The Nine Fold Heaven (8 page)

 

The next morning, I flipped through several newspapers and ran across Rainbow Chang’s article:

As I read this, a chill descended my spine. If Rainbow was right, did it mean that the life of my possible savior, Edward Miller, was in danger?

Fortunately, none of the newspapers wrote about the other day’s failed execution and Hong Bin’s, that is, Gao’s, disappearance. I figured that Police Chief Li blocked the story. Li would shoot himself in the face if the news leaked out to make him lose face.

There was no mention of Gao in Rainbow’s story neither. Had he been able, like me, to slip away unnoticed, or had he been caught by the police? What was my chance of ever seeing him again, or even learning his fate? I buried my face in the pillow and sobbed.

10

Vanished Children on the Wall

S
ince there was nothing I could do to find out if Gao was all right, the next step was to see about Edward. So the following morning I made my way to the Consul General’s mansion, only to find that the whole building was cordoned off. Consulate staff, guards, and reporters milled around under the watchful eyes of policemen, who occupied themselves scribbling notes, snapping pictures, or yelling at onlookers to step back. There was no hope of getting close to the building, let alone being allowed in.

Back in the hotel, I called Emily and asked about her boss.

The governess’s worried voice brushed my eardrum. “Miss Chen, so glad to hear from you!”

“Emily, I’m also glad that you are all right. I read in the newspaper about the bombing, just want to know if General Miller is also all right.”

“Yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is fine, because he was out for business last night. But Henry is hurt.”

“Oh, heaven, what happened? I hope it’s nothing serious?”

“The doctor said though his life is not in danger, he’s in shock.”

“That’s horrible, I am so sorry to hear about this. Is General Miller with him?”

“He’s extremely occupied for now with meetings, but he has been visiting Henry in the hospital whenever he can. I’ll be leaving to stay with him soon.”

Of course I was not in the position to say that I’d also visit Henry. So I said, “Could you tell General Miller and Henry that I called?”

“Of course. Miss Chen, General Miller did tell me if you call, tell you that he’s fine and that he wants to see you next week, when things are calmer. Could you call back in a few days to arrange this?”

“Of course. Was anyone else hurt? How bad is the damage?”

“Actually, it’s not bad. I mean physically. But it’s alarming to us that someone would do such a thing. We guess it must be some crazy people who hate foreigners and want us all to leave China. Since the bomb was not powerful, the guards believe it was homemade by an amateur.”

“Hope they’re right.”

“I hope so too. But some of our Chinese staff think it’s a black society. I heard that two months ago they threw bombs at the garden of the Chinese Supreme Court. This was to threaten the judges to take their side. So maybe now they want to scare the Americans too.”

It seemed pretty clear to me that it was one of the gangs, but as to which one, I was not going to further inquire.

I hung up, surprised at how upset I was by the news that young Henry was in shock. Was I carrying some curse that all the males in my life, young and old, good and bad, seemed to disappear? My little Jinjin, gone before I’d even met him, his father, Jinying, Gao, Master Lung—all gone. Even Edward Miller, after the bombing, would he come back into my life?

I thought of the Chinese saying, “Moss likes to hang on to trees,” which means women seek important men to take care of them. Especially women like me, who live on the fringe. Similarly, children enslaved to harsh labor will never disobey or run away. Because even as children, they know that once outside, they will be even worse off.

I’d been rescued by Big Brother Wang, but only because he saw in me the way to assassinate Master Lung. It was never my choice to serve Wang, nor be Lung’s mistress and would-be assassin, but this had been my karma. So I risked my life by escaping to taste life as a free woman. Now I was finding that if freedom meant a life without anyone I could depend on—a mentor, an admirer, or a benefactor—that was nearly as scary as being under the gangster’s thumb.

Not that my lot was unusual. For thousands of years, only a few lucky women escaped having their lives controlled by men. There were all those famous courtesans. Yes, they were able to live a glamorous life outside the traditional, stern Confucian household. So they didn’t have to serve husbands, mothers-in-law, and even worse, the array of family ancestors whose dead, malevolent eyes watch from high on the ancestral altar.

These courtesans could do what Confucian propriety forbade to proper housewives: display their beauty and talent to their heart’s content, put on makeup, wear sexy clothes, learn “trivial” arts like music and dance, and even enjoy witty conversations with men. They were not stuck with just one man chosen by a matchmaker, while a wife had to serve her husband and his parents even after they were dead!

So it seems that the courtesans’ life was much better because they had the freedom coveted by the downtrodden housewives. But alas, their freedom was only superficial. Because their whole livelihood still depended on their patrons—who were men. It is only because of the celebrity scholars or high government officials who visited their turquoise pavilions and wrote poems about them that their names are still known. So these women, talented and beautiful as they were, had to please their powerful patrons, just as the proper, Confucian wives had to please theirs.

Depressed by these reflections, I stopped going out for days. I was desperate to start looking for Jinjin, but so demoralized that all I could do was stay in my room and try to think up a plan. However, I soon tired of thinking up plans that could not be put into action. I felt like a prisoner in Shanghai, unable to go around freely, yet I would not leave until I found out the truth about my baby.

There was still no news about Gao, neither in the newspaper nor on the radio. Since I didn’t work for any gang anymore, I couldn’t even eavesdrop on rumors of his whereabouts. And there was Jinying. Was he really in Hong Kong or back in Shanghai?

One night into my dream came my little Jinjin.

 

 

After I woke up from this dream, I made a decision. I would overcome my lassitude and go to the Compassionate Grace Orphanage to look for Jinjin, though I knew that the chance he’d be there was slight. But so long as there was still a glimpse of hope, I would not give up. I was born parentless, so I did not want to die friendless, husbandless, childless.

 

The next morning, I dressed like an ordinary housewife, carrying a wicker basket loaded with a few fruits and vegetables to enhance the realism. Then I hired a rickshaw to the Compassionate Grace Orphanage farther out on a much quieter section of Avenue Joffre. This was the place where I was left to grow up, until I was rescued, but, as it turned out, by a gangster who intended to use me as a spy. From my years at Compassionate Grace, I couldn’t recall any compassion, nor any grace either. But such as it was, this was my home during my childhood.

Set back from the wide, tree-lined boulevard, the long, three-storied compound looked morose and indifferent at the same time. I stood across from the building, watching to see if anyone was bringing babies in or out. But how could I possibly recognize Jinjin, whom I’d never seen? Maybe Jinjin would come again in a dream to tell me how to find him?

Since it was still early in the morning, outside the orphanage I saw mostly basket-carrying housewives passing by in a hurry or elderly people out for a leisurely stroll. Occasionally, a woman would stop to stare at the orphanage wall, which was covered with posters. What they were reading seemed to be even juicier than Rainbow Chang’s column. After a couple of minutes, they would hurry on to do their marketing.

Now almost twenty minutes had passed without my seeing any babies. I needed to go in and take a look, even ask if anyone knew about my son. But if I didn’t know what my son looked like, how could I describe him to the staff? They’d either treat me as a would-be kidnapper or simply think that I, having lost my child, had also lost my mind.

Soon I had crossed the street and stood next to the entrance. Then I saw that the flyers pasted on the outside wall all had headlines like,
MISSING SON; MISSING DAUGHTER; LOOKING FOR MY BABY SON;
or
HAVE YOU SEEN MY LITTLE DAUGHTER
? It was these that the women had been reading!

My heart began to pound as I wondered why these flyers were here and who had posted them. One that was unusually long caught my attention. Attached was a picture of a girl of three or four, smiling sweetly into the camera. Her hair was fastened by a ribbon on the top of her head, then spilled in all directions like the branches of a coconut tree. Big Chinese characters were embroidered on her dress:
Lucky child.

The flyer read:

In the past, when I read or heard bad news like this, I’d have said nonchalantly, “So sad,” and left it at that. But now I was a mother, even though I’d never seen my son. However, both his presence—in my dreams—and absence—in my life—had unexpectedly awakened in me a love I could never have imagined I could feel.

Therefore, it was hard for me to believe that now I actually felt a great sympathy surging from my heart. But it was the second poster that was truly heartbreaking.

With a heavy heart, I kept looking over the posters until my attention was drawn to a tattered one stuck to the low corner of the wall. It looked as if it had been written some time ago. The calligraphy looked surprisingly refined—and familiar! I was astonished to read: