Everything Under the Sky Read Free

and in top form. Never, in the month and a half that I'd known her, had I seen my niece exude anything so akin to happiness. Could it be the stench of Shanghai or perhaps the crowds that had changed her? Whatever the reason, the girl's chubby cheeks were flushed and her sour grimace had sweetened immensely, not to mention the courage and determination she'd shown by setting out on her own through that crowd to find the consular attaché (who was, in fact, glancing at her with a not-at-all-diplomatic look of astonishment on his face). However, that pleasant impression was as ephemeral as a ray of sunshine in a storm. As M. Favez helped us with our paperwork in the Compagnie offices, Fernanda reverted to her habitual stone face and leaden personality.
    In no time at all, a handful of coolies had loaded our things into the trunk of M. Favez's car—a splendid white convertible Voisin with a rear spare tire and a silver starting crank. Without further ado we left the wharf in a lovely screech of tires that caused me to exclaim in delight and put a satisfied smile on the attaché's face as he drove down the left-hand side of the Bund, that beautiful avenue on the western shore of the Huangpu. I know I didn't look at all like a widow who'd arrived in Shanghai to make arrangements for her husband's body, but I couldn't have cared less. It would have been worse to feign proper mourning, especially when the entire French colony had to know perfectly well that Rémy and I had lived apart for twenty years. In all likelihood, they were very aware of his hundreds, even thousands, of amorous affairs. Rémy and I had a marriage of convenience: I married for security and a roof over my head in a foreign country, he to have a lawful wife and thus gain access to the considerable inheritance from his mother. The poor woman had died desperate to see her libertine son settle down. Having fulfilled its objectives, our marriage grew into a beautiful friendship. Only I knew how much it hurt me to lose Rémy, and I was certainly not about to display that pain in public.
    As my eyes leaped from one strange character to another on that busy street, M. Favez explained that the majority of people in Shanghai were Celestials and yet it was an international city controlled by Westerners.
    “Celestials?” I interrupted.
    “That's what we call the Chinese. They consider themselves subjects of the Son of Heaven's Empire. The last emperor, the young Puyi, 1 still lives in the Forbidden City in Peking, although he hasn't held power since 1911, when Dr. Sun Yat-sen overthrew the monarchy and established the republic. Many Chinese still believe they are superior to Westerners, whom they cal yang kwei or ‘foreign devils’ in return, so we sarcastically call them Celestials. Or yellows. We also call them yellows,” he stated with a smile.
    “And doesn't that seem a little insulting?” I asked, surprised.
    “Insulting? No, not any more than when they call us barbarians or ‘big noses.’ Quid pro quo, don't you think?”
    There were three major territorial and political divisions in Shanghai, the attaché explained as he drove full speed, honking the horn for people and vehicles to move out of his way. First, there was the French Concession, where we were, an elongated strip of land that included the wharf on the Bund at which the André Lebon had docked. Second, there was the old Chinese city of Nantao, an almost-circular space south of the French Concession. It was surrounded by a beautiful boulevard built on the remains of ancient walls that were demolished after the republican revolution of 1911. Finally, there was the much larger International Concession to the north, which was governed by the consuls from every country with diplomatic representation.
    “And they all have equal power?” I asked, holding the foulard against my chest to keep it from blowing up in my face.
    “Monsieur Wilden has full authority in the French colony, madame. In the