Читать книгу The Nine Fold Heaven - Mingmei Yip - Страница 17

6

The Garden Party

The 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?

Just then Miller came over to me. “Jasmine, sorry that I’ve been neglecting you. There are so many people I need to greet. Now, can you sing us a few songs when appetizers are served?”

I hoped this was not the only purpose that he’d invited me here—to provide free entertainment. I thought he genuinely appreciated my singing, but hoped that his interest in me did not stop there.

I scrutinized the guests again. Some already eating their salad, while others still chatting with drinks in their hands. As far as I could tell, there were no Chinese at the party. Feeling relieved that no one would recognize me, it was time to show off my singing, the better to lure the Consul General further into my skeleton net.

“All right, Edward. What do you want me to sing?”

He pointed to the live orchestra under the sprays of pink blossoms.” I already told them you sing Carmen beautifully, so they’re prepared. After that, I hope you can also sing a few Chinese songs. As you see tonight, most of my guests are British, French, and American. Some are new here like me. I’m sure they’d love to hear something local and authentic.”

Talking, he led me to stand in front of the orchestra. Before anything could be said to introduce me, the players had sounded the first notes of the aria.

I half closed my eyes and meditated. Seconds later, I sank my qi to my dantian, then drew it back up to my chest and head before I delicately exhaled the first words. I did my best to make it sound innocent, vulnerable, and heart-melting like a baby’s breath.

Love is a gypsy’s child,

It has never, ever, recognized the law.

If I love you, you’d best beware!

The bird you hope to catch,

Will beat its wings and fly away. . . .

Love stays away, making you wait and wait.

Then, when least expected, there it is!

While I continued to sing, before my eyes reeled bitter memories like a flickering silent movie. I remembered Lewinsky’s warning that love might jump out at me from behind a corner, when I least expected it. Once I’d felt so hopeless about life that I attempted suicide, and Jinying rescued me from drowning in the Seine. When my little Jinjin, whom I’d never met, came into my dreams to comfort me. But now only three months later, they had vanished. Were they all hiding in this sleepless city—or were some already residing with the King of Hell?

Remembering, I sang with such passion and depth that they even surprised me.

When I finished, enthusiastic applause broke out, and for the first time in months I had the thrill of being the center of attention again. Bowing and scanning the audience, I saw Edward clapping especially loudly, looking like a teenage boy struck by the lightning called “love.” Now I had no doubt that he had fallen for me. A pretty orphan with a beautiful voice.

At a corner, Emily and little Henry smiled happily as they clapped. I caught tidbits of conversation from the few in the front table.

“Who is this Chinese girl?”

“She’s so good; how come we’ve never heard of her?”

“How did our new Consul General find her to bring her here?”

But instead of enjoying the attention, I could only hope these rich and privileged foreigners would forget about me soon after the party.

Edward spoke up. “Now some Chinese songs please, Miss Chen.”

All the guest ganged up with him. “Yes, we want Chinese songs!”

Someone shouted, “What about ‘A Wandering Songstress’?”

I felt a wave of anxiety. Was it coincidence this man asked for my signature song, or had he seen through my disguise?

I smiled coyly to the audience. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think the orchestra plays anything Chinese.”

But I was wrong.

The young conductor piped up. “We can do a few, at least the ‘Wandering Songstress’ and ‘Nighttime Shanghai.’ ”

Someone exclaimed, “Sing it!”

Since I didn’t have a choice now, I again rooted my qi in my dantian and filled every word with a bittersweet melancholy.

At the edge of the sky and farthest corner of the sea,

I search and search . . .

My love, I remember you played the fiddle as I sang.

In the days when we were of one heart and one mind.

Now I long for my homeland, in the far north.

Tears streak down my hollow cheeks,

Thinking of our happier days together. . . .

Singing, I watched Edward’s mesmerized expression and the happy faces on the others. Then I segued into “Nighttime Shanghai” to bring my performance to a cheerful climax.

As I was completely immersed in my singing, suddenly a light flashed from the audience, blinding my eyes. Distracted, I made a wrong note. Fortunately, most people turned to see where the flash came from and didn’t seem to notice my mistake.

Finally, I finished. As I bowed, the audience shouted out for more.

But Edward stood up and said, “Ladies and gentleman, let’s thank Miss Jasmine Chen for her wonderful performance and now let her rest so we can all eat?”

A few still called out for an encore, but soon everyone was eating and absorbed in their chatter. Edward came up to me, took my arm, and steered me through the crowd, past a grand living room into another spacious room filled with books.

“Jasmine, what can I say? Tonight you conquered everyone’s heart.”

I smiled but said nothing.

“Jasmine . . .” He paused, looking uneasy.

“Yes?”

“I would like to know you more.”

I didn’t respond, and he went on. “I can tell from your singing that you’ve suffered immensely. And I hope you can trust me enough to open up your heart. Of course I don’t mean now since we’ve just gotten to know each other. But I hope we can be friends.”

Again, I smiled but didn’t respond.

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips against it. “I can tell you’re exhausted not by your singing, but by the emotions the songs brought back to you. You don’t need to go back to the orphanage tonight; you’re welcome to spend the night here. There are ten guest rooms and I can ask Abigail to prepare one for you. If not, I can take you home. But then you have to wait for a while till all the guests left.”

But, of course, I was not going to stay. Keeping men in suspense creates mystery and increases desire. This is one of the Thirty-six Stratagems, yuqin guzong, “release in order to capture.” More to the point is the Ming dynasty’s Guide for Whores, which says, “Wives are less tempting than concubines, concubines are less tempting than prostitutes, prostitutes are less tempting than someone else’s wife, but most alluring of all is the woman you failed to seduce.”

The more doses of mystery you feed a man, the harder he’d fall for you. But why was I even thinking about this? The reason I returned here was to find my true love, Jinying, and our son, Jinjin. Maybe that was my training, or even my nature, that I’d try to seduce any man, or woman, who might be useful to me.

Can a woman love more than one man at the same time? Well, why not, considering what men do? Chinese history is filled with famous scholars who deemed themselves fengliu caizi, “followers of the wind,” artistic men who bestowed their love on not just one, but a whole entourage of talented, beautiful ladies.

A good example was the Ming dynasty scholar Qian Qianyi, who, bored with his dull wife, took for his concubine the beautiful and brilliant Liu Rushi, who not only graced his bed but helped him compose his books on Chinese history. Then there was the high official Hong Wenqing, ambassador to four countries, who took the courtesan Sai Jinhua, a politically brilliant woman who once saved the Empress Dowager from an invading army. And many men whose inamorata may not have been particularly talented but brought them happiness anyway. And yet all these men did not entirely lose their affection for their first wives, who, after all, had run their households and borne their children.

Unlike the first wives selected by the man’s parents, these women were spirited and unconventional. They interacted freely with men, enjoyed wine, traveled on horseback, could entertain by singing, dancing, or playing musical instruments—and excelled in the arts of the bedchamber.

If a man can love different women, why can’t a woman have more than one love? Not because she doesn’t want to, or cannot, but because society will denounce her. And worse, her own man-poisoned mind will not let her.

But I was not a proper, decent, or married woman. The rules didn’t apply to a rootless, homeless, relentless skeleton woman like me. So I could follow my heart’s desires wherever they led me.

But on this occasion, following my heart meant stringing Miller along for a while longer. So when the party finished, I politely turned down his offer to stay overnight at the consulate but agreed to let him drive me back. Not all the way to the orphanage, but let off a few blocks away. My reason was the usual—I couldn’t afford to be seen with a foreigner.

After Miller pulled up at the corner, he leaned over to kiss me. Although his lips merely brushed mine, I could feel the heat of his desire as if he imagined it was my nipples that he kissed. One more man had fallen into my trap. But though I was proud that I had not lost my touch, I felt not so much excited as confused, not knowing if seducing yet another man would be good karma or bad.

The sensation of the kiss clung to my lips like an insect that could not be brushed away.