The Nine Fold Heaven (4 page)

Obviously she was the sort of girl who cared only to attract a rich man to marry, or if he’s already married, at least become his kept woman. These so-called singers spent their time flirting and conniving instead of practicing. I did all these, too, and thanks to my spy training, I did them better. But because I genuinely loved music, I also practiced hard. So though I’d been trained to be rid of feelings, I rediscovered them through my singing.

But these feelings didn’t emerge right away, only little by little, like flour seeping through a sieve. Big Brother Wang always taught that a spy’s feelings are equivalent to an incurable disease. In contrast, having no feelings protects against danger and might save your life. But I could not help but love singing, and the emotions it evoked progressively grew within me like a baby inside its mother’s womb.

To my disappointment, after sipping my drink and listening to the girl’s meowing for half an hour, except for one or two vaguely familiar faces, I didn’t see anyone I knew. Where had they all gone? Could it be they used to come only to hear my voice and now did not care to listen to this talentless girl?

The front table in the middle was empty. Only Master Lung and his entourage dared to sit there—his right-hand man Mr. Zhu, his son, Jinying, his bodyguard Gao, and me. The table, once fully occupied with laughing and shouting, now looked forlorn, like a jilted mistress or a discarded gown after a ball.

Now I’d been sitting here for almost an hour with the lazy singer’s voice buzzing in my ears but had not detected anything useful. I was wondering if I should just get up and leave, when something happened that I could never have anticipated: my former boss Big Brother Wang was striding into the club with an entourage of eager lackeys, looming bodyguards, elegantly suited business partners, and expensive women.

In all the time I had sung here and hung out with Master Lung as his number one woman, Big Brother Wang had never once shown his face in Bright Moon. Not that he wouldn’t want to push his way into his rival’s favorite night spot, but because he wasn’t ready to set off a war. Nor could he risk Lung noticing any sign that I recognized his arch enemy.

So, what was my former boss doing here?

My heart froze. If he recognized me, a moment later I’d be a bloody corpse lying on the glass floor. Because I betrayed him during the shoot-out at Lung’s secret villa. And he may have guessed that I had stolen his rival’s money and treasures, which my boss thought he was rightfully entitled to steal himself.

Heads turned as the nightclub manager and waiters dashed to greet Wang and his people. Then, to my utter surprise, the entourage was led to sit at Master Lung’s table!

To all of us who were regulars at Bright Moon, that table was sacred and untouchable, to only be occupied by Master Lung or at his invitation. This could only mean that the configuration of Shanghai’s underworld had finally shifted. Were Master Lung and his Flying Dragons gang now just one more finished chapter in Shanghai’s unsavory history?

It was definitely time for me to leave. I tossed a few bills on the table, pulled up my collar, and hurried out.

6

The Garden Party

T
he following Wednesday, I put on a simple dress and hired a car, then changed to a rickshaw to bring me to Edward Miller’s mansion between Jiangxi Road (West of the River) and Fuzhou Road (Lucky Prefecture), inside the American Settlement. Although in the past, as Shanghai’s famous Heavenly Songbird, I’d been invited to many rich people’s houses, the invitation from a foreign Consul General was something new for me. I felt both nervous and elated.

The rickshaw let me off in front of a tall black gate with the American Eagle insignia. For a moment, I just gaped at the imposing building. It loomed before me, intimidating and aristocratic with its red fence, white walls, and blue-uniformed guards standing ramrod straight. Outside the gate, there was a grassy area enclosed with shrubs and trees—for dog walking or resting horses, I guessed. Since I was an hour early, there seemed to be no other arriving guests.

One of the guards saw me and came over. I announced my name, handed him Miller’s signed name card, and told him I was here to sing at the party. The guard went inside and returned with a fortyish, red-faced foreign woman. I assumed she was the governess Emily Andrews, whom Miller had mentioned during our high tea.

She smiled warmly. “Welcome, Miss Jasmine Chen, please come in. I’m Mrs. Emily Andrews, the governess.”

At my most polite, I replied, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Andrews. General Miller has already told me about you.”

I suddenly realized we were speaking English. I’d learned a little of the language during my training as a spy. Though I had no problem with simple conversation, I hoped I would not need it in a complicated situation.

I followed the motherly figure through the gate, then walked along the path toward the entrance. Unexpectedly, Andrews led me around the building to a side door—the servant’s entrance, I supposed.

Inside, she continued to lead me along branching corridors and closed rooms until we reached a long flight of stairs and ascended to the first floor. After some more walking, the governess stopped in front of a plain wooden door and opened it for me. Inside, the small room contained but a single bed, a desk, and a closet. Given the grandeur of the building, this plain room must have been intended for a minor guest or a servant. On the bed were laid out a dark blue silk dress and pair of lace gloves. Neatly placed on the floor was a pair of matching blue high heels.

The governess smiled. “These are all for you, dear. You want to take a hot bath first?”

Yes, why not? Although I’d already washed before I came here, why not another bath served by a foreigner inside an ambassador’s fancy house? Besides, as a spy, I was used to nosing around, even, or especially, in bathrooms where people like to hide their secret things.

I nodded. “I’d love to.”

“Good. I’ll take you.”

She led me out of the “servant’s” room and took me to another floor.

“Here is the bathroom. Go ahead in and get ready. I’ll send in the maid, Abigail, to help you.”

Unlike the plain room, the bathroom was spacious and nicely decorated with clawed bathtub, gold-framed, full-length mirror, a Chinese blue and white vase with fresh flowers. This must be for an honorable guest’s bath.

The maid, a rather dowdy girl probably fresh from the countryside, entered and took my clothes to hand up as I undressed. Then she took my arm and helped me lower myself into the steaming water.

She asked, “Miss Chen, is that your perfume? Smells really good.”

I smiled mysteriously but without responding.

So she went on in another direction. “Here, we have hot water available for twenty-four hours!”

I nodded again without replying. I wanted to focus on enjoying an ambassador’s comfortable tub, the steaming water, and the pleasant squishing of the sponge as the maid gently scrubbed my bare back, a comfort I’d missed since I was no longer Master Lung’s mistress.

When finished, Abigail said, “Oh, I need to bring you some clean towels. Stay here, ma’am, I’ll be right back.”

After she left, I splashed water on my face, neck, shoulders, and, enjoying being alone for a few moments, raised my arms and legs and bent them into the perverse, titillating poses I’d used in my contortion act. I wanted to feel daring, as if I were really the pampered hostess of this grand mansion.

Just when I was arching my back with abandon, the door opened and in plunged the Consul General himself!

I tried to grab something to cover myself up, but there was nothing nearby except my arms.

The handsome general looked completely stunned. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know that Emily took you here. So sorry.”

In fact, I’d have been sorrier if he missed the chance to see me naked. Because now that he’d had a glimpse of what I had to offer, I guessed he’d be like a leashed dog, straining to grasp its dream bone. But if it turned out that I did not need his help, our encounter would be but a memory to unsettle his solitary nights.

Just then Abigail came back with the towels and Miller withdrew awkwardly. With a barely suppressed smirk, the maid held out a towel to dry me. She must have sensed that I was not the least embarrassed. Of course, she could not know that I was the famous skeleton woman who would have sex with a man—or woman—even in the most perverse, contortionist positions. I was sure she could have no idea of the wicked skills that my young body had been forced to learn in order to seduce and captivate Master Lung. After she had finished drying me, Abigail held out a robe and helped me into it. Then she led me back to my room, where Emily was waiting.

“I hope you had a nice bath, dear,” she said in her motherly voice.

I thought: Instead of treating me like a child, she should start to worry for her boss!

Refreshed by the bath, I put on makeup, then slipped into the new dress.

The governess gave me an admiring look as I inspected myself in the mirror.

“Miss Chen, the dress looks very nice on you. But what a tiny waist! When you eat, where does all the food go?” She laughed and added, “How can I have a waist like yours?

I was pleased that I could still inspire appreciation, but I feared this might be unduly risky. What if some of the Consul General’s guests recognized me as the Heavenly Songbird with her famous twenty-one-inch waist? I could only hope that my new hairdo—short, straight, and with bangs covering my forehead—would also cover up my true identity. But they still might recognize my voice. All I could do was omit the high notes that I was famous for.

As a last touch, on my head Emily placed a large hat with a solitary pink flower. She fussed around until the hat slanted in an artistically balanced and pleasing angle. Good. Because this hat would also shield part of my once-celebrated face.

But I was still thinking, would it turn out to be a terrible mistake to have come here? However, it was too late to act, or rather, to not act—like the hidden dragon in the beginning of the
Book of Changes.
So all I could do was go with the flow. Hopefully, like the hidden dragon, when the right time came, I would soar to the nine fold heaven.

Emily led me down into the main hallway, then out to the garden. Even I could just glimpse the interior, its glittering chandelier, gold and marble pillars, and fresco-like oil paintings proclaimed to all that this was the abode of power.

The twilight lent the garden a dreamy quality. Flowers nestled in luxuriant vegetation gave out intoxicating fragrances. Colorful lanterns hung in midair like stars descending to Earth for the pleasure of us mortals. A small live orchestra, partly hidden under sprays of pink blossoms, played soothing tunes. Guests, all foreigners, clustered here and there, sipped champagne, nibbled at hors d’oeuvres, and chatted. A few spotted me, politely nodded, then went straight back to their interesting—or obligatory—conversations. Suddenly, I thought, despite all this luxury, how boring this kind of life must be, after the initial thrill.

Emily excused herself, then Miller materialized beside me and handed me a class of champagne. He scrutinized me from head to toe and then back from toe to head.

“Jasmine, you look absolutely stunning! And smell intoxicating,” he exclaimed, then cast me a suspicious look. “What kind of perfume did Emily give you?”

“There’s no perfume, sir. I was born with this natural fragrance.”

“Is that so?” He studied me with an unbelievable expression. “I never heard of a person with natural fragrance. Is that possible?”

I smiled, without negating or affirming.

“You are a unique young lady, you know that, Jasmine?”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Edward, please.”

“Yes, Edward.”

Just then a five- or six-year-old, very cute little boy dashed to the ambassador and rubbed his head against the man’s leg.

“Daddy, when can we eat?”

Miller caressed the boy lovingly, then turned to me. “Jasmine, meet my son, Henry.” Then he said to the boy, “Henry, say hello to Miss Jasmine, in Chinese.”

Henry smiled shyly. “
Ni Hao,
Jasmine,
Ah Yi?
” (“How are you, Aunty Jasmine?”)

I smiled back, touching his cheek. “I’m fine, Henry. You’re a very handsome boy.”

“Wo zhidao, Ah Yi.”
(“I know, aunty.”)

I turned to his father. “Edward, your son is such an adorable little boy!”

The father smiled proudly.

I asked, “So, Henry is already learning Chinese?”

“Yes, in school.”

“He is
hen ke ai.
”

“Daddy, what is
henkeai?
” Henry asked his father in English.

“That means you are very lovely and likeable.”

The boy turned to give me a big smile. “You
henkeai,
too, Aunty Jasmine.”

Edward laughed as he affectionately patted his son’s head.

Henry pulled at my dress. “Aunty Jasmine, please come play with me!”

“Henry, Jasmine
Ah Yi
is too busy to play with you now. She needs to get ready to sing for us.”

“But, Daddy, I want to play with
henkeai
Jasmine
Ah Yi!
”

Edward turned to me, “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The ambassador left to greet the distinguished guests who kept streaming into the garden. I was relieved that none of these people was likely to recognize me—they were mostly foreigners, probably rich businessmen, influential politicians, prominent professionals.

Henry pulled out two plastic cars from his pants pocket, put them on the ground, and made
roooom, rooom
noises.

Seconds later, Emily appeared and said to the boy, “Henry, stop bothering Miss Chen, let me take you to the kitchen.”

Then she turned to me. “Excuse us, Jasmine, I need to get something for Henry to eat. He’s hungry.”

Happy to be left alone for a moment, I began to walk around discreetly to see if I could eavesdrop anything useful.

A bespectacled gentleman with a hat and suit said loudly, “When will the shipment of cigarettes arrive in Hong Kong?”

Another one in a suit and bow tie exclaimed, “The Charter bank has just doubled its profit and its stock keeps shooting up!”

Yet another one described to his lady friend how he had his portrait done by the first Chinese oil painter in Shanghai.

Except for a few curious glances from the ladies, probably hoping for some juicy gossip, it seemed no one was paying me much attention. I guessed that the honorable guests assumed I was insignificant—either a maid, a young cousin, or maybe even a mistress. And if I were a mistress, then people would politely pretend I did not exist. For my part, I was in accord with the saying, “It’s better to be silently seen than loudly talked about.”

Soon, I became bored listening to the rich and powerful, because I had no interest in politics or business. So I sat down by a corner and sipped my drink. But my hope for a few moments of relaxation was broken by hearing a plump man with a bulbous nose talking loudly to his small group of listeners.

“I’ve heard that the execution will take place on Sunday at the execution ground outside the city.”

A plump woman exclaimed in her high-pitched voice, “Oh, how horrible! Who’d be the
unlucky
guy?”

“I forget his name, but it’s some gangster.”

My heart almost stopped at the word
gangster.
Because they were, in a way, my people. I was trained by them, surrounded by them, worked for them, and made love to them—until I finally succeeded in ruining some of them. But now I had to run away from those I had not ruined.

One of the group, a man holding an elegantly carved walking stick asked, “What did the poor chap do wrong?”

“Who knows? Maybe he didn’t do anything wrong at all. Just bad luck. But you know, I plan to go have a look. I’ve never seen an actual execution. It’s my opportunity, since the Chinese are so uncivilized as to do it in public. Anyone care to join me?”

A gangster was to be executed. I needed to know who it was. But I kept quiet about my rather morbid curiosity. Then I was thinking. Could this man be someone I knew? Could it be Master Lung? Unlikely, for either he was now burning in hell or, if alive, hidden away, tasting the bitterness of his own karma. And it certainly wasn’t Big Brother Wang, because I’d just seen him at Bright Moon Nightclub, gloating at Lung’s specially reserved table. What about Gao, Lung’s bodyguard and my one-time lover? This thought sent a chill down my spine.

Then the chill spread through my whole body when I suddenly realized—I, too, was wanted by the police for murder! Would the ax fall on my head, too, someday?

I took several gulps of my champagne, though hardly in a celebratory mood. Then I thought of my host and decided I’d better capitalize on my good luck at having been “rescued” by him. Because, if I were headed for serious trouble, who better to have on my side than an influential foreigner?