The Empire Trilogy - J. G. Farrell [498]
‘Meanwhile, as a sort of counter-attack the Japs staged a colossal reception in the Kursaal at which tons of food and gallons of wine were funnelled into the open mouths of the plump burghers of Geneva as if into Strasbourg geese … In return they made everyone watch a dreary propaganda film which they showed in the empty, echoing opera-house next door (both places had been shut down for the winter) all about the benefits of the South Manchuria Railway Company. Dismal isn’t the word. It did no good, anyway, because of the Lytton Report. You know all about that, I expect?’
Hoping to forestall further revelations Monty murmured that, as a matter of fact, he was rather well-informed on that … er … particular subject … er … But Matthew willingly set to work to refresh his memory, just in case. ‘This fellow is a serious menace,’ thought Monty, glancing at the stout, bespectacled figure of his companion.
What had happened was that the League, this was actually a temporizing device, sent a commission of enquiry composed of a German doctor, a French general, an Italian count and an American Major-General under the chairmanship of Lord Lytton to Manchuria to establish the disputed facts of the matter. It had taken them a year but when they finally published their report, they made no bones about it: Japan was roundly condemned … no doubt to the horror of Sir John Simon and his ilk. They concluded that Manchuria was an integral part of China, that the Japanese action could not be justified as self-defence, that Jap troops should be withdrawn and a genuinely Chinese régime restored. ‘That really set the cat among the pigeons, as you can imagine!’
Whether Monty could imagine or not, all he said was: ‘This place is usually full of troops at this time of night. It’s funny, there must have been a police raid or something.’
The taxi had come to a halt in a sleazy rubbish-strewn street lined with the usual two-storey shophouses but wider than the streets they had come through. Matthew, still in Geneva, stared out in a daze. Washing, hanging over the street from a forest of poles, tossed and billowed in the light breeze like the banners of an army on the march. Here and there dim electric lights glimmered, emphasizing the darkness rather than shedding light. Monty was speaking.
‘Sorry, what’s that?’
‘I said I thought we might have a beer before going home.’
One moment the street was deserted except for a few shadowy figures playing mah-jong under a street-lamp, the next it suddenly began to fill up; men were scurrying out of doorways, pedalling up on bicycles, galloping towards them in the shafts of rickshaws, even slithering down drainpipes. Nearby a manhole cover where the pavement spanned the storm-drain popped up and men began to pour out of that, too. All these men were converging on one place, the taxi in which Matthew sat in a trance with his thoughts struggling back like refugees from Geneva. He roused himself at last. ‘What’s all this?’
‘They’re just looking for customers for their girls,’ said Monty who had been paying the taxi-driver. ‘Come on, and hold on to your wallet.’
Before they could set foot on the pavement they were surrounded by dim, jostling figures. Words were whispered confidentially into Matthew’s ear as he waded after Monty … ‘Nice girl’ … ‘Guarantee virgin’ … ‘You wantchee try Singapore