Everything Under the Sky Read Free Page A

International area, most political and economic weight is held by England and the United States—the strongest nations in China—but there are Greek, Belgian, Portuguese, Jewish, Italian, German, and Scandinavian colonies. Even Spanish,” he emphasized. I was French by marriage, but my accent, my name, my rich brown hair and brown eyes were obvious signs of my heritage. “And these days,” he continued, gripping the wheel, “Shanghai has many Russians, Bolsheviks who live in the consulate and surrounding areas, and White Russians who fled the revolution. Mostly the latter.”
    “The same thing has happened in Paris.”
    M. Favez turned to look at me for an instant, laughed, and then quickly looked back at the road. He honked and skillfully avoided a streetcar so packed with Celestials wearing hats and long Chinese garments that some even clung to bars on the outside of the car. All the streetcars in Shanghai were painted green and silver and displayed bright, colorful advertisements written in Chinese characters.
    “Yes, madame,” he conceded, “but wealthy Russians, the czarist aristocracy, went to Paris. Only the poor have come here. In any event, the most dangerous race, if I may put it that way, is the Nipponese. They've been trying to take control of Shanghai for years. In fact, they've created their own city within the International Concession. Japanese imperialists have great ambitions for China, and, what's worse, they also have a very powerful army.” M. Favez suddenly realized that perhaps he was saying too much and smiled with concern. “Did you know, Mme De Poulain, that two million people live in this beautiful city, the second-busiest port in the world and the largest market in the Orient? Only fifty thousand of those are foreigners, and the rest are yellows. Nothing is simple in Shanghai, as you'll no doubt find out for yourself.”
    M. Favez suddenly turned left onto boulevard Edouard VII. It was a shame we saw only the short bit of the Bund belonging to France that first day. I'd have liked to have seen the architectural marvels along Shanghai's most impressive street: the most luxurious hotels and sumptuous clubs, the tallest buildings, and the most important consulates, offices, and banks—all in front of the dirty, stinking waters of the Huangpu.
    I was pleasantly surprised by the French Concession. I'd been afraid the neighborhoods would have narrow streets and houses with those upturned roofs, but it was a delightful place. It had the same residential feel as the quarters in Paris, full of lovely whitewashed villas and gardens with exquisite lilacs, rosebushes, and privets. There were tennis clubs, cabarets, little plazas bordered by sycamore trees, public parks where mothers sat sewing next to their baby carriages, libraries, a movie house, bakeries, restaurants, clothing and cosmetic stores. I could have been in Montmartre, in the pavilions of the Bois, or in the Latin Quarter and not have known the difference. Every now and then, here or there, you could see a Chinese-style house with its red doors and windows, but they were the exception in those clean, pleasant French neighborhoods. Thus, when M. Favez stopped in front of a wooden gate outside one of the Oriental homes, I was slightly taken aback.
    “Here we are,” he declared happily as he turned off the motor and got out of the car.
    Underneath one of two red paper lanterns, adorned with Chinese characters, hanging on either side of the door was a chain coming out through a hole in the wall. M. Favez pulled on it energetically and then returned to open my door and gallantly help me from the car. Although his hand remained outstretched, waiting, a sudden and devastating paralysis took hold of me, and I was unable to move. Not once in twenty years had Rémy mentioned that he lived in a Chinese-style house.
    “Are you all right, Mme De Poulain?”
    The large doors opened slowly, without a sound, and three or four servants, including