Chapter 2
The skies were clear when Lisan stepped out the door. The rickshaw puller had tied the canvas tarp to one side of the canopy.
As soon as Lisan climbed on, he set on his way.
“There’s not much business this far out of town,” he called over his shoulder, as he began jogging up the driveway. “I could’ve
earned two more fares after all this time if this were in the city.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” she said, not offended by his complaint. Rickshaw pullers led short, brutal lives. She didn’t have
much money but compared to the rickshaw puller, Lisan was rich. She had an allowance, a comfortable home, and the protection
of a guardian, Master Liu, a member of the wealthy Liu clan.
Except that she wasn’t actually a member of the Liu family, Lisan thought, settling herself farther back against the padded
seat. The Lius were one of Shanghai’s most prominent families; they owned land and houses throughout the city, vast tracts
of farmland elsewhere in Chekiang and adjacent provinces, mines in the interior of China. There was a shipping company and
large shareholdings in banks and railway corporations. Then there were the businesses some family members dabbled in, things
that caught their fancy. Master Liu imported luxury automobiles from America and one of his nephews owned Xinwen Bao newspaper.
Her guardian was third of five sons, a bachelor who adamantly refused to marry. He only cared about books, paintings, and
his penjing: miniature trees in shallow pots, which he sometimes referred to by their Japanese nomenclature, bonsai. It was a penjing collection acknowledged to be the finest in Chekiang. Yet this scholarly bachelor had taken her, an orphaned child, off the
streets of Shanghai and dropped her into a life of comfort. It confirmed to his family that he was even more eccentric than
they’d first believed.
In his own absent-minded way, he was kind to Lisan, but through all these years had never bothered clarifying her status in
the household to her or to anyone else. He hadn’t adopted her formally and her status in the household was ambiguous; although
she lived in Master Liu’s house and had a room of her own, she was not quite family and not exactly a servant. Taking their
cue from Master Liu, the servants treated her respectfully. But family was everything, and she didn’t belong to one.
As for school, Master Liu had enrolled her at St. Clare’s Hall for a Western-style education. Perhaps it was because he’d
spent time abroad at university. Or perhaps it was simply because the school was the default choice for daughters of the Liu
clan and other prominent families.
A year ago, with her graduation drawing near, she had asked Master Liu rather hesitantly whether she could continue her education
by attending college. Unlike the famous Soong sisters, Lisan couldn’t even dream of going to school in America, but there
was a women’s college in Foochow, the first in all of China.
“I’m grateful, Master Liu,” she said, “for all that you’ve given me. I’m an adult now and shouldn’t need to rely on your generosity,
but there’s one more favor I need: I’ve applied to Hua Nan Women’s College and they’ve accepted me. I’d like to become a teacher . . .”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “College is a long-term commitment and there are other considerations. Let me think it over.”
She refrained from pressing her case any further. Master Liu was not a large man, and had wire-rimmed glasses and rounded
features that gave an impression of mildness. Yet his direct gaze carried an authority that made him seem taller and made
her drop her eyes to the floor whenever it fixed on her in disapproval. As a child, she had found his intense scrutiny disconcerting
at the best of times, even when he wasn’t upset with her. At that moment it seemed best for her to keep her eyes lowered.
She would try again later—after all, her college acceptance was valid for two more years.
As a child, she never questioned her undefined status within the household, as children do, believing their situation to be
common, if not normal. When she grew older, her existence felt precarious, at best; borrowed. She noticed how her classmates,
privileged daughters of wealthy parents, understood exactly what they owed and were owed. In the rigid hierarchy of family,
their positions were clearly set by their order of birth as well as their fathers’ rank in their lineage.
“You’re like a poor relative,” her friend and classmate Ju Ming had concluded when they were thirteen years old, “a charity
case. Only even lesser since you’re not actually a blood relation. You need to be very obedient and careful so your guardian
doesn’t throw you out on the street.”
Master Liu had never even hinted at any such fate, but for years after and even now, Ju Ming’s simplistic assessment of her situation shadowed Lisan’s days, heightening her natural caution.
He never mentioned college after her first attempt so she didn’t bring it up again.
However, when St. Clare Hall’s headmistress offered Lisan a typing and filing job after her graduation, Master Liu had agreed, saying it was good experience for her to work now that she had finished school.
She assumed he meant it was time now for her to support herself.
Why else had he given her an education? And what other options were there for her, a girl of unknown ancestry?
Her only other choice, if she couldn’t support herself, was marriage. Thankfully Master Liu had never raised the topic, didn’t
even seem to recognize she was long past the age when families arranged marriages for their daughters. Lisan hoped he’d remain
oblivious for a few more years while she found a way to earn a living. She fervently hoped she was beneath the notice of his
sisters and aunts, all of whom would relish making a match for her. Not so much because they cared about her but because it
would be a chance to scrutinize candidates from a lower class, a challenge they could complain about over mahjong and lotus
seed cake.
But then something happened. Something Lisan was still trying to unravel.
She had been working for Mrs. Gordon at the school since last June, just eight months, when Master Liu called her to his penjing room. He had been very quiet of late and she had the distinct impression he was watching her, as though she were a stranger
and not the child he’d raised. He hardly spoke at mealtimes these days and when he did, it was mostly about his automobile
import business, a hobby more than anything from what she could gather. He employed a full-time agent, a Mr. Zheng, who visited
car companies around the world to select vehicles for Master Liu. He spoke quite often these days about Mr. Zheng, someone
she’d never met.
Mr. Zheng is in a place called Indiana right now, looking at the American Motorcar Company.
Mr. Zheng has gone to Canada to see whether he can find useful contacts.
The penjing room was at the southwest corner of the house.
Three large windows made it the sunniest space in the villa.
A custom-built L-shaped table, its surface the same height as the windowsills, displayed Master Liu’s collection, the most valuable ones planted in antique pottery containers.
The only other item of furniture was a long bench of elmwood with carved legs, where Master Liu sat to meditate upon his collection.
“You’ll resign from your job at St. Clare’s,” he said with no preamble when she entered the room. His fingers twisted a fine
wire around a slim branch of pine. He didn’t look up.
“But . . . for what reason?” she stammered. The work had been simple and undemanding, the pay trivial, but it made her feel
less beholden to Master Liu.
“In your resignation letter, just tell Mrs. Gordon you must leave for family reasons,” he said. “That should suffice.”
No, no, she wanted to protest. I meant, what is the real reason you want me to leave?
But Master Liu’s demeanor was even more unyielding than when she’d broached the subject of college in Foochow. Even though
he hadn’t given her an explanation, she had no choice but to comply. She owed Master Liu everything. Besides, she didn’t care
to risk angering him right then. In the days leading up to this conversation, he had not been himself, his benign, absent-minded
smile replaced by a frown whenever he saw her, as though contemplating a miniature pine that needed judicious pruning.
He picked up a pair of tiny pliers. “You’ll stay home from now on. There’s work I can find for you here if you want to keep
busy.”
Lost in her thoughts, she only realized she was nearly home when the rickshaw driver called out. “We’ve arrived, young miss!
We’re here!”
The gates of Master Liu’s villa opened when the gatekeeper saw her, and the rickshaw rolled straight through.
According to Master Liu’s family, this house was further proof of his eccentricity.
His brothers and cousins lived in an urban estate comprising a half dozen houses.
From the street, they appeared as individual mansions, each within its own walls.
At the back, however, the gardens were unfenced so that family members and servants could wander freely between houses.
The estate was home to three generations of Lius, their servants, and the servants’ families.
But more than ten years ago, shortly after he picked Lisan off the streets, Master Liu bought this modest villa in the French Concession and moved out of the estate, away from his family.
He didn’t even bring any of their longtime servants with him, but hired new ones, including an amah for Lisan.
This turned out to have been a kindness, Lisan reflected as she got out of the rickshaw, for at the Liu estate she would’ve
grown up subjected to speculation and constant judgment, always under the scrutiny of the family’s appraising eyes.
Appraising eyes.
It came to her all of a sudden. She knew when it was that Master Liu’s behavior changed, when he began looking at her as though
concerned by her presence.
It was during the New Year, a season of festivities that lasted for weeks. Master Liu rarely entertained and, when he did,
tended to host small dinner parties for a few scholarly friends or fellow penjing enthusiasts. But during the holidays there was no avoiding his duties, and in the second week of February it was his turn
to give a party, just one family celebration of many during the New Year. Master Liu’s brothers, their wives and children,
the cousins and close family friends, all crowded into the modest villa, the children chasing each other up and down the stairs,
followed by harried-looking amahs. Servants borrowed from other Liu households passed around trays of appetizers while the
cook sent up platter after platter of food for the buffet table.
Lisan helped, as she always did. She took trays of empty dishes and glasses back to the kitchen, being careful of her new tunic, royal blue silk embroidered with pink peonies.
She paused to let a guest put a wineglass on the tray.
By now, members of the Liu family barely took notice of her.
The novelty of a street orphan being raised by one of their own had long since faded.
“I know buffet dinners are all the rage,” one of the cousins said, “but I wish Third Uncle would hold proper banquets. Then
we could sit down to eat.”
“This house doesn’t have a large enough dining room,” said another, scoffing. “He bought this house on purpose so he wouldn’t
have to host big dinner parties for the whole family.”
Lisan wove her way toward the kitchen, passing the open door of the penjing room, where Master Liu had chosen to hide from his guests. His younger brother, whom Lisan addressed as Fourth Uncle, was
with him. There was also a guest, an elderly man wearing a black Manchu-style surcoat. A large square insignia badge embroidered
with golden pheasants identified him as an official of the Imperial court.
“This juniper is now forty years old,” Master Liu said, slowly rotating the potted plant on a turntable, “and I keep it in
a partially shaded spot so that the branches will reach for sunlight, developing an asymmetric shape.”
“Master Liu? Gentlemen?” she said, standing at the threshold. “May I take any used cups or plates?”
Fourth Uncle ignored her. The elderly guest stared at her, forehead creased in a frown that looked more like amazement than
disapproval. Master Liu shook his head and turned back to the juniper.
On her way back from the kitchen with an empty tray, she passed the door again. Conversation from the penjing room drifted out as she walked past.
“The resemblance is remarkable,” said a voice she didn’t know. The elderly guest in Manchu robes.
“A remarkable coincidence,” Fourth Uncle’s voice said firmly. “Now here’s something truly remarkable, the best of the modern specimens in this collection, in my opinion. A wisteria. It’s already setting buds.”
Master Liu glanced at the open door and when he saw her, a peculiar expression came into his eyes, a look of appraisal, as
though recognizing something he should’ve seen before. He quickly turned away, almost as though embarrassed to have been caught
staring, and continued the discussion with his guest, now bent over the potted wisteria.
The memory came back as clearly as though it had been yesterday. That was the day Master Liu’s behavior toward her had changed,
and she sensed it was connected to the real reason Master Liu made her resign from St. Clare’s Hall, but she still didn’t
understand why.