Chapter 24 #2
She rummaged for an image of herself, a little girl holding pink camellias and a trowel, found nothing. “I don’t remember.
I wish I could remember my mother’s face.”
“You only have to look in a mirror,” Yao said, very gently. “When I walked into the kitchen and saw you, it was like seeing
her again.”
“All this time, Yao, all this time, Master Liu knew my father was alive, and so did Fourth Uncle. So did you. Anyone else?”
Yao shook his head. “Prince Tsai’s safety depended on our silence. What’s more, he commanded it of us. I’m his loyal servant, Master Liu is his good friend. And Fourth Uncle, well . . .”
“What about Fourth Uncle?” she said.
“It’s best we don’t ask what he does or how,” Yao said. “He is necessary and his loyalty is to the Liu family, absolutely.
He moves through people’s lives like a phantom, unseen. Most never realize what he arranges behind the scenes, at the peripheries.
No one is ever sure if it’s their imagination or a coincidence when things work out.”
“At least he’s alive and not a real ghost,” Lisan said. She hesitated, then, “You know that Liao and his brother Little Liao
quit today because they think the house is cursed. Do you know if the servants have seen things or are having nightmares?”
“Liao mostly frightened himself.” He put down the shears carefully and wiped his hands on a clean rag. “But no, no nightmares.
If they were, we’d be hearing about every single one at mealtimes.”
“I don’t sleep well in this house, Yao,” she said. “I’m starting to believe it’s haunted. Mrs. Stanton says she’s been missing
small items in her parlor and then they turn up again. She asked Chin and he asked Liao. Apparently, that was the final omen
for him and he left, taking his brother.”
Yao shook his head. “Liao. He talked about suicide ghosts so much he convinced himself he was in danger.”
“What do you believe about dreams, Yao?” she said. “Do they mean anything?”
“Ah. There are many schools of thought on that subject,” he said.
“I think our dreams are an expression of our own thoughts and intelligence. When awake, our thoughts are controlled, directed like a harnessed horse. But in sleep, the horse is free to run away across distance and even time, and when it comes back, it brings new insights. A Ming dynasty scholar believed that what we perceive in dreams can be more perceptive than what we notice when awake.”
No one else heard crying in the night. No one else dreamed about Rosalie. It was just her. She truly was going mad.
“There’s something else he said that I really liked,” Yao said, “which is that when two people dream about each other, they
may be thousands of miles apart but in the dream their spirits can be together. Lisan, you look upset. What’s wrong?”
“There’s so much I want to talk about with you, Yao,” she said, “but I can’t even sort through everything in my head. I barely
know what to say and how to say it.”
“You look tired, Lisan,” he said, “you’ll do better with some sleep. Perhaps you need something to eat?”
No, it’s not sleep or food, she wanted to say. Can’t you tell I’m going mad? My head won’t stop throbbing and when the room
is silent I hear voices.
Now jump. Come find me.
“I should join the others for breakfast,” she said, feeling overcome by yet another wave of fatigue. “Chin is watching over
Mr. Stanton.”
Breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table and Zhao was already cooking lunch for the staff. While he stirred and chopped,
Zhao grumbled that Caroline had hardly eaten anything lately. He sent up trays of clear broth and newly baked bread rolls,
thinking these would be easy to eat.
“Just that,” Zhou said mournfully, “not even sandwiches. Sometimes stewed fruit. Perhaps she eats when she goes out?”
“I wish she’d go out more often,” Lisan said. “She needs some fresh air and distraction from the sickroom.”
The house servants came into the kitchen one by one and ladled out bowls of hot congee cooked in chicken broth for extra flavor.
Young Zhao put out pickles and leftover pork stew.
Lisan felt her headache recede slightly with the soup’s rich, delicious fragrance.
They ate in silence. There was none of the good-natured joking and gossip that usually filled the kitchen.
The Liao brothers’ departure—and their reason for leaving—had put the remaining servants in a somber mood.
She noticed furtive looks. Would anyone else leave? she wondered.
“Does anyone know where the Liao brothers will be looking for work?” she asked. A murmur of talk started up, relief at having
some gossip to share.
“They’re going to try the Kwong household,” Da Wu said, “you know, the owners of the Great China Department Store. They’ve
a cousin there.”
“That family has a terrible reputation,” Young Zhao the assistant cook added. “They have a very bad time keeping servants.
The children are very spoiled; the mistress is mean and finds reasons not to pay. And yet they’re so rich.”
“If they do land at the Kwongs’ they won’t stay long,” Da Wu said. “They’ll find another household to work for when Mrs. Kwong
fires them. Being fired from the Kwongs is a commendation, not a black mark—all the head servants in Shanghai know that.”
“Mrs. Kwong’s head servant must be a very patient man,” Lisan said, and the servants all burst out laughing.
“There is no head servant there,” Da Wu said, “that’s a big part of the problem. Mrs. Kwong fired him two years ago and has
been trying to run the staff on her own.” The mood in the kitchen lifted perceptibly as they traded anecdotes about the famous
Kwong family.
Lisan put her empty bowl in the sink and returned to sit beside the youngest houseboy. He looked up at her, his eyes bright
and anxious. Lisan held out one arm and pulled up her sleeve. “I always wear your amulet, Xiao Wu,” she said, giving him a
smile as she sat down at the kitchen table.
“I’ve just pasted scrolls with protective spells on your bedroom door,” he said. “Missy Caroline is too busy to notice, so you can keep them for a while.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll leave them on. Thank you.”
“Miss Liu,” he whispered, “don’t say anything to Chin, but my brother and I are leaving soon as well. So I won’t be able to
look after you anymore. You should leave too.”
“Take care of yourself, Xiao Wu,” she whispered back. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” The Liao brothers and now the Wu brothers.
That left only Chin, Zhao the cook, and his son. And within the week, she and Yao would be gone as well.
Back in her room, Lisan sank down on the bed. She felt bad for Caroline, who didn’t know that all her staff was abandoning
her. If Chin stayed on, as he had for Mason, there was a chance of hiring new staff. The portrait of Rosalie gazed down at
her but her expression was one of reproach, as though she knew Lisan would be leaving Lennox Manor soon without fulfilling
her obligation. Come find me. But Lisan had no idea what it meant.
Lisan pulled down the Shanghai telephone directory from the top shelf of the secretaire and went downstairs to the telephone.
Did she dare make the call? How could she make up a convincing story?
“Hello?” The woman’s voice was warm, melodious.
“Madame Taddeo?” Lisan said. “I am a friend of Rosalie Roussel. I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Rosalie’s friend?” Madame Taddeo sounded eager. “Have you heard from her?”
Lisan was taken aback. “No, Madame, I haven’t. I was hoping you could tell me where she’s gone.”
There was silence. “So you don’t know either. But why has it taken you so long to ask this question?”
“I’ve been away from Shanghai,” Lisan said, offering up the story she’d prepared, “and I lost touch. All I heard was gossip, and knowing Rosalie, I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to know she was all right.”
“Do not believe any of it.” Madame Taddeo made a disparaging noise. “She was a very good person, a talented soprano. She loved
her husband, that Charles Burnett. She was not a, what you call it, gold digger. But he had many problems and he was too weak
to deal with them.”
“Where do you think she might’ve gone, Madame Taddeo?” Lisan said. “I thought that of all people, she would’ve told you.”
But Madame Taddeo didn’t know. “She never contacted me, just vanished from Shanghai,” she said, “but please, if you learn
anything, if you find Rosalie, please give her my love and tell her I would be most pleased to hear from her.”
Lisan hung up the telephone, then went upstairs to take her turn watching Thomas. He tossed and turned, moaned in his sleep.
She brushed away some of the hair on his pillow. She’d told Caroline about Thomas’s hair loss and Caroline said she would
tell the doctor. Lisan sat in the armchair by the window, picked up a magazine. The air was stuffy, the room overheated. Soon
her head drooped.
A strong gust shakes the trees and a movement in the garden catches the corner of her eye. Lisan peers into the darkness,
knowing it’s a dream yet unable to break free. Was there someone walking under the trees? Was it just the wind shaking bare
branches? Or her own imagination? The figure moves away from the shadows, a woman in red. Rosalie. Come find me. There was a mournful quality to her voice. The woman drifts, as she always does, to the stand of willows by the lake before
dissolving into rain.
But Rosalie, Lisan calls out in her dream, you didn’t tell anyone where you’d gone. The only reply was the rattle of twigs battered by the wind.
Lisan sat up, found herself in an armchair, the magazine fallen from her lap. The air was close and clammy, smothering. She
yanked the window open, just an inch, and a welcome rush of cold air chilled her. She pulled the window wide open and leaned
out, just for a moment. She breathed in deep gulps, not caring about the raindrops soaking into her hair.
I’m going mad, she thought. Charles is sending me these dreams to drive me mad. I just need to hold on until Yao and I leave
Shanghai. And I need to get rid of Rosalie. She means nothing to me.
She wanted to rush to her room and take down Rosalie’s portrait, but waited until Chin came back. He lifted one eyebrow in
silent query, and she shook her head. No change.
Back in her room, she stood on the chair and removed Rosalie’s portrait from the wall. She should never have brought it down
from the attic in the first place. Its presence had disturbed her sleeping and waking hours, and it was her own fault for
hanging it in her room. She took the portrait up to the attic and leaned it against the wall where she’d first found it, turned
it around so that it faced the wall.
Back in her room, after only a moment’s hesitation, Lisan took out Rosalie’s diary and put it into the fireplace, pushing
it in with a poker until it caught fire from the last remaining coals. It flared up and she put some more wood on top of the
blaze. There. That was the end of Rosalie Roussel’s hold over her.
But she didn’t throw away the sheets of notepaper with her translations of the diary.