Night Angels(8)

“This is, sadly, the Austrian crisis. I’m afraid it won’t make sense to many people.”

The pale gaslights flickered by the side of the street. “I’d like to take German lessons from her, my love.”

“When we get home, we should discuss this.”

I looked down at my handbag. “I thought you wanted me to learn German.”

“She’s a Jewess, Grace.”

Something about politics, no doubt. For once, I wished he could forget about it and think of me. But Fengshan was a traditional Chinese man through and through, firmly believing that a man’s will must prevail over a woman’s. When he talked about marriage, it was always Fu Chang Fu Sui—the husband sings, and the wife accompanies. These days sitting in my bedroom I had some occasional qualms about that, but that attitude of his, perhaps, was how he’d captivated me when we met in the noodle shop in Chicago where I toiled. Growing up fatherless, I had found it reassuring to see a man radiate confidence. So when we married, I gladly embarked on a nomadic life with him, from Chicago to his remote hometown in China, where English speakers were rare. When he joined the Chinese legation, I had followed him to Istanbul and lived a restrictive lifestyle—a step out of the door required a male escort. Then with his promotion, we relocated again to Vienna.

Life in Vienna might have appeared splendid to some people, with banquets in glorious Baroque buildings and dinners at stately ballrooms, but it was just another Istanbul, another China, where I had no friends, no work to do, no one to talk to. Inside the ballrooms, the snooty diplomats’ wives would sprinkle a few words of English and then rattle off in German. Outside the consulate, operas, plays, and movies were all in German.

Fengshan was the only one I could talk to—he was my sun, my rainbow, my golden trellis to lean on—yet he was busy, busy with socializing, public speaking, lectures, debates, opinion pieces, busy cultivating his career, and protecting his country. He was always on the phone, always in meetings, always speaking German.



The car turned onto a dark and narrow street, Beethovenplatz, and arrived in front of a Baroque-style three-story building, the Chinese consulate, our residence since last year. It was late, so the staff had left, sparing me from a most mortifying moment. Imagine. The consul general’s wife had returned from the dungeon. The gossip, the questions, and the prying gazes.

The manservant, Rudolf, opened the car door for me. I heaved out, passed the newly installed black plaque inscribed with the Chinese characters for Consulate of the Republic of China, which I couldn’t read, and entered the building. The lobby was dimly lit by a lamp. On a desk were stacked newspapers, mail, invitations in elegant script, and visiting cards with gilt edges in German, which I couldn’t read either.

I took the elevator to our bedroom as Fengshan bade good night to Rudolf. Fengshan would join me later, after locking the door and checking on Monto, his son, sleeping in the adjacent room, as he did every evening.

But once I stepped into the bedroom, I didn’t know what to do. A gilded enclosure of luxury, this bedroom, with crown-molding high ceilings, golden brocade drapery, a shining ormolu clock and candelabras, and an old-fashioned flowery Persian carpet, courtesy of the generous landlord who leased this building to the consulate. I felt as if I were drowning again, inhaling the same musty air, listening to the same silence, sitting in the same room I had left this afternoon.

At least my Dickinson poetry book was near my pillow, just where I had left it. I held it to my breasts. My poor recluse poet. I had turned her into a wanderer. But without her, what would I be then? Finally, I placed my poetry book back near my pillow and began to undress, removing my jacket, gloves, skirt, boots, and stockings. Then I put on a red nightgown and got in bed.

Sometime later, I heard Fengshan’s murmur in my ear; in the fog of sleepiness, I threaded my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me. I could smell the familiar scent of his cologne, his favorite cigar, and I wanted him to make love to me. I craved him, his undivided attention and his open, uncurbed affection, an affirmation that I was not useless and that he still loved me, still needed me.

Make love to me.

“. . . ordeal . . . at the Headquarters . . . go to see the doctor tomorrow?”

Doctor?

“Grace?”

“You said . . . Why?”

“You had blood on your chin.”

That must have been Lola’s. “I’m fine. I’m not injured.” I sat up and unbuttoned his shirt.

“. . . Learning German is a good idea, Grace. I’ve given it some thought. I shall find you an American tutor.”

I dropped my arms. There was no need to find another tutor. I would like to have Lola, only Lola. But this was Fengshan’s polite way of telling me to distance myself from her in order to avoid potential trouble; his country, after all, was always his priority. I wished I could say to him that his career was important to me too, and I would never intentionally harm him in any way. Politics was his career, but he was my life. “My love . . .”

“I’m concerned about your safety, Grace. The political situation in Vienna is precarious and worrisome.”

I couldn’t insist on it—confrontation, even the thought of it, would trigger the memory of Mother’s chokehold on my neck. So I lay back down and pulled the coverlet over my head. “That’s fine, my love. I won’t see the Viennese again.”