The Master Of Rain

a note under the father’s hand. Field could see the man was an opium addict; his eyes were drawn and haunted, his skin pallid and yellow. The children and the mother were so thin that the bones in their faces seemed ready to break out of their skin. “Your uncle should do something for the poor of this city,” she said.

Field looked at her. “My uncle?”

“Your uncle is the municipal secretary, no?”

“How did you know that?”

She laughed. “So you can find out about me, but not the other way around?” She shook her head. “They do nothing, the businessmen here, only pillage it, like . . . pigs. All for big business and their own pockets, while so many starve.”

“Yes,” he said, not wanting to argue.

“They live in their big houses and offices and clubs and they pretend this world does not exist.”

“It’s the same everywhere.”

“But worse here. I do not believe anywhere is worse than here. So much wealth, so much suffering. Worse even than Russia.”

“That’s a surprising view, given—”

“Why surprising?”

“I thought your family was driven out by the Bolsheviks.”

“That’s ideology. Ideology is the enemy of humanity.” She stopped and faced him. “You make a war with Lu, but for the Chinese, your leaders are worse than he is.”

“I don’t think—”

“He gives back. He is an animal, but for the Chinese a leader. The others give only back to Europe.”

She turned away.

“You lived in Kazan?” he asked.

She shook her head dismissively and walked on. “It was a long time ago.”

“In the picture—”

“I do not like to talk of it.”

“You still feel—”

“It was all too long ago, another life.”

“You came here with your sister.”

“Yes.”

“You were close to her.”

Natasha smiled. “She was older, but she was shy and kind and a little timid. She always looked after me. Papa called her the little mouse.” She frowned. “But it was an affectionate name.”

“What was her real name?”

“Please. Enough.” She smiled at him softly. “Tell me about your family.”

Field stared at his feet. “My mother and sister live in Yorkshire. My sister is married, but they have no children.”

“And your father?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. It was long ago?”

“About a year.”

“He was ill?”

“In a way, yes.”

“In a way?”

Field hesitated. “He committed suicide.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “So sad.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

She turned to him, confused. “You did not love him?”

“No.”

She stopped again. “You sound so hard.”

“Not as hard as he was.”

“He hurt you?”

“Mostly my mother.”

She looked at the ground, then moved on again. “Now I understand a little more.”