by Chloe Gong
“Yes,” Roma said. If he nodded any harder, his head might roll right off. “Yes.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Juliette decided. Suddenly the memories of their past together—the ones she had spent four years trying so hard to forget—came barreling into her mind with full force. She had no choice but to invoke them, ignoring the clenching tightness in her lungs. “Meet me at the statue.”
The statue—a small stone rendering of a crying woman—was a forgotten artifact hidden in an unnamed park in the International Settlement. Four years ago, Roma and Juliette had stumbled upon it by chance and spent an afternoon trying to work out its intentions and origins. Juliette had insisted it was Niobe, the woman in Greek mythology who had cried so much after her children were slain that the gods turned her to stone. Roma had maintained it was La Llorona, the Weeping Woman in Latin American folklore who cried for the child she had killed. They had never decided on an answer.
If Roma was surprised or taken aback by her reference to the statue, he didn’t show it. He only asked, “When?”
“Sunrise.”
It was only at that which Roma appeared mildly concerned. “Sunrise? That’s ambitious.”
“The earlier the better,” Juliette insisted. She winced. “It reduces our chances of being seen together. This goes without saying, but no one can know we’re collaborating. We would—”
“—both be dead if they knew,” Roma finished. “I know. Until sunrise, then.”
Juliette watched him swing his legs back over the railing of the balcony, hanging along the elaborate metal designs like another piece of the sculpting. Under the low-hanging light of the moon, Roma was a black-and-white study of sorrow.
Roma paused. “Good night, Juliette.”
Then he was gone, his lithe shadow working quickly down the exterior wall and darting through the gardens. One jump and he was over the gate, off the Scarlet Gang’s grounds and on his way back to his own world.
Juliette drew her curtains tightly, adjusting the fabric until not a sliver of silver was shining through. Only then did she allow herself to emit a long exhale, pushing the moonlight out of her room and its changing faces out of her heart.
Twenty
At sunrise, it was early enough that the ports were quiet, the waves rocking against the floating boardwalk. It was early enough that the smell of the wind was still sweet, untainted by the smog of morning factories, absent of the aromas that rose from the fried food and sloppy soups cooked in the stalls pushed upon the streets.
Unfortunately, it still wasn’t early enough to avoid a Nationalist rally.
Juliette halted in her step, freezing on the pavement underneath a swaying green tree. “Tā mā de,” she cursed under her breath. “What are—”
“Kuomintang,” Roma answered before Juliette could finish the question.
Juliette shot him a dirty look when he stopped beside her. Did he think her incapable of spotting the little suns on their hats? It wasn’t exactly an obscure logo. The Kuomintang party—and their Nationalists—was growing incredibly popular.
“I know,” Juliette said, rolling her eyes. “I was going to ask what they’re doing. This is my city. I don’t need you educating me.”
Roma cast her a glance askew. “Is it though?”
He hadn’t even put any venom behind his tone, and yet those few words sent a dagger hurtling right through Juliette’s heart. Is it though? How many times had she asked herself that question in Manhattan? How many times had she climbed up to her building’s rooftop and gazed out on New York’s skyline, refusing to let herself love it, because loving one meant losing another, and losing Shanghai meant losing everything?
“Now, what is that supposed to mean?” she asked tightly.
Roma looked almost amused by the question. He made a vague gesturing motion toward her, indicating her dress, her shoes. “Come on, Juliette. I’ve been here a lot longer than you have. You’re an American girl at heart.”
And the implication of the words left unspoken were clear: Do us all a favor and go back.
“Ah yes,” she muttered. The sharpness in her chest only twisted deeper. “Me and my American democracy, how am I managing in such a climate?”
Before Roma could rebut anything further, Juliette started walking again, veering off their intended route. Instead of passing the rally gathered about the wide road, she hurried into a nearby alleyway, barely pausing for Roma to follow after her. He registered the change quickly. Soon the two of them were picking their way through trash bags and overturned food carts, scrunching their noses at stray animals and grimacing at the frequent puddles of blood. While they walked through the city’s back roads, they were content to lapse into silence, content to pretend the other was not present.
Then Roma whirled around, spinning so fast to face the scene behind them that Juliette immediately assumed they were under attack.
“What?” she snapped, pivoting back too. She grabbed her pistol, then pointed wildly, waiting for something to jump out. “What is it?”
Except Roma remained weaponless. He merely searched the street behind them, his brow scrunched.
“I thought I heard something,” he said. They waited. A bird dived into a garbage can. An exterior pipe gushed dirty water on the streets.
“I don’t see anything,” Juliette said quietly, putting her weapon away.
Roma frowned. He waited another second, but the scene was still. “My mistake. I apologize.” He straightened his sleeve cuffs. “Let us continue.”
Hesitantly, Juliette turned and started to walk again. They were not far now from the address that Kathleen had given her. This was a familiar part of the city.
The goose bumps, however, remained on her arms.
He’s only being paranoid, Juliette tried to reassure herself. The fear of being spotted together was already keeping both of them on their toes. Juliette had her coat collar pulled high to shield her face. Roma wore his hat low over his forehead, which was a good decision when he presently looked so unkempt that any onlooker on the street might run in the other direction upon sighting him. In the bright daylight, the cuts on his face were stark against his pale skin. Judging by the shadows beneath his eyes, Juliette would not be surprised if he had not slept last night, likely tossing and turning in worry over Alisa.
Juliette shook her head. She needed to clear her mind of her assumptions. For all she knew, he could also have been out killing Scarlets.
“It’s one of these buildings,” Juliette said when they came upon the correct street. The houses here were dilapidated and crowded, the spaces between each building barely wide enough for a child to squeeze through. This area wasn’t far from the French Concession, yet a tangible line could be drawn as a border between the two districts, and it was clear which half this street fell on. A long rectangular structure lay half-crumbled under Juliette’s feet. Perhaps a grandiose village gate had stood here once, etched with golden characters to welcome its incomers, but it was gone now, torn apart for cityscapes and depravity.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Roma asked. “Surely a newspaper job pays more than enough to move elsewhere.”
“Of all people, Roma Montagov,” Juliette said, “you should understand the importance of image.” One and the same, with the people, among the people. The Communists never stopped preaching such ideals. If the common worker had to suffer, then Zhang Gutai must too—else what other basis did he have for their respect?
Juliette started toward the building her address indicated. Then—two paces away from the main entrance—she abruptly paused. She pointed. “Look.”
Roma stifled his sharp breath. Insects. A collection of their deadened husks, lying out in the open by the entrance of this apartment block. If this didn’t scream guilty, Juliette didn’t know what did.
Pulse thudding, she pushed at the apartment building’s entry door. The rusty lock came free, and the door swung open.
Juliette gestured for Roma to move fas
ter. They worked their way up the stairs, grimacing at the cramped conditions. The stairs staggered up the building along one wall, then trickled straight into a parallel hallway with four doors not so far removed from one another. North, then south, north, then south—they trekked up the stairs, passed the doors on the floor, then moved up the next set of stairs, continuing the process in a dizzying sort of pattern. Roma was more used to this; Juliette was not. She hadn’t lived within the city limits for years, nor felt the shift of the floorboards sigh under her feet as the entire structure seemed to heave.
“Which apartment is it?” Roma asked. He sniffed as they passed a windowsill on the third floor’s landing, eyeing the flowerpots pushed right to the edge, one little nudge away from shattering on the pavement below.
Juliette only stuck her index finger up at the sky. They kept climbing—up, up, up to the very top, reaching a floor with a sole door waiting right where the stairs ended.
They paused. They exchanged a look.
“He’s not home,” Juliette assured Roma before he could ask. She bent down on one knee, producing her thin, needlelike dagger from the folds of her dress. “I scanned the calendar in his office. Meetings with important people all day today.”
Only as soon as Juliette inserted the dagger into the lock, her tongue poking out from her mouth in concentration, she heard the very distinct, undeniable echo of footsteps shuffling inside the apartment and toward the front door.
“Juliette!” Roma hissed, rushing forward.
Juliette bolted up, stashing the knife into her sleeve. She held her arm out to stop Roma in his tracks, gathering herself just in time before the door flung open and an old man blinked at them with filmy, squinting eyes. He was surely pushing sixty, frazzled and weary-looking, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sleep since he came out from the womb.
“Hello,” the man said, confused.
Juliette thought fast. They could salvage this. This wasn’t beyond saving.
“Good morning. We’re from the university,” she exclaimed, dropping into another dialect—Wenzhounese—so promptly that Roma jolted back the smallest inch, unable to conceal his astonishment at her quick switch. “Are you well on this fine morning?”
The man leaned his ear forward, grimacing. In Shanghainese, he replied, “Speak běndì huà, would you, girl? I don’t understand.”
Wenzhou was a city only days of travel to the south of Shanghai, but its local dialect was so incomprehensible to outsiders that Juliette would never have learned it had Nurse not taught her. Nurse used to say that the closest sound resembling Wenzhounese was not a neighboring tongue like Shanghainese, but the chirping of songbirds. In a city not only bustling with foreigners but also native Chinese from every corner of the country, most civilians shared a language, but they did not share the same way of speaking it. Two Chinese merchants could carry on an entire conversation with each one speaking his own dialect. They didn’t need to meet in the middle. They only needed to understand.
Juliette, however, hadn’t expected the old man to understand her at all; she had only one goal. Before he could squint closely at her face and recognize her for the heir of the Scarlet Gang, she had to make him think she was a careless immigrant girl from elsewhere.
“My apologies.” Juliette switched to Shanghainese, task accomplished. “As I was saying, we’re from Shanghai University and terribly excited to see you today. We’re hoping to found the first student union club and need some advice. Is Mr. Zhang home to speak?”
The old man straightened, brushing his hands over his knitted cardigan. Juliette expected him to turn them away, to tell them to come back some other time, so they could skitter out of sight and mark this off as a temporary failure. As long as they didn’t raise suspicion, they could come back. As long as this man didn’t pay too much attention to their faces and thought them regular university students who weren’t worth remembering.
She didn’t expect the man to clear his throat imperiously and say, “I am Mr. Zhang.”
Roma and Juliette exchanged a perplexed glance.
“Er… no, you’re not.”
The man’s posture sagged. He blew out a breath and abandoned his assuming air. “Fine. I am Qi Ren, Mr. Zhang’s personal assistant. You may come in.”
Juliette blinked—first in confusion over this man’s peculiarity, then in surprise, that he was inviting them in instead of turning them away. As she stood there, she felt a nudge from Roma, asking why she wasn’t moving when Mr. Qi turned on his heel and shuffled away on his hard slippers.
This wasn’t her original plan, but Juliette was nothing if not adaptable.
“Come on,” she muttered to Roma. They hurried in after Mr. Qi.
“How shall I address you?” Mr. Qi called over his shoulder.
Juliette didn’t miss a beat. “Zhu Liye. And this is Mr. Montague. Lovely couches you have.” She sat down before he could invite her to.
Mr. Qi, frowning, moved aside a variety of folders on the nearby table, turning them over so his two-character name and Labor Daily’s watermark were facedown. “Will this take some time?”
“If that works for you,” Juliette replied brightly.
Mr. Qi sighed. “I will go make some tea.”
As soon as Mr. Qi had moved far enough into the adjoining kitchen, busy with his task of boiling water, Roma turned to Juliette and hissed, “Montague? Really?”
“Shut up,” Juliette hissed back. “I couldn’t think of anything else and I didn’t want to pause suspiciously.”
“You’re fluent in Russian and that’s the best you could come up with?” Roma asked, flabbergasted. “What is a Montague? It sounds Italian.”
“There are Italian Communists!”
“Not in Shanghai!”
Juliette was prevented from responding when Mr. Qi stuck his head back in and asked what sort of tea they wanted. Once he returned deeper into the kitchen, satisfied with their polite answers that anything would do, Juliette ducked her head and said, “Okay, we can still do what we came here to do. You must distract him.”
“Say again?” Roma demanded. “You’re going to leave me here to entertain?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a problem.” Roma leaned back in the couch, his hands placed in his lap. “How do I know you’re going to share whatever information you find if it doesn’t benefit you?”
He was perfectly valid to suspect her, but that didn’t mean Juliette liked the insinuation she would sabotage this operation.
“Stop arguing with me,” she replied. “Our usual job description is intimidation and gunfire. If we can even pull this off, we should count ourselves lucky.”
“Frankly, that’s—”
“Do you wish to save Alisa, or not?”
Roma fell quiet. He clenched his fists, and Juliette couldn’t tell if it was in reaction over her reminder about Alisa, or if it was to resist reaching out and strangling her. Mr. Qi returned right on cue, with a teapot and three round teacups balanced in his frail arms. Wasting no time, Juliette shot to her feet and asked for the washroom. Mr. Qi absently pointed down the hallway while he placed the cups onto the table, and Juliette flounced off, leaving Roma to glare daggers after her as he started making up a story on the spot about the founding of Shanghai University’s Communist union club, which neither of them were actually sure existed. It was his problem now. Juliette had bigger fish to fry.
With her ears perked to ensure Roma was still rambling on about socialist solidarity, Juliette paused at the end of the dilapidated hallway. There were four doors: one wide open into the washroom, two propped ajar and leading into bedrooms, and the fourth shut tight, unyielding when Juliette jiggled the knob lightly. If Zhang Gutai had anything to hide, it would be behind this door.
Juliette braced, then smacked the flat of her palm so hard upon the knob that the simple lock clicked out of commission. Freezing for a brief second, Juliette waited to see if Mr. Qi would come running. When there w
as no interruption in Roma’s spiel, she turned the knob and slipped through the door.
Juliette looked around.
There was a red flag with a yellow hammer-and-sickle stretched across one of the walls. Beneath it, a large desk was overflowing with folders and textbooks, but Juliette didn’t waste time scanning it when she approached. She dropped to her knees and pulled at the bottom drawer along the side of the desk. Immediately, the first thing she saw was her own face, and though the paper was flimsy and thin, the press of ink crooked, the rendering of her features completely awry and miscalculated, it was undoubtedly still her under a heading proclaiming RESIST THE SCARLET GANG.
“Interesting,” Juliette muttered, “but not what I’m looking for.”
She pushed the posters aside and dug deeper. All she found were papers upon papers of propaganda that had no relevance to her, smeared ink written with inciting terror in mind.
In the second drawer, however, she discovered envelopes, all embellished with the scrawls of thick ink nibs that spoke of power and wealth. Juliette thumbed through them quickly, throwing aside invitations from Kuomintang politicians and thinly veiled threats from bankers and businessmen, throwing aside anything that looked vaguely like it could waste her time. Her attention was snagged only when she came upon a little white square, an envelope far smaller than the others. Unlike the rest, it did not have a return address.
Instead, it had one little purple flower in the corner, pressed in by a custom-made rubber stamp.
“A larkspur,” Juliette whispered, recognizing the image of the flower. She scrambled to retrieve the paper inside the envelope. It was merely a small slip of script, typewritten and snipped to fit.
It was a pleasure to meet and discuss business.
Let me know if you change your mind.
—Larkspur