by Chloe Gong
“With eyes like deadly nightshade, lips like fresh fruit. A freckle atop his left cheek like”—Marshall paused, then suddenly shot to his feet—“like this strangely shaped spot on the ground.”
Benedikt stopped short, frowning. He stood too, squinting at the culpable object on the ground. It was much more than just a strangely shaped spot.
“It’s another insect.”
Marshall lifted a leg onto a jutting brick in the wall. “Oh, please no.”
Between the cracks in the pavement, a black speck dotted the cement, ordinary upon a mere, cursory glance. But just as an artist could pick out one accidental jerk of the paintbrush amid a smorgasbord of intentional slashes, the moment Benedikt’s eye landed on the speck, a shudder swept down his spine and told him that the canvas of the world had made a mistake. This creature wasn’t supposed to be here.
“It’s the same,” he said, gingerly pinching his fingers around the insect. “It’s the same sort of insect as the ones we found at the port and took to the laboratory.”
When Benedikt picked up the single dead thing and showed it to his wayward friend, he expected Marshall to make some crude comment or construct a song about the fragility of life. Instead, Marshall furrowed his brows.
“Do you remember Tsarina?” he asked suddenly.
Even for Marshall’s usual tangents and long-winded stories, this abrupt topic switch was odd. Still, Benedikt entertained him and replied, “Of course.”
Their golden retriever had passed away only last year. It had been a strange, mournful day, both in respect for their furry companion and in peculiarity over a death that for once hadn’t occurred with the press of a bullet and a spray of blood.
“Do you remember when Lord Montagov first got her?” Marshall continued. “Do you remember her bounding through the streets and rubbing noses with every other animal she encountered, be it a cat or a wild rat?”
Marshall was trying to get at something, but Benedikt could not yet determine what. He would never understand the way people like Marshall talked, in circles upon circles until his speech was the ouroboros swallowing itself.
“Yes, of course,” Benedikt answered, frowning. “She caught so many fleas that they were jumping in and out of her fur—”
The ouroboros finally spat out its own tail.
“Knife.” Benedikt motioned for Marshall to rummage through his pockets. “Give me your knife.”
Without missing a beat, Marshall flicked a blade free and tossed. The handle glided into Benedikt’s palm cleanly, and Benedikt sliced the point down, shearing a strip through the corpse’s hair as thoroughly as he could. When the loose hair fell to the ground, Benedikt and Marshall leaned in at once to examine the dead man’s scalp.
Only then did Benedikt nearly throw up inside his mouth.
“That,” Marshall deadpanned, “is disgusting.”
There was only an inch of skin on show, an inch of gray-white between two crops of thick black hair. But in this space, a dozen pinky-nail-size bumps bulged forth, dotted homes for dead insects that had taken up residence just below the first layer of skin. Benedikt’s scalp itched with phantom crawling at the sight, at the curled exoskeletons thinly visible under the membrane, at the legs and antennae and thoraxes trapped and frozen in time.
Benedikt tightened his grip on the knife. Cursing himself for his curiosity, he slowly flattened the tufts of the dead man’s hair so it wasn’t blocking his view of the exposed skin. Then, with his teeth gritted together and a wince dancing on the edge of his tongue, he pushed the tip of the blade into one of the bumps.
There was no sound of release nor any fluid discharge, as Benedikt had been expecting from a sight so disgusting. In tense silence, interspersed only by the occasional toot of a car chugging along the nearby street, Benedikt used the knife to slit the thin skin atop one of the dead insects.
“Go on,” Benedikt said when one formerly buried insect became semi-exposed. “Give it a pull.”
Marshall looked at him as if he had suggested that they both slaughter a baby and eat it. “You must be joking.”
“My hands are both occupied, Mars.”
“I hate you.”
Marshall inhaled a deep breath. He stuck two fingers gingerly into the slit. He pulled out the dead insect.
It came into the world with veins and vessels and capillaries attached to its belly. It was as if the insect were an entity unto itself and the dead man grew out of it, when really, the paper-thin lines of pink and white sprouting from the insect were being pulled from the man’s brain. Benedikt could have been fooled.
The veins trembled as a stray gust of wind blew in from the waterfront.
“What do you know?” Benedikt said. “I think we just discovered what’s causing the madness.”
Ten
A few days later, Juliette was on a warpath for leads.
“Stay alert,” she told Rosalind and Kathleen quietly outside the squat building of an opium den. Across the street, there were two doors with red roses taped to them—a Scarlet calling card in theory, but a loud, clear threat in reality. Rumor had it that the Scarlets started using red roses only in mockery of the White Flowers, who would paste any old white flower to the doors of the buildings they took in territory disputes. But the use of the red rose had begun so long ago that Juliette wasn’t sure if there was any truth to the claim. All that was certain was that having a red rose taped to one’s door was a last warning: to pay up, give in, cash out, or do whatever it was that the Scarlet Gang had demanded of you, else face the consequences.
This entire street was under Scarlet control, but every territory had its problem areas.
“Stick close to me,” Juliette continued, waving her cousins forward. The moment they entered the opium den and stepped upon damp, uneven floorboards, the three girls were instinctively pressing their hands to the line of their hips or the band of their waists, comforted only by the presence of the weapons hiding under the rich fabric of their clothing. “There may be active assassins working here.”
“Assassins?” Kathleen echoed, her voice pitching high. “I thought we came here to shake unpaid rent money for your father.”
“We are.” Juliette parted the beaded curtains, stepping through the partition and into the main den, where the smells of distorted histories and forced addictions floated freely. The scents wafting into her nose reminded her of a rose on fire, of perfume mixed with gasoline and set aflame until the remaining ash could be used as thick, heady cosmetics. “But the Scarlet grapevine tells me this is also a socializing ground for Communists.”
They paused in the middle of the den. The remnants of old China were stronger here, amid the various paraphernalia—the pipes and the oil lamps—that had been brought over from before the turn of the century. The decor lagged well behind the times too, for while the chandeliers on the ceiling looked like the ones hanging golden and glittering in every Shanghai burlesque club, the bulbs were covered in a thin layer of grime, oily in appearance.
“Be careful,” Juliette warned. She eyed the bodies slumped against the walls of the den. “I doubt these people are as docile as they look.”
A few centuries ago, when this place was still the home estate of a royal or a general, it might have been opulent and lush. Now it was a husked-out building of missing floorboards and a ceiling sagging with the weight of itself. Now the couches bore holes where patrons extended their legs, and the armrests were worn down where patrons rubbed their grubby hands before tossing up a few cents and hurrying out—that is, if they weren’t enticed into the back rooms first. As Juliette craned her neck and searched the den for the madame in charge, she heard giggling echo from the corridors. In the next few seconds, a group of young women skittered out, each dressed in a different pale-colored hanfu, which Juliette supposed was an attempt to invoke the nostalgia of China’s previous eras. If only the skirts of their hanfu weren’t caked with dirt and their hairpins weren’t one sharp motion from falling out. If
only their giggles weren’t incredulously fake even to the untrained ear, their red smiles curved vivaciously but their eyes dull.
Juliette sighed. In Shanghai, it was easier to count the establishments that didn’t double as brothels than the ones that did.
“How can I help you?”
Juliette turned around, searching for the voice who had spoken cheerily from behind. Madame, as she called herself, was inclined upon one of the couches, a lamp burning away beside her and a pipe tossed carelessly across her torso. When Juliette wrinkled her nose, Madame rose, inspecting Juliette just as closely as Juliette was inspecting the black stains on the older woman’s hands.
“I’ll be,” Madame said. “Juliette Cai. I haven’t seen you since you were four years old.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we had ever met.”
Madame pursed her pale lips. “You wouldn’t remember, of course. In my mind, you’ll always be a little thing toddling around the gardens, oblivious to everything else in the world.”
“Uh-huh,” Juliette said. She shrugged flippantly. “My father failed to mention this.”
Madame’s eyes stayed level, but her shoulders hitched with the slightest signal of offense. “I was rather good friends with your mother for some time”—she harrumphed—“until… well, I’m sure you heard that somebody accused me of being too friendly with the White Flowers a decade ago. It was all hogwash, of course. You know I hate them as much as you do.”
“I don’t hate the White Flowers,” Juliette shot back immediately. “I hate those who harm the people I love. Most often they tend to be the White Flowers. There’s a difference.”
Madame sniffed. With every attempt she was making to relate to Juliette, she was getting pushed away. Juliette could keep at this all day. She loved picking holes in other people.
“Indeed, but don’t let them hear you say that,” Madame muttered. She shifted her attention away from Juliette then, changing tactics and grabbing Rosalind’s wrist, crooning, “Oh, I know you. Rosalind Lang. I knew your father, too, of course. Such precious children. I was so upset when you were sent to France. You won’t believe how much your father crowed on about the excellence of a Western education.” Her eyes turned to Kathleen. A beat passed.
Juliette cleared her throat.
“Bàba sent us here to collect,” she explained, hoping it would direct Madame’s attention back to her. “You owe—”
“But who are you?” Madame asked, interrupting Juliette to address Kathleen.
Kathleen narrowed her eyes. Rather tightly, she replied, “I’m Kathleen.”
Madame made a performance out of searching her memory.
“Oh, Kathleen. I remember now,” she gushed, clicking her fingers. “You used to be so rude, always sticking your tongue out at me.”
“I was a child, so you will have to forgive my past misdeeds,” Kathleen replied dryly.
Madame pointed at Kathleen’s forehead. “You have the Sagittarius constellation birthmark too. I thought I remembered—”
“Who?” Kathleen interrupted. It sounded like a dare. “Who do you remember having it?”
“Well,” Madame said, embarrassed now. “There used to be three of you Lang siblings, right? You had a brother, too.”
Juliette thinned her lips. Rosalind hissed through her teeth. But Kathleen—Kathleen only stared at Madame with the flattest look in her eyes and said, “Our brother is dead. I’m sure you heard.”
“Yes, well, I’m very sorry,” Madame said, sounding not sorry at all. “I also lost a brother. Sometimes I think—”
“Enough,” Juliette interrupted. This had gone on long enough. “Can we speak elsewhere?”
Madame crossed her arms tightly and pivoted on her heel. She did not ask for the three Scarlets to follow her, but they did so anyway, trotting along and pressing up against the walls when they had to pass the pastel girls flittering about the narrow hallways. Madame led them into a bedroom decorated in various shades of red. There was another door here, one that led straight out onto the streets. Juliette wondered if it was for easy escape or easy entrance.
“I have your rent money.” They watched Madame wade through the discarded clothes on her floor, reaching under the slab of a mattress she called a bed to retrieve her money. Muttering beneath her breath, Madame counted the coins, each clinking into her palm to the tune of the groaning ceiling beams.
Madame extended her arm, offering Juliette the money in her fist.
“Actually—” Juliette closed her hand around Madame’s and pushed the money back. “Keep it. There is something else I would prefer.”
Madame’s pleasant expression faltered. Her eyes swiveled to the side, to the other door.
“And what would that be?”
Juliette smiled. “Information. I want your knowledge regarding the Communists.”
The pleasant expression on Madame’s face dropped entirely. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know you let them frequent this place for their meetings.” Juliette cocked her head, once at Kathleen and once at Rosalind. The two sisters broke away from their positions beside her and fanned into the room, each planting themselves in front of an exit. “I know one of these back rooms isn’t holding a girl and her eternal pleasure ride—it holds a table and a fireplace to keep the members of the Communist Party of China warm. So tell me, what have you heard about their role in this madness sweeping through the city?”
Madame barked out a sudden laugh. She lifted her lips too wide. Juliette could see the thick gap between her two front teeth.
“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Madame said. “I keep out of their business.”
Is it fear or loyalty preventing her from talking? Juliette wondered. Madame was Scarlet-associated but not a gangster, loyal to the cause but not quite willing to die for it.
“Of course. How rude of me to assume,” Juliette said. She rifled through her pocket, then grinned brighter than the thin, diamond necklace she had retrieved, now dangling between her fingers. “Will you accept a gift from me to make up for my insolence?”
Juliette skittered behind Madame before Madame could protest, and Madame did not move, either, for what was the harm in taking a diamond necklace?
It was not a diamond necklace.
Madame squawked when Juliette pulled the garrote wire tight, her fingers flying up to scrabble at the pressure digging into her skin. By then the wire was already wrapped around her neck, the micro-blades piercing in.
“Those who are loyal to the Scarlet Gang are dropping dead in droves,” Juliette hissed. “Those who dirty their hands for us are falling victim to the madness, while people like you remain tight-lipped, unable to decide whether you bleed scarlet or fight for the workers’ red rags.” Thin beads of blood bubbled to the surface of Madame’s smooth skin, enough to stain the hues of her neck. If Juliette pulled the wire only a hairsbreadth further, the blades would dig deep enough to scar upon healing. “Which shade do you bleed, Madame? Scarlet or red?”
“Stop, stop!” She wheezed. “I speak! I speak!”
Juliette loosened the wire a minuscule fraction. “Then speak. What role do the Communists play in this madness?”
“They do not claim responsibility for the madness,” Madame managed. “As a group, they remain resolute that this is not of their political doing. Privately, however, they speculate.”
“Regarding what?” Juliette demanded.
“They think one genius within the Party schemed it up.” Madame’s fingers tried to claw at the wire again, but the wire was too thin for her to secure a grip. All she achieved was scratching, her nails grazing at skin as if she were mocking the madness’s victims. “They whisper of having seen one man’s notes, planning it all.”
“Who?”
When Madame seemed to hesitate, her tongue gagging forward, Juliette pulled the wire tighter in threat. By the door, Rosalind cleared her throat, an unspoken recommendation for Juliette to ease up and watch hers
elf, but Juliette did not falter. She only said, her voice as calm as the morning tide, “I want a name.”
“Zhang Gutai,” Madame spat out. “The Secretary-General of the Communists.”
Immediately, Juliette let go of the wire, bringing it back to her side and giving it a shake. She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket, giving the chain a wipe down until it was sparkly and silver once again. When she tucked the wire away, she offered Madame the handkerchief with the same bright smile she reserved for working flapper parties and charming old men.
Madame was pale and shaking. She did not protest when Juliette tied the handkerchief around her neck, carefully adjusting the fabric until it soaked up the line of blood.
“I apologize for your troubles,” Juliette said. “You’ll keep this between us, won’t you?”
Madame nodded blankly. She did not move when Juliette summoned Rosalind and Kathleen back to her side; nor did she protest when Juliette tossed all the cash she had in her pocket onto the table to belatedly pay Madame for the information.
Juliette marched out of the room, her heels echoing loudly as she exited the den with her cousins. She was already forgetting how steady her grip had been upon the wire, how willing she had been to hurt Madame for what she wanted to hear. All she could think about was the name she had received—Zhang Gutai—and how she was to proceed next.
Kathleen watched her the entire car ride back. Juliette could feel it like a slick sweep of grease across her forehead: something that was bothering her without doing any harm.
“What?” Juliette finally demanded when the car stopped to let Rosalind out. As soon as Rosalind slammed the door after herself, shrugging her fur throw over her shoulders and strutting into the burlesque club to do her noon shift, Juliette slid across the backseat until she was directly before Kathleen, who was slouched across the seats facing her. “Why do you keep giving me that funny look?”
Kathleen blinked. “Oh. I wasn’t aware you had noticed.”
Juliette rolled her eyes, raising her legs to rest on the soft cushion beside Kathleen. The car started back up, the crunch of gravel beneath its wheels loud. “Biǎojiě, you underestimate the eyes I have”—she gestured all over her face—“everywhere. Did I cause offense?”