The Nine Fold Heaven (3 page)

After that, I went to put a disc on his gramophone and turned the volume to the softest. My singing of “A Wandering Songstress” flooded the room with bittersweet emotion. All I could hope was that “wandering” would lead to something sweet, not bitter.

 

That evening, after I returned to the hotel, I decided not to go back to Hong Kong to look for Jinying. For if I did, how could I find him, or him, me? It would be what the Chinese call “looking for a needle on the sea bottom.” Anyway, sooner or later, he would have to come back to Shanghai.

Instead, I would look for Jinjin. The first step was to pay my singing teacher, Madame Lewinsky, a visit.

4

Running into an Ambassador

T
he next morning, I dressed up like a student: white shirt, black skirt, my hair in two short pigtails, and no makeup. I didn’t disguise as a man because I didn’t want to shock Lewinsky or arouse her suspicion by cross-dressing.

I took a rickshaw to her apartment building in Avenue Petain, a short distance from my hotel in the French Concession. The puller trotted through the busy boulevard bustling with hawkers, rushing pedestrians, bicycles, and buses. “Hurrying to reincarnate” is how we describe people hurrying about these crowded cities.

Amidst blowing horns and screeching brakes, we passed shops, restaurants, two colleges, a library, a conservatory, and a cathedral before we reached a residential district with neat and clean apartment blocks.

I told the puller to stop in front of Lewinsky’s building, paid him, and hopped off. I climbed the stairs to her apartment, remembering her patient teaching, polished piano playing—followed by homemade cookies with warm milk.

Before knocking, I hesitated. What would I say to her? And what if my baby was really dead as she’d told me? Would she report me to the police? And if Jinjin was really alive and living here with her, what should I do? Grab him, dash down the stairs, hail a car to the harbor, and find a way to leave Shanghai? Although Jinjin called me mama in my dreams, in real life, he’d think his mother was Lewinsky. So when I took him into my arms, he’d probably cry and struggle to get free so he could go back to his “real” mother.

With these thoughts, my heart sank, but I raised my fist to knock on my teacher’s door. Just like my visit to Jinying, the only response was a ghostly silence. Disheartened, I was about to leave when a neighbor’s door opened and out peeked a middle-aged woman, with a puffy face, disheveled hair, and faded pajamas.

She gave me a suspicious once-over. “Are you looking for the Russian ghost?”

I nodded. “Yes, do you know her whereabouts?”

“Oh, you don’t know?”

“No, what happened?”

“She moved away. I heard that she was sick. She’s probably dead now.”

My heart fell inside a dark well. “Then what about the little boy?”

I was surprised that I asked the question naturally, as if I was sure that my little Jinjin was alive.

I felt faint as she went on, “Oh, yes, that’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen. But”—she leaned toward me—“I always wondered how that woman could have a baby at her age? She didn’t look a day under fifty, if you ask me. And the baby looked Chinese to me—”

I cut her off. “You know where this baby is?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t want to pry into other’s business, especially not a ghost’s. And especially not if the baby was stolen, which happens so often nowadays. Anyway, I didn’t see them much. She seems to be very secretive about herself and the baby, so I’m sure he’s stolen goods.” She paused, then said, “You know what? That’s why she moved out.”

My heart was now almost at the bottom of the well. “When was that?”

“About three months, I can’t really remember.”

Suddenly she cast me a wary look as her tone turned belligerent. “Who are you anyway?”

“Oh, one of her music students.”

“How come I never saw you?”

I smiled. “But I never saw you either.”

She smiled back, wrinkling the corners of her darting eyes. “Yes, I’ve only lived here for a few weeks.”

 

Once outside Lewinsky’s apartment, I could only wander around the streets aimlessly, unable to calm myself, feeling both elated and devastated. Yes, little Jinjin was alive somewhere! But where? And if Lewinsky was really dead, as the woman suggested, how and where was I going to find my baby? And what if I never found him?

Without a mother, anything might happen to him. He might be abandoned, like a stray dog, crawling around garbage bags scavenging for food. Or, like me, raised by some gangster for evil purposes. Or deliberately crippled to beg for his master. The baby I’d rescued in Hong Kong, dangling on a ledge about to fall to . . . Could this be an omen about my little Jinjin?

Trying to push these disturbing images out of my mind, I continued to walk with a heavy heart and brimming tears. I was oblivious to everything around me, until I felt something bump my arm, waking me from my reverie. It was a young man who cast me a dirty look, then hurried away.

“Jerk!” I spat.

An old woman with a cane wobbled past me, casting me a disapproving look. I reminded myself not to lose my temper. I had to keep in mind that now I was not an admired celebrity in Shanghai, but a fugitive, a wanted criminal, the main suspect in the bloody shooting of a gangster head. During the uproar, I’d also helped myself to gobs of my boss Big Brother Wang’s rival Master Lung’s money and treasure.

I suddenly realized that the young man hadn’t bumped into me by accident. I looked down at my handbag and found that it was open and my wallet gone!

I was carrying two thousand dollars in cash, and that was most of what I had in Shanghai, the rest was sitting in a bank in Hong Kong. I had plenty of money, which I had helped myself to from Master Lung’s safe hidden in his secret villa. This was just in the nick of time, as moments later shooting broke out between the Flying Dragons and the Red Demons.

The money I took to Shanghai was not just for daily expenses or emergencies, but also in case I needed to bribe my way around. Fortunately, I’d only put five hundred in the wallet, the rest was in a zippered compartment in my handbag. I also had some cash back in the hotel hidden on top of the ceiling fan. But I was worried I might need more cash suddenly.

Feeling completely drained and unbearably sad, I stepped into an empty alley to release my tears to the outside world. Afterward, walking back to the main street, I felt a hand, warm and large, placed on my shoulder. I was about to grab the hand in case it was trying to steal from me again, but instead, when I turned I saw a refined-looking foreigner. I guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties, tall, with blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache.

He looked at me sympathetically. “Young lady, something wrong? Any way I can help you?”

To my surprise, this white ghost spoke accented, yet fluent, Mandarin. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t think so.”

“Miss,” his tone was serious, “you look too sad to be left alone all by yourself. Besides, it might be dangerous here. Can I take you home?”

I almost blurted out that I didn’t have one to go back to.

But my answer was: “Sir, I don’t know you.”

He swiftly took a card from his pocket and handed it to me.

Wah,
Consul General, something like an ambassador, a very high position. My spy’s mind clicked swiftly like an abacus calculating what was transacting. If I could befriend him, I might get some protection in case my identity was revealed and my life was endangered again. I smiled inside—not to mention this man was nice looking and refined acting.

Everyone knows that in a prosperous, sophisticated, evil city like Shanghai, “having a protector” is of utmost importance. That was the reason all the gangsters bribed the most influential politicians, and the entertainers, in turn, paid off the gangsters. It is never clear who ends up ahead, but the relationships are necessary to all involved.

It’s well-known that all prostitutes here pay protection fees, and the more powerful the recipient of their forced generosity, the more prosperous their establishment. Without the provision of protection money, the signboard of your prostitution house would be torn down, and a chopped-off chicken head dripping blood would be nailed to your door to warn you of your impending demise. And rumors would reach your clientele that all your ladies would give them bad luck—and syphilis. So, without a protector, a lady of the night would only end up a “wild chicken” spreading bruised legs in a garbage-strewn alley servicing coolies and lepers.

That’s why the Chinese say,
Sifang renyuan, bafang guanxi
(“Know everyone in the four directions and eight paths.”). Meaning, always make as many good connections as you can. You never know which you will need in the future.

So I put on a sweet, innocent smile and said demurely, “Sir, you are so kind to help me. You’re from America?”

“Yes, I just arrived here recently. The former Consul General died suddenly and I’m his replacement. They couldn’t find anyone else quickly who speaks Chinese.”

He looked at me with curiosity. “But that’s not important right now. Please tell me your name and why you were crying. Something bad must have happened to you.”

Though a spy will never trust anyone, she never hesitates to
use
someone. I’d let my guard down and my money was stolen. It was pretty likely that trouble would knock at my door again. Anyway, I couldn’t see any disadvantage to be the friend of an ambassador. So perhaps I finally had some good karma that this Edward Miller had walked by. After all, though many would love to know an ambassador, how many ever have the opportunity? Therefore, I was not going to give up mine.

I changed my expression from sweet innocence to sad and vulnerable. “Sir, my name is Jasmine Chen.”

So as not to hesitate in saying my alias, I had practiced it in advance. I did not want to accidently blurt out “Camilla,” as I had made it a familiar name in Shanghai. Though I doubted he heard about it since clearly he was new here and I’d been gone for more than three months.

I went on. “A pickpocket bumped into me and took my money.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Jasmine. How much did you lose?”

Of course I was not going to let him know that it was five hundred, that I was rich. “Forty, but that’s all I have.”

“Poor girl. Don’t worry, I can pay you that—”

“Sir, I can’t accept this!”

“It’s okay, Jasmine, it’s only forty, not five hundred. As a Consul General I think I can afford that.” He smiled.

“But, sir, we hardly know each other. . . .”

“All right, then what about your family, you want me to take you back home?”

Damn. Make up something, quick!

I avoided answering his question. “Sir, I’m not feeling well and starving. Can I have something to eat first? Then I’ll tell you about myself.”

He looked at his watch. “Of course. I have to be at a meeting in two hours. I’ll take you for high tea, how’s that? My favorite is the Heavenly Tune café on the roof of the Wing On department store. Have you been there?”

What a question. If I were a poor girl, how would I have the chance to go to an expensive place like that? That’s why Chinese always deem the Americans naive, sometimes even stupid. Of course, we Chinese have had five thousand years of history to build up our cunning. But I wasn’t complaining, because his naïveté was to my advantage.

As
The Art of War
teaches:

We think the Americans naive, but I know how they think of us Chinese: backward, superstitious, barbaric, dog-and-cat-eaters!

Of course, I had been to the famous café, but my answer was, “No, how could a poor student like me have this kind of chance?”

His smile was gentle and his eyes tender, like silk. “Jasmine, I’m sorry if I . . . Anyway, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Let’s go.”

5

Heavenly Tune Café and Bright Moon Nightclub

E
dward Miller led me to where his driver was waiting in his car; then we rode to the café on the busy Nanking Road. I didn’t feel very comfortable exposing myself in this popular café, but I didn’t want to suggest somewhere else in case he got suspicious why I’d turn down such a generous offer.

The open-air rooftop café provided a panoramic view of Nanking Road—Xin Xin department store, Intercontinental Hotel, the China Peace Insurance company, and the famous horse-racing track nearby. I looked around; to my relief, there were only a few customers, probably because it was still early for high tea. All seemed absorbed in their own business—or their own troubles—or both.

Since I was pretending that I’d never been here, I had to feign excitement. I inhaled deeply the fresh air and exclaimed, “Ambassador Miller, this place is like heaven!”

He smiled his American naive smile. “Glad you like it here, Jasmine.”

Then he led me to sit down at a corner table. Good. Less likely anyone would notice us, that is, me. We ordered—him black coffee, me orange juice, then mini sandwiches for both of us.

After the drink and food arrived, he raised his cup to tap mine. “To our encounter.”

I smiled back but remained silent.

The Consul General took a generous sip of his black coffee. “Now tell me why such a pretty young girl would be crying inside an alley.”

If only he knew what I’d been doing!

I suddenly remembered I should be hungry. So I took a big bite of my sandwich and washed it down with an equally big gulp of my orange juice.

After that, I asked an irrelevant question: “Mr. Ambassador, do you like Shanghai?”

“I can’t really tell yet; I’ve just been here for a few weeks.”

Good. Since he was new here, maybe he hadn’t heard about the gang war three months ago and all the juicy gossip about Camilla the Heavenly Songbird.

He went on. “Now, Jasmine, tell me about yourself. Why were you crying?”

Quick! Think of a good answer.

“Ambassador Miller—”

“Please call me Edward.”

“But—”

“There’s no but.”

“Edward, I live in an orphanage.” I lowered my head to stare at my hands, exuding sadness and humiliation.

One of his bushy brows was raised in question.

I went on. “But I’m not an orphan in the sense that my parents abandoned me. On the contrary, my parents loved me very much. My father was a high-school teacher, but he died four years ago when I was fifteen. A year later, my mother, a kindergarten teacher, also passed away. That’s how I ended up living in an orphanage.”

He covered my hand with his. “What about your relatives, why didn’t they take you in?”

“I’m already too old. Besides, my grandparents were all dead. An uncle from my father’s side has eight children himself.”

“Jasmine, I know I cannot take away your pain, but if I can help you in any way, please let me know and I’ll try my best.” He tenderly squeezed my hand one more time before withdrawing it.

I smiled coyly. “Edward, I’ve been very independent after spending two years in a heartless institution. So I think I’m doing all right. But I appreciate very much your kind offer.”

“I believe you. But don’t hesitate to call on me.”

I nodded.

He took a bite of his ham sandwich. “Did the orphanage also pay for your study?”

“Yes, I graduated from its own high school. The school is not good, but its library is, though rarely used, because the girls don’t like to study. They only like to flirt, hoping to be adopted into a rich family.”

I went on. “But I also learned to cook, sew, even dance and sing. And I’m very good at the latter.”

“I hope I have a chance to hear you sing someday.”

“I hope so too.”

He thought for a while. “Jasmine, why are you still living in the orphanage?”

“I left the orphanage last year for a while. At eighteen, we’re considered adults, so we’re expected to leave.”

I took a year off from my age so I was now nineteen instead of twenty. I hoped I’d seem more vulnerable and innocent, although I was anything but.

“Then what do you do?”

“The orphanage found me a job as a live-in private tutor and babysitter for a well-off family.” I put up a sad expression. “But the master . . .” I stopped, as if unable to go on.

Of course, he already guessed what I was to say. What else besides being harassed or even raped by the lascivious master? Maybe even getting pregnant with an illegitimate child and being ruined.

He leaned toward me from across the table and looked into my eyes. “Jasmine, don’t be shy. You can trust me and tell me.”

Was this naive, nice-looking American already falling for me—or my made-up story? But what I’d told him were not exactly lies, were they? Since I
was
an orphan growing up in a horrible orphanage, and the truth about my life was even more appalling than what I’d just told him.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He immediately took a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I buried my face in the ambassador’s scented silk.

“Please tell me, Jasmine.”

I gradually raised my brown eyes to meet his blue ones, remaining silent with a somber expression. I peeked around me; fortunately, no one seemed curious about us. An old couple leisurely sipped tea or coffee while appreciating the breathtaking, panoramic scene below. Two pairs of expensively suited men talked intensely with animated gestures. Children ate ravenously under their parents’ doting eyes.

He asked hesitantly. “Did he . . .”

I again dabbed my eyes without replying.

“Jasmine, how can I help you? If you tell me his name and address, maybe I can use my position to do something.”

“No, I’m all right, Edward. He bothered me, but never . . . more.”

He looked a little relieved. I was pretty sure he’d already fallen for me even further—just in less than an hour. So my flair for scheming and lying had not turned rusty even though I’d stopped practicing for three months. Now I might as well make the most of his compassion. As the Chinese saying goes, “When there is wind, open your sail to its fullest.”

I went on. “The master threatened that if I dared tell anyone, he’d tell his wife that I’d tried to seduce him.”

“Oh, how horrible. I’m so sorry . . .”

“So I just left without saying a word to anyone.”

Again, he reached to squeeze my hand with his big one. “What were you doing when I saw you?”

“I had just finished an interview for another tutoring position. Then when I walked back to the main street, a man robbed me.”

“Are you hurt?”

I pathetically shook my head.

“Poor girl, how sad you had to go through all this!” He hesitated before he blurted out, “Do you have a place to stay?”

Would he invite me to stay at his place? But I didn’t want that, because then my freedom to go anywhere anytime would be limited.

“Don’t worry, Edward, the orphanage is housing me while I look for another job.”

“There’s plenty of room. The house provided by the consulate is huge. Besides, I have my son, Henry, and my governess, Emily, who’s a very nice lady and takes very good care of me and my little boy . . .” He paused for seconds, then continued, “Since my wife left me.”

I was curious to know about his son and what had happened with his wife, but didn’t want to seem too inquisitive.

He spoke again. “I’m thinking . . . would you consider teaching Henry Chinese?”

I was not going to waste my time that way, but I couldn’t think how to turn down what for “Jasmine” would be a generous offer. So I gave an evasive answer. “Thank you, that’s a very nice offer. But I’m afraid I would do a bad job. I’ve never taught a foreigner Chinese.”

He looked disappointed and was silent for a few moments. He sipped more coffee, then asked, “Can you give me the name and address of the orphanage so I can take you back later?”

I quickly made up a name. “It’s Compassionate Light, a few miles outside Shanghai. So you needn’t bother to take me all the way home. Besides, I can’t be seen coming back with a man, especially a foreigner. But if you like, I can contact you.”

“Please, I’d love to see you again, Jasmine.”

Just then my favorite Western song—
Carmen
’s “Habanera” taught to me by Madame Lewinsky—wafted into my ears.

Without thinking, I sang along softly with the lyrics.

While I sang, the Consul General looked at me as if I’d transformed into a different person, or maybe even an immortal descending onto this Red Dust.

When I finished, he exclaimed, “Jasmine, I didn’t realize you have such a beautiful voice! How did you learn to sing so well?”

“Thank you. From my father. He was an English and music teacher. In the orphanage, musicians also come to coach the girls singing and dancing so they can perform for charities during holidays and festivals. Since they think I have a good voice, I’m the only girl they allowed to sing solo.”

He took a long, meditative sip of his coffee, then said, “I have a garden party next week. Would you like to come and sing for us?”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, if you can come, I’ll make sure you’ll feel at home.”

Should I accept the invitation so I could meet some more important people there? But I might also run into someone I didn’t want to see!

Before I made up my mind, my head was already knocking like a pecking bird. “Thank you, Edward. I am honored to be invited to sing at an ambassador’s house.”

“Ambassador or not, I’m also like anyone else. Good, so it’ll be next Wednesday at six in the evening. I’ll ask my driver to pick you up. But you have to give me the address of the orphanage.”

“Please don’t. I can go to your place by myself.”

“Can you at least give me their phone number in case I need to contact you?”

Reluctantly, I wrote down the phone number on a napkin and gave it to him. “But, Edward, please don’t call and get me into trouble. I’ll call you two, three times a week, how’s that?”

He didn’t look very happy. “All right, if that’s what you want.” Then he wrote down a phone number and the name Emily Andrews. “If you call, dial this number. Emily is the governess and takes care of my personal stuff.”

“Thank you. But, Edward, I don’t have any decent clothes to wear. . . .”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell Emily to find a dress for you. Just arrive an hour early at four-thirty and show the guard my card.”

He picked up the card, signed it, then gave it back to me.

 

Back in the hotel that night, I couldn’t decide if it would be good luck or bad luck to sing at this ambassador’s party. But I knew it wouldn’t be bad to know someone
that
important. Anyway, if it turned out that I didn’t need him, I could just waft away from his life like a summer breeze. And he’d find another girl, possibly on the street like me, or wherever his karma led him.

After my encounter with Edward Miller, I kept thinking I should disappear from his life now when he was unlikely to go looking for me. But the opportunity seemed too good to pass up, so I decided I’d go sing at his garden party and hope my luck would hold.

Waiting for Wednesday’s party, I didn’t do much except lie around in my hotel room, consume food, and read the Shanghai newspapers. I was almost disappointed that there was nothing about the gangs or myself. Had even my die-hard fans already forgotten about their beloved Songbird? Or had another pretty, talented girl been discovered to take over my place at the Bright Moon Nightclub? I decided to visit my former establishment to see if I could find any news of my old acquaintances, possibly even Madame Lewinsky.

Bright Moon, Shanghai’s most fashionable and expensive entertainment establishment, was located in the International Concession between Yuyuan Road—the Fool’s Garden—and Fanhuangdu Road—the Emperor’s Crossing. The nightclub had a gaudily lit circular façade topped with a torchlike cylindrical tower. Inside was a huge hall with tables surrounding a polished dance floor. Above was a mezzanine from which the VIPs could watch those equally rich but less important.

Though three months had passed—which seemed like an entire incarnation—nothing seemed to have changed inside the fashionable nightclub. Under the chandeliers, an impeccable Filipino band was playing a waltz tune. The richest and most powerful continued to have a good time side by side with the most evil, chugging down expensive wine or liquor and scraping their mirror-polished shoes on the nightclub’s famous glass floor. But there was one curious fact. As the men aged, their women remained forever young—still beautiful, flirtatious, and scheming.

I asked to be seated in a far corner shunned by the glitterati so I could observe without being observed. That everything looked so familiar after all that happened surprised me. I was back here not as the Heavenly Songbird Camilla, but in my new incarnation as an unknown young lad. This strategy is called
jieshi huanhun,
“borrowing the corpse to re-instill the soul.”

Who would have guessed that the young man sitting at a dim corner was the same person who, only three months ago, had taken the center stage of Shanghai’s most famous nightclub endorsed by the most powerful gangster head?

Since I dressed like the men in a fashionable white suit with half-matching black and white leather shoes, I didn’t think I’d arouse any men’s attention. But that didn’t guarantee the many lonely
tai tai,
society ladies, wouldn’t harass my boyish face and delicate frame with their wandering eyes.

The main singer, who’d replaced me, was about my size and age, pretty with a goose-egg face and twinkling eyes. However, I was relieved that both her appearance and her singing were far beneath mine. Because of the narrow range of her barely trained voice, she could only sing within a single octave. To cover up this flaw, she gestured and smiled a lot, with bobbing breasts and a slutty manner that were extremely annoying, at least to me.