Chapter 12
Twelve
Piercing the Veil
I stand at the edge of the Bund, facing the jetty.
Attached to it is a gangway which connects to the floating pontoon where Fisherman Lo waits in his sampan.
Below us stream the dark currents of the Whangpoo River, rising with the tide.
My feet don’t want to move, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck on a few planks of wood in the middle of the river.
I remind myself that on the other side of the veil is the sun.
Which means, there’ll be a sunset. And then stars followed by sunrise.
I just have to make it across the river.
I close my eyes and try to picture a sunrise.
A rainbow of colour sparkling in the sky?
Or reverse ink wash – the colour seeping into the sky and chasing away the dark?
I was so little when I left the Celestial realms for Hell, I only have my childhood impressions, murky and blurred.
I grip the handle of a small suitcase in which I’ve packed a couple qipao, matching slippers, and two hair pins. Mr Lee stands at my side.
I can do this. I will do this.
Mr Lee holds his arm out. ‘Ready?’ His smile is tentative. He’s still trying to make up for earlier.
I give him a hard glare. I’m not ready to forgive him yet.
Even so, I lift my chin and link my arm through his.
I pray to every deity I know to keep me from embarrassing myself.
Together we step onto the jetty. The structure is solid, thick planks of wood supported by great metal pilings driven deep into the riverbed.
It’s just like the zigzag bridge to the Lake Heart Pavilion.
Solid, unmoving. We make it across without mishap.
Now the gangway. I hesitate, but Mr Lee pats my hand and pulls me along.
The gangway is made of metal, but it’s thin. It clanks and bounces with our every step. I feel myself slowing, the cold creeping up my body, but Mr Lee keeps to a fast clip; he doesn’t let us dawdle.
Fisherman Lo stands at the stern of his sampan, watching us approach.
He leans on the yuloh oar, one weathered end anchored by a long thick rope attached to a brass ring on the side of the sampan, the other end of the oar disappearing into the black waters.
My teeth chatter. Only when Mr Lee tugs me gently forward off the gangway, do I realise I’ve stopped moving.
The pontoon isn’t large, there’s only enough room for the one sampan; it’s but five steps from here to the boat.
Even so, the distance stretches impossibly far.
The feel of cold water wraps around my throat.
My legs aren’t working right. Mr Lee tugs again, a little harder, forcing me onto the pontoon.
The whole thing sways. My breath hitches.
‘One step, then another,’ he whispers. ‘You can do it.’
I take a single halting step. Then stop again. Four steps to go. My whole body is shaking. I stare at the sampan bobbing on the river. The savoury, sweet, sour, putrid stench of brine and rot fills my nose. I try to conjure the sunrise, but my mind is full of dark, swirling water.
‘I can’t. I can’t do it,’ I whimper. My bones turn to tofu. I feel myself sinking.
Mr Lee places his hand over mine, his grip firm and unyielding; he keeps me from falling.
‘This worthless one humbly asks your venerable fragrant self—’ he begins.
It takes a moment for the words to slice through the icy haze of panic – but when they do, I snap my head up. What is he doing? I hate that piss-fart. ‘I told you—’
‘Contain this unlearned mortal’s poor memory,’ he says as he pulls the suitcase from me, ‘and lift high your honourable hand.’
I stare at him, uncomprehending. Not only does he insult my honour, but he forgets the one thing I asked of him. ‘What part of the flowery language of formal court makes me extremely uncomfortable didn’t you understand?’
‘Step,’ Mr Lee says, completely unbothered. ‘Contain this lowly one’s—’
He’s not even listening. My rage boils over. How dare he? ‘I can rip out your tongue or slice off your precious peaches. Your choice.’ I’m practically growling at him.
‘This unworthy one submits to your most noble and fragrant discretion.’ He gestures for me to sit.
I drop onto the wooden seat, glaring daggers. He joins me on the bench, calm as you like, grinning to himself. He crosses his arms, a hand cradling his chin. Then he starts to chuckle. I’m missing a joke.
‘Is there anything you want to see in yang Shanghai? It’s really not that different to your Shanghai, though I don’t think we have anyone who makes xiao long bao to rival your Old Zao.’
I stare at him, trying to fathom how this mortal, who went green at the thought of me drinking mortal blood, is not at all fazed that I’m spitting mad at him and considering all the different ways I can torture him.
He’s sitting blithely next to me in the sampan like he’s off on one of Fisherman Lo’s tourist trips.
Wait.
I replay my last thought, then gaze around me.
Tian. I’m in the sampan, seated in the middle of the boat under an arched bamboo canopy.
Now he’s properly laughing. Tears streak down his cheeks.
Fisherman Lo gives us a long-suffering look and with one strong push of the yuloh, the sampan launches into the currents of the Whangpoo.
The boat rocks from side to side in rhythm with Fisherman Lo’s sculling as he pulls on the rope, then pushes the yuloh to propel us through the currents.
I grab Mr Lee’s arm. He tries to pull away from me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, not caring that my voice has gone all squeaky.
‘You said you wanted to rip out my tongue or slice off my precious peaches.’ He smothers a laugh. ‘The flowery language of formal court is clearly upsetting to you,’ he says gravely. ‘So perhaps it is best I leave you to your thoughts, Lady Jing.’ He bows his head and shifts away.
I yank him back, the warmth of his body enough to keep the chill at bay. ‘No, no, it’s okay. You can speak as flowery as you like. Just don’t let go of me.’
‘I am sorry, though, you know, for earlier. I was startled, and thoughtless.’
I nod, not knowing how else to answer. The boat rocks violently for a moment and I can’t help but cry out. Mr Lee presses his hand over mine; he is warm and solid, and I’m able to let go of the breath I’ve been holding.
‘I’m sorry Lord Ma didn’t get a chance to see your new outfit,’ he says. ‘I wonder how he would have reacted?’
The thought makes me giggle despite my anxiety. ‘Oh, I think he would have given himself a hernia. He’s so old-fashioned.’
Fisherman Lo strikes a match and I get a whiff of sulphur that’s quickly enveloped by the pungent scent of sandalwood. I look back – he’s got the joss stick clamped between his lips like a lady’s cigarette, long and elegant, the end a glowing red star in the inky ever-night.
‘Boh-yo-boh-lo-mi,’ he murmurs.
The murky dark suddenly fades to grey, then white. A thick cloud envelopes us. Shadows move in the fog, barely discernible. There’s a bright flash, and then sunshine, golden and resplendent, spills over every surface.
Mortal Shanghai is bright and sharp and intense.
I squint, willing my eyes to adjust quickly.
I don’t want to miss any second of this new world.
The river is a molten bronze, shimmering as if scattered with diamonds, the sky a swathe of softest blue strewn with wisps of silk floss.
Boats swarming the river dwarf Fisherman Lo’s rickety sampan.
Junks with their bat-wing sails spread wide, chug-chugging steamers drag lines of barges, dull grey warships carry flags from Britain, America, Japan, and bobbing between the ships are countless sampans like ours and the ever-present coffins that bounce in our wake.
All the shadows I glimpsed through the veil, brought to life in vivid colour and motion.
The smell is different too; stronger, more pungent.
Among the seaweed and rot is also the stink of human waste, so powerful my eyes water.
The smells of yang and blood – sweet and aromatic – tangle with the other scents.
And there, across a slip of sparkling, silk-brown water, is the Bund.
The familiar buildings, the pyramid that marks Cathay Hotel, but here it is a dull turquoise.
The great stone edifices are almost blinding in daylight.
Mr Lee beams at me. ‘Welcome to Shanghai, Lady Jing.’
I lean forward, out from under the canopy into the sunlight.
The rays melt over me like warm honey. I close my eyes for a moment; the back of my eyelids glow orange.
I hold my hand out and marvel at the shadows and light which play over my skin.
Warmth surges through me. My skin tingles.
I’m disappointed I don’t sparkle like the river.
I had no idea the sun could give me such a rush; the fear is there but dulled to a manageable level.
I keep hold of Mr Lee’s arm, just in case.
The noise on the Shanghai docks is worse than the roosters at home. Horns from both boats and cars blast the air; there’s a constant hum of chattering from the crowds. Everything is anointed with glistening sunlight. There’s so much to see, I’m not sure where to look first.
Fisherman Lo weaves his way through the boats to the pontoon, deftly slipping his sampan between the small cruiser docked at one end, and the tourist ferry docked at the other.
The pontoon is heaving with people. And the smell.
Oh, Tian. The smell. If I thought it was heady on the river, here by the pontoon, with the crowd of warm mortal bodies, waves of concentrated yang – pine and an earthy citrus smell, like a slightly rancid walnut fruit – crash into me.
Beneath that is the smell of blood, the unctuous persimmon scent so thick it clogs my throat.
My fangs are fully out now. My stomach flutters with want.
The pulse of so many heartbeats drums in my ears.