The Nine Fold Heaven (9 page)

I felt my heart almost stop beating. Was this really Jinying looking for our love son, Jinjin? Or was it another child who shared the same name with my baby? But I was pretty sure that the “father” was Jinying because it was his handwriting. He must not have signed his name because he didn’t want others to know who he was—the Flying Dragons’ boss’s son—and that he secretly had a son.

If the “father” was Jinying, that meant he also suspected or even had news that our son was still alive, possibly living an anonymous and miserable life inside this horrible institution. What to do? Should I go in and ask? But had they given him a different name? Jinjin was the name Master Lung gave to his grandson; besides him, only Jinying and myself knew it. My singing teacher Madame Lewinsky, who’d helped me give birth to Jinjin but told me that he was stillborn, would have picked a name for him herself.

I had never even seen Jinjin, so even if he was inside this institution, I didn’t think I’d recognize him. And I couldn’t ask him into my dreams—for it was totally up to him when he would visit me. Even if he did, how could a baby describe his whereabouts?

I burst into tears. Maybe soon it would be my turn to post something desperate and tragic on this wall to vent my hopelessness. I took out a handkerchief and dabbed my eyes.

A woman’s voice rose in the air, giving me a jolt. “Miss, is your child one of these?”

Alarmed that anyone might know about my secret, I immediately stopped crying and conjured up a sweet, friendly smile. “Oh, no, just reading.”

The stranger was in her late twenties, with a plain, easily forgettable face and a skinny figure.

She cast me a curious once-over. “But then why are you crying?”

I chuckled a little. “Oh, because they are so heartbreaking. In fact, I’m looking for my best friend’s child.”

This time I gave her a once-over. She definitely didn’t have the distraught look of a mother searching for a lost child.

“Then is your child one of these, miss?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’m a journalist, just come here to find something to write about.”

“Have you?”

“Sort of, I can cook up a pretty heart-wrenching story based on these flyers.”

Yes, making money based on someone else’s sufferings. But I was no one to criticize. My whole life had been with gangsters who did just that.

But I asked, “Do you know why are these flyers put here, where not many people will see them?”

She looked around, then lowered her voice. “Oh, you never heard of the rumor?”

I shook my head. My ears perked as my curiosity was pricked.

She pulled me away from the wall to a corner as a passing old woman cast us a suspicious look.

She again talked in a heated whisper. “The rumors goes that this orphanage, instead of raising the babies in compassion and grace as their name implies—”

“They ill-treat the children?” I pretended ignorance. Since I grew up here, I knew exactly what they did.

“Of course they do. But it’s even worse. They secretly sell the unadoptable children to black societies for high prices.”

“What? But what for?” I feigned shock, though the answer was obvious.

“The girls would be sent to prostitution houses and the boys to be beggars. You know, the black societies also control the beggar ring. And it’s no use to report to the police,” she chuckled nervously, “since they are on the take from the gangs.”

“That’s terrible. Can’t anything be done?”

“That’s why . . . if I write about this in the newspaper, I hope the article will put some pressure on the orphanage.”

“But what newspaper is willing to print your story? You mean they’re not afraid of the police and gangsters?”

“We publish our newspaper secretly. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Could you ask your friend with the lost child to contact me?” She took something out from her pocket. “Here’s my card, please call or write.”

“Thank you, I will.”

I pointed to the flyers. “Why doesn’t the orphanage tear these down?”

“They did, but new ones pop up all the time. Sometimes you can’t fight the wrath of the people. Anyway, this orphanage will be doomed. When all their bad deeds come out, the police, in spite of the bribes, will stop protecting them. Miss, I’ve really got to go now. Let me know if you hear anything.”

I watched this skinny woman’s back vanish behind a tree as a sigh escaped from my mouth.

11

Compassionate Grace

A
fter the reporter left, I decided to go inside the orphanage. Though I had mixed feelings about once again seeing the place where I had grown up. But even if I somehow recognized my little Jinjin, could I just snatch him and get away?

Inside the lobby, I saw an amah sweeping the floor and a middle-aged woman talking on the phone at the reception area. Memories of my childhood rushed back. A decade ago in Compassionate Grace, I was considered the most beautiful orphan, but also the most unhappy—always wondering why no one showed any interest in adopting me. Only later did I realize I had been set aside for Big Brother Wang.

Now, since no one was paying me any attention, I quickly turned a corner and dashed upstairs. On the second floor was the nursery. Inside the big room with dirty, crumpling walls was only one indifferent attendant. She rested her feet on a stool, smoking as she stared out the window. If she had heard me walk in, she showed no sign of it. So I began to walk by the cribs one by one, as if I could somehow recognize Jinjin. All the infants were sound asleep. Of course, they must have been drugged so they wouldn’t cry and make demands. Besides, this saved money for the orphanage because they could get by with fewer staff.

I carefully inspected all the babies who looked like they were about eight months—Jinjin’s age. But none of the sleeping little faces struck me as being my own flesh and blood. If only Jinjin had some kind of birthmark like a mole or a small red patch so I could identify him. But even if he had, I had no way to know since Lewinsky had never told me, nor even let me see him.

Unwilling to give up, I forced my tired feet to carry me into the hall and through the door to the next room. Once I had stepped across the threshold, I noticed something different, even eerie, but couldn’t pinpoint what that was—except it came with an unpleasant smell. Instead of rows of cribs as in the other room, this one had only one single large bed in which was what looked like a huge lump covered with a black cloud. I couldn’t tell what it was in the distance, but it was heaving like a collective heartbeat. I went up to take a close look.

To my horror and disgust, as I approached, the dark cloud lifted and under it I saw several babies sleeping—or dying! It took me a few seconds to realize the black clouds were flies, hungry ones.

I slapped a hand across my nose and mouth, but to no avail as I threw up right on the floor. I didn’t dare to look more but dashed out of the room. Not until I reached the window at the end of the corridor was I able to catch my breath and try to calm myself, still retching. It seemed, since I’d left this orphanage a decade ago, it had deteriorated even further, though it had not been pleasant to begin with. However, I didn’t remember anything as horrible as this.

To get as much distance as possible from this chamber of death, I walked up to the third floor, where the older children stayed. At the top of the staircase, I took big gulps of air, then walked down the hall toward the window. As I stood looking out at the sky with the color of pale ink, I felt a pull at my sleeve. Turning, I saw a girl of seven or eight smiling at me. I was amazed—an orphan able to smile in this horrible place, a place where babies were drugged and left to die. So either this girl was a little slow or she was completely oblivious of the happenings around her. Her face was in the shade, so all I could make out of her features was her chopping-board-thick glasses.

“You want something, little one?”

She nodded. “Big Sister, can you take me to the restroom?”

“Do you live here?”

She nodded again.

“And you don’t know where it is?”

“Sometimes I get lost.”

“Follow me.” Of course I still remembered where the bathroom was.

After she finished her business, she said, “Now can we go to play?”

It was a strange request. “But what game do you want to play, and where?”

“The backyard, where nobody goes.”

“But, little friend, aren’t you supposed to go back to the workroom to help out?”

Unlike the babies and toddlers, children her age had to work; the orphanage did not feed us for free. When the girls were not cleaning they had to embroider, weave, or sew. Boys would be sent out for manual labor like farming, planting, and harvesting. In the winter, they made furniture they would never have a chance to use. Our wages, if there were any, went into someone’s pockets, but not ours.

I said softly to the girl, “Sorry, my little friend, not today.”

“But why not?”

I was surprised by her challenge but intrigued by her spirit.

Before I could respond, she asked, “Big Sister, can you keep a secret?”

Another strange request.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets, so you can tell me.”

“Nobody’s in the workroom today.”

“Really, why?”

“Mrs. Chen is having a party to celebrate her son’s birthday.”

“Who’s Mrs. Chen?”

“Our director.”

“So she’s giving everyone a day off for her child?” I thought,
While other women’s babies are eaten alive by flies.

The little girl nodded. “Yes, but Auntie Zhang stayed to look after the babies.”

I did not want to think about only one person left to look after all the babies and children. So I asked the girl, “Where’s the birthday party?”

“Some restaurant in the French Concession. So please, can you come play with me now?”

Her voice emitted a sweet quality rarely heard in the orphanage, and her face and manner were strangely appealing.

“All right, but not too long.”

She took my hand and dragged me along excitedly, bumping into furniture and corners. Suddenly, I realized that this little girl was nearly blind and that this was the reason for the thick glasses.

Now I took more care to guide her along, descending the stairs and out the back door until we finally reached a deserted area of the yard that was hidden behind rocks and trees.

I’d never noticed it during my years here. Perhaps because my favorite place was the library, which was equally deserted since few of the orphans had any interest in reading. They put all their effort into learning to act polite and cute in the hope that they’d be adopted by a good, preferably rich, family. But sadly, this was mostly fantasy, because no rich people ever came here looking for sons or daughters to adopt.

I looked around the courtyard. Stinking of rotten vegetation, it was surrounded by short walls along which crawled withered branches with a few leaves struggling to hang on. Discarded cartons and broken furniture were scattered here and there.

I asked, “Little friend, but there’s nothing here, so how do you want to play? You have some game in mind?”

Her answer surprised me yet again. “I’ll sing you a song.”

I led her to sit with me on an empty bench under a few malnourished branches.

“All right, little friend. Go ahead.”

She stood back up, struck a pose like a professional singer, tilted her head toward the gloomy sky, and began:

After this, she went on to sing another one:

 

Nighttime Shanghai, nighttime Shanghai

A city of sleepless nights

Lights dazzling, cars hustling,

Crooning songs and flirtatious dances filling up the night . . .

 

I felt a shock of recognition—these were my two signature songs from Bright Moon Nightclub! How could she possibly have heard them? But her voice was so pleasing and the nostalgic feeling so pleasant that I half closed my eyes to let the soothing tunes wrap me like a silk cocoon.

Unaware of my reaction, the little girl continued to sing with full force, until she came to the final lines:

When she finished, I felt touched beyond words. Not only she was singing my two most popular songs, she imitated my voice almost to perfection! Just liked I imitated my teacher Madame Lewinsky’s. Of course, this little girl could have no idea what the words meant. I turned so she wouldn’t see me blinking back tears, thinking of how her innocence would one day be lost. But I was a little worried, too; if she recognized I was the heavenly songbird whose voice she was imitating and told any of the adults at the orphanage, I’d be in serious trouble.

I calmed myself and asked, “Little friend, your singing is beautiful. Anyone teaches you to sing like this?”

She shook her head. “I learned it from listening.”

“Listening? To whom?”

“Records.”

“But you’re an orphan here, how could you have a gramophone?”

In Shanghai, owning a gramophone was a rare luxury enjoyed only by the rich.

“Director Chen’s office. She always asks me to do chores there.”

“Do you know who this singer is?”

“Of course,” she was not looking at me when she talked, but in the distance, “she is the famous Heavenly Songbird Camilla! Director Chen has all her records and plays them all the time. She also said that Miss Camilla used to live right here in this orphanage. Director Chen is very proud of her. I hope someday I can be a famous singer, too, just like Camilla!”

I said, “Little friend, you have a beautiful voice like Camilla’s. I’m also a great fan of hers and know all her songs—”

“You do?” she asked excitedly, still not looking at me.

“Yes.” I paused, then said, “Little friend, I’ve got to go now.”

I felt bad right after I said this. I knew I could bring this poor, lonely child a few moments of happiness by singing for her, but I didn’t feel I could take the chance.

So I just said, “Good luck with your singing, little friend.”

But could there be any good luck in this appalling institution? The best one could hope for was dreary days with enough food and no punishment.

She pulled at my sleeve. “No, Big Sister, please don’t leave me like this!”

Wah,
what a demanding child.

She kept tugging on my sleeve. “Please, you have to sing me a song.”

“What makes you think that I can sing?”

“Of course you can.”

“How are you so sure?”

“From your voice. Please, Big Sister.”

“Sorry, my friend, but I think I should go.”

“There’s no one here. Please, I know you can sing.”

She looked so eager and miserable at the same time. So I decided to grant her this one wish, since not many wishes are granted in an orphanage. Anyway, I wouldn’t be seeing her again.

I looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. “All right, little friend, any particular song you want to hear?”

“ ‘Everyone Has Parents, But I Don’t.’ ”

I was surprised by her choice. “Why would you want to hear this one?”

“You know why.”

Yes, what a stupid question. Of course, because she was an orphan who missed her parents.

I meditated, circulated my internal
qi
through my body, then slowly began:

After I finished, the little girl immediately followed by singing another of my popular songs: “It’s Rare We Can Be Together.”

Then we sang together:

A little orphan and the Heavenly Songbird singing together, with our
qi
blending harmoniously!

“Little friend, what’s your name and how old are you?”

“Peiling. I’m twelve.”

Probably because of not getting enough food, she looked much younger, maybe eight or nine.

“Peiling, you’re a very good girl and a wonderful singer. But you can sing even better.”

“So, are you going to teach me?”

Somehow her straightforwardness both surprised and impressed me. Only a short time together, I already felt a bond with her—a pleasant feeling, but for me a dangerous one. I could not forget the lessons of my spy training—never let yourself develop feelings for anyone or anything.

So I said, “Peiling, I’m afraid I don’t have time.”

But little as she was, she would not take no for an answer. “Please, Big Sister, it’s very lonely and miserable here. . .” Her voice trailed off like the wisps of incense smoke in an empty temple.

How could I turn down this request from the little girl who, like me, might be saved by her talent for singing? What other chance would she have if I did not encourage her? So I’d do her this one favor.

“All right.”

So I told her how to sink her
qi
to her
dantian,
then bring it back up to her chest, throat, even her head. How I had used the rising sun and its reflection on the river to inspire my singing.

In the past, after I’d finished singing at Bright Moon Nightclub, I would take a nap, then walk to the Bund and sing to the sun as it rose, then to its reflection on the Huangpu River. This way my voice would absorb the powerful
yang
energy from the rising sun and the
yin
energy from the softly flowing river. Together, the
yang
and
yin
would expand my range up to heaven and down to the sea bottom. So that when I reached the highest register, instead of cracking, my voice would be as soothing as the morning sun. And when it reached the lowest register, it wouldn’t disappear, but would be as deep and fathomless as the ocean.