French Concession by Xiao Bai Read Free Book Online Page A

beans and cotton would have been harvested, the winter crop of wheat planted, and the weather would be at its mildest. But since the arable land had all turned to wasteland after the flooding, the committee had been happy to arrange a few more contests. After all, the Depression meant the men had more free time, and they needed the exercise.
    They found a bamboo table beneath the oleander tree. The men were arguing by the stables. Mario, the man with the loudest voice, was an Italian illustrator who drew cartoons for the foreignnewspapers in the Concession. They said he had been beaten up in a bar in Hongkew by a band of Japanese rōnin . The illustrator was arguing with people, among them the British businessman whom Margot knew to be in Franz’s set. “It’s time we taught Nanking a lesson,” the British man cried. “We should have the Japs do it. They could even start a little war. We’d get new treaties and new boundaries for the concessions, maybe even fifty kilometers on either side of the Yangtze!”
    â€œWouldn’t that be a windfall for you,” Mario replied frostily. “With all that land you’ve bought, a war would keep you out of bankruptcy court!” His voice grew louder. “You idiots, wake up. There’s no more striking it rich out here. The Great War was the end of that. If the Japanese get here, they’ll ruin us all.”
    Compared to the rest of the crowd, Brenen was tall and thin. He came over to keep them company while they examined the horse.
    The crown of the chinquapin tree hung over the fence. The gray mare stood beneath it while the stable hand in his blue jacket stroked her neck, tightened the girth, and lifted the saddle to reveal her mane, which had been neatly braided. The scent of bay leaves wafted toward them, and the mare grew fidgety, snorting and pawing vigorously at the ground. To join the club, Margot had had to buy a horse, because competing horses had to be the bona fide property of club members. They had to be Chinese horses, though strictly speaking, that meant they were small Mongolian horses, crossbred from English purebreds and Mongolian horses, as Brenen had once explained to her. Her mare was a crossbreed too. Look at her hips, he explained, smacking the horse’s ass in front of the Cossack horse dealer on Mohawk Road. Purebred Mongolian horses have sloping hips, while English horses have arched hips. This horse is descended from the herd of English stallions that the tsar bought, because he was convinced that his Cossack cavalrymen would defeat Napoleon as long as they were mounted on horses with the wide hips of English purebreds.
    â€œIn fact, Dame Juliana Berners of Sopwell Nunnery said as long ago as the fifteenth century that a good horse possesses the back ofa donkey, the tail of a fox, the eyes of a rabbit, the bones of a man, and the chest and hair of a woman. A good racing horse is proud and holds its head high, like a beautiful woman.”
    Brenen repeated this speech, looking at Therese.
    A bay horse came galloping in from the north side of the field.
    â€œAh Pau! Ah Pau!” the onlookers cried.
    Ah Pau was indeed galloping down the hillside on the bay horse. The Chinese servant was the central figure of the Paper Hunt Club. Several of the club officers had retired and returned home, while others had lost their lives in the Great War, making Ah Pau the only constant: now in his fifties, he had served the club faithfully for thirty years.
    The jittery racehorses crowded along the fences on the northern edge of the field, and the gates were finally opened. Margot climbed into the saddle and waved at Therese, who was standing in the field. A gust of wind lifted her hat, and as she dropped the reins to catch her hat, the gray mare suddenly started forward.
    Margot lurched in the saddle, but Brenen steadied it for her, picked the reins up nimbly from the ground and placed them in her hands.
    â€œLadies