Empire of the Sun - J. G. Ballard [36]
‘Jim…’ Basie explained. ‘A new name for a new life.’ As Jim sat beside him he reached out a powdered hand and gently pressed his thumb against the hunger tic that jumped across the left corner of Jim’s mouth. Jim sat passively as Basie exposed his gums and glanced shrewdly at his teeth.
‘That’s a well-kept set of teeth. Someone paid a lot of bills for that sweet little mouth. Frank, you’d be surprised how some people neglect their kids’ teeth.’ Basie patted Jim’s shoulder, feeling the blue wool of his blazer. He scraped the mud from the school badge. ‘That looks like a good school, Jim. The Cathedral School?’
Frank glowered over his heap of portholes. He seemed wary of Jim, as if this small boy might take Basie from him. ‘Cathedral? Is he some kind of priest?’
‘Frank, the Cathedral School.’ Basie gazed with growing interest at Jim. ‘That’s a school for taipans. Jim, you must know some important people.’
‘Well…’ Jim was doubtful about this. He could think of nothing but the rice simmering on the charcoal stove, but then remembered a garden party at the British Embassy. ‘Once I was introduced to Madame Sun Yat-Sen.’
‘Madame Sun? You were…introduced?’
‘I was only three and a half.’ Jim sat still as Basie’s white hands explored his pockets. The watch slipped from his wrist and vanished into the haze of cologne and face powder below the quilt. Yet Basie’s attentive manner, like that of the servants who had once dressed and undressed him, was curiously reassuring. The sailor was feeling every bone in his body, as if searching for something precious. Through the open hatch Jim could see a flying boat about to take off from the Naval Air Base. A Japanese patrol boat had closed the channel, giving a wide berth to the currents that formed huge whirlpools around the boom of freighters. Jim returned to the cooking pot and its intoxicating smell of burnt fat. Suddenly it occurred to him that these two American sailors might want to eat him.
But Basie had removed the lid from the saucepan. A flavoursome steam rose from a thick stew of rice and fish. Basie produced a pair of tin plates and spoons from a leather bag under the bed. Still smoking his Craven A, he served portions for himself and Jim with the deftness of a waiter at the Palace Hotel. As Jim wolfed the hot fish Basie watched with the same wry approval that the Japanese soldier had shown.
Basie tucked into the stew. ‘We eat later, Frank.’
Frank rubbed at a porthole, his eyes on the saucepan. ‘Basie, I always eat after you.’
‘I need to think for us both, Frank. Besides, we have to look after our young friend.’ He wiped a grain of rice from Jim’s chin. ‘Tell me, Jim, have you met any other Chinese big noises? Chiang Kai-Shek, maybe…?’
‘No…but his name isn’t really Chinese, you know.’ The hot food made Jim’s brain swim. He remembered a word his mother had used, which he had always tried to work into his conversations with adults. ‘It’s a corruption of Shanghai Czech.’
‘A corruption…?’ Basie was sitting up now. Having ended his meal, he began to powder his hands. Are you interested in words, Jim?’
‘A bit. And contract bridge. I’ve written a book about it.’
Basie looked doubtful. ‘Words are more important, Jim. Put aside a new word every day. You never know when a word might be useful.’
Jim finished his stew and sat back contentedly against the metal wall. He could remember none of his meals before the war and every one of them since. It annoyed him to think of all the food in his life that he had turned away, and the elaborate stratagems which Vera and his mother had devised to persuade him to finish his pudding. He noticed that Frank was staring at a few grains he had left in the spoon, and quickly licked it clean. Jim glanced into the saucepan, glad to see that there was enough rice for Frank. He was sure now that these two merchant seamen were not going to eat him, but the fear had been sensible – there had been rumours at the Country Club that British sailors torpedoed in the Atlantic had taken to cannibalism.
Basie served