Empire of the Sun - J. G. Ballard [44]
14
American Aircraft
‘The war’s going to be over soon, Basie. I’ve seen American planes, Curtiss bombers and Boeings…’
‘Boeings…? Jim you’re – ‘
‘Don’t talk, Basie. I’m working for you now, just like Frank.’
Jim squatted by the American sailor, trying to remember the amahs of his early childhood. He had never looked after anything before, except for an angora rabbit that had died tragically within a few days. He tilted the mess-tin and tried to pour a little water into Basie’s mouth, then dipped his fingers in the murky fluid and let Basie suck them.
For three weeks Jim had devoted himself to the cabin steward, bringing his ration of boiled rice and sweet potatoes, fetching water from the tap in the corridor. He sat for hours beside Basie, fanning the sailor as he lay on his mat below the transom window. The stream of fresh air soon revived him, and one by one he pulled away the paper bandages fluttering on his face and wrists. Helped by Jim, he moved his mat from the English soldier dying against the wall. Within a week he had recovered enough of his strength to keep an eye on the Japanese guards and the comings and goings of the Eurasian woman who cooked for the prisoners.
As he cleaned Basie’s mess-tin Jim wondered if the sailor really recognized him. Did he know that Jim had managed to trick him? Perhaps he would report Jim to the other prisoners, but there was little that they could do. Relieved that at last he had an ally in his struggle with the Eurasian women, he rested his head on his knees.
He felt Basie nudge him with the mess-tins.
‘Chow time, Jim. Get in line.’ As Jim sat up, hoping that he had not talked in his sleep, Basie wiped some of the dirt from his cheek. The steward’s canny eyes took in every detail of Jim’s shabby state. ‘Make yourself useful to Mrs Blackburn, Jim. Ingratiate yourself a little. A woman always needs help with her fire.’
Somehow, during his visits to the latrine, Basie had learned the Eurasian woman’s name. Jim ran from the store-room with the two mess-tins. The other prisoners followed, the old men stirring from their mats. Mr Partridge took the mess-tin from the hand of the English soldier who sat in a pool of urine by the wall.
Smoke rose from the courtyard behind the ticket kiosk. The Eurasian woman fanned the briquettes in her stove, but the rice and sweet potatoes in the congs had gone off the boil. A Japanese soldier stared gloomily at the tepid swill, and shook his head at the hungry prisoners. They shuffled among the teak benches of the cinema, sat down and stared at the smoke drifting across the empty screen.
Holding the mess-tins, Jim hovered around Mrs Blackburn and treated her to his keenest smile. She disliked Jim, but allowed him to chop the basket of firewood. He pushed the spills into the stove and blew hard to ignite them. He fanned the embers until the briquettes caught light again. Half an hour later, with the Japanese soldier’s approval, Jim was rewarded with his first fair ration.
Basie was satisfied but unimpressed. After finishing his meal he propped himself on his elbows. He gazed at his fellow prisoners, some too exhausted to eat their rations, and tore the last of the paper bandages from the cuts over his eyes. Whatever had befallen him in Shanghai Central Prison – and Jim never dared to ask about Frank – he had once again become the ex-steward of the Cathay-American Line, ready to assemble a small part of a ramshackle world around himself. He surveyed Jim again, taking in his ragged clothes and scarecrow appearance, his deepset and yellowing eyes. Without comment, he gave Jim a piece of potato skin.
‘Say, thanks, Basie.’
‘I’m looking after you, Jim.’
Jim devoured the shred of potato. ‘You’re looking after me, Basie.’
‘You helped Mrs Blackburn?’
‘I ingratiated myself. I made myself very useful to Mrs Blackburn.’
‘That’s it. If you can find a way of helping people you’ll live off the interest.’
‘Like this piece of potato…Basie, when you were in Shanghai Central did anyone talk about my mother and father?’
‘I think I did