Chapter 8 #3
Most of the Custom House is a soaring stone building of flat planes, hard angles, and stone columns – Doric style according to Big Wang because of the square tops.
The pink stone building looms above us, its windows lit with warm yellow light.
But the ground floor entrance is preserved from the original building.
Grey arched tiles line the roof in corrugated waves.
The eaves curve upwards, giving the impression of a smile.
More things Big Wang cherry-picked from mortal Shanghai. But I don’t tell the mortal this.
‘This is very different to our Custom House.’ Mr Lee stares open-mouthed.
I grunt and gesture for him to get a move on.
We pass through four huge columns into the deeper shadow of the entry hall.
Inside, the mortal stills as he takes in another change of style.
We pass under a ceiling adorned with mosaics of junk boats with fan sails spread wide across a blue sky dotted with silk floss clouds.
Our steps echo on the marble floors and through the cavernous hall.
Dozens of desks sit side by side, making a line across the floor.
All are empty, apart from one wizened old man in the grey changpao of an indentured ghost repaying his karmic debt.
The ghost licks his thumb and turns the page of a comic book, chuckling to himself.
I can tell from the cover it’s the latest issue of Sanmao, a popular comic about an orphan in Shanghai whose name is a play on words meaning three hairs on his head as well as three cents to his name.
‘Where is all the joss money?’ Mr Lee asks, noting the empty desks, the empty building. Not a single ghost waiting to collect their funds.
I lift my chin to point at the old ghost. The mortal can get answers from him.
I lean against one of the columns and pull out the sword.
Blue flames ripple from the hilt to the tip of the broad blade and my insides flutter at the beauty and power.
Horsey would lecture me from here to Mount Kunlun for not treating such a weapon with the deference it deserves.
I smirk and start to clean my nails with the tip of the sword of Hell.
It takes a moment, but Mr Lee finally gets it into his soft head that I am not going to help him, so he approaches the clerk. The clerk puts his comic on the desk and stares at the mark on Mr Lee’s forehead.
Mr Lee bows. ‘This unkempt one borrows the light of the exalted King of Hell, and labours your procession to show this humble one where the joss money arrives and how it is kept and distributed.’
The ghost scrunches his face. ‘Huh?’
Mr Lee tries again, repeating his question.
The old man scratches his head, then turns to me, raising his voice. ‘Lady Jing, what did he say?’ He speaks like he has gravel in his mouth, gurgling all the sounds at the back of his throat, gur gur sher sher. Typical Beijinger. Lady Ji-er, wha-er did he shay-er?
‘Speak plain,’ I say to Mr Lee. ‘He doesn’t understand your flowery piss-fart.’ I hold my left hand up, inspecting my nails. Not bad.
Mr Lee tries again. ‘Uh, can you show me where you keep your joss money? How it arrives, how it is divided, how it is distributed?’
The ghost looks at me, as if for permission. I half-heartedly lift the sword. It seems to work because the ghost straightens, interleaves his fingers.
‘We have no joss money right now. It is burned only on the new and full moon, and it’s a few days to the full moon.
Whatever is sent over appears on the shelf with the deceased’s surname.
The ghosts line up at the appropriate desk, and runners are sent up and down the stairs to fetch the correct bundle of funds. ’
Mr Lee looks at me, a pained smile on his face.
He glances at the clerk, bowing slightly in apology, then back at me again.
I narrow my eyes. Why is he embarrassed?
And then it hits me. He doesn’t understand the Beijinger’s thick labourer accent.
Tian. He wants me to translate. Mr Lee is a books-and-pressed-Western-trousers scholar.
Ink stains his fingers, not dirt. Bathing in garlic while being serenaded by roosters suddenly seems an attractive way to pass the time.
I give him my shoulder and work on the nails of my right hand.
‘I am not good with northern dialects. Contain my thousandfold regrets for having fermented tofu for brains.’ The rotted mortal bows low, peeks at me from under a sweep of thick lashes. He has the audacity to smile sweetly. ‘Abundant gratitude for your assistance in this matter.’
At my expression, the ghost laughs, a gasping, wheezing sound.
‘No,’ I say, glaring between the two men.
Mr Lee straightens. He smiles so bright he almost shines with starlight and spun sugar. Dimples twinkle in both his cheeks. The wider his smile, the deeper my frown.
‘How about a deal then, Lady Jing?’ he says.
His gaze is too steady, his smile too knowing. My instincts prickle. I’m not a kanhoo champion for nothing. I know when someone is bluffing, but he looks like someone who’s drawn a winning set of cards.
Slowly, I say ‘What kind of deal?’
He eyes my qipao. ‘That’s one of Master Chu’s, is it not?’
I’m surprised he knows my tailor.
‘I will have him send you a Western-style suit, if you agree to be my translator while I’m here.’
My own suit. Even better than changpao. I narrow my eyes.
Though Big Wang said he’d consider getting me trousers, it could be months, or years, before he makes up his mind.
The mortal’s not as stupid as he looks. I hesitate.
The deal seems too easy. I have to guide him anyway.
It makes me wonder what else he has on his agenda.
The old ghost whistles. ‘Old Lord Ma will have a fit if he sees you in men’s clothes, Lady Jing.’
I bark out a laugh. The thought of Horsey’s expression when I turn up in men’s clothes is enough to silence my misgivings. I push off the column and join the mortal in front of the clerk’s desk. Mr Lee holds his hand out, like he did last night on the dock. The ghost and I stare at his hand.
After a moment, he says, ‘You take my hand, and we shake. It’s the modern way of sealing an agreement.’
A plan forms in my mind. There is one other person I know who has a good ear for gossip and who actually knows many hulijing.
I let his hand hover. Taking Mr Lee to her is a little risky.
Big Wang’s sword won’t scare her, but her intel should be worth the risk.
‘I want two sets of suits by Master Chu, one black, one in his choice of colour. I also want those’ – I point at his clothes – ‘to wear now.’
He looks down. The old man laughs so hard he has a coughing fit.
‘But, what will I wear?’
‘I know a place where you can get a changpao.’
He eyes me. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Of course,’ I lie and meet his gaze.
Already looking forward to running and moving any way I wish without being followed by titters and disapproval, I hold my hand out.
He hesitates, his brown eyes boring into me.
I do not like liars, they say. The words pinch a tender spot, then I remember myself and scoff.
What do I care of some foolish mortal’s opinion?
He is merely a means to an end. He can think whatever he wants.
‘Other hand,’ he says.
I swap hands. He grasps mine in his, his skin almost hot to the touch. Humans must run hotter than yaojing. He pumps our joined hands up and down three times. It’s most peculiar. Then he lets go.
‘There. That’s it, deal sealed,’ he says.
I rattle off what the Beijinger said, but without the gravel.
‘Are the notes standardised?’
The ghost answers, and I translate. ‘No. It’s whatever joss is sent across.
Money, rings, wallets, little model houses, model cars, it’s always a surprise.
The mortals can be very inventive. We’ve had quite a lot of roosters in the past year.
’ The mention of roosters makes my temper flare and I have stop and count to ten, before I’m calm enough to continue translating.
‘Sometimes the notes are large, sometimes they’re square, sometimes rectangular.
Sometimes they’re ingots. We get all sorts, sometimes we even get joss jewels. ’
‘Abundant gratitude to honourable sir.’ Mr Lee bends low at the waist.
The ghost understands this, at least. ‘May sherrr,’ he says, the northern colloquial for ‘no problem’.
We leave the Custom House and return to the Bund. The street is busier now. A group of jiangshi hop along the road; I count six. Their heads twist as they scent the mortal, and immediately turn towards us, mouths open wide.
Mr Lee makes a strangled sound. I slam the sword pole against the ground, then make a show of waving Mafan at them, channelling my yin energy into the weapon so blue flames leap high from the blade.
The jiangshi pause. Their yin qi is slightly more cultivated than that of a ghost, which means a slice from Mafan wouldn’t end their existence, but their lack of cultivation means they can’t heal like most other yaojing either.
Their heads swivel in unison as they watch the sword swing back and forth.
Slowly, their mouths close. I breathe a very shallow sigh of relief.
Again, in unison, their gazes shift to Mr Lee, to the red characters glowing on his forehead.
The jiangshi bow low, then turn to leave.
I don’t know what possesses me, but I call after them. ‘Wait!’
Mr Lee grabs my arm. ‘What are you doing?’
I shake him off and stride up to the jiangshi. It can’t hurt to try.
‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid honourable Uncles to visit Mistress Ya and request her Orchid Breath Lozenges. Uncles, you need to do something about your breath. It is diabolically disgusting.’
The jiangshi glance at each other, taken aback. I suspect they have few interactions with other yaojing. Yaojing understand the hunger for yang energy; they do not understand the hunger for blood. They consider it an abomination.
The jiangshi bow as one. When they rise, they say in eerie unison, ‘Our abundant gratitude, Lady Jing. We have cleaned our ears and received your words.’ They hop on their way.
I fan the air a little before daring to inhale. I look around for Mr Lee, who is hiding behind a tree.
‘They won’t eat you. You’ve got Big Wang’s mark and Mafan here to protect you.’
He emerges from behind the tree. His lips are as white as a lady ghost’s and his hands tremble as he smooths down his hair. It occurs to me that he’s been putting on a brave face this whole time.
‘I-I promised you my trousers,’ he says, trying to make light. ‘You said you knew a place. Shall we?’
He puts out his arm again. And I understand now this gesture isn’t for my benefit.
When I was small and had first arrived in Shanghai, I tagged along behind Bullhead and Horsey on their rounds through the city.
The first time I met Granny Bones, I wouldn’t stop crying.
She was in her true form – a white skeleton – and her movements triggered a cascade of clicks that made me think of skittering cockroaches.
Horsey scolded me for being disrespectful to an elder, but Bullhead simply took my hand.
That small gesture made me feel a little braver. A little less alone.
I link my arm through Mr Lee’s and feel him jump. He looks at me for a long moment.
‘I need to hold on to you in case you run away,’ I say. ‘I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I lose you. Now, let’s go. I want you out of those trousers.’
Mr Lee chokes. He tries to maintain his composure, but the high pink in his cheeks gives him away. He pats my linked arm. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t wish to make you wait unduly, Lady Jing.’
I give him a dignified, somewhat snooty nod. He inclines his head with an equally prim expression. I have an almost overwhelming urge to giggle, which I stomp flat. But I do allow myself a small smile as I lead him towards the Old City.