His first steps on Chinese soil. Engulfed by rickshaw pullers, overwhelmed by their stench as they screamed in the frightened faces of the disembarking passengers, grabbing onto Ryūnosuke by the sleeves of his coat. Now Jones barged between the pullers and their prey, and shouted over their din, ‘Stay close to us, Ryūnosuke, and walk quickly …’
Through the crowds and coolies, to a waiting line of horse-drawn carriages. But aboard their carriage, at the first crossroads, their horse careered into a brick wall, sending its cargo out of their seats and onto their knees. The driver beating and whipping the horse, its stubborn nose smack against the brick wall, its hind legs spastically dancing and violently kicking, rocking the carriage this way and that, worse than any waves at sea. But Jones simply smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Shanghai, Ryūnosuke.’
Beaten into submission, or simply exhausted, the horse now backed away from the wall, and soon they were trotting along beside a river. So many barges, so many sampans, side by side, bow to bow and stern to stern, Ryūnosuke could not see the water. To their left, a railroad bridge carried luminous green trains. To their right, red brick buildings, three or four storeys tall. Beneath these buildings, Chinese and Westerners were walking briskly along the large, wide asphalt street, but yielding to their carriage at the signal from an Indian policeman in a red turban. First appalled by the ferocity of the rickshaw pullers and the violence of the horse-drawn carriage, now Ryūnosuke marvelled at this sudden order in a sea of chaos.
The carriage pulled up in front of a hotel. The driver already had his hand outstretched. Murata dropped a few cents into the open palm. However, the driver did not withdraw his hand. Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth as he yelled something over and over into all of their faces. Murata and Jones ignored the man, marching briskly through the hotel doors. Ryūnosuke glanced back, only to see the driver already back in his seat, coins in pocket and whip in hand. Ryūnosuke felt somehow cheated by the man’s performance: If he had not really cared, why make such a fuss?
Inside the Dong-Ya Yangxing Hotel, Ryūnosuke had fresh worries. The deserted reception room was gloomy, yet gaudy.
Jones smiled again and said, ‘You know this was the very place where Kim Ok-kyun was assassinated? Shot through the window of his room …’
‘I do not doubt it,’ began Ryūnosuke, but was interrupted by the sound of slippers loudly slapping on the floor and the sight of the Japanese proprietor, grandly dressed in Western clothes, exclaiming, ‘Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome, welcome …’
‘I believe my colleague Sawamura has made a reservation for Mr Akutagawa here,’ said Murata.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the proprietor, bowing deeply. ‘It is a great honour to welcome the esteemed author, Akutagawa-sensei. Our very best room, reserved only for our most important guests, awaits you, sir. This way, please …’
Quickly, the proprietor ushered Ryūnosuke into a room just off the entranceway. A room of two beds and no chairs, the walls covered in soot, the drapes eaten by moths; Ryūnosuke knew this was the very room in which Kim Ok-kyun had opened a window for the very last time –
‘I don’t suppose you have any other rooms?’
The proprietor shook his head. ‘No, sir. We do not. This is our best room, and our only available one.’
After initial apologies and excuses, then un-pleasantries and threats, the party of three found themselves back out on the street –
Jones smiled and said, ‘To the Banzaikan …’
… An hour later, Jones was waiting for Ryūnosuke in the lobby of the Banzaikan. ‘Chop-chop! The Shanghai night awaits …’
In Shepherd’s restaurant, the waiters were Chinese, the patrons all foreign, Ryūnosuke the only customer with a yellow face. But the curry was much better than he had expected, the room most pleasant, and Jones as talkative as ever, if still as melancholic as he always was. ‘China is my hobby, but Japan is my passion.’
‘You must miss Japan then,’ said Ryūnosuke.
‘Soon after I arrived,’ said Jones, ‘I was sitting in a café where one of the waitresses was Japanese. She was alone, in a chair, staring into space. I asked her, in Japanese, When did you come to Shanghai? She said, I just arrived yesterday. I said, You must miss Japan then? And I thought she was going to break down in tears as she said, Of course. I want to go home. I knew how she felt then, and that is still how I feel now. Awfully sentimental, I know …’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ryūnosuke.
Jones laughed. ‘Come on, sa-ikō …’
Along a busy four-lane road, on the northern border of the French Concession, to the Café Parisien. Its dance hall was large and Western, blue and red lights flickering on and off in time to the music from the orchestra, just like in the dance halls of Asakusa. However, the music and the orchestra were far superior to Tokyo.
In a corner, at a table, Jones and Ryūnosuke ordered two cups of anisette. A Filipino girl dressed in bright red danced with a group of young Americans in fashionable suits. All happy, all laughing. An old British couple, both rather stout, came dancing their way. Ryūnosuke smiled. ‘I believe it was Whitman who said the young are beautiful, but the beauty of the old is much more precious …’
‘What utter rot,’ shouted Jones. ‘The old should not dance. And the lines by Whitman you should be quoting are: “Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping,
