by Chloe Gong
“In such a hurry?” Marshall asked. “The meeting won’t start for another few minutes.”
He definitely recognized her.
“I wish to find a seat,” Kathleen replied. Her heart started to thud in her chest. “The acoustics in this room are deceiving. Better to be as close to the stage as possible.”
It didn’t matter that neither of them was wearing gang colors, attending a meeting run by a group that rejected them both. They were on opposite sides—a clash was a clash.
“Oh, but stay a while, darling!” Marshall insisted. “Look, over there—” Marshall put his hand on her elbow. Kathleen’s hand immediately snapped to her waist, her fingers curling around the handgun sitting underneath her jacket.
The air stilled. “Don’t do that.” Marshall whispered it almost sadly. “You know better.”
A clash was a clash—so why wasn’t he chasing her out? This was White Flower territory. It would be poor decision-making on her part to shoot at him, but he could shoot at her—he could kill her and the Scarlets could do nothing about it.
Slowly, Kathleen eased her fingers away from the gun. “You don’t even know what I was about to do.”
Marshall grinned. The expression came on in a flash—serious one second, then overjoyed the next. “Don’t I?”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. She didn’t know how to respond to this conversation at all—how to respond to a sort of flirtation that seemed to be more a personality trait rather than something performed with a goal in mind.
How to respond to the simple little fact that he was not pointing his gun at her.
A trick. The White Flowers knew how to play the long game.
Marshall remained standing there. His gaze moved about her forehead and her nose and the pendant at her throat, and though Kathleen instinctively wanted to flinch away from scrutiny, she copied the slouch of his relaxed shoulders instead, almost challenging him to say something more.
He didn’t. Marshall smiled, like he was simply having fun with their staring contest.
“Well, this has been a nice chat.” Kathleen took a step back. “But I want to find my seat now. Goodbye.”
She hurried away with a huff, dropping into the first free chair she found near the front. She hadn’t even wanted to sit down. She was trying to speak with the Communists. Why was she so bad at staying on task?
Kathleen looked around. To her left, an old woman was snoring away. To her right, two young university students—real ones, unlike her, if their notepads were any indication—were intently focused on discussing their plans for after this meeting.
Kathleen craned her neck, then craned some more, her fingers tapping the back of the chair frantically. A ticking clock appeared in her mind’s eye each time she blinked, as if her time here were a measurable thing that would soon run out.
Kathleen’s gaze snagged on a group of three balding men two rows behind. When she strained her ears and focused, she noted that they were speaking in Shanghainese, gibbering on about the state of the Northern Expedition, fingers stabbing down on knees, and tongues moving fast enough to spray spittle in all directions. The way they gestured made her think they weren’t just casual attendees. Party members.
Perfect.
Kathleen made her way over, dragging her chair until she could plop down right next to them.
“Do you have a second?” she cut in, pulling their conversation to a halt. “I’m from the university.” Kathleen produced a recording device from her pocket and held it out in front of her. The thing was actually broken, dug out from—strangely enough—a pile of unused bullets from the armory in the Cai mansion.
“We always have time for our students,” one of the men replied. He puffed his chest out, readying himself.
I’m recording your voice, not taking your picture, Kathleen thought.
“I’d like to publish a piece on the Party’s Secretary-General,” she said aloud. “Zhang Gutai?” Her eyes flicked to the stage. There were people gathering on the platform now, but they were speaking among themselves, shuffling around their notes. She had a few minutes before the place went quiet. She couldn’t ease these men into her questions. She needed to extract the information she wanted as quickly as possible, prime them into what she wanted.
“What about him?”
Kathleen cleared her throat. “The revolution needs a leader. Do you think his capable nature will be an asset?”
Silence. For a moment she was afraid that she had started far too strong, stepped her bare foot into a nest of vipers and scared them back into their holes.
Then the men started to guffaw.
“His capable nature?” one parroted with a wheeze. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Kathleen blinked. She had hoped her leading questions would prompt them into thinking she knew more than she actually did. It seemed a fair guess that Zhang Gutai would be capable, did it not? There were very few other personality traits fitting for a mastermind who had schemed up an epidemic. Instead, her stab in the dark had landed in the other direction.
“You do not think Mr. Zhang to be capable?” she asked, perplexity soaking into her voice.
“Why would you think him to be?” one of the three men shot back, returning the genuine bemusement.
Up on the stage, a speaker tapped the microphone. Sharp feedback rang through the whole building space, bouncing through the little nooks in the ceiling alcoves.
“It is a fair assumption.”
“Is it?”
Kathleen felt a tic begin in her jaw. She could not keep playing a game. She was untrained in the art of speaking untruths.
“Rumor has it that he has created the madness sweeping through Shanghai.”
The three men stiffened. Meanwhile, the first speaker onstage started to welcome the attendees, thanking them for coming and prompting those at the back to come closer to the front.
“What sort of piece are you writing anyway?” The whisper floated over to Kathleen from the man seated farthest from her. He spoke in a way that moved only half his mouth, the words pushed out through the gaps of his teeth and the slit of his lips.
Kathleen’s hands were heavy with the recording device. Carefully, she scrunched it into her fist, then put it away, determining it had served her purpose.
“A study of power,” she replied, “and the madness that comes with it. A study of the powerful, and those who are scared of him.” Allowing no mistake over the meaning of her words, Kathleen whispered, “The uncovering of the madness.”
Applause rang through the hall. From somewhere afar, Kathleen thought she heard a brief whine of sirens merging with the noise, but when the applause stopped, all she could hear was the next speaker—a real Bolshevik who had come all the way from Moscow—hailing the benefits of unionizing.
“Make no mistake.” The man nearest to her met her eyes briefly before he leveled his gaze on the stage again. Had he not beheld this information, Kathleen would never had thought him a Communist. What was it that made this man different from the others on the street? At what point did mere political self-interest cross into fanaticism, enough to die for a cause? “If you wish to uncover Zhang Gutai’s role in this madness, it is not his power that elevates him.”
“Then what does?” Kathleen asked.
None of the men jumped to answer her. Perhaps the Bolshevik’s speech onstage was far too captivating. Perhaps they were simply scared.
“You claim to be heralds of equality.” Kathleen tapped her foot on a discarded flyer lying upon the ground. The big, bold text was bleeding ink, soaked with droplets of someone’s spilled tea. “Live up to your claim. Allow me to expose Zhang Gutai for the false scoundrel he is. No one needs to know that the information came from you. I don’t even know your names. You are anonymous soldiers for justice.”
A beat passed. These men were itching to tell her. She could see it in the glint of their eyes, the frenzy of the high that came when one thought they were doing good in th
e world. The Bolshevik onstage took a bow. The hall erupted in a wave of applause.
Kathleen waited.
“You want to write a study on his power?” The man closest to her leaned in. “Understand this: Zhang Gutai is not powerful. He has a monster doing his bidding.”
A cold draft wafted into the room. With the applause dying, the audience grew quiet once more.
“What?”
“We saw it,” the second one said firmly. “We saw it leave his apartment. He sends it out like a leashed demon to kill those who upset him.”
“The whole Party knows,” the third man added, “but no one speaks against dishonor while the tide rushes forward in our preferred direction. Who would dare?”
Under the technicolor shadows of the stained windows, the whole audience seemed to shift forward, awaiting the next speaker while the stage remained empty. Kathleen might have been the only one turned in another direction.
These men think sightings of the monster cause madness, she realized. They thought the monster to be an assassin on Zhang Gutai’s instruction, killing those who looked upon it. But then how did the insects play into the equation? Why had Juliette been muttering on about lice-like creatures spreading madness instead?
“That sounds like power to me,” Kathleen remarked.
“Power is something achievable by few.” A shrug. “Anyone can be the master to a monster should their heart be wicked enough.”
The room suddenly roared with havoc, jostling chairs and screeching sounds echoing into the sonorous space. Suddenly Kathleen remembered hearing the faraway sirens and brushing them off, but indeed, they had been sirens, bringing with them enforcement that did not enforce law at all, only the way that things were. This was White Flower territory. They paid the garde municipale here a mighty amount to keep the gangsters in power, which included storming the meetings of Communists, storming every attempt this party made in their progress toward igniting revolution and eradicating gangster rule.
“Halt immediately and put your hands up,” one of the officers boomed.
The activity only erupted further as people streamed out the doors and dove under tables. Dimly, Kathleen considered doing the same, but an officer was already marching right for her, his expression set on harassment.
“Venez avec moi,” the officer demanded. “Ne bougez pas.”
Kathleen made a contemplative noise. “Non, monsieur, j’ai un rendezvous avec quelqu’un.”
The officer jumped in surprise. He hadn’t expected the Parisian accent. He himself did not have the features of the white French commonly seen in the Concession. Like so many other officers in the garde municipale, he was only a product of French rule, shipped up for his labor from Annam or any one of the various countries south of China that had not managed to keep the foreigners out of its government.
“Maintenant, s’il vous plaît,” the officer snapped, his hackles visibly rising with Kathleen’s insolence. All around them, Communists were being pushed to the ground and rounded up. Those who had not run off fast enough would be processed and placed on a list, names to watch should the Party grow any bigger and need culling.
“Ah, leave her be.”
Kathleen whipped around, her frown heavy. Marshall was waving the officer off, waving a hand adorned with a ring that quite clearly belonged within the collection of Montagov heirlooms. The ring glinted in the light and the officer’s irate expression dulled. He cleared his throat and left to hassle the next nearest victim.
“Why did you do that?” Kathleen asked. “Why do you offer your help when it has not been requested?”
Marshall shrugged. From out of nowhere, he seemed to have conjured a glistening red apple. “They step on us enough. I wish to aid.” He took a bite out of his apple.
Kathleen tugged at her jacket. If she pulled any harder, the fabric would permanently have a wrinkle to it.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked coldly. “The garde municipale is on your side. They will never step on you.”
“Of course they do.” Marshall smiled, but this time it did not reach his eyes. “They all do. They cannot wait to polish their shoes and stomp down with finality. People like us are dying every day.”
Kathleen did not move.
Marshall took no notice of her discomfort. He went on, gesturing around with his apple.
“Just as those Communists you were speaking to would find the first opportunity to drag down their Secretary-General.”
Kathleen made a noise of offense. “Were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”
“And if I was?”
The arrests seemed to be slowing now. There was a straight path from here to the door and then Kathleen would have freedom, escaping with her newly acquired information bundled to her chest.
Too bad the White Flowers had the exact same information now.
“Mind your business,” Kathleen snapped.
Before Marshall Seo could steal anything more, she marched away.
Twenty-Two
Morning turned to noon with an exhausted flop, beams of gray daylight streaming through the dirty windows of the burlesque club. Juliette waved at the cigarette smoke that wafted below her nose, grimacing and holding back her cough.
“Is the radiator broken?” Juliette yelled, her voice carrying loudly. “Turn the heat up! And get me more gin!”
She was already wearing a long coat lined with fur thicker than her father’s account books, but each time the doors slammed open, a cold breeze swirled in and further chilled the brisk day.
“You finished the whole bottle already?” one of the waitresses remarked. She had a cloth in her hand, scrubbing at a nearby table, her nose scrunched in the direction of the glass in front of Juliette.
Juliette picked up the empty bottle, examined the delicate detailing, then set it down again upon a flyer. She had found the thin piece of paper on the streets before she came in. The corner was rumpled now from how much she had been fiddling with it.
GET VACCINATED, the flyer read in large lettering. At the very bottom, there were two printed lines offering an address in the International Settlement.
“Tone down the judgment before I fire you,” Juliette replied, the threat delivered without much conviction. She clicked her fingers at a passing kitchen hand. “Come on! Another bottle!”
The kitchen hand hurried to accommodate. The crowd in the burlesque club during the day was sparse, and for the gangsters who came during these hours, there was nothing to do except dawdle around and watch Rosalind’s watered-down daytime routine. At night, all the stops were pulled out and Rosalind kicked and cha-cha-ed her way into extravagance. The lights would glow to their fullest capacity and the hum from the floor would be enough to power the chandeliers, which twinkled gold against the hazy red ceiling. But while the sun was up outside and the bodies scattered amid the round tables were few, it was as if the place were hibernating. Rosalind usually worked two hours during the day and she clearly hated them, if her inability to pay attention was any indication. From the stage, she had raised an eyebrow at Juliette, wordlessly asking why Juliette was throwing a fit from the audience and, in the process, missed the first few notes of her next song.
“Drinking at one in the afternoon?” Rosalind remarked when she came up to Juliette an hour later, finally finished with her set. Having changed out of her flashy stage dress, she slumped onto the chair opposite Juliette in her dark-green qipao, blending into the deep green of the seat. Only her black eyes stood out in the bland lighting. Everything else became strange and gray.
“Well, I’m trying.”
Juliette poured deftly, then offered the half-full cup to Rosalind.
Rosalind took a sip. She grimaced so severely that her usual pointed chin morphed into three.
“This is awful.” She coughed, wiping at her mouth. She looked around then, eyeing the empty tables. “Are you meeting someone here again?”
A merchant, Rosalind was suggesting, or perhaps a f
oreign diplomat, a businessman—people in power who Juliette was supposed to be rubbing shoulders with. But since Walter Dexter, who had been more of a pest than anything, her father hadn’t given her anyone else to meet with. She had one task only: find out why the people of Shanghai were dying.
“Every time I knock on my father’s door to ask if there are any important people he would like me to sweet-talk, he waves me off like—” Juliette performed an exaggerated imitation of her father’s harried expression, flicking her wrist quickly through the air like a limp fish.
Rosalind bit back a laugh. “You don’t have anywhere better to be, then?”
“I’m merely spending some time in your talent,” Juliette replied. “I’m so bored of these ordinary people who don’t know the difference between a dropkick and a flat kick.…”
Rosalind pulled a face. “I don’t even know what the difference is. I’m almost certain you just made those terms up.”
Juliette shrugged, then threw the rest of her drink down. The answer she had given was the truth. She only needed to be seen at the burlesque club for long enough that it would not be suspicious when dusk came and she slipped out to meet Roma.
Juliette shuddered. Slipping out to meet Roma. It was too reminiscent. A wound so long removed, yet still fresh and open and sore.
“Are you okay?”
Rosalind jolted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The cosmetic application was good, but Juliette spent a long time every morning fiddling around with her pots and jars too. Without looking very closely at all, she could tell where Rosalind had heaped on the creams and powder, could track the exact line where her real skin ended and a false layer began to cover up the shadows and dark circles.
“I worry that you’re not getting enough sleep,” Juliette replied.
A loud crash came from their left. The waitress who had been cleaning the table had knocked over a candleholder.
Rosalind shook her head—it could have been a motion both in disapproval over the waitress and in response to Juliette. “I’ve been sleeping, just not well. I keep having dreams about those insects.” She shuddered, then leaned forward. “Juliette, I feel helpless merely sitting around while the city falls apart. There must be something I can do—”