by Mingmei Yip
Just then I noticed that Zhu was staring at me. From his look, I had a feeling that he might sense something between Jinying and me. But the fact was, there was nothing between us. Or was there? I felt confused again, and this time I liked it even less.
But Zhu smiled at Jinying. “Young Master, don’t you agree that a son should fulfill his father’s wish?”
Seemingly not knowing what to say, Jinying remained silent, looking discomfited. Finally he muttered a weak, “I’ll try.”
“Good,” both Lung and Zhu said as they exchanged glances.
Then the boss grabbed my hand and said to his son, “Jinying, you know that Camilla saved my life?”
The son nodded.
“Good, then be nice to her. She’s now your father’s lucky star!”
The son nodded again, his eyes almost as hopeless as an abandoned puppy’s.
The father glanced at Zhu, then turned to me. “Camilla, how come you were the first person who noticed I was shot?”
“Master Lung, what a question! Because I care about you so much, I watch you always.”
Zhu cast me an angry look. Suddenly I realized he might be thinking I had just made him look bad in front of his boss.
I immediately tried to smooth things over. “Master Lung, everyone was paying attention. It’s only that as a woman, I was the first one to scream, because I was so scared.”
I was relieved to see a smile emerging on Zhu’s face.
Lung exclaimed, “Yes, all my men are first-rate. How could they not be, since I was the one who handpicked every single one? Ha! After my release, I’ll have a big banquet to celebrate my cheating death. How’s that?”
We all responded, “Excellent idea!”
Zhu smiled obsequiously. “Boss, I’ll make preparations for that. How about a Manchurian Han banquet?”
“Excellent! How come I never thought of that?” He made a fist, striking the stale hospital air. “And I’ll toast to the King of Hell and see how he’ll respond! Ha!”
10
Manchurian Han Banquet and a Private Magic Show
Aweek later, Lung hosted the Manchurian Han imperial banquet at a famous high-end restaurant in the French Concession. I had heard about this kind of elaborate banquet but had never had the chance to see, let alone taste, one. It was based on the one that was served to celebrate Emperor Kangxi’s sixty-sixth birthday.
That evening, I put on a purple cheongsam embroidered with a soaring golden dragon, a gift from Lung. This exquisite piece had been made in the Xiang province, where the embroiderers are renowned for the variety of their patterns, stitches, and color gradations. Thus the saying, “On a piece of xiang embroidery, you can see the birds fly and hear the tigers roar.”
The golden dragon was enhanced by my gold earrings, necklace, and high heels. My other “props” included a silk golden flower pinned above my right ear, an Hermès handbag, a gold fan painted with blossoming camellias, and my fragrance, which scampered around me alluringly like a cat with a spool.
After Lung and I entered the restaurant’s spacious VIP banquet room, we saw preparations fit for an emperor. On the stage, a small ensemble with erhu, a zheng, and percussion instruments was playing the lively tune gongxi facai, “Wishing You Good Fortune and Happiness.” Twelve tables were set with embroidered tablecloths, napkins folded in the shape of a flower, enameled plates, and glasses with gilded borders. One tablecloth was yellow, a color once reserved for emperors; all the rest were red, the color of good luck. I immediately knew that Lung, Jinying, Zhu, Gao, and I, were to sit at the yellow one. Gao was included because his status had been upgraded since he had dashed to take a bullet for Lung.
The owner of the restaurant, its manager, and a group of waiters and waitresses flanked the entrance. The waitresses were dressed in the Qing dynasty imperial costume—a long, loose, yellow gown and a black vest embroidered with pink flowers. Another embroidered flower, also pink but much larger, perched on the girls’ elaborate, beaded headgear. Two pearl tassels swayed from the sides like miniature waterfalls. The girls, the flowers, and the tassels all seemed to have entered a smiling competition. As I looked down, I noticed that the waitresses’ shoes were five inches high on tiny platforms.
Lung nodded to the group as Zhu handed each a red lucky money envelope. The owner, a plump, middle-aged man, and the equally plump manager greeted us and told us that each table would be served by three imperial maids. The number was picked for good luck—three is a synonym of birth, life.
Upon seeing us, the other guests who’d arrived earlier stood and kowtowed. After that, we took our seats at the golden table. This evening the king, of course, was Master Lung—the triad king who had even beaten the King of Hell!
I noticed that the imperial-yellow tablecloth and its matching seat covers were embroidered with colorful clouds and dragons, as if to honor the Flying Dragons gang. The gilded silverware glittered regally under the intricately carved imitation palace lamps.
Three Qing dynasty “princesses,” actually waitresses, came to fuss over us: holding out hot towels, pouring tea, serving respect dishes, lighting cigarettes. Of course there was no need for us to order, because the dishes for such an extraordinary banquet had to be selected well ahead.
As one of the “princesses” poured tea into Lung’s three-legged cup, an imitation of the ancient, wine-offering tripod, the manager said, “Master Lung, this is the most expensive Big Red Robe tea. It costs more than my whole month’s salary.”
Another waitress presented wine, and the owner gushed, “Not only do we offer Master Lung the best wine, we also serve it to you in these ceramic bowls from the famous Jingde province.”
The manager continued to babble while keeping his face pasted with a dog-shit-eating grin. His unctuous flow of words amazed and amused me.
“Master Lung, we would like you to know that it normally takes our chefs three months’ of traveling to different provinces to gather all the ingredients for this feast, then three weeks with twelve assistant chefs to prepare, and finally three days to try and test all the one hundred and three dishes. But since you are our most honorable guest, we speeded up the whole process by having the ingredients specially shipped here. Only our restaurant with our personal connections could achieve this. So I hope you and your guests will enjoy what we serve tonight.”
Lung laughed happily. “Of course I will. Especially after I cheated death, everything will taste heavenly, let alone the famous Manchurian Han banquet!” Then he turned to introduce me. “Meet Miss Camilla, my lucky star. She’s the one who gave me the dragon amulet that fended off the evil spirit and saved my life.”
“Welcome, Miss Camilla!” both the owner and the manager exclaimed.
Finally the manager finished his harangue and passed around the menu printed in golden characters against a crimson background: HEAVENLY DRAGON MANCHURIAN HAN IMPERIAL BANQUET. Then the manager pointed to the dishes on a small round table next to ours. “See? Honorable guests, these are the eighty-eight small dishes with their eighty-eight different condiments. And the eighty-eighty medium dishes with their eighty-eight different peicai .”
Peicai is matching food, such as celery to go with Peking duck, dried vegetables with marinated pork, black fungus with fish fillet, chives with pig’s liver.
I had been to lavish banquets before but had not imagined that there could be so many condiments and peicai to match the main dishes. The serving array was extraordinary, on plates arranged in concentric circles in matching colors. All the condiments in the innermost circle were in different shades of yellow, the next in shades of orange, then shades of brown, and finally black. From a distance, the whole thing looked like a huge blossoming flower, matching those on the waitresses’ vests and headgear.
Soon chopsticks began clicking, lips smacking, glasses clinking, and flattering words pouring out.
Guests from the other tables came over to greet Lung, proposing toasts.
“Master Lung, that’s
why you’re the number one boss—you even beat the King of Hell!”
“Congratulations, Master Lung! May your fortune be as infinite as the Eastern Sea and your longevity as immeasurable as the Southern Mountains!”
When everybody had fulfilled their obligatory rounds, we resumed eating. Soon the manager advised that we should taste only a small portion of each dish, saving room for more yet more to come. As best I could remember, the dishes we’d already tasted included: four-delicacies soup, gold-thread porridge, lotus prawns, sweet-scented osmanthus and dry scallops, Mandarin-duck thin milk, panda-tasting bamboo, phoenix spreading the wings, braised shark-fin phoenix tails, tiger skin and rabbit meat, dragon and phoenix heartthrob, French bean goldfish, pearl and white jelly fungus, osmanthus and pigeon eggs... .
The dish that really overwhelmed me was Immortals Pointing the Way, which, the owner told us, was made from the roots of green sprouts hollowed with a thin wire, then stuffed with shredded, newborn baby chicken. Almost as amazing was the One Hundred Happiness, consisting of one hundred carps’ whiskers meticulously collected, cooked, and arranged in the shape of one hundred different writing styles of the character shou, longevity.
Yet another one was Mandarin duck legs. This time the manager hastened to explain, “Ladies and gentleman, don’t let this ordinary-looking dish fool you—”
Jinying blurted out, sounding like a spoiled child, “But we eat duck leg all the time.”
“Young Master, but we only serve drumsticks from the left side of the duck.”
Jinying widened his eyes. “Why eat the left and waste the right?”
A few guests smiled at his naivety.
“Because a duck always urinates by lifting its left leg. The results are, first, the left drumstick tastes much better because of the constant exercise. And second, the urine always flows to the right leg, resulting in an unpleasant, acidic taste.”
An expression of amazement appeared on Jinying’s face.
Lung looked at his son admiringly as he said to the manager, “My son is Western educated, a lawyer from HarFud. He knows much about the West but is still a beginner in Chinese culture.”
Jinying pointed to the plate. “Is this considered Chinese culture?”
This time Zhu chimed in, “Of course. This is our five-thousand-year-old culinary culture.”
The boss’s son made a face. “Then I’d rather not learn about it.” He paused before muttering softly, “It’s disgusting.”
No one seemed to, or pretended not to, hear what he’d said. The son looked in my direction, and I returned an understanding smile. Just then I noticed that Gao was studying us curiously. So I smiled again, making sure the one I aimed at him was a tad more flirtatious than the one I’d just sent to his possible rival. But he turned away, refusing to acknowledge my good intention. Nor did the bodyguard make any conversation with anyone else; he knew well his place in the black-society’s hierarchy. He was lucky enough to have been invited to this table. So why push his luck further? Tonight the only thing appropriate for him to do was to eat. And I was glad to see he’d been doing it with abandon.
More dishes, wine, and tea were consumed, and more congratulatory remarks poured out until at last the final dish arrived. Flanked by the owner and manager, two waitresses, between them balancing a huge golden plate, walked with delicate steps to our table. After they set down their burden, what we saw was a painting.
Jinying was the first to exclaim, “Wah! What a beautiful painting!”
Zhu added jokingly. “So now, after all the food, it’s time for art appreciation?”
His boss scoffed. “Ha! Everyone knows I’m not interested in appreciating art, only making money.”
The restaurant owner proudly announced, “Exquisite, isn’t it? This painting is called ruyi shanshui, Good Luck Landscape. But don’t let appearances fool you. Because this painting is edible!”
Jinying spoke again. “So this is food?”
“Of course!” Both the owner and the manager laughed at the young master’s naivety.
On the “painting’s” top left-hand corner shone a red sun with golden rays. Under it soared white cranes above luscious trees and colorful houses.
“This dish is vegetarian.” This time the manager spoke, pointing. “See? The sun was made of carrot, its rays pickled radish, the flying cranes, tofu cut into different shapes. Take a close look, and you will see that the trees are seaweed and the houses different kinds of mushrooms.”
Everyone oohed and aahed over this stunning culinary art.
I asked, “How can we have the heart to eat something so beautiful?”
Lung leaned close to me. “Do you also think that I shouldn’t have the heart to eat you?”
I flung my fan playfully at him as I conjured up a matching smile, hiding my distress at his ominous words. “Master Lung, if I were a dish, do you think it would also have a boosting effect?” Of course the “boosting effect” I meant was sexual.
Lung patted his chest emphatically. “Huh! What do you think? I even cheated death!”
Now everyone focused on studying the “painting” and pretended that they didn’t hear any of our conversation nor see the old man’s dirty little hands taking tasty trips on my body. Everyone except the young master and the head bodyguard. The former’s face was turning red and the latter’s pale.
Finally, when we were all complaining about our bulging bellies, Zhu stood up, tapped his glass with his spoon, and announced, “Thank you, everyone, for coming here tonight to celebrate Master Lung’s cheating death! Now that our bellies are satisfied, what about our eyes and ears?”
People clapped. “Yes, let’s hear Miss Camilla’s heavenly voice!”
Zhu waved a dismissive hand. “Wait, not so fast. Miss Camilla should always be the last, since she’s the best, right? So we’ll have a surprise show first!”
Just then, the orchestra played something loud and boisterous as a woman walked briskly onto the stage and deeply bowed. To my utter shock, it was Shadow!
My heart beat wildly. Lung had never told me about inviting Shadow to the banquet for entertainment. Was this simply a pleasant surprise, or a sign of danger ahead?
The magician appeared half-naked, wearing flesh-colored tights with sequins covering her breasts and the valley between her legs. People looked shocked and amazed that she appeared naked but was in fact not, part of her constant, seductive navigation between illusion and reality.
Shadow thanked Zhu for the introduction, then smiled to the audience. Finally her eyes landed on Lung.
She picked up a glass of wine. “May I suggest that we all toast to Master Lung’s health and longevity?”
After everyone upended their glass, the magician continued. “I know you’re all waiting eagerly for Miss Camilla to round out this wonderful evening with her heavenly singing. So my show will just be a warm-up.” Then she looked toward me. “Will Miss Camilla come up onstage?”
Now what trick was stored inside her sleeve?
I cast a questioning glance at Lung. He responded by looking extremely happy. “Camilla, at the temple’s opening ceremony, you said that I forgot to invite Shadow. So here she is tonight!”
But that was not what I’d meant—or wanted!
I asked, “Then why didn’t I see her earlier, during the dinner?”
Zhu answered for his boss. “The Manchurian Han Imperial Banquet is not for everyone.”
Hearing this, I felt a little better.
As I stood up, Lung pinched my bottom. “No more talk. Let’s see what you two pretty sisters are going to do to entertain us.”
Onstage, Shadow made a gesture for me to sit in a chair.
“All right, Shadow, what are you going to do to me?” I asked, faking fear. Or was I really scared?
The audience laughed, eyes Ping-Ponging between us, waiting for something exciting to happen.
She smiled, sitting down across from me. “Nothing. Why don’t we just chitchat and get to know e
ach other better?”
“What do you want to chat about?” I asked, wondering, What kind of trick is she pulling?
“Hmm ... can you tell us about your family?”
Even as a magician, did she think she could trick me into revealing my secrets—as an orphan and a spy—in front of an audience?
“Miss Shadow”—I smiled—“I believe people are much more interested in a beautiful magician who can plunge to her disappearance than a songstress’s humble background. So why don’t you tell us the secrets of your magic?”
This strategy is called yitui weijin, retreat in order to advance. I feigned being modest as I threw the ball back to her.
She stayed calm. “Miss Camilla, we Chinese believe that the highest form of success is symbolized by a dragon soaring in the sky. And what contributes to this success is secrecy, as a dragon never completely reveals itself but is always partly hidden by clouds. Therefore the saying, ‘When the heavenly dragon’s head is seen, its tail will be hidden; if its tail is seen, its head will be hidden.’ ”
She turned to smile at Lung. “Just like our Master Lung. And who would reveal our boss’s secrets?”
The audience yelled, “Well said!”
Master Lung burst out laughing, hitting his fist on the table.
I tried my best to conceal my anger, even fear. Very clever. As she was humiliating me, she was also flattering Lung, because not only was Lung being referred to as a dragon, but his gang was called the Flying Dragons. In addition, she had also subtly equated her own success to Lung’s!
I thought for a few seconds before I replied, quoting the ancient strategist Han Feizi’s famous words, “ ‘The bright master observes but is not to be observed.’ So, if you won’t tell us your secrets, are you saying that you’re just like our venerable Master Lung?”
This time she looked upset. If she said yes, Lung would be greatly offended, but if she said no, she was refuting her own statement.
As I was wondering how long would this go on until we’d both gotten ourselves into trouble, a voice from the audience exclaimed, “Thank you for your repartee! We greatly enjoyed it!”