Chapter 13 #2
The smug look on his face makes the tips of my ears go hot. Yi, er, san. I count to twenty before I can turn to him and speak cordially. ‘I’m perfectly capable feeding myself, thank you.’
‘Big Wang wanted me to remind you specifically to avoid the hulijing and to not cause any kind of mafan. The roosters depend on it.’
I hiss. Big Wang would throw that in my face. I cannot ask him about Brother Zhu without giving away my hand. I had heard he frequents the jazz bars here . . . Maybe an opportunity will present itself. I need to be patient.
Willie continues, ‘And he also said to have fun. He said to tell you this is a direct order from the King of Hell to his ward.’
‘I’d like to go the Zhabei,’ I say. ‘I heard there’s a good market there.’
The look Willie gives me makes it plain he doesn’t buy my piss-fart, but he says, ‘You have to wait for your reinforcements. You cannot go with only Mr Lee as your escort. It’s too chaotic there.’
‘Fine. We’ll go in the morning, after my reinforcements arrive.’
Willie nods. ‘I’ll arrange a car to pick you up first thing. But, if your reinforcements do not agree to go, you won’t be permitted to go either. Big Wang’s orders.’ Willie smiles at me, clearly enjoying my frustration. ‘You have my number if you need me,’ he says.
When he’s gone, I round on Mr Lee. ‘Why did you let him call Big Wang and make such a big thing out of me fainting? I was surprised, that’s all. I wasn’t prepared for the crowds or the smell.’
Mr Lee folds his paper. ‘I was worried about you. What if you had really been ill? What if the yang world was like poison to you? I wanted to break the jade, but Willie wouldn’t let me.’ The concern in his gaze deflates some of my anger.
I pick at the chocolate glaze on my last éclair.
The thin crust crinkles under my fingers.
‘I’ve never met mortals before. You were my first. I didn’t know I’d react like that.
When I drink blood, I always have a blood rush – it’s like drinking baijiu on an empty stomach – but nothing as intense as what happened on the dock.
Blood rush is always less noticeable when I have blood with food.
I’m guessing yang qi is the same. I was overwhelmed. I won’t let it happen again.’
Mr Lee stands. ‘Well, you’re full now, why don’t we go out and practice. Make sure you can manage.’
‘You can take me to the lady who sold you that talisman.’ And tomorrow we’ll go see Brother Zhu.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of a gentle tour through the city. You heard Willie, we can’t go to Zhabei without your reinforcements.’
I cross my arms. ‘I don’t need reinforcements. I told you, it was just the huge crowd. I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.’
He crosses his arms, mirroring my body language.
‘I’ll go myself then,’ I say.
Mr Lee waits me out, clearly aware I’m bluffing. I have no idea where to even start looking. I need him and he knows it. I drink the last of my soya milk, then hold the glass upside down in a show of getting every last drop so I don’t have to look at his stupid face.
He chuckles. ‘While you were sleeping, Mr Leung told me Big Wang provided you with a line of credit here in Shanghai.’
‘A line of credit?’ I ask, turning back towards him despite myself. I’ve never had my own money before.
Mr Lee strolls to the window. ‘A few hours won’t change whatever the stall Auntie will tell us. In the meantime, let me show you around Shanghai.’
‘How much credit do I have?’
‘A generous one,’ Mr Lee says.
I bite my lip. Most of the things I own I’ve won in kanhoo games or swapped with my winnings. ‘Do you have book shops?’
‘Many.’
‘Art supplies?’
‘The best, from Germany and France.’
I can’t help smiling. To be able to choose the things I want, rather than barter for what’s available makes me sit taller. The stall Auntie can surely keep for one afternoon. ‘I recall you owe me some Western suits. Could we pay a visit to Master Chu as well?’
Mr Lee returns my smile and holds out his arm. ‘As you wish, Lady Jing.’
We emerge from the hotel into the frenzied rush of the Bund.
I can’t help comparing mortal Cathay Hotel with Big Wang’s version back home.
It’s mostly the same. The great glass dome here is lit by sunshine, which makes the colours dance on the marble floors.
The quality of light is also different – less yellow, and somehow more vibrant.
There are none of Big Wang’s apprentices; just mortals, most of whom are foreign, striding along looking purposeful.
The bittersweet scent of walnuts and persimmons dances on the breeze, makes me feel woozy.
I make a wistful sound, like a quiet moan.
Mr Lee gives me a strange look, then glances away almost immediately.
‘Are you well?’ he asks the sky.
I’m panting slightly and feel a little too warm. ‘I think so. There’s a lot more yang out here than inside.’
‘Should we get you some blood?’ Mr Lee says. His tone is matter- of-fact, but I can sense his reluctance. To be honest, I share his sentiment. The idea of drinking from a corpse turns my stomach. The memory of pressing my fangs to his neck makes me shudder. I hope he didn’t notice that.
I match his tone. ‘I’m okay for now.’
‘Maybe a little sugar boost will help. Try this. It’s an American candy.’ Mr Lee offers me something long and thin wrapped in brown and white wax paper. Red foreign lettering is stamped across the length of it.
I untwist the waxy wrapping. ‘It looks like a tiny number two.’ I sniff it. ‘But it smells quite nice, actually. Chocolate and something else. Vanilla?’
Mr Lee gestures for me to take a bite. The candy is soft and sticky on my teeth, and very tasty. I pop the whole thing in my mouth. The woozy feeling abates.
‘And?’ he asks.
I hold my hand out for another. He laughs.
After a small detour into a nearby shop, my pockets bulge with the candy – too see rolls he called them. I am duly fortified against the crowds.
Mr Lee raises a hand. A coolie, human beast of burden, pulling a rickshaw, stops beside us. His trousers are frayed and full of holes, his shirt equally worn. Wiry muscle criss-crosses his arms like prison chains.
‘Where to, honourable sir?’ he asks.
I gaze at the man’s feet – his shoes are nothing more than a leather sole held in place with twine.
‘Rue Bourgeat,’ Mr Lee says.
I put a hand on Mr Lee’s arm. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
The coolie looks at me. He’s so thin a sharp ridge cuts across his cheekbones, and his eyes are sunk deep in his leathered skin.
‘We can’t make him pull us.’
Mr Lee glances at the coolie, then back at me. ‘It’s safer if you’re not among the crowds. Easier to test your mettle.’ He gazes over my shoulder and lifts his chin at the river. ‘A cruise ship just docked. That thing carries ten times the passengers of a ferry.’
I follow his gaze and, sure enough, an ocean liner sits in the middle of the Whangpoo. Mortals press together at the railings, many layers deep, waving to the shore. I can smell their yang from here.
I don’t want to be caught on the Bund with so many people, but the coolie – he’s barely eating enough to survive. I can’t see how he can pull us.
‘I’ll pull us,’ I say.
The coolie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
‘And if you faint, Lady Jing?’
‘I am strong.’ The coolie thumps his chest. ‘I will get you where you need to go. Please, honourable lady, sir, I may look weak, but I can pull this rickshaw better than any ox.’
Mr Lee holds a hand out to me. I feel uneasy and conflicted. But the yang wafting over from the cruise ship is making the earth sway beneath my feet, so I climb onto the rickshaw.
With momentous effort, the coolie heaves the rickshaw forward, and we roll down the Bund.
I cannot stop watching him – his loud gasps as he plants each foot and hauls us forward.
His shoulders as they bunch together, rough hands gripping the carrying poles.
Rickshaw runners in my Shanghai are well fed.
Big Wang takes care of every inhabitant.
No one goes hungry, not even the lowliest yaojing or poorest ghost. What kind of place is this where even the most basic needs are at the whims of fortune?
A warm hand on mine startles me from my thoughts.
Mr Lee leans in, whispers, ‘This is honest work. There are many who are not so lucky. Would you reduce him to begging in the streets? Or put him at the mercy of the triads? Guilds control the rickshaws. If he doesn’t have fares, he will fall into debt to the guilds.
If it makes you feel better, I will pay him what I would pay a taxi that takes the same amount of time. ’
We watch the coolie struggle along. It makes me feel marginally better to know he will be paid well for his services. But I dislike the nature of this kind of work. Coolie is an apt term. It means bitter labour.
We pass through well-dressed foreigners and Chinese alike swanning down the Bund, necks long, chins in the air; they remind me of the deities arriving for the Ministerial Mahjong Council. Mr Lee’s sigh is empty and sad.
‘Shanghai is known as the Paris of the East. Glory and opportunity always have a cost.’ His gaze unfocusses and for a moment he’s not here with me.
I wonder what vexes Mr Lee. What brought him to Big Wang in the first place? I want to ask, but he shakes himself, and an almost too-bright smile replaces the sombre expression.
‘There is much to see in Shanghai, but I thought it would be fun to start in the French Concession, since Lady Jing is half-francais.’ He says the last word with a rolling trill in the r, making me blush to remember my antics.
I eat a few more too see rolls as I watch the familiar yet not familiar streets roll by.
The buildings, the roads, the trams are just like at home, but our buildings don’t carry the multicolour advertising posters selling foreign products, and none of our ghosts are bedraggled and downtrodden like the coolie pulling our rickshaw.
The coolie brings us to a stop before a particularly busy section of the street.
Tables and chairs crowd the pavement, as mortals chatter under a clear blue sky, drinking and eating.
Nestled between a florist and a cake shop is a dress shop.
Its curved glass window is filled with qipao that rival Lady Gi’s creations.
‘Rue Bourgeat,’ the coolie says.
Mr Lee hops off. ‘This is the best shopping street in all of Shanghai. Master Chu’s shop is just over there.’
Sunlight glazes every surface, burnishing everything to a golden glow. There’s an art store, an optician, a jeweller’s, shops that sell shoes and gloves, and one specialising in crystal knick-knacks.
‘It cost me three suits, if you include the one you took off my back, for your guiding services in your Shanghai. What will I get in return for being your guide and translator, Lady Jing?’ Mr Lee says, then laughs at my shocked expression.
He turns to pay the coolie who startles at the number of bank notes Mr Lee gives him.
The coolie looks as excited as I am. I take Mr Lee’s hand and we embark on my first ever shopping trip, but a prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause.
Rickshaws and motorcars vie for space on the wide avenues, the leafy canopies above cast dappled shadows on the sidewalks.
Nothing seems amiss, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us.