myself in Peking and report to the Secret Service Organ there to fulfil a new assignment. Major Muto's secretary in the Shanghai office would arrange my journey and accommodation and would forward my belongings from the villa. Wan Jung was upset but composed, she seemed resigned to being alone and said it would be better for me to resume my life before, like her, I forgot how to live it. She was happy that I would be waiting for her in Peking when she returned to the life fate had determined for her.
I said my goodbyes to Tada, who was sure that we would meet again, but I did not think we would. I would miss him a little, not just for the relief of his company, but because he admired me both as daughter of Japan and of China. Apart from Tanaka, none of my other lovers had accepted me quite so completely as Tada had.
On our last night together, so that I would always remember him with warmth, he gave me a gift of three unset stones. A diamond for luck, a deep red garnet to keep my blood warm and jade, the stone of heaven, for happiness. With painted eyes and bare feet I played his grateful concubine for the last time. I bathed and massaged him and after we had made love I slept across his feet. I would miss our games, but knew that my place in his bed would be taken by a series of small-boned, pearl-toothed Chinese prostitutes, who in their submissiveness would find him a good master.
I made Wan Jung a present of my dragonfly brooch, although I think she would have preferred my writing case, which she much admired. Used now to partings she remained calm, simply taking my hand and pressing it to her cheek.
'I don't believe that either of us will make old bones, Eastern Jewel, but for what time is left to us I would rather live your life than my own,' she said.
Her affectionate leave-taking brought a lump to my throat and with tears in my eyes I kissed her hands and said goodbye. I never saw her again, although years later I heard the legend that she was alive and living somewhere in the Long White Mountains. It wasn't true.
Fish Congee and a Duck Egg
I set up home in one of the spacious apartments on the first floor of the Hotel de Pekin, which was situated a short distance from the pink walls of the Forbidden City. It was an elegant nineteenthcentury building decorated in the style of the Belle Epoque, full of French furniture and foreigners. There was a ballroom with a hall of mirrors that imitated the famous salon in the palace of Versailles, and a busy international bar that never closed.
Peking was a city of walls within walls, built to keep out the dust and deaden the clamour of its busy citizens. As wood was scarce, the houses were built with brick and wattle and had shapely roofs and slender windows. In the streets there were mules and donkeys pulling carts and on my first day I saw camels swaying along the broader avenues carrying coal and coconuts. The streets were narrow unpaved alleys where pedestrians vied for space with bicycles and wheelbarrows. After the modernity of Shanghai, I felt as though I had stepped back into the old century. Although the city had water, electricity and trams to ferry its citizens, it was still at heart the capital of ancient China. Its opium dens, known as 'swallows' nests', had inky carbon walls smudged by a hundred years of smoke, a unique darkness that powdered your clothes when you brushed against it. Peking's scent was of dung and toil and, for those who recognised it, the faintly gassy smell of corruption.
The office of the Special Service Organ was a ten-minute walk from my hotel. On my way there I ate a breakfast of pancakes cooked in the street on a charcoal burner. As I looked around me at the old buildings, at the solidity of the Forbidden City with its myriad roofs and gates, I was surprised to discover that nothin
g in the city of my birth seemed familiar to me.
My superior in the Peking office was Colonel Sumida, a cunning man in his late sixties who loved his work in the secret service. He had what looked like a fencing scar below his left eye, which he had a habit of tracing with one finger. He was of medium height with cropped white hair that contrasted with his iron-grey eyebrows, giving him an owl-like appearance. In certain lights he could look brutal, but I discovered him to be a man of culture with somewhat dainty tastes. Sumida was a snob, not as intelligent as Tanaka, but nor was he as narrow-minded as Muto. He was lazy but good at delegating and had Tanaka's attention to detail. Although I sensed that he liked women well enough, I think that in general he preferred the company of men.
He told me that I had been brought to Peking to make friends with influential foreigners and to infiltrate the ranks of the wealthy and upper-class Chinese. I was to ascertain who amongst them were secret Chiang Kai-shek collaborators, so that they could be brought to justice and made an example of. He said my task would not be easy, as Chiang's creatures took a perverted pleasure in showing a smiling face while stabbing us in the back. Japan, he said, was doing well in its bid to consume China, but the Chinese weren't without their successes and we couldn't rest on our laurels. He had been told that I was expert in gaining the confidence of foreigners, and that I spoke good English, assets that he said were sorely needed in Peking.
'Become well informed and keep me informed, Yoshiko,' he said. 'If you live up to your reputation I will be more than pleased.'
After our first talk the Colonel gave me a box of papers that Muto's secretary had forwarded from Shanghai. Amongst the accounts and files there was a letter from Jack, enclosing the print of his last photograph of me. It was dated two weeks after our parting and said that he had returned to New York as his father was gravely ill. He gave me the address of where to find him and said that he would be waiting for me. If I needed money for the fare I could get it from Teddy Black, the reporter from the Chicago Tribune.