Charlie’s Apprentice

Snow stopped the lesson and said: ‘Jin-lai’, waiting for the newcomer to enter further, never quite sure if he kept the surprise from showing when he finally recognized his cloying escort from the information-gathering journey.

‘I am sorry,’ said Li, speaking in English. ‘I do not wish to intrude.’

There were five men and three girls forming that day’s class. Each turned, at the interruption. The instinctive recognition of Li as an official was immediate and the stir of unease rippled discernibly among them.

‘I am glad you accepted my invitation,’ said Snow. Conscious of the need to reassure his students, he repeated in Mandarin the circumstances of his meeting with Li.

‘We became friends,’ exaggerated Li, expanding the explanation after Snow finished, in Chinese himself this time.

None of the students looked reassured. To Li, Snow said: ‘Please join us.’

The Chinese shook his head. ‘Please go ahead: I will just observe.’ He finished the sentence already withdrawing into the gloom: the scant light was such that Snow’s view was of a pair of disembodied legs, the upper part of the man lost in darkness.

Snow made a determined effort but it wasn’t a success, more from his students’ apprehension than from any uncertainty of his. Two of the men repeatedly twisted in their seats, trying to see what Li was doing, and all of them made so many stumbling mistakes in the conversational exchanges that finally Snow abandoned that part of the lesson. He ended the session early, setting revision to be done in their own time before the next lesson.

Throughout Li remained apparently unmoving at the back, not coming forward until after everyone apart from Snow had left: all the class did so hurriedly, three with their heads averted from the man.

‘It was obviously a beginners’ class,’ said Li, pointedly. As always, he wore a buttoned-to-the-neck tunic suit.

‘I am surprised to see you,’ admitted Snow. He wished the session that Li had witnessed had not been such a shambles. ‘I did not think you were serious, about coming here.’

‘I’m usually serious.’

There was no doubt about that: Snow found it difficult to imagine the man ever laughing. He gestured around the now empty room. ‘Sometimes the classes are much better attended: the students more mature.’

‘And not held in your temple?’

‘I told you they were not,’ reminded Snow. Li’s visit did surprise him but he still refused to be alarmed. Father Robertson would be, though. And doubtlessly London, if they learned about it. Snow decided not to tell either.

‘Of course you did.’

‘How was your visit to Tunxi?’

‘You have an excellent memory.’

‘Not really,’ denied Snow. He decided some Chinese played ping-pong with a ball, others with words.

‘They were from Texas. The man smoked cigars that smelled like perfume. They invited me to visit them if I ever go to America.’

‘The Americans are hospitable people: you will enjoy it.’

‘I have no wish to visit America.’

‘Yet you have learned the language.’

‘For the benefit of China.’

Imagining an opening, Snow said: ‘How, exactly?’

Li smiled again, as if pleased at some success. ‘Showing its greatness to others.’

‘Which you do very well.’

Li looked around the sparse room. ‘So this is where you teach?’

‘Always,’ insisted Snow, believing the man was pressing the obvious suspicion about meetings in the adjacent church.

‘Three times a week?’

Snow couldn’t remember telling Li the extent of the curriculum. ‘I fit in with the other demands upon my students’ time.’

‘Which must leave you a lot unfilled, for yourself?’

Snow wished he had anticipated the pitfall. ‘There are quite a lot of extra-curricular duties: work out of school hours to be marked and commented upon. And administration.’

‘I suppose there must be.’

Snow felt the beginnings of breathlessness, the familiar insidious closing around his chest. ‘I could offer you tea?’ Whereabouts would Father Robertson be? Although he went out every day, the mission chief seemed to spend most of his time around the complex.

‘No thank you. I wondered if you had managed yet to get your photographs developed. I would like to see them.’

The oversight hit Snow like a blow. There was no danger from those he’d taken at Anqing, but the Shanghai shots were incriminating. There would be a delay but he could retrieve the Anqing prints from London. But Li was too astute to forget the others. Stalling – unable to think of anything better – Snow said: ‘I didn’t consider getting anything developed here. I sent all the negative rolls home to my family, in England.’

‘But they will be returned to you here, after they are printed?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Snow, anxious now.

‘You took six of me,’ said Li, definitely. ‘I would be extremely grateful if you could let me have copies as a memento of our trip. The Shanghai pictures, against the river, should be particularly good. I would like to see them, as well.’

Snow was well aware of the yawning hole into which he was about to fall but couldn’t think of a way to avoid it. His chest was constricting even more tightly. ‘It would be a pleasure.’ He would have to tell London of this visit from Li: and be forced to maintain contact with the Chinese.

‘Are you not well?’ demanded Li, perceptively.

‘I suffer from asthma. Sometimes the weather affects me.’ The chain reaction began, Snow’s breathing worsening because of Li’s awareness of it. He forced himself on: ‘I shall need an address: somewhere to deliver the photographs when they arrive.’

‘I will not put you to such inconvenience. I will come to you, here.’

‘I don’t know when I will get them back. You could have many wasted journeys.’

‘It will not be a problem.’

Snow could not think of any better, stronger objections. ‘As you wish,’ he conceded. Finally he hurried the inhaler to his mouth, sucking in deeply. Almost at once the relief started.

Snow expected the man to make some comment. Instead Li said: ‘I have another request.’

Snow regarded the other man nervously, trying to anticipate what was to come. ‘If I can help in any way.’

‘I would like to see your temple. As you saw ours.’

Why? wondered Snow, not believing that anything this man said or asked was casual, without some hidden reason. ‘Of course.’

‘When?’

‘Why not now?’

‘You don’t need notice?’

‘Why should I need notice?’

‘I just thought …’

‘… What?’

The smile was like a camera shutter, something missed if a person blinked. ‘Nothing. I did not want to impose.’

‘You won’t be,’ assured Snow. He led ahead through the interlinking closed-in passages and open paths. As he approached, Snow thought the church looked like a medieval boat, beached to get it clear to rot: it had to be a visual distortion, because of how he was squinting against the wind, but it even appeared to be tilting slightly sideways as if it were collapsing.

Father Robertson was turning away from the altar before which he had apparently been bowed in prayer