Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Rain, Rain, Go Away
We tumble out of the Paramount in the wee hours, feet sore, hearts still dancing to the music.
The muggy air wraps around us. I gaze up – no stars to be seen, but it doesn’t matter.
The dancing and the music were stars enough for me tonight.
I touch my hair pin, feeling like I’m sparkling from the inside out.
We stand under the neon awning and it slowly dawns on me that the streets are deserted.
My Shanghai is never this quiet. There’s always ghosts or yaojing about.
But here, the tram line in front of the ballroom is silent.
The three-storey red brick building opposite is completely dark.
There are no taxis or rickshaws to be had.
‘We could walk back,’ Ah Lang says.
Gigi looks at her feet. ‘Only if you carry me. There is no way I am walking.’
I wriggle my toes in the borrowed shoes. Away from the dance floor, my feet are starting to complain. I shake my head. ‘I don’t think I’ll make it back if I have to walk.’
The men glance at each other – but they are saved by movement at the end of the road.
‘There’s a rickshaw!’ Ah Lang sprints away and manages to catch the coolie’s attention. This rickshaw is one of the more modern ones, pulled by a bicycle.
‘You and petal take the rickshaw. Mr Lee and I will get the next one,’ Ah Lang offers as the rickshaw driver pedals towards us. Mr Lee nods, but Gigi makes meaningful eyes at me.
I clear my throat, trying to suppress the tickling laugh caught there. ‘You and Gigi go on. Mr Lee and I can wait for the next rickshaw.’
Gigi sweeps past me before Ah Lang can try to out-polite me. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
She’s so shameless I can’t help laughing.
‘What?’ Gigi says in mock innocence. Once Ah Lang climbs on she turns and gives me a smile so smug and satisfied it ought to be stuffed with canary feathers and dipped in fresh milk.
We watch them leave, and then Mr Lee and I are alone. I feel suddenly shy, and when he looks at me his gaze smoulders. My cheeks warm and I get a fluttery feeling inside my chest that strangely makes me feel like I need to pee.
What is wrong with me? I clear my throat, again, determined to shake off that odd sensation. Maybe it’s the champagne.
‘That was fun,’ I say, and then wince. My voice sounds too loud, too bright in the soft night.
‘Sure,’ he says, his mouth a grim line.
Did he not enjoy himself? I remember the rules from the book about winning friends.
If they worked on Gigi, maybe they will work on Mr Lee.
Number one was to avoid complaining – which means I can’t talk about my feet.
Charm . . . I discard that since it’s definitely not a strong suit.
I finally land on something that could work – the author said to praise achievements and encourage others to talk about themselves.
Mr Lee rarely talks about himself. So I say, ‘Where did you learn to dance so well?’
‘Abundant gratitude, Lady Jing,’ he says, and I suck my teeth in mock anger. It makes a corner of his mouth lift. ‘I’m not that good a dancer, but I enjoyed dancing with you.’
‘You helped me learn the steps, much better than Brother Zhu. He just shimmied around.’ Oops – I just broke the don’t complain rule. The lessons are harder than I thought. Hurriedly, I tack on some praise in the hopes it can neutralise my faux pas. ‘Brother Zhu dances wonderfully.’
Mr Lee’s shy expression shutters. A dark cloud settles over his features, pulls his eyebrows down and douses the light in his gaze.
‘There’s a rickshaw,’ he says, turning abruptly.
His voice has an edge to it, like the surly Mr Lee from earlier.
He hurries down the steps to hail the coolie, leaving a chill between us.
Once in the rickshaw, surly Mr Lee sits stiff and silent. I remember the next rule from the book. Acknowledge my mistakes. ‘It’s not anything to do with Brother Zhu’s dance skills; it’s only I felt so lost. I had no idea what I was doing on the dance floor.’
He scoffs, crosses his arms. ‘Well, you certainly looked like you were having fun.’
I don’t understand the meaning in his tone. ‘I was. No one told me how fabulous dancing makes you feel.’
Another awkward silence. I look over at him, annoyed that he’s not acknowledging my efforts.
I try again, not wanting such a special night to end on such a sour note.
I pat his arm gently to make him look at me, then fold my hands at my waist in the old style, bowing as low as I can manage sitting in the narrow rickshaw.
‘This unintelligent one laboured your procession to take care of this troublesome woman. By your fortune has this unworthy one had the best time of her life in the last two days. Abundant gratitude for treasured Mr Lee’s kindness and friendship.’
When I straighten, Mr Lee is staring at me, surprise and shock in his wide eyes. He sputters for a moment, then whispers, ‘Treasured?’
I nod. A small smile creeps up the corner of his lips, but then he frowns again. ‘What about Brother Zhu? You said he’s wonderful.’
‘He’s a complete pig.’ The words are barely out before I clap a hand over my mouth, dismayed I forgot rule number one. No criticising is hard to remember. But instead of souring Mr Lee’s attitude, I’m rewarded with a flash of dimples. He settles back into the rickshaw, the stiffness all gone.
‘You didn’t find him charming?’ he says.
Encouraged by his reaction, I try more criticism. ‘I wanted to stomp his smug face into the ground. “Feisty Celestials are my favourite”? Oh please. What a bunch of rotted turd-eggs.’
Mr Lee is grinning widely now.
‘The point is,’ I continue, ‘I need him. He has good intel. I would have to be incredibly stupid to throw that away simply because he’s full of horse farts.’
It’s cooled considerably, and a refreshing breeze plays over the back of my neck. Mr Lee leans right back so his head is pillowed by his interlocked hands.
‘Why are you so cheerful all of a sudden?’ I ask.
‘You willingly used courtly piss-fart to thank me; I’m touched,’ he says. ‘Treasured Lady Jing, these past two days have been wonderful for me too. Thank you for your friendship and your trust.’
Mr Lee’s soft gaze meets mine. His knuckle skims my cheek and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingers at my jaw. I’m suddenly unable to move, caught in his gaze, the warmth of his hand against my cheek. The moment stretches, and Gigi’s words float back to me.
Mr Lee likes you.
He leans in, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breath feathers over my lips. I’m about to close my eyes when a crack of lightning splits the sky, followed by the deafening roar of thunder. Panic seizes me. I cringe away from Mr Lee.
The heavens open and rain sheets from the sky.
I want to run, but I’m frozen to the wooden seat of the rickshaw, every droplet of rain chaining me in place.
The last time I encountered rain was during my first month as Big Wang’s ward in yin Shanghai.
It was a sudden storm like this one. Bullhead held me for hours, wrapped in heated blankets, feeding me hot soup, until I finally warmed up again.
It’s been so long I’d forgotten how awful it is.
Mr Lee tries to pull the rain cover over us, but it will only pull out partway, like a broken fan.
The coolie turns to us. ‘The rickshaw is rented. I don’t know how to fix it. Contain my ten thousand apologies!’
Mr Lee peels off his jacket and holds it above my head.
But it makes no difference. The water seeps through my dress and slicks my skin.
My muscles won’t obey. The downpour washes away the warm glow from the ballroom.
It floods me with a chill that sinks into the pit of my stomach.
I try to blink the water from my eyes, but there’s too much rain.
Rising water wraps around my throat with smooth, cold hands. I whimper.
‘Lady Jing?’
My teeth rattle I’m shivering so hard. I can’t answer. Mr Lee calls my name over and over, his voice pitching higher. But I can’t focus enough to make my lips move. The water . . . it’s dark. And cold. I don’t want to be here. Mr Lee’s voice sounds far away. Muffled. Like I’m already underwater.
Images flash in my mind – a link of chain, the splash of water, a pale face watching me as water closes over my head.
I flail and flounder, my lungs burn. I see flashes of white in the dark – long, slender fingers reaching for me.
I try to grab hold, hoping to be pulled out of the water – instead nails dig into my scalp, push me deeper.
Cold fingers grip my shoulders. I’ll never get out. I try to twist from the grip.
‘Lady Jing!’
A voice pierces through the murk of panic and fear. A voice I know. A voice I trust. Bit by bit I come back to myself, to Mr Lee shaking me, calling my name. The rain has stopped. I’m soaked through, shaking and sobbing.
‘Mr Lee? Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.’ I hold tight to him, pressing my face into the hollow of his throat, his familiar smell a safe harbour from my waking nightmare.
‘You’re safe, Lady Jing. You’re safe,’ Mr Lee whispers over and over, holding me tight.
I don’t know how we get to my room. I’m sitting on the pink sofa. I feel strange, like my body isn’t mine. I’m clammy and wet. I want to peel off my skin so I can escape the sensation.
‘Let me call the doctor. You don’t look well, Lady Jing.’
‘No, no doctor.’ I can’t bear the thought of a stranger prodding and poking at me.
He leaves me and I hear water running in the bathroom. He comes back, wraps me in towels. ‘Ten thousand apologies, Lady Jing, but you’ll be warmer if you can remove your dress.’
‘I d-don’t know how. Gigi h-helped me.’ The shaking makes it hard to talk.
I hear Mr Lee on the phone. Moments later, a knock, hurried footsteps, then Gigi’s ginger smell, hands on my shoulders, voice in my ear.
‘Arms up,’ she says. I try to comply, but my muscles won’t cooperate.
‘Help me, Mr Lee, hold her arms.’
The dress peels off, and a warm towel wraps around me.
‘The bath is ready,’ Mr Lee says.
They both help me stand. My beautiful dress is a sodden pile on the floor. The plum blossoms wilted, pathetic, and bedraggled.
‘I can manage from here, Mr Lee,’ Gigi says.
Mr Lee leaves us in the bathroom, and Gigi helps me out of the dudou and tap pants and into the warm bath.
‘Your lips are blue,’ Gigi says, a note of worry in her tone. ‘What happened?’
‘It rained.’ I attempt to laugh, but it only makes me dizzy.
There’s a knock on the door, and a bottle of dark red liquid topped with a straw appears. ‘I brought Lady Jing some blood earlier – see if she’ll have some?’
Gigi brings me the blood; I drink the whole thing. There’s a momentary flare of warmth that flickers in my chest.
‘Is there more?’ she calls out. ‘I think it’s helping.’
The door opens again; a hand pushes two bottles into the bathroom, before disappearing again. I drink those too, and the tiny flame inside me grows a little stronger.
Condensation drips from the bathroom mirror. Gigi sits on the toilet, watching me. The hot water melts away the ice in my veins, but isn’t enough to warm my skin. My teeth are still chattering. My hair sticks to my face, limp and sodden. Gigi’s marcelles are gone too, pulled out by the steam.
‘Rain does this to you?’ she says.
I sigh, sink deeper, try to pull in the comforting heat. ‘I’m not good with water.’
‘But—’ She gestures at the bath.
‘I don’t love baths, but I can handle them. I can see and feel the bottom of the tub, I can stop the water any time I want, drain it if there is too much. But rain, rivers, lakes – I can’t control how much or how deep.’
‘Is this because of what those bitches did to you?’ Her eyes blaze.
‘I can’t remember.’
She rests her chin on her hand. ‘I always wondered why it never rained in yin Shanghai. Never knew it was because of you.’
I jerk at her claim; water sloshes onto the black-and-white tiled floor. ‘What? That’s ridiculous. It never rains in Hell.’ Well apart from that one time, but it was so long ago.
‘It used to. Before you came. It rains in the other cities of Hell. Just not Shanghai.’ She grabs a towel. ‘Your colour is better. Get into bed. I’ll tell Mr Lee how to make sure you don’t freeze.’ She hesitates, then says with a small voice, ‘You scared me.’
I wrap the warm towel around me, touched that she cares. ‘Thank you, Gigi.’
‘Pish. I didn’t want you to rip my dress. That’s all.’ She winks at me. ‘I’ll leave you in Mr Lee’s capable hands.’
When I finally crawl into bed, in a fresh dudou and tap pants, I’m shivering but no longer violently.
As if handling eggshell porcelain, Mr Lee gently pulls the covers over both my shoulders, securely swaddling me.
He blows out a long breath, and the weight of his hand rests lightly on my back, holding the thick quilts in place.
I reach out from under my cocoon of blankets and rest my hand on his forearm. ‘You’re so warm.’ I snuggle closer, teeth chattering.
He gazes at me, concern etching lines into his forehead, around his mouth.
‘Your lips are still blue.’ He clears his throat.
Clears it again. His ears shine pink, as does his face.
Not looking at me he says, ‘Lady Gi said the best way to . . . to warm you is to . . .’ he clears his throat, ‘use my body heat.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea. You’re like a furnace. Get under the covers with me.’
He grimaces, that bao face returning. ‘She says I have to undress.’
‘Sure,’ I say, thinking how warm he will be. The covers are cold except where Mr Lee touches them. I flip open the blanket, gesture for him to get in.
He jerks away, staring upwards.
‘What are you doing? It’s cold! I thought you were going to warm me up?’
He runs his hand over the back of his neck, not looking at me. ‘Okay, but you have to close your eyes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to undress. Lady Gi said it has to be skin to skin to be effective.’
‘We’re all naked under our clothes. Stop being such a prude.’
‘Do you want me to warm you or not?’
I huff, close my eyes. The bed shifts under his weight, and after a moment, he slides under the cover with me.
His body radiates heat, though he’s kept on his underpants.
I snuggle close and wrap my arms around him, pressing my cold cheek to his chest. He gasps, but doesn’t pull away.
He lies very still, his breathing uneven.
Bit by bit, the shivering abates.
‘Try not to die, okay? I’ve become rather fond of you.’
‘I’m very hard to kill,’ I murmur.
His heartbeat tumbles in the space between us. As I listen to the reassuring whoosh of blood rushing through him, bit by bit, I am warmed.
I am safe.