The Nine Fold Heaven (26 page)

No doubt Gao had posted this because his job involved a lot of dangerous coming and going. And to look at his home, he clearly needed all the prosperity he could get. I knocked nervously, having no idea what, or whom, to expect. The door was opened by a thirtyish, sad-faced woman.

I apologized, thinking I had the wrong address, then asked, “Good morning, does someone named Gao or Hong Bin live here?”

The woman in her worn cotton top and pants seemed to suddenly come back to life. She studied me with sudden interest.

“Yes, mister, but who are you?” Her eyes were dull and her voice weak.

“My name is Shen Wei, his friend.” This was my latest invented name, to go with my man’s clothing.

“A friend? Then please help me.”

A strange request to a total stranger.

It was my turn to ask. “But . . . who are you?” Maybe she was a sister or a cousin.

“His wife.”

I was confused. “Whose wife?”

“Gao’s wife, who else?”

The word
wife
exploded in my ears like a gunshot.

“Oh, so he’s married?”

“You said you’re a friend and you don’t know?”

I remembered Gao had told me this but had pushed it out of my mind. It came as a shock to find myself face-to-face with her. Now the fact that Gao had a wife became a reality.

I put on a fake smile. “Of course he told me, I just forgot. Is he here, can I see him?”

“No.”

Her eyes were red; perhaps from the dust or perhaps she was crying.

“He’s not here. My husband rarely comes home and I don’t know his friends. If you’re my husband’s friend, do you know someone called Camilla?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Hmm . . . what about her?”

“My husband told me that if a Camilla comes, I should give her a package. So I’ve been waiting. But you’re not Camilla, are you?”

I quickly said, “She’s a mutual friend.”

“So can you take my husband’s package and give it to her?”

“Of course I can. Do you know what’s inside?”

She shook her head. “Some notes, but I don’t know what. My parents were too poor to send me to school, so I never learned to read.”

“Any idea why your husband wants to give it to Camilla?”

“Don’t know. I just do what he tells me. Come in so I can give you the package.”

I stepped inside the gloomy place. The whole house was about the size of the mansion of Master Lung’s foyer and kitchen. Except for a picture calendar and a few red lucky sayings pasted on the wall, there was no decoration or anything of value. I began to wonder how Gao could be so poor. Then I recalled that Lung was forcing him to pay back his father’s gambling debts and kept raising the amount Gao supposedly owed. But I hadn’t imagined that he would be this badly off. This brave, loyal man had been working practically for free.

The wife asked, “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, please don’t bother. I just had tea before I came.”

“All right, I’ll get you the package.”

She went inside another room, then came back to hand me a big envelope.

I opened it, took out the notebook, and flipped the pages. It had to be Gao’s diary. My heart beat fast. I had no idea that he had kept any records of his life. I wanted to read it right then and there but suppressed my impulse.

I looked around the almost-empty house and asked, “You have children?”

She shook her head. “My husband never comes home. I never know what he’s doing out there.”

Then she wiped her eyes and looked a little happier. “But every month he sends me money. So maybe he’s not such a bad husband after all. Ours is an arranged marriage. But I am very lonely here.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Gao,” I said, swallowing the last two words.

“A fortune-teller told me this is my fate.”

Not knowing how to respond to this, I remained silent.

She went on. “But this morning he appeared out of nowhere—”

I cut her off sharply. “He did, you mean Mr. Gao?”

“He didn’t say much, only took some belongings, then left again.” She paused to wipe away tears. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Maybe he has something urgent to deal with?”

I wanted to ask if she loved her husband but again suppressed my urge. Even if she knew anything about love, she would be too embarrassed to express her feelings, especially to me, a young “man.”

She looked as if she suddenly remembered something. “Mister, you want something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got to leave and thanks for this. I will give it to Camilla.”

“Come back and tell me what she said.”

“I will,” I said, but didn’t mean it.

She sighed heavily. “Can you do me a favor?”

I hesitated.

She went on. “When you see my husband, please ask him to come home.”

“Why do you think he’s not coming back?”

“Because this time he left a lot of money. He also said he is going to join the revolution. Do you know about that?”

My heart began to pound. Finally, I could only come up with, “Oh, sorry . . .”

I’d uttered “sorry” so many times during this brief conversation with a stranger.

“When did your husband leave here?”

“Early this morning when I left for the market. I’d planned to fix him a big dinner.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I don’t know. He always takes the bus.”

Now I thought that the man who’d waved to me from the bus might have been Gao. I couldn’t take this anymore.

“Sorry to bother you. Can I have some tea now?“

Actually, I did not want tea; this was just a ruse to distract her so I could make an easy exit. Once her back was turned I took out a wad of cash, placed it on the table, and quickly left.

33

The Diary and the Curio Shop

I
was afraid to read Gao’s diary, for fear his irreversible tragic world would come alive from the pages and engulf me, but my curiosity was stronger than my fear. I really did love Jinying, but I felt something with Gao that Jinying could not give me.

So I entered one of the unprepossessing little restaurants, ordered tea and sesame cakes, then opened the notebook. I caressed the worn cover, as if it were Gao’s rugged face. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them back and opened to the first page.

 

 

To my surprise, though a gangster’s bodyguard, Gao had clear handwriting with accurate strokes. How sad that he had been pushed into marriage with this illiterate wife. Maybe I was better off not having parents—I could love whoever I wanted. Or as many as I wanted. But now, it was only Gao who was on my mind.

I flipped the pages and started to read one of his early entries.

I closed my eyes and imagined Gao’s big, scarred hand again massaging my face. I took another sip of my tea, a bite of cake, and turned to another page.

Next he quoted a familiar poem by Yuan Shen:

This poem reminded me of the divination picked by the bird:

I sighed, muttering, “Gao, If only on that day I had the courage to say I love you. . . .”

But what most affected me was Gao’s most recent entry:

As I set the book down, I noticed a scrap of paper protruding from between the pages. I pulled it out and saw that it was a newspaper clipping with my picture. I realized that I had never given Gao a picture of me.

I murmured to myself in the dingy restaurant, “Gao, please don’t be a revolutionary and get yourself killed. I can’t be your wife, but I still care for you. . . .”

Then I thought of a poem from a thousand years ago:

 

Last year by this gate,

Plum blossoms reflect the pink on your face.

Today, your face is nowhere to be seen,

Leaving only the plum blossoms nodding in the Spring wind.

 

I felt tears fill my eyes. Embarrassed, I left a few bills on the table and quickly exited the restaurant. I looked up at the sky and silently asked, “Gao, are you still alive?”

But heaven rarely deigns to answer us mortals’ questions.

It would be futile to look for Gao, especially if he’d really joined the revolution. But there were many other ways he might have been killed. Though he would always have a place in my heart, I had to face that the time had come for me to let go and move on. My future was with Jinying, Jinjin, and Peiling. But before departing, I needed to go to the Huangpu River one last time.

The legend goes that there is an ancient tortoise living on the river’s bottom. Once in a while, he’ll rise up to the surface to greet the passersby on the riverbank. Those who are fortunate enough to meet this fabulous animal will attain the same longevity for which it is famous. One can also pray to him for the longevity of loved ones. But only a few are so lucky—the tortoise only appears every thirty or forty years.

I planned to use my “heavenly” voice to lure the tortoise up to the surface to bestow longevity and good luck upon the people I loved. I doubted I would be able to return to Shanghai again, certainly not on the chance of seeing a reclusive turtle.

Once at the riverbank, I went to my favorite spot under the colossal goddess statue. As I was scanning the waves for the tortoise, I began to sing my best tunes from my Heavenly Songbird days: “How Can I Stop Thinking of You”; “Looking for You”; “It’s Rare We Can Be Together” . . . Today, my songs were tributes to Gao, our hopeless love—briefly rubbing shoulders in this Ten Thousand Miles of Red Dust....

The river, as it had in Confucius’s time, flowed endlessly. But as much as I strained my eyes, no longevity tortoise appeared. So I simply sent my good wishes for my loved ones to the waves as they flowed gently by.

Sadness welled up in me as I thought of all our lives flowing on, like the river. Madame Lewinsky, Shadow, Gao, even Lung and Wang. I felt as if the people I had lost were holes in my heart.

When I finished my solitary singing, feeling drained, I made my way to the main street, planning to take a rickshaw to take me back to my waiting family. When I was waving at the passing vehicles, I saw a street urchin shouting,
“Haowai! Haowai!”
(“special news,” or “extra edition”).

In my present discouraged mood, I assumed that it must be some bad news about someone I knew. I waved urgently to the urchin, paid him a few cents, took the newspaper, and leaned on a tree to read.

The victim had to be Gao. I couldn’t talk myself out of this dismal conclusion. As I kept reading the brief story over and over, the print began to blur and the newspaper slipped from my grasp and fell to the ground amidst the leftover breakfasts and other litter. I tried to steady myself and stumbled along.

A well-dressed gentleman stopped and asked, “You feeling all right ?”

I feigned a smile. “I’m fine, sir, just some indigestion.”

The last thing I wanted now was to have to make conversation with a stranger.

Not wanting even to deal with a rickshaw puller, I decided to walk for a while. As I passed people and a row of expensive antique shops, I saw something that extinguished my last remaining bit of hope.

To distract myself, I had let my eyes range over the goods displayed in the windows: massive gold bracelets, Ming vases, luminous green jade, carved rhinoceros horns, and many other pricy objects. As I gazed, something sparkling caught my attention. Lying at the bottom of one store’s display window was an object I recognized.

It was the knife I’d given Gao as a token of our love.

A wave of vertigo hit me. With great effort, I steadied myself and went in to inquire. A lanky, fortyish man with a narrow face stood up slowly to greet me.

“Mister, do you like something in our shop window?”

I pointed to the knife.

His bushy brows knitted. “Hmm, sorry, mister, but someone already bought it.”

I asked, unable to hide the anxiety in my tone, “Can I take a look anyway?”

He nodded, took out the knife, and set it on a felt square on the counter for me to inspect. There was no doubt. It was the one I’d given to Gao. The one he’d sworn he’d never part with it, so long as he was alive.

I felt as if my heart was being ripped in two. It took all my willpower not to simply collapse on the floor.

“I’ll buy this.” I hoped my voice was not shaking.

“But sorry, mister, it’s already sold. Why don’t you look at other things here, we have more than five hundred pieces of—”

“If it’s sold, then why is it still in the shop window?”

“Because the customer wasn’t carrying enough money, so he paid me half. He’s coming back soon to pay the rest.”

“All right”—I opened my wallet and took out a thick wad of cash and held it up—“what if I pay you double what he paid and it’s mine?”

He stared at the cash lewdly, his jaw dropping. After a moment, he nodded. “All right. Done.”

I kept the money in my hand, so as not to make it too easy for him. What I really wanted for it was information.

So I asked, “How did you get this?”

And how so quickly, I thought. Gao had been killed just this morning and his bones were still warm. Someone had been in a hurry to cash in on Gao’s tragedy.

The man frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t—”

I cut him off. “Of course you can . . .” I slapped down two more bills.

He smiled cunningly. “Did you read in the newspaper
haowai
about the bus shooting?”

I nodded.

“This knife was taken from the dead person.”

“But how do you know?”

“When the person came here to sell the knife he boasted about it to me.”

“Wasn’t he afraid you’ll tell the police?”

He chuckled. “Mister, you think I’m so stupid? I have a wife and eight children at home!”

“But this is fast!”

“It’s smart to get rid of evidence as quickly as possible. Besides, those people always need money.”

He studied me curiously. “Why do you want this knife so much?” This time I chuckled. “Ha, you think I’m paying you so much to ask questions? Remember your wife and children at home.”

Now looking scared, he silently wrapped the knife for me and handed it over.