Empire of the Sun - J. G. Ballard [86]
‘Say, it’s Shanghai Jim…’
‘Kid, Basie’s mad at you…’
‘You want to play chess, son?’
‘Jim, I need hot water and a shave.’
‘Jim, bring me a left-handed screwdriver and a bucket of steam…’
‘Why’s Basie mad at Jim?’
Jim exchanged greetings with the Americans – Cohen, the softball wizard and chess fanatic; Tiptree, the large, kindly stoker who was the comic-book king; Hinton, yet another cabin steward and philosopher: Dainty, the telegraphist and premier cocksman of Lunghua – amiable men whose rôles they played for Jim’s benefit and constantly guyed. When they noticed him, most of them liked Jim, who in return, and out of respect for America, ran endless errands for them. Several of the cubicles were closed as the merchant seamen entertained their visitors, but the others had their curtains raised so that the sailors could he on their bunks and observe the passing world. Two of the older seamen were racked by malaria, but they made little fuss about being ill. All in all, Jim felt, the Americans were the best company, not as strange and challenging as the Japanese, but far superior to the morose and complicated British.
Why was Basie angry with him? Jim stepped down the narrow corridor between the suspended sheets. He could hear an English woman from Hut 5 complaining about her husband, and two Belgian girls who lived with their widowed father in G Block giggled over some object they were being shown.
Basie’s cubicle was in the north-east corner of the room, with two windows that gave him a clear view of the entire camp. As always he was sitting on his bunk, keeping an eye on the Japanese soldiers outside the guardhouse as he received the latest report from Demarest, his cubicle neighbour and chief henchman. His long-sleeved cotton shirt was faded but neatly creased – after Jim had washed and dried the shirts Basie would fold them in a complex, origami-like package and slide them under his sleeping mat, from which they emerged with a department-store sharpness. Since Basie rarely moved from his bunk he seemed even cooler and crisper in Jim’s eyes than Mr Sekura, and in most respects the years in Lunghua had been less of a strain for Basie than for the Japanese commandant. His hands and cheeks were still soft and unworn, though with a pallor like that of an unhealthy woman. Moving around his cubicle, as if in his pantry on the SS Aurora, he regarded Lunghua Camp in the same way he had viewed the world beyond it, a suite of cabins to be kept ready for a succession of unwary passengers.
‘Come in, kid. Stop breathing so much, you’re making Basie all hot.’ Demarest, a former bar steward, spoke without moving his lips – either, as Jim believed, he had spent an earlier career as a ventriloquist or, as Mr Maxted maintained, he had passed long terms in prison.
‘The boy’s all right…’ Basie beckoned Jim to sit down, as Demarest returned to his cubicle. ‘There just isn’t enough air for him in the whole of Lunghua. Isn’t that it, Jim?’
Jim tried to control his panting – not enough red cells, according to Dr Ransome, but often he and Basie meant the same thing.
‘You’re right, Basie. The Mustangs took it all with them. Did you see the air raid?’
‘I heard it, Jim…’ Basie glanced darkly at Jim, as if holding him responsible for the noise. ‘Those Filipino pilots must have gone to flight school at Coney Island.’
‘Filipino?’ Jim at last mastered his lungs. ‘Were they really Filipino pilots?’
‘Some of them, Jim. There are a couple of wings operating with MacArthur’s outfit. The rest are old Flying Tigers based at Chungking.’ Basie nodded sagely, watching Jim to make sure he appreciated his superior savvy.
‘Chungking…’ Jim was agog. This was the kind of information on which his mind feasted, even though he knew that Basie embroidered the reports for his benefit. Somewhere in the camp was a concealed radio, which had never been discovered, not because it was well hidden, but because the Japanese were