Shanghai (98 page)

“True, and I in yours, for your art,” she responded.

“What did you say to them?”

“The little Japanese I know—something about geishas and Kyoto—and their behaviour. I've had to learn such nonsense since their arrival in our city at the Bend in the River.”

“Thank you again,” he said, then turned to leave.

“Allow me,” she said, and signalled for her palanquin. Her runners came up fast with the elaborate conveyance, and she opened the curtain for the History Teller, who entered quickly. She followed, closing the curtain behind her.

“I've never been in a palanquin before,” he said, then added, “except on stage.”

“I only went back to using them after the Japanese arrived. They seem frightened to stop a curtained palanquin for fear one of their generals' ladies is inside.”

The History Teller nodded and said, “Clever.”

“It is a time when, if we wish to survive, we must all be clever. Where were you going?”

“Home.” He gave her an address, and she related it to one of the men. The palanquin was lifted and advanced at a sturdy trot.

In the moment the curtain was open the History Teller noticed the muscles on the man. He turned to Jiang. “These are not coolies.”

“No. It is too dangerous for coolies. Surely you see that. They are members of the Tong of the Righteous Hand—and well paid to protect me.”

He turned from her.

“You don't approve?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

She looked at the shadowed face of the beautiful man beside her. “You portray women.”

“You have seen my plays?”

“Of course. Actors and courtesans are first cousins. You move audiences of many, I move audiences of one.”

He nodded.

“But you portray women. Why?”

“It is my gift. We must all be led by that which is given to us.”

With that Jiang agreed completely. Completely. She parted the curtain, allowing the street lights to illume the History Teller's face in bands that appeared and disappeared as the palanquin moved. “You still wear your makeup.”

“Curfew prevents me from taking the time to remove it.”

“Does the makeup allow you to access us?”

“Us?”

“Women.”

He smiled just as a band of light crossed his face. “You are asking me to reveal the secrets of my art.”

She noticed he called it an art, not a craft. She'd always been surprised that actors called their work a craft while musicians never did. Finally she said, “Yes, I am asking you to reveal the secrets of your art.”

His eyes hooded as his body shifted ever so slightly, his hip tilted, his feet turned in—and his lips became heavy. His hand reached toward her face, and when his
fingers touched her lips, she was sure an ancient courtesan was touching her. The tip of her tongue touched his fingers, then she smiled and sat back.

“Very impressive, very.”

Twenty minutes later the palanquin came to a halt. The History Teller pulled the curtain aside and stepped out. “I thank you for your kindness and, as I said, I am in your debt.”

To his surprise Jiang's face was stern as she said, “Remember that, History Teller—you are in my debt.”

He bobbed his head in acknowledgment and disappeared down an alley.

Jiang nodded knowingly; of course he had not told her his actual home address.
Good
, she thought,
you are careful. We must all be careful, now
.

The History Teller passed by the Temple of the City God and momentarily wondered what this City God had been up to these past months of Japanese occupation.

A Japanese armoured vehicle rumbled slowly up Tientsin Lu. He waited for it to pass. Shanghai's streets were unnaturally deserted. People waited behind closed doors and latched shutters—waited for what might happen next.

He stepped out into the street and crossed over into the French Concession. There would be no Japanese troops or armoured cars there. The smell of the sweet olive trees gave a lie to the tension of the night.

He passed by several expensive estates guarded by high walls. Some of these wealthy people had sponsored his operas. He had, in fact, performed solos in some of their homes to entertain merchants and
Fan Kuei
. The
Fan Kuei
would stare at his makeup, and didn't know what to make of the “women” he portrayed. But the Han Chinese, mostly Hong merchants, didn't stare.
They would shout “
Hoa!
” and cheer and clap him on the back, then put up the money to sponsor his newest venture. He thought of some of them as friends, but did not trust them now. The Japanese had already identified potential collaborators, and there were many. It was not hard to find people in Shanghai who had scores to settle and would be only too happy to have the Japanese do their “settling” for them.

He stepped out of the French Concession and into the Old City. He passed by the Yu Yuan Gardens, now off limits to Chinese people. He saw a Japanese soldier pawing a Chinese courtesan and wished he had the courage to intervene, but he didn't.

Ten minutes later the History Teller stepped into the courtyard of his
shikumen
and was greeted by his old
amah
. She
tut-tutted
over him as she removed the last of the makeup from that evening's performance. He allowed her to fuss, then gently put her off. “Yes, tea would be nice.”

“Shall I wake …?”

“No, no need to wake my wife. Bring tea to my study.”

The tea was tepid and weak, but he didn't complain. The naked man had made him think of his daughter. Thoughts of her had haunted him all day. He sat there and thought of their last meeting.

His daughter, Chiao Ming, had joined the resistance movement exactly eight months earlier, when the Japanese army had begun its encirclement of Beijing. It was a natural evolution for her from Communist activities at the Shanghai Technical School. In her final year there, before the Japanese were even headed toward Shanghai, she'd spent more time in clandestine cadre meetings than she'd spent in classes. That was where she'd met her lover, Chen. Their affair had been
secretive and intense—love at the dawn of war. There they had dedicated their young lives to the cause. In fact, Chen, she'd told him, looked upon the arrival of the Japanese invaders as an opportunity, maybe even a gift. A rallying point for the masses to finally get angry enough to fight back and claim what was rightfully theirs. And it was in Nanking that he planned to make his stand—their stand.

—

“Are you mad, Chiao Ming? Nanking? Now? There will eventually be much fighting there. The Japanese can't control the interior without Nanking.”

“There will shortly be fighting everywhere, Father. Our lives are no longer our own.” She stopped, suddenly unsteady on her feet. She lurched to his desk and leaned against it.

He stepped forward quickly, “Are you sick?”

“No. Just hungry, I guess.”

“Then sit and eat.”

She stepped back. “You have extra food while others starve, Father. How can that be right?”

More Communist foolishness,
he thought, but said, “Take some with you, then, and give it to your friends.”

“No. I have no time. I need to go.”

Suddenly he opened his arms and said, “Stay, please, stay.”

She looked at him with more pity than anger and said, “And do what? Become a silly actor like you, or write idiotic tales for the stage? What earthly good are you doing, Father?”

He suppressed a grin and said, “Must be some good, must be.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, Chiao Ming, nature is extremely cruel. Anything that is not of value is discarded. But actors have been with us for a very long time. Only music, of all the arts, has been with us longer. But actors remain. Nature has not removed us—so we must serve some purpose.”

“The only purpose now is to serve the state and free the peasants.”

“Not fight the Japanese, Chiao Ming?”

“They are one and the same, Father. One and the same. And someone of your respected position should know better! Much better.”

And that was that. He could think of nothing to stop her going.

“Perhaps you're right,” he said—then tears came to his eyes. “I can't think of anything else to say.”

She surprised him by putting her hands to his face.

“I'm an old man,” he said.

“And I am not a child any more, Father. I know that in your plays you fought for China in your way, now I need to fight for it in mine. Why are you looking at me, Father?”

“Where did you get that necklace?”

“You gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday.”

“Yes, I did, didn't I?” He smiled despite himself and thought, when Chiao Ming had first admired the necklace he had said to her, “But it is incomplete. It broke and is now missing some pieces.”

“Yes, but those missing make those present more valuable,” she'd said.

He had been pleased, very pleased—a true History Teller's point of view—the simple piece that makes the rest comprehensible.

Just so did she stand before him, wearing the necklace—it was the simple necklace that made her understandable to him. He knew that it was impossible to understand another being completely, even one you loved. But a necklace—that could be completely understood, and from that specific you could at least discern the outline of the whole. He nodded.

“What, Father?”

“I was just thinking of the necklace. Do you know the story it tells?”

Each of the glass globes contained a separate image.

“I assume, Father, that it is another of your fairy tales.”

“The Black-Haired people's fairy tales,” he corrected her.

“As you will, Father. As you will.”

He nodded again but this time very slowly. “I'm going to turn my back now, Chiao Ming. When I turn back it would help me if you were gone.”

“Won't you give me your blessing, Father?”

The History Teller felt himself spinning in time. For an instant he was back on a mountain—an old emperor raging against the cold—beginning to disrobe.

“In return for a kiss—anything.”

As her lips pressed against his forehead, the necklace he had given her on her fifteenth birthday brushed against his shoulder.

Then he turned his back—and she was gone.

The young Carver convened the meeting with an abrupt clearing of his throat. Mai Bao's daughter, now Jiang, had found it difficult to avoid the curfew patrols, and in spite of having given herself hours to get to the meeting she had arrived just minutes before the appointed hour. The Assassin had come directly from his hiding place with Maximilian and his Guild members. Curfews and patrols were not an impediment to his movements. The Confucian had arrived early as well—and was oddly silent.

“We have serious decisions to make,” the Carver began. “Have you set up communications with your Confucians?”

“Yes. I dealt with Madame Sun myself, and I have Confucians highly placed near both of the other two Soong sisters. They await my orders.”

“
Our
orders,” the Assassin said, with a deadly earnest.

“Yes, of course, our orders,” the Confucian snapped back.

Jiang remembered her mother's warning about the Confucian.

“How do we proceed?” asked the Carver.

“Mao is the Man with a Book,” the Confucian stated. “Are we agreed on that?”

Neither Jiang nor the Assassin wanted to believe that Mao was the Man with a Book, but he certainly fit the criteria.

“Good,” the Confucian said, taking their silence for agreement. “Then how do we use my influence with the Soong daughters to support Mao?”

“First we get him to stop fighting with the Kuomintang,” said the Carver.

“Chiang Kai Shek's forces are attacking the Communists, not vice versa,” said the Confucian.

“Agreed,” said the Carver, “So how do we get Chiang Kai Shek to stop attacking the Communists?”

There was a long pause as a possible answer rose in each of their minds: Find a common enemy that both need to fight. But it was the Confucian who stated the obvious.

“The Japanese have been occupying China for years, and that reality has never forced the Communists and the Kuomintang to stop fighting each other.” He felt Jiang staring at him. He turned on her. “Time for you to speak, young lady. You haven't said a word. Your mother was never hesitant to speak her mind. Now it's your turn.”

Jiang felt like crying because one potential answer leaped into her head. Create a catastrophe so awful that the two sides would have no choice but to join together. But the horror would have to be so great … but it was all too early. Not enough was known to
make choices. She had no idea what role the Compact had to play—and neither did any of the men standing in the Warrens. Mao might well be the Man with a Book, but he seemed to be assuming power on his own, without their help. The Kuomintang forces had pulled out of Shanghai and were now farther west, the Communists were in the north—Nanking lay between the two and needed to be taken by any power that really wanted to control China. Nanking was obviously the next city the Japanese had in their sights, but what could the Compact do to determine the outcome of that inevitable battle?

Jiang stepped forward, her elegance graced by the flickering light. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This would be her first statement in the Ivory Compact, and she knew it ran counter to much of the historic thinking of the group. Her long fingers seemed to pluck ideas from the air much as her mother had plucked music from her arhu.

“The Japanese are not like the Taipingers. Or the Manchus. Chesu Hoi has warned us that there is an evil loosed upon the land.” She paused and put her hand up to stop the Confucian from interrupting her. “And I believe him. It is time for us to ride the dragon's tail.”