by Janie Chang
After carpenters mended the windows and pasted new mulberry paper into the latticework frames, Anjuin and I had spent the better part of a week cleaning the lower floor of the house. Grandmother Yang sank into a chair in the sitting room, and I pushed open the window shutters. We watched Master Yang stroll with First Wife around the courtyard. When he pointed out the plum trees, the last to drop their blooms, she smiled and her face looked merely thin, not gaunt.
“She was seventeen and rather pretty when she first came to us,” Grandmother Yang said.
Before disappointment dragged cruel lines down her cheeks and envy tightened her lips. Outside, the afternoon sun lent color to First Wife’s face. I could almost imagine how she must have looked as a bride. From the wistful expression on Master Yang’s face I could tell that like Grandmother Yang, he was remembering the bride of his youth.
But that night, First Wife wailed as though all the demons of hell were dragging her into the underworld.
Anjuin and I pulled on our shoes and ran for the Western Residence. When we reached First Wife’s bedroom, Mrs. Hao was already there, an arm around First Wife, who was no longer screaming. She was sobbing in bed, rocking back and forth and clutching a pillow as though it were a child.
“They took away my son,” she wept. “They took away my son!”
“I’ll sleep in her room at night from now on,” Mrs. Hao said, when Grandmother Yang arrived. “She’s my kinswoman, after all.”
Behind those soothing words I could tell Mrs. Hao was worried. If First Wife became troublesome, the Yangs might send her away. The cook might be expected to follow and look after her.
THE YANGS WERE unable to find anyone willing to take care of a madwoman in a haunted courtyard, so Anjuin and Third Wife went back and forth between the two residences. In the evenings, after I returned from school, I helped by taking First Wife her supper.
The situation was intolerable. Although Mrs. Hao stayed with her through the night, First Wife still woke up wailing for her phantom child. Whenever members of the household stepped out the front gate, any neighbors who happened to be strolling along Dragon Springs Road would saunter over purposefully.
“Is she well, your First Mistress?” they would ask. “We could tell she was in distress last night.”
First Wife no longer seemed to notice the passage of time. It was easy convincing her that Master Yang was busy but would come see her soon. She would nod and smile, then return to her room. He did visit her regularly at first, but each time she made him uncomfortable with her eager face and the fuss she took over pouring his tea and lighting his pipe. Master Yang’s visits grew less frequent.
“The master is very busy at the factory,” we would say. “He sends greetings and will take supper with you another time.”
When Mrs. Hao repeated this empty assurance one day, I glanced over at First Wife and saw silent tears trickling down her cheeks. She wasn’t so oblivious after all, not all the time. She knew she had been put aside. When she pretended to believe our soothing lies, she was merely saving face for herself. And for everyone else.
I picked a small bunch of fragrant clove pinks and put them on her dressing table.
THE GOVERNMENT POSTAL service wasn’t as reliable as the minxin ju, privately run letter agencies, so I had given Liu Sanmu the address of the agency out on Chung San Road that the Yangs used. Every day I dropped in to see whether he’d sent anything. To my surprise, a letter arrived within a few weeks. I gave the clerk at the minxin ju a few coppers to cover my share of delivery costs.
Dear Miss Zhu,
Yours has been a difficult case. It’s been years since the Fongs departed Dragon Springs Road. You’re not sure of your mother’s name, and to complicate things even more, Master Fong had no sons. Rarely are women’s names found in official documents unless they own land, so once Master Fong vanished from the records, there were no other names the investigator could use to cast a wider net.
However, he has located a woman who says she used to work for the Fongs. You can ask her what she knows. If you come to my office this Saturday, we can visit her together. I wouldn’t want you to go into the Old City by yourself.
Liu Sanmu
“Would you like me to tell Dajuin?” Anjuin asked. “Do you want him to come with us?”
I shook my head. “We can just tell him what we find out.”
All the way in to Shanghai, Anjuin and I didn’t speak at all. There was only one topic on our minds, and I wasn’t inclined to share it with the rest of the passengers on the handbarrow. We sat with our backs against the wheel frame, giving each other silent glances from time to time and listening to the conversation behind us from the other side of the barrow.
“I’ve been going to the Race Club without fail since they allowed Chinese to enter the grounds on race days,” said one of the men, the eldest of the group.
“You must be an expert on horses, Master Fu.”
“He’s no expert!” another voice chortled. “Old Fu only goes to ogle rich men’s mistresses!”
“Hah! Who doesn’t enjoy looking at beautiful women? But you know I have a system for the horses. I cast their horoscopes.”
The handbarrow stopped outside the racecourse, and we climbed off. It wouldn’t take us long to walk to Hankow Road. Normally we would’ve paused at shop windows for a closer look at clothing or strange foreign wares, but today we were in a hurry. When we reached the corner, Anjuin pulled me back.
“Jialing, you realize your mother could be dead by now,” she said.
“I know that,” I said. “But at least I would know. I’m prepared.”
What I wasn’t prepared for was the man sitting by Liu Sanmu’s desk.
“Mr. Shea!” I exclaimed.
It was Anna’s father. Nearly nine years had passed since we’d seen him. He was slightly heavier, his face more lined, but his suit was well tailored and looked new. He stood up and gave us a slight bow.
“I never thought to see you girls again,” he said, “then I realized the woman I was searching for had to be your mother, Jialing.”
“Are you still with the Shanghai Police, Mr. Shea?” Anjuin asked.
“I left,” he said. “I left the police force, but I stayed in Shanghai.” His accent was nearly perfect now, only the slightest hint of foreign speech.
“Mr. Shea has built up one of the best private detective agencies in the city,” Liu Sanmu said, motioning us to sit. “I frequently use his services. I’ll let him tell you what he’s done.”
Shea had very little to go on since he didn’t know my mother’s real name, so he began by picking up Master Fong’s trail. He sent an investigator out to the marketplace on Chung San Road, where rickshaw pullers, donkey cart drivers, and handbarrow pushers hung about waiting for work. One man, a rickshaw puller, remembered the day the Fongs left. He had taken Master Fong away from Dragon Springs Road, the Fong women following in a donkey cart. They had gone to a boardinghouse in the Old City, but the rickshaw puller no longer recalled which one.
“Shanghai is a huge place,” Shea said, “but the lowest rents and cheapest opium are in the Old City.”
Shea’s man combed through the Old City, offering money for information. Soon Shea was reading notes every night from his investigator, interviews with people who claimed to have seen Master Fong and his women.
“We found a woman who actually mentioned Dragon Springs Road,” Shea said. “A former servant of the Fongs called Ping Mei. She’s been our only credible lead.”
She gave Shea the name of the boardinghouse where the Fongs had lived after leaving Dragon Springs Road. When Shea’s man went there, he learned that the owner of the boardinghouse had only taken over the business two years ago. A Master Fong and family were listed in the old records that came with the business, but of course the new owner knew nothing about guests from before his time.
“We’re going to see the woman Ping Mei now,” Liu Sanmu said, “to pay her for the information. You ca
n ask her yourself what she knows, Miss Zhu.”
If the woman really had worked for the Fongs, perhaps she had known my mother. Perhaps my mother had confided in her.
Anjuin and I shared a rickshaw. Mr. Shea led the way. His rickshaw puller ran in front of us, and Liu Sanmu’s followed behind ours. The European-style buildings and wide avenues of the foreign concession stopped at the boundaries of the Old City, which foreigners called the Chinese City.
When the first Nationalist governor of Shanghai demolished the Old City walls, he had replaced the Ming Dynasty fortifications with a road that circled the area. Enclosed within the ring road were homes and stores pushed together in a maze of streets, Chinese territory that hadn’t been taken over by foreign concessions.
The lanes narrowed as we rode deeper into the Old City. The entire area reeked of old cooking oil, sewage, and urine. An old woman squatted at the edge of the road, holding a toddler steady while the child defecated on the sidewalk. Through half-open gates I caught glimpses of squalid courtyards where small children ran about and women leaned over charcoal braziers to cook.
Shea’s rickshaw stopped at one of these gates. Anjuin and I got out of our rickshaws and followed him into a small entrance courtyard. Bundles of straw were stacked against the walls, their golden stems aging to gray from damp and mold. Before I could continue through to the main courtyard, Anjuin gave me a nudge. Mr. Shea had stopped beside a covered storage area and lifted up a tattered bamboo mat nailed over the entrance. In the dimness, I could make out shapes, all lying on the ground. The stench of unwashed bodies combined with the fetid sweet scent of opium wafted out from the makeshift room.
Four of the shapes muttered and turned away from the light. The fifth struggled up, then stood and came out to the doorway, half hidden in the shadows. The old woman patted her thin, gray plait.
“Mister Shea,” she croaked, as she hobbled out with her stick. Her head tilted coyly at him. “Are you here to ask more questions? Was I right about that boardinghouse?”
“You were right,” he replied, “and I brought your money. Now these young ladies have a few questions for you.”
She came farther out into the courtyard and turned to face us. The left side of her grimy face was disfigured by patches of shiny skin, scars from a burn. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips fallen in over toothless gums. I winced and looked away.
“More questions,” she said to Mr. Shea, leaning on her stick. “I thought you were trying to track down Master Fong, that rotten turtle egg. Well, if you want more information, it will cost you more money.”
But Shea shook his head. “You tell these young women everything you know, right now. Or you don’t get paid at all.”
“And just who are these young ladies?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse, as though unable to clear her throat.
“My father bought the house on Dragon Springs Road from Master Fong,” Anjuin said. “Who are you?”
“I’m called Ping Mei,” she said, squinting at us. “I left the Fongs when they couldn’t pay wages anymore.”
“Did you know the people in the Western Residence?” I blurted out.
Ping Mei peered at me out of her good eye. “There was a woman. And a little girl.”
Behind me, Liu Sanmu sighed in exasperation. “Tell us everything you know, old woman.”
“And who are you?” she asked us, ignoring him. “You girls don’t look like sisters.”
“I’m that little girl,” I said. “I’m looking for my mother. I don’t care about the Fongs.”
She stared at me. “Well, you grew up nicely. Did her family take you in?” She jerked a thumb at Anjuin.
“Yes, they did. Did you know my mother?”
She laughed, her face twisted in a horrible grimace of a smile that made me flinch away from her ruined features. “Take me back there. I’d like to see the old place again. I’ll tell you everything I know when we get there.”
Again, Shea shook his head. “Do you know what happened to the woman after the Fongs left Dragon Springs Road?”
“She died.” Flatly and firmly.
All noise from the courtyard and the street outside faded; the calls from vendors, children crying—they all dwindled to silence. There was only the sound of my heart, a drumbeat of dismay. It seemed as though I was suspended for hours in that dull throbbing, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before Mr. Shea broke the silence.
“You said you didn’t know what happened to the Fongs, only the name of that boardinghouse. Now you tell us the woman died.”
“You didn’t ask about a woman,” she snapped at him. “You only mentioned the Fongs. I would’ve told you, for more money. But a daughter, that’s something else. A daughter deserves to know.”
My mother’s name had been Zhu Yinglien, she said. Silver Lotus.
The name whispered in my mind.
“Your mother was widowed,” Ping Mei said. “Master Fong brought her home to be his mistress.”
Ping Mei left the Fongs and found work as housekeeper in a small inn. One day the owner of the inn brought home a new servant. It was my mother. Fong had sold her to be a bond servant. That was how Ping Mei learned the Fongs had left Dragon Springs Road and were living in a cheap boardinghouse in the Old City. Master Fong, the man my mother called “Noble Uncle,” had been in so much debt that even after selling his home, he still owed money. So he had sold his womenfolk.
“How did she die?” Shea asked the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“There was a customer, a terrible, brutish man,” Ping Mei said. “He drank and he had an eye for your mother. I heard screaming and things being knocked about in his room. He was on the ground strangling her. I tried to pull him off, but he threw me against the wall. Then he pushed my face into a charcoal brazier.”
She spat out a gob of something brown.
The man knocked over another brazier while stumbling out, causing a fire that burned down most of the inn. Rescuers pulled Ping Mei and my mother out of the blaze, but my mother was already dead. The man ran away, and the innkeeper didn’t bother reporting my mother’s death as murder. It was less trouble to say she had been a casualty of the fire.
“So this was my reward for trying to help her.” Ping Mei pointed at her scarred cheek.
She peered up at Shea. “I must go. I do cleaning for the brothel down the street. Give me my money.”
Shea counted out some coins into her hand. Then Ping Mei turned to me. “Give me some money, enough for a rickshaw. I’ll come out to Dragon Springs Road tomorrow and tell you more.”
I could see that Anjuin didn’t think we should have anything more to do with the woman, but if she was telling the truth, Ping Mei had tried to help my mother so I owed her that much. And I had more questions for her. She was the only connection I had to my past. I gave her a few coins, and she patted my hand when she took them from me. Then she hobbled out of the filthy courtyard and onto the street.
“I’m very sorry. You may have expected to learn that your mother had died,” Shea said, “but it’s still not easy to hear. I advise you not to have anything more to do with that woman.”
“She’ll just spend the money on opium,” Liu said, on our way out. “She’s swindling you.”
Shea bid us farewell, and I watched him walk to his rickshaw. He paused to give a coin to a beggar, then hastened his step to avoid other beggars who were hobbling in his direction, hoping for a share in his largesse.
“I was hoping for a good human interest story, but those require a happy ending.” Liu shrugged, but he smiled as he said it.
“Thank you, Mr. Liu,” I said. “Thank you very much for your generous help. At least now I know my mother is dead.”
But I would never know why she left me behind. Or my father’s identity.
Anjuin and I were as silent on the trip home as we had been on the way in to Shanghai. When we were on Chung San Road and could see the brick piers that marked the entrance to Drag
on Springs Road, Anjuin took my hand.
“Are you all right, Jialing?” she asked.
I shook my head. “My mother was free of Master Fong. She was working at an inn. Why didn’t she come back to get me?”
THE DAY AFTER our visit to the Old City, Anjuin and I went to the Western Residence to deliver First Wife’s lunch. We had just opened the door between the two courtyards when we heard Lao-er confronting an unwanted arrival.
“Get away from here,” Lao-er’s contemptuous voice rang out. “I’ll report you to the beggars’ guild.”
A hoarse voice, just as contemptuous, replied. “I’m not a beggar. I’m here to see the young lady, Miss Zhu.”
“Please, Anjuin,” I begged. “Let her in just this once. I have to know more.”
She relented with a sigh. “It’s all right, Lao-er,” she called. “I’ll deal with the woman.”
Ping Mei stepped inside, ignoring Lao-er’s suspicious glare. She hadn’t spent my coppers on opium; she really had spent the money on a ride out of Shanghai. She looked around as though satisfying herself that she was really back.
Anjuin pointed at the blanket roll slung over Ping Mei’s shoulder. “Why did you bring your bedding? I hope you’re not thinking of staying.”
The woman chuckled. “Everything I own is in here. You think I’d leave it behind to be stolen?”
“Let’s go into the Western Residence,” Anjuin said, pushing open the door.
Anjuin and I took the trays to First Wife’s rooms. When I returned to the courtyard, Ping Mei was resting on the steps of the erfang, the one where my playroom used to be. She sat with the blanket roll tucked under her like a cushion. I avoided looking at her, at the disfiguring scars and her toothless smile.
“I don’t have any more money,” I said. “So tell me the truth. Everything you remember about my mother.”
“ALL I KNOW was from chatting with her a bit now and then. She kept very private about her past,” Ping Mei said. “Other things I overheard from the Fongs.”
Master Fong had met my mother while on a trip to sell off more of the Fong estates. His host had hired some women to sing and entertain during dinner. Master Fong took a fancy to my mother and purchased her from the brothel. He was so infatuated he even agreed to let her bring me along. He returned to Dragon Springs Road with my mother and a baby who wasn’t his.