Chapter 18
Eighteen
Hungry
Gigi insists on returning to the stalls with the hair pins, the painted jewellery boxes, the perfume bottles, the cloisonné mirrors and knick-knacks and we stand around forever while Gigi haggles with the stall keepers.
When we finally get back to the car, we are laden with parcels and I’m hungry as well as grumpy.
Willie takes pity on us and drives us to Nanxiang, a canal town not far from Shanghai, and parks in front of a single-storey dark wood pavilion in the centre of a large and pretty garden.
‘These are the best xiao long bao around,’ Willie says as a young woman in a black qipao seats us at a round table by the window. I gaze wistfully at her hair, bobbed short and set in those fashionable marcelle waves.
‘Did you enjoy the market, Lady Jing?’ Ah Lang asks as towers of steaming baskets are placed in the centre of the table, along with side dishes of sliced cucumber with Szechwan peppers and cold jellyfish.
‘Yes, thank you for accompanying me. Though, I think Gigi had the most fun of us all, judging by her many purchases.’
‘Big Wang said we should have fun, not spend our time trying to find out if some mortal swindled him,’ Gigi says.
I glance at Willie, in case he twigs I’m following my own agenda, but he doesn’t seem bothered.
I guess today is the last day of the Mahjong Council, so whatever I do here is unlikely to affect what Big Wang needs to do back in yin Shanghai.
Brother Zhu will have answers – I need to find a way to talk to him, but I still haven’t figured out how to broach the subject without giving myself away.
‘I want to go dancing,’ Gigi continues.
Ah Lang’s face cracks into a bright smile. ‘I know a great place for dancing and music.’
‘You do?’ Gigi asks.
‘A friend of mine likes to spend time in the jazz bars here. We often play music together. I strum my pipa, and he plays his bamboo flute.’ He chuckles. ‘We sometimes even play the Paramount—’
Gigi is staring at Ah Lang like she’s never seen him before. ‘You’ve been to yang Shanghai?’ Her voice is sharp and high.
Ah Lang seems oblivious to Gigi’s rising anger. ‘Yes, a few times a year my friend invites me.’
The temperature around the table drops noticeably.
‘I’ve been sitting in Hell, waiting for that window once a year when I’m allowed back into the Celestial realms to see you, my darling.
’ The way Gigi bites out the last word does not bode well for Ah Lang.
He pales noticeably. ‘When at any time, I could have popped over to yang Shanghai, and watched you and your friend play the Paramount.’
‘It’s only Brother Zhu. I didn’t think it was important.’ Ah Lang rubs the back of his neck, attempts a pained looking smile. ‘You know now.’
I feel sorry for Ah Lang, who is squirming and clearly confused as to Gigi’s sudden pique. But this is perfect. Brother Zhu is exactly who I need to see.
‘Maybe you’re right, Gigi. Maybe some fun is in order,’ I say, but Gigi’s answering glare makes me hesitate. I clear my throat. Probably best to let her calm down first. ‘I’m full, I need to walk for a bit.’
Mr Lee stands as well. ‘Yes, excellent idea, Lady Jing. One hundred steps after every meal is the path to longevity.’ He raises a fist palm salute to Gigi and Ah Lang. Neither notice. Ah Lang is too busy staring wide-eyed at Gigi, who reminds me strongly of a cobra about to strike.
Willie glances at us, then at Gigi and Ah Lang. He too stands. ‘I’ll wait in my car.’
We all hurry out of the restaurant. As soon as the doors glide shut behind us, Gigi’s voice, strident, rises in volume.
‘She’s very intense,’ Mr Lee says, casting a glance over his shoulder as Willie heads to his car. It isn’t until we’re out of earshot of Gigi’s shrieking that we slow and start giggling.
With great effort, I pull my face into a mock frown.
‘This won’t do.’ I mimic the sonorous intonations of old-school scholars, clasp my hands behind my back as we stroll beneath crooked pines.
‘Effort makes the mind, Mr Lee. And what better way to hone our intellect and moral aptitude than to recite the classics.’
Mr Lee clasps his hands behind his back and nods sagely. ‘Ah yes. I am curious as to which poets you consider to be classics.’
My neck prickles and I have the sensation we are being watched again.
I pretend to take in the scenery, gazing all around.
Two white-haired men in navy silk changpao play xiangqi chess on one of the stone tables dotted around the garden, there’s a pond beyond them where a group of women have gathered, and songbirds flit from tree to tree, their chirps a pleasant background symphony.
Nothing jumps out. But the malice burning holes in my back is undeniable.
I clear my throat, play the game of carefree nonchalance, and intone, ‘Wind sweeps the world; rain darkens the village. Thunder rolls from the mountains like churning waves. The fire and blanket keep me very warm. Me and my cat are not going out.’
Mr Lee cough-laughs. ‘You consider Lu You’s poem about his cat a classic?’
‘It displays common sense and compassion,’ I say haughtily, keeping my senses alert. ‘And there are no rotted butterflies, peach blossoms, pines, or heavenly ponds.’
Mr Lee laughs, then glances sideways at me.
‘Perhaps you’ll enjoy this one. It is not a classic as Lord Ma might consider, but I find it moving, nonetheless.
’ He runs a hand over his face, wiping away his goofy smile.
He strokes a non-existent beard, gazes at the pond with its nodding lotus flowers, and recites:
‘Please pardon my wanton stubbornness, immortal goddess.
Awake or asleep I see you always; the reason being
I carved your image into a stamp,
And with it branded you over and over onto my soul.
My praises for you, whether you care to listen or not,
are faithful and dependable as a cockerel’s midday crow;
Every second stretches as long as a day,
Every second raises my voice even higher.
I never wished for you to come down from heaven –
A thunderbolt that disrupts all.
But I hope, on an unexpected spring day,
When people are busy minding their own happiness,
a quiet breeze should bring me a message
That heaven and earth will one day meet again.’
‘Wah. Apart from the rotted roosters, that was really good. I’ve never heard anything like it.’ I guide us towards the women, to check if any yaojing are hidden among them.
He ducks his head, looking pleased by my reaction. ‘It’s new, not yet published. My friend Shao Xunmei wrote it.’
We skirt the pond, passing the women practicing tai chi in the rock garden. They all smell of mortal yang qi.
‘It’s much better than those crusty poems about being drunk and leaning on pines,’ I say. My throat itches from the combined scent of the women’s blood and qi. I swallow, trying to soothe the burn.
Mr Lee chuckles, and I guide us away from the women towards the canals in town.
As their scent fades, Mr Lee’s grows more intense.
I can almost taste the honeyed overripe persimmon flavour of his blood, the cool watermelon crispness of his yang qi.
My gums swell and ache, my fangs pressing to slide out.
I recite cat poems to keep my mind off Mr Lee’s intoxicating scent, and when my throat is too dry to continue, I demand Mr Lee recite more of his friend Xunmei’s recent compositions.
We head to the white-washed buildings of Nanxiang where grey tiles ripple across the rooftops and stone dragons undulate along the ridges. The town is built on an ancient network of narrow canals, which makes it easy to meander, and easy to spot anyone following us.
When we reach the first bridge, Mr Lee holds out his arm. ‘Please help me across the bridge; I don’t much like water,’ he says with a gentle smile.
I swallow again, this time because I’m salivating and don’t want to drool. I can’t seem to deny the expectation in his gaze, so I take his arm and smile tightly.
‘Why thank you for your kindness,’ he says. ‘This is much better than being wrapped in a burlap bag.’
As soon as we are over the bridge, I put some space between us, and try to breathe through my clenched teeth.
The sensation of being followed is still there but I’m too distracted to focus.
We pass through groups of mortals, all out for a gentle stroll.
Whoever is watching us might be any one of them but I when I try to sniff the air for strangers, all I can smell is Mr Lee.
We turn a corner and are faced with another bridge and another canal.
He links his arm through mine and I practically drag him across, impatient to stop the physical contact.
I pull away as soon as we are over. My fangs are out and my head spins.
We turn a corner, and there is yet another bridge.
I nearly cry in frustration and rub my face to try and soothe that ache in my gums. Mr Lee glances down at me and without a word offers me a too see roll from his pocket, then another, then another.
I lean against a white-washed wall and close my eyes. ‘I need blood.’
I feel him flinch, in the change of his scent, in the sourness that betrays his reluctance. Like before. I pretend not to notice, though it stings.
‘Right now?’ he asks.
‘No, not now. But soon.’
‘What happens if you don’t get any?’
I look at him. He’s pale, but there’s a steely resolve in his eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never had to find out. You know, it’s been almost a hundred years and Big Wang has never failed to provide for me.’ I bite my lip. ‘I really should be nicer to the old bat.’
Mr Lee laughs but it sounds flat. We’ve come full circle in the small town and exhausted all the streets.
‘We’d better head back,’ he says.