七部小说 · Seven Novels

第 33 章 ——《营救》

一九三七年十一月十二日，礼拜五午后。

我已在东墙铁窗下的石地上，坐了整整十一个半钟头。

清晨六点一刻，石地上落下的第一道光，在那一小方扁平的灰色地面上，框出四英尺乘两英尺的长方形。长方形距东墙一英尺。到七点半，长方形挪至距东墙三英尺处，浸在第二个钟头里更冷的白光中。到正午，长方形已在地中央。到三点半，长方形开始向东墙滑回，染上午后更暖的黄。到四点，长方形已是十一月午后四时光线那种暗哑的红。到四点半，它又贴回东墙，褪成那一小线细薄的红——是天光将要弃守的一个钟头。

我看着那长方形。长方形是值得看的一件物事。

我用右手按住自己折断的左腕。腕子在清晨第二个钟头时，已自第二节指骨处麻去；到第四个钟头，麻意移至第三节指骨；到正午，第三节指骨开始作痛，节拍是吸四吐六——与我数着的呼吸同节。三点时，痛与呼吸合拍。四点时，痛便成了呼吸。等长方形回到东墙时，我已分不清何者是何。

第二个钟头里，我想起那间砖屋。我把砖屋摆在第九这个数上，按住不动。砖屋西墙是那架贝希斯坦立式钢琴；南墙是那张铺灰毯的小床；北墙是第三只木箱上盛日记的漆盒；东墙是嵌墙的小搁板与一支蜡烛。我在心里慢慢踱过那间砖屋——林姨当年教我，我十二岁那年，亦即兄长被带走那年，教我如何在心里踱过一间屋子：阿良，你出不去的那间屋子，便是你身在的那间屋子；那么，去踱你能踱的那间屋。 我踱过砖屋。我踱过百乐门的第二条回廊。我踱过霞飞路上那处二楼公寓的廊子——一九三六年六月第二个礼拜日下午一时，白珠便是在那廊子上搁下白兰地酒瓶的。我踱过虹口第二条弄堂转角那栋里弄房子——那是八月第二个礼拜六中午之前。我按我自己说过的次序，一处一处踱。次序是一种规矩。规矩，是剩下的全部。

这十一个半钟头里，我不曾供出一个名字。我把兄长的名字，以三种说法念过三回。那三回三说，依我自己所数，并不算供出名字。那三回，是把一个名字守住。吴县沈阿淮，十九岁，一九二七年四月十二日龙华枪决名册上第七名——已被守住。

四点半这一刻，便是那一刻。

第一声响，是七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后巷换岗时分，运煤卡车在后门口那一小记干燥的声响。那卡车是一九三二年款的克罗斯利引擎，第三气缸有一记细小干燥的敲击声——一九三四年八月午后版印发之时，百乐门的木匠胡师傅为地下二层第二次进煤买了同款卡车，我便头一回听见过那敲击。克罗斯利就是克罗斯利。

第二声响，是大日本帝国海军特别陆战队的步枪，距我四十英尺。三八式，第二型那一记扁平的脆响。

第三声响，是青帮中人手里的毛瑟枪，距我五十英尺。是 C96。C96 的第二个枪口，吠声细小而独特。

第四声响，是另一名青帮中人手里的另一支毛瑟，距我五十英尺。第二支毛瑟也是 C96。

第五声响，是七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后门开合于铰链的声响——那铰链上，十一月第二个礼拜二，胡师傅曾用他油壶里的煤油润过：那一日，胡师傅奉领事馆之命，为二楼地下室送来第二批煤油。胡师傅依他自己那点不疾不徐的盘算，于后门、前门、后楼梯的每一副铰链上，各滴了三滴。那三滴，便是那三滴。

第六声响，是运煤卡车驶入七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后院的声响。

第七声响，是有人在七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后楼梯上奔跑的脚步声。那脚步是他的脚步。

我在砖屋里早已听惯。那脚步是他的。在砖屋的任何一个钟头，他都不曾奔过；但一九三七年十一月十二日下午四点半，七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后楼梯上的这副脚步，正是那个人——我十四个月来在六步之距听过他走路声响的那个人——奔跑时的脚步。

那声音把一只手按到了牢门上。

牢门上的那只手，是戴了手套的手，握着木匠胡师傅事先备好的钥匙。胡师傅备的这把钥匙，是从新雅的洪敬明先生的外甥手里取来。新雅的洪敬明先生的外甥，自一九三四年起便在武汉路日本领事馆领薪，在那张名单上排第三段第二名。自八月第二个礼拜六晚上八点（彼时第三段尚未唱响）起，他亦是站在新雅街角、南京路与四川北路转角黄包车旁的那个人——胯间别着一支四十岁青帮中人的毛瑟。那是青帮内部一桩细小独特的安排，而名单上第三段第二名的那个人，并未察觉这正是他在世上最后一礼拜的细小独特的安排。十一月十一日下午三时，他将那把钥匙交予胡师傅，换得胡师傅外套第二只口袋里一只小小的硬纸信封——里面装着他二号情妇在霞飞路第三条弄堂里第二栋房子门前所摄的第二张相片。十一月十二日清早起，便不曾有人见到洪敬明先生的外甥。到了礼拜六早晨《字林西报》开印之时，也再不会有人见到他。

一九三七年十一月十二日礼拜五下午四点半，七十六号杰斯菲尔德路三楼东端走廊上那间牢房的门，开了。

陆继元走了进来。

他外面披一件灰呢大衣，里面是一身蓝哔叽西装。眉际压着一顶灰呢毡帽。他没有戴瓷面具。他露的，是他自己的脸。

他右手握一支青帮中人的毛瑟。他把毛瑟塞进大衣口袋。他蹲下身。他用右手扶住我面颊的那道弧。

他说：告诉我，你不曾散了。

我说：告诉我，你不曾散。

他用右手握住我的右手。他把左臂托在我背下。他把我扶到站起。十一个半钟头里，我不曾立过。最初那两秒的站立，是一个二十三岁歌女的站立——她左腕在凌晨三点半已被一名四十二岁的军官打断，自那以来一直坐在石地上。他扶着我。他等着。第二个钟头里，他不曾催那站立。他让我寻到第二只脚。他让我寻到第三口气。他让我在午后第三个钟头那一小线干燥的光里，于牢房东墙下，寻到这一桩扁平的事实：今日午后，我便要走出这栋楼。

我把额抵在他左半张脸的海岸线上。海岸线是暖的。

我和他走到门边。

一九三七年十一月十二日礼拜五午后四点半，三楼走廊石地上、第二间牢房门前，躺着两名大日本帝国海军特别陆战队的宪兵。第二间牢房门前石地上的那两名宪兵，已死。我不看他们。在听见后院那一声毛瑟之时，我自己心里那套不外宣的章法便告诉过我：我不会去看第二间牢房门前的死者——第二间牢房门前的死者，是木匠胡师傅那本帐上的第九；不是我那本。我有我自己的数。

阿良也在走廊上。他穿一件深色外套。胯间别着毛瑟。他看着我。第二秒里，他不说话。他把手在我肩上按住，数到三。再收回去。

我们一齐走到楼梯口。我们下到二楼。

二楼走廊上，审讯室门前的石地上，立着一名四十二岁的日本军官，身穿大日本帝国海军特别陆战队制服，肩衔少佐。这位四十二岁的军官，已死。他那身深卡其色军服第二只口袋里，装着一只皮革小匣。匣子合着。

我不停步。我接着走。

我们下楼梯，到门厅。

门厅里铺的是拼花木地板和一方波斯地毯，角落里立着一座红木衣帽架——那位少佐就在门厅里。他身穿大日本帝国海军特别陆战队制服。他还活着。他的南部式手枪仍插在腰间皮套里。他不曾拔枪。

他看着我。我看着少佐。少佐看着陆继元。陆继元看着少佐。

这十四个月里，我与自己就少佐这个人有过那场漫长的争辩，却从不曾设想过会在门厅里、在这样一种局面之下见到他。礼拜五午后四点半的门厅里，于他凌晨一时方才离开的那间别墅的审讯室外，腰间手枪未拔——这是十四个月里我不曾允许自己去想象的那位少佐。今日午后的这位少佐，已经依某套我此后也无从追溯其步骤的章法决定：十一月十二日午后，他要做门厅里那个不拔枪的人。

少佐说：我给你们四分钟。

我说：告辞了，少佐。

少佐侧身让出。他把背抵在角落里那座红木衣帽架上。他肩头碰到衣帽架的立柱，第二只钩上的海军军帽便挪了一寸。军帽随即又稳住。我们越过少佐，走向七十六号杰斯菲尔德路的大门。

到了门边，陆继元从大衣口袋里取出毛瑟。到了门边，我们走了出去。

后巷里，后门口停着那辆运煤卡车。卡车的尾板这一头，是哈姆斯沃斯——皱皱的白亚麻西装，坐在驾驶座上。他第二只衣领上还留着一小道煤灰，脸上挂着一副曼彻斯特通讯员在本周第二条头条第二栏前那种扁平、疲倦的神色。

泰迪说：上车。

我们攀上去。尾板煤灰上，印着三名青帮中人的轮廓，胯间各别着毛瑟。尾板上还有百乐门地下室的木匠胡师傅——第二只口袋里装着第二只油壶，胯间别着一支青帮中人的毛瑟。尾板上还有门德尔松先生，蓝哔叽西装，金属丝圆框眼镜架在一个五十三岁男人的鼻梁上。门德尔松第二只口袋里装着小小的皮制新闻夹，里面是第二盒母带；第三只口袋里另备一份第三段唱词的打字誊本，以备万一第一份在第二个钟头之内出不了外滩。

尾板上还有阿良。

尾板煤灰上，靠后那第二堆煤后头，躺着第三名青帮中人的尸首。

第三名青帮中人，是阿良的表兄赵先生。赵先生在换岗时中弹。赵先生年二十四。赵先生已死。

阿良用右手按在赵先生肩上。赵先生不发一言。

泰迪挂上一档。运煤卡车动了。运煤卡车在杰斯菲尔德路与后巷的转角处拐了出去。运煤卡车顺着杰斯菲尔德路向南，朝法租界驶去。

我把头靠在陆继元左半张脸的海岸线上。海岸线是暖的。我闭上眼。

我说：少佐放我们走了。少佐给我们四分钟。少佐会向武汉路的日本领事馆禀报这一桩营救。少佐会把营救的时辰报作五点半。少佐会把方向报作虹口码头。少佐会把车报作那辆蓝色福特——领事馆早已得报，那辆福特在霞飞元帅路与杰斯菲尔德路转角处遭劫。

他那一刻不出声。

我把右手按在陆继元大衣左侧、肋下三寸的地方。

陆继元大衣那一侧，是湿的。

陆继元大衣那一侧，正是大日本帝国海军一名宪兵于四十英尺外射中那一刻的那一侧。

子弹自肋间钻进。

子弹不曾出来。

我右手底下那一侧，是湿的。

我说：你中弹了。

他说：我不曾散。躺到煤灰里去。

我躺下，把头枕在他膝上。煤灰是冷的。煤灰带着一股气味——那是一九三二年百乐门第二层地下室的第二只院子里，胡师傅教过我的：冬日午后煤灰那一缕细小独特的气味，是杨树浦煤场第三层煤脉的气味。杨树浦那第三层煤脉——正是十九世纪八十年代烧出那批小红砖的同一座砖窑，我十四个月里在那四十二级台阶上，左手按了又按的便是那批小红砖。砖就是砖。煤灰就是煤灰。城就是城。

他用右手扶住我面颊的那道弧。

他说：告诉我，你不曾散了。

我说：继元。我不曾散。告诉我，你不曾散。

他不出声，数到九。

他说：我不曾散。我会努力维持下去。

运煤卡车顺着杰斯菲尔德路向南，穿过工部局所称的越界筑路区。第二英里上路面已空——第二道宵禁已下。卡车两侧的栏板上，漆着百代联号的小字招牌——礼拜二晚上，胡师傅在百乐门地下二层用了整整三个钟头，在第二块木板上以白漆描出：百代唱片公司／虫胶运输／阿尔贝国王大道。这字是胡师傅的笔迹。到五点半为止，这字要骗过霞飞元帅路转角的工部局巡捕——让他相信：礼拜五午后四点半，这辆载着六个活人、一具尸首的运煤卡车，是一趟虫胶运输车。

卡车向东拐。卡车向南拐。卡车顺着霞飞路向南。

到霞飞路与蒲石路转角处，卡车向西拐入蒲石路。到蒲石路与宝建路转角处，卡车在法租界后弄一处安全屋的后门口停下——那是莫朗西医生托街角那位波兰侨民的天主教遗孀牵线安排的。

那位遗孀是位七十四岁的老妇人，叫沃伊切霍夫斯卡夫人。她于一九一四年德军炮轰罗兹时丧夫，又于一九二五年法国医院第三次伤寒疫情中失去次子。自亡夫之后，她在宝建路上守着一栋小后弄房屋，留出一间内屋作第三间房，留给莫朗西医生那些不愿落于纸笔的客人。十月第二个礼拜六，莫朗西医生在他客厅里对我说：沃伊切霍夫斯卡夫人留着第三间房。第三间房，便是我不得已时遣人投奔的去处。她不发问。她是一位七十四岁的天主教遗孀。她做这个七十四岁的天主教遗孀，已经做了九年。这九年——依她自己说——给了她一个七十四岁天主教遗孀该有的耐心。她会让你住进第三间房。莫要再给她任何别的东西。

后门开了。卡车驶进。卡车在后弄的小院里停下。

泰迪拉上手刹。他在驾驶座上回过头。

一九三七年十一月十二日礼拜五午后五点二十分，他用一口曼彻斯特英语说：我们过来了。

蒲石路与宝建路转角那处安全屋的后院，便是后院。院里第三角上有一株小柿子树，到十一月已落了一半的叶。第二堵墙下立着一只石盆，旁边搁着一只小小的绿铁皮水罐与一柄铜勺。门前立着沃伊切霍夫斯卡夫人——一件黑呢外套，配一小方白衣领，倚着一根橄榄木手杖。

我把右手按在陆继元大衣肋下那一侧。

我说：我们过来了。

他闭上了眼。

我把右手仍按在那一侧。手就是手。左腕上，那只不曾断的镯子还在。右腕上，那一道细细的红痕也还在。手按在一个男人的肋下——他左手第四指没有第二节，他的脸是一九三四年闸北一栋里弄房子的天花板烧出来的脸。手就是手。

沃伊切霍夫斯卡夫人把手杖搁在石盆边。她用她那带波兰口音的法语对木匠胡师傅说：把他抬进来。

木匠胡师傅把他抬了进去。

我跟在后头。

安全屋后弄那一间房，是弄底第三栋房子里一间小而低矮的屋子：西墙边一张铁床，正中一张平阳松木桌，桌上一盏小小的煤油灯。那煤油，正是胡师傅在七十六号杰斯菲尔德路后门铰链上、以及两英里外砖屋铰链上所用的同一种煤油。煤油就是煤油。胡师傅把陆继元放在铁床上。沃伊切霍夫斯卡夫人把煤油灯捻到第二档灯芯。屋子在第二档灯芯那一缕低低的黄光里浮起，浮成一位七十四岁天主教遗孀后弄第三栋房子里那间小而低矮的屋子。

门德尔松把金属丝圆框眼镜搁在桌上。他取出那块绣着 M 字样的白棉布袋巾，极慢地擦了擦第二片镜片。他把眼镜重新戴上。他看着我。

他说：斯坦尼斯瓦夫医生六点会到。他是这位夫人的女婿。一九一九年他在罗兹第二医院随骑兵服役过。他给肋间的子弹做过手术。这一颗，他能取。

我说：好。

门德尔松说：坐下。坐到西墙下那把小椅上。斯坦尼斯瓦夫医生之后第三个钟头，我会把第二盒母带送到百代压片车间的第二只保险柜里。第三个钟头便是第三个钟头。到第三个钟头时，第二盒母带便由我亲手锁进保险柜。十二月第二个礼拜六，海耶斯那家 EMI 压片厂里，第二盒母带便完成了第二趟航程。这屋子里，我们手上有什么，便是有什么。

他把手按在我肩上。他走到屋前去了。

我在西墙下那把小椅上坐下。

我把右手仍按在陆继元大衣肋下那一侧。

一九三七年十一月十二日礼拜五午后五点二十分，便是那一刻。

Chapter Thirty-Three — The Rescue

Friday afternoon, the twelfth of November.

I had been at the stone floor at the East wall under the barred window for the count of eleven and a half hours.

The first light at the stone floor, at quarter past six, had set the shape of a rectangle of four feet by two on the small flat grey of the floor. The rectangle had been at the distance of one foot from the East wall. By half past seven, the rectangle had been at the distance of three feet from the East wall, in the colder white of the second hour. By noon, the rectangle had been at the centre. By half past three, the rectangle had begun to slide back toward the East wall in the warmer yellow of the afternoon. By four o'clock, the rectangle had been the dull red of November light at four in the afternoon. By half past four it was at the East wall again, faded to the small thin red of a hour the light had nearly given up.

I had watched the rectangle. The rectangle had been a thing to watch.

I had set my right hand at my broken left wrist. The wrist had, at the second hour of the morning, gone numb at the second knuckle. The numbness had moved, by the fourth hour, to the third knuckle. By noon the third knuckle had begun to throb at the count of four in and six out, the same count I had been keeping at the breath. By three the throb had matched the breath. By four the throb had become the breath. I had not, by the time the rectangle reached the East wall, been able to tell which was which.

I had thought, in the second hour, about the brick room. I had set the brick room at the count of nine and held it there. The brick room had at the West wall the Bechstein upright; at the South wall the cot with the grey blanket; at the North wall the lacquer box at the third crate with the diary; at the East wall the wall ledge with the candle. I had walked the brick room in my head, slowly, the way Auntie Lin had taught me to walk a room in my head at twelve, the year my brother had been taken — Aliang, when the room you cannot leave is the room you are in, walk the room you can. I had walked the brick room. I had walked the second arcade of the Paramount. I had walked the gallery at the second flat at Rue Joffre where Pearl had set the brandy bottle at one o'clock on the second Sunday of June of 1936. I had walked the lane house at the corner of the second lane in Hongkou before the noon of the second Saturday of August. I had walked each in the order I had named them. The order had been a discipline. The discipline had been what was left.

I had not, in the eleven and a half hours, given a name. I had given the name of my brother, three times in three forms. The three times in three forms had not, by my own count, been the giving of a name. The three times had been the keeping of a name. Shen Ahuai of Wuxian, age nineteen, the seventh name of the firing-order at Longhua on the twelfth of April of 1927, had been kept.

The hour of half past four was the hour.

The first sound was the small dry sound of a truck of coal at the alley behind 76 Jessfield Road at the rear gate at the shift change of the guard. The truck had a Crossley engine of perhaps 1932 vintage with a small dry knock at the third cylinder that I had heard for the first time in the afternoon edition of August of 1934 when Mr. Hu the carpenter at the Paramount had bought a similar truck for the second coal delivery at the second basement. The Crossley was the Crossley.

The second sound was the sound of a rifle of the Imperial Japanese Navy Special Landing Force at the distance of forty feet. The Type 38, the small flat crack of the second model.

The third sound was the sound of a Mauser of a Green Gang man at the distance of fifty feet. The Mauser was the C96. The C96 had a small particular bark at the second port.

The fourth sound was the sound of a second Mauser of a Green Gang man at the distance of fifty feet. The second Mauser was the C96 also.

The fifth sound was the sound of the rear gate at 76 Jessfield Road opening at the hinges of the rear gate that had been set with the kerosene of Mr. Hu the carpenter's oil-can on the second Tuesday of November when Mr. Hu had come up to deliver, by the consulate's order, a second supply of kerosene to the basement of the second floor. Mr. Hu had set, by his own small unhurried understanding, three drops of his oil-can at each of the eight hinges of the rear gate, the front gate, and the back stair. The drops had been the drops.

The sixth sound was the sound of the truck of coal at the rear yard of 76 Jessfield Road.

The seventh sound was the sound of a man running up the stair at the rear of 76 Jessfield Road. The footfall was the footfall.

I had heard him at the brick room. The footfall was his. He had not, at any hour at the brick room, run; but the footfall, at the rear stair of 76 Jessfield Road at half past four on the afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937, was the footfall of a man whose footfall at a walk I had heard for fourteen months at six paces.

The voice set the hand at the door of the cell.

The hand at the door was a gloved hand at the key Mr. Hu the carpenter had set at the key. The key Mr. Hu the carpenter had set had been the key Mr. Hu the carpenter had taken from Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at Sun Ya. Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew at Sun Ya had been on the payroll of the Japanese consulate at Wuhan Road since 1934 and the second name on the list at the third verse. He had been, since the second Saturday of August at the eight o'clock when the third verse had not yet been sung, also the man at the corner of Sun Ya at the rickshaw at the corner of Nanjing Road and Sichuan Road N. with the Mauser of a Green Gang man of forty at the hip, in a small particular arrangement of the Green Gang's that the second name on the list at the third verse had not understood to be the particular arrangement of his last week alive. He had given Mr. Hu the carpenter the key at three on the afternoon of the eleventh of November in exchange for a small cardboard envelope at the second pocket of Mr. Hu's coat which had contained the second photograph of his second mistress at the second house in the third lane at Avenue Joffre. Mr. Hong Jingming's nephew had not, on the morning of the twelfth of November, been seen. He would not, by Saturday morning at the North-China Daily News, be seen again.

The door of the cell at the third floor at the East end of the corridor at 76 Jessfield Road at half past four on the Friday afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937 opened.

Lu Jiyuan came in.

He had on the grey wool overcoat over the blue serge suit. He had on the grey felt hat at the brow. He had on no porcelain mask. He had on the face.

He had at the right hand a Mauser of a Green Gang man. He set the Mauser at the coat pocket. He knelt. He set his right hand at the curve of my cheek.

He said: Tell me you are not in pieces.

I said: Tell me you are not.

He took my right hand in his right hand. He set his left arm under my back. He lifted me to standing. I had not, in eleven and a half hours, stood. The standing was, in the first two seconds, the standing of a singer of twenty-three whose left wrist had been broken at half past three in the morning by an officer of forty-two and who had been sitting since at the stone floor. He held me. He waited. He did not, in the second hour, hurry the standing. He let me find the second foot. He let me find the third breath. He let me find, in the small dry light of the third hour of the afternoon at the East wall of the cell, the small flat fact that I was, this afternoon, going to walk out of the building.

I set my forehead at the coastline at the left side of his face. The coastline was warm.

I walked with him to the door.

The corridor at the third floor at half past four on the Friday afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937 had at the stone floor at the second cell two MPs of the Imperial Japanese Navy Special Landing Force. The two MPs at the stone floor at the second cell were dead. I did not look at them. I had been told, by my own private grammar at the moment I had heard the Mauser at the rear yard, that I would not look at the dead at the second cell, because the dead at the second cell were not my count of nine. The dead at the second cell were Mr. Hu the carpenter's count of nine. I had my own.

Liang was at the corridor. He had on a dark coat. He had at the hip the Mauser. He looked at me. He did not, in the second second, say anything. He set his hand at my shoulder for the count of three. He took the hand back.

We walked to the stair. We went down to the second floor.

At the second floor the corridor had at the stone floor at the door of the interrogation room a Japanese officer of forty-two in the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Navy Special Landing Force at the rank of Lieutenant Commander. The officer of forty-two was dead. He had at the second pocket of the dark khaki tunic the small leather case. The case was closed.

I did not stop. I kept walking.

We went down the stair to the foyer.

At the foyer at the parquet floor and the Persian carpet and the mahogany hat stand at the corner, the Major was at the foyer. He had on the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Navy Special Landing Force. He was alive. He had set his pistol of the Nambu at the holster at the hip. He had not drawn it.

He looked at me. I looked at the Major. The Major looked at Lu Jiyuan. Lu Jiyuan looked at the Major.

I had not, in the long argument I had had with myself for the count of fourteen months about the Major, ever expected to see him in a foyer in this configuration. The Major in a foyer at half past four on a Friday afternoon, at a villa whose interrogation room he had left at one in the morning, with the pistol at the holster and the hand not drawn — was the Major I had not yet, in those fourteen months, allowed myself to imagine. The Major of this afternoon had decided, by some count I would not, in any future, know the steps of, that he would, on the afternoon of the twelfth of November, be the man at the foyer who did not draw.

The Major said: I will give you four minutes.

I said: Goodbye, Major.

The Major stepped aside. He set his back at the mahogany hat stand at the corner. The naval cap at the second hook moved an inch when his shoulder touched the upright of the stand. The cap settled. We walked past the Major to the door of 76 Jessfield Road.

At the door Lu Jiyuan took the Mauser from the coat pocket. At the door we went out.

The alley had at the rear gate the truck of coal. The truck of coal had at the tailgate Teddy Harmsworth in the rumpled white linen suit at the steering wheel. He had on, also, a small dark streak of coal-dust at the second collar of the linen, and the small flat tired expression of a Manchester correspondent at the second column of his second deadline of the week.

Teddy said: Get in.

We climbed up. The tailgate had at the coal-dust the shape of three Green Gang men with the Mausers at the hips. The tailgate had also had Mr. Hu the carpenter at the Paramount basement, with the second oil-can at the second pocket and the Mauser of a Green Gang man at the hip. The tailgate had also Mr. Mendelsohn in the blue serge suit at the round wire glasses at the nose of a man of fifty-three. Mendelsohn had at the second pocket the small leather press portfolio with the second master tape. He had at the third pocket the second copy of the typed transcript of the third verse, in case the first did not, by the second hour, get out of the Bund.

The tailgate had also Liang.

The tailgate had at the coal-dust at the second pile of coal at the rear of the tailgate the body of the third Green Gang man.

The third Green Gang man was Liang's cousin Mr. Zhao. Mr. Zhao had been shot at the shift change. Mr. Zhao had been twenty-four. Mr. Zhao was dead.

Liang set his right hand at Mr. Zhao's shoulder. Mr. Zhao said nothing.

Teddy set the truck at the first gear. The truck of coal went. The truck of coal turned at the corner of Jessfield Road and the alley. The truck of coal went South along Jessfield Road toward the French Concession.

I set my head at the coastline at the left side of Lu Jiyuan's face. The coastline was warm. I closed my eyes.

I said: The Major has let us go. The Major has given us four minutes. The Major will report the rescue to the Japanese consulate at Wuhan Road. The Major will set the hour of the rescue at half past five. The Major will set the direction at the Hongkew docks. The Major will set the truck at the blue Ford the consulate has been told had been hijacked at the corner of Avenue Foch and Jessfield Road.

He did not, that moment, say anything.

I set my right hand at the side of Lu Jiyuan's coat at the left side at three inches below the rib.

The side of Lu Jiyuan's coat was wet.

The side of Lu Jiyuan's coat was the side of Lu Jiyuan's coat at the hour the side had been at the round of an MP of the Imperial Japanese Navy at the distance of forty feet.

The round had gone in at the rib.

The round had not gone out.

The side at my right hand was wet.

I said: You are shot.

He said: I am not in pieces. Lie down at the coal-dust.

I lay down with my head in his lap. The coal-dust was cold. The coal-dust smelled of the second yard at the second basement of the Paramount where Mr. Hu had taught me, in 1932, that the small particular smell of coal-dust on a winter afternoon was the smell of the Yangshupu pits at the third seam. The Yangshupu pits at the third seam — the same brick kilns that had fired the small red bricks of the 1880s I had set my left hand against on the forty-two steps for the count of fourteen months. The bricks were the bricks. The coal-dust was the coal-dust. The city was the city.

He set his right hand at the curve of my cheek.

He said: Tell me you are not in pieces.

I said: Jiyuan. I am not in pieces. Tell me you are not.

He did not say anything for the count of nine.

He said: I am not in pieces. I will try to stay this way.

The truck of coal went South along Jessfield Road through the boundary zone the Settlement Council had called the extra-Settlement roads area. The road was empty at the second mile, because the second curfew was on. The truck of coal had at the side-rails the Pathé syndicate's small painted lettering that Mr. Hu the carpenter had spent the count of three hours at the second basement of the Paramount on Tuesday evening setting in white paint at the second board: PATHÉ STUDIOS / SHELLAC TRANSPORT / AVENUE DU ROI ALBERT. The lettering was Mr. Hu's hand. The lettering would, by half past five, have to convince a Settlement constable at the corner of Avenue Foch that the truck of coal carrying six men and one body was, on a Friday afternoon at half past four, a shellac transport.

The truck turned East. The truck turned South. The truck went South along Avenue Joffre.

At the corner of Avenue Joffre and Rue Bourgeat the truck turned West into Rue Bourgeat. At the corner of Rue Bourgeat and Rue du Père Robert the truck stopped at the rear gate of the French Concession back-lane safehouse Dr. Morancy had, by the information from the Catholic widow of the Polish émigré at the corner, arranged.

The widow was an old woman of seventy-four named Mrs. Wojciechowska, who had lost her husband at the German bombardment of Łódź in 1914 and had lost her second son at the third typhoid epidemic of 1925 at the French Hospital, and who had, since her husband's death, kept a small back-lane house at Rue du Père Robert as a third room for people Dr. Morancy did not, in writing, refer to. Dr. Morancy had said to me, on the second Saturday of October at his parlor: Mrs. Wojciechowska keeps a third room. The third room is where, when I have to, I send people. She does not ask. She is a Catholic widow of seventy-four. She has been a Catholic widow of seventy-four for nine years. The nine years have given her, by her own account, the patience of a Catholic widow of seventy-four. She will give you the third room. Do not give her anything else.

The rear gate opened. The truck went in. The truck stopped at the small yard of the back-lane.

Teddy set the handbrake. He turned at the steering wheel.

He said, in his Manchester English at twenty past five on the Friday afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937: We are through.

The rear yard of the safehouse at the corner of Rue Bourgeat and Rue du Père Robert was the rear yard. The yard had a small persimmon tree at the third corner that had, by November, lost half its leaves. The yard had a stone basin at the second wall, with a small green tin of water and a copper ladle at the side. The yard had, at the door, Mrs. Wojciechowska in a black wool coat with a small white collar, leaning on a cane of olive wood.

I set my right hand at the side of Lu Jiyuan's coat at the rib.

I said: We are through.

He closed his eyes.

I kept my right hand at the side. The hand was the hand. The hand had at the wrist on the left the bracelet that had not broken. The hand had at the wrist on the right the small thin red mark that had not gone. The hand was at the side at the rib of a man whose left fourth finger had no second joint and whose face was the face the ceiling of a lane house at Zhabei had made in 1934. The hand was the hand.

Mrs. Wojciechowska set her cane at the stone of the basin. She said, in her Polish-accented French, to Mr. Hu the carpenter, Bring him in.

Mr. Hu the carpenter brought him in.

I followed.

The back-lane room of the safehouse was a small low room of the third house at the rear of the lane, with a single iron bed at the West wall, a Pingyang pine table at the centre, and a small kerosene lamp at the table. The kerosene was the same kerosene Mr. Hu had used on the hinges of the rear gate at 76 Jessfield Road and the hinges of the brick room two miles away. The kerosene was the kerosene. Mr. Hu set Lu Jiyuan at the iron bed. Mrs. Wojciechowska set the kerosene lamp at the second wick. The room came up, in the small low yellow of the second wick, to the small low room of a third house at the back-lane of a Catholic widow of seventy-four.

Mendelsohn set his round wire glasses at the table. He took out the small white cotton pocket handkerchief with the embroidered M and wiped, very slowly, the second lens. He set the glasses back. He looked at me.

He said: Dr. Stanisław will be here at six. He is the son-in-law. He has been at the second hospital at Łódź in 1919 with the cavalry. He has set rounds at ribs. He will set this one.

I said: Yes.

Mendelsohn said: Sit. Sit at the small chair at the West wall. I will, at the third hour after Dr. Stanisław, take the second master tape to the second safe at the Pathé pressing room. The third hour will be the third hour. By the third hour, the second master tape will, by my own hand, be in the safe. By the second Saturday of December at the EMI press at Hayes, the second master tape will have made the second voyage. We have, in this room, what we have.

He set his hand at my shoulder. He went out into the front of the house.

I sat at the small chair at the West wall.

I kept my right hand at the side of Lu Jiyuan's coat at the rib.

The hour of twenty past five on the Friday afternoon of the twelfth of November of 1937 was the hour.