by Janie Chang
Perhaps Dajuin had always been approachable, but I’d been intimidated by his status as the eldest son of the family and kept my distance. I found him less formal now and saw how affectionately he treated Anjuin, teasing her solemn features into a smile. He read out loud to us from the newspaper while we cleaned up.
Suddenly he seemed younger. I realized I’d only ever seen him bent under the weight of running the mill, correcting his father’s missteps without appearing impatient, soothing Yun Na when she threatened the harmony of the household over some imagined slight.
“I’ve decided to look for work in Shanghai,” he said. “I was thinking at one of the mills in Chapei, as an administrator or foreman.”
“Why?” Anjuin asked, sitting back in surprise.
“There’s not enough to go around in Ningpo,” he said. “Since we’ve been in Shanghai, our uncles and cousins have been running the business by themselves and now they have to make room for Father and me. I’d rather strike out on my own even if it means working for strangers.”
“Does Father know?”
Dajuin shook his head. “Let’s not say anything unless I manage to find a job.”
“If Father listened to him more, Dajuin would be less eager to find opportunities outside the family,” Anjuin said to me later. It was as close as she would come to admitting that her father was incompetent. “I wish I could find work in Shanghai. I don’t want to go back to Ningpo either.”
But we all knew that was impossible. Anjuin’s fate was to live out her days in the Yang household, allowed only to work at a Yang dry goods store.
By unspoken accord we never mentioned Ping Mei in front of Dajuin. As far as he knew, she had left with the other servants. Each day, the strange woman hobbled her way out to Chung San Road to beg and returned to the Western Residence before sundown. She came to the kitchen occasionally for a bit of oil or rice, and she always left a few coins in payment, evidence of a successful day on the streets. She never came when Dajuin was home. Sometimes she spent entire days in the Western Residence, sitting on the veranda with her pipe, sipping on weak tea and gazing about her with unfocused eyes.
“Why don’t you go out to beg every day?” I asked her.
“Who knows how much longer I can enjoy this home?” she said, coughing into her sleeve. “It’s not as though I enjoy begging. If I can afford what I need, why work any harder?”
I had seen her sidle into the herbalist’s on Chung San Road to refill the small brown bottle she kept in her pocket. That was really all she wanted. She had grown even thinner, and when I offered her food, she nearly always refused. Ping Mei seemed content to live on hot water with a few tea leaves, bowls of boiled rice, and the occasional egg.
I wondered what she did for fuel until I noticed the lengths of wood heaped behind the kitchen stove, their ends carved with cloud patterns. She had salvaged railings and panels from the veranda of the unused erfang on the other side of the courtyard.
IN THE WEEKS before graduation I spent my lunch hours in the library poring over newspapers for job listings. I wrote application letters in careful brushstrokes if in Chinese or took my turn on the old school typewriter if the job was advertised in one of Shanghai’s English-language papers.
Clerical or secretarial, tutoring or child care, I replied to them all. All this effort, even though I knew it was futile. There were just too many people in Shanghai, too many with more skills than I could offer. There were people willing to work for almost nothing. There were few enough ways a woman could earn a livelihood, and the decent work went first to young women whose family had guanxi, connections, women whose families could afford red envelopes of cash to ease an introduction. Families whose daughters weren’t tainted with foreign blood.
The Shanghai Women’s Commercial and Savings Bank advertised for a filing clerk. A position suitable for the secondary school graduate. Must be tidy in dress and grooming, with clear handwriting. It was the first bank founded by women, a fine place to begin a career, a place where I could use my English skills. I wanted this job very badly and was thrilled to receive a reply to my application.
“This is just a small bank, Miss Zhu,” the manager said. Her hair was pulled back in a large bun, the only ornament on her black tunic a small pearl brooch. “We prefer girls with family connections, girls who can bring us more clients. I didn’t notice you had graduated from a mission school. That was my mistake.”
Her words were pleasant enough, but disdain clung to the corners of her lips. It was another, typically brief interview, the sort that was over as soon as I entered the door. I had let myself hope, a mistake.
Miss Morris did her best to help me.
“I met Mrs. Burns at a charity event,” she said, handing me a name and address. “She wants a nanny who can also tutor her children, and I’ve persuaded her to meet with you. Here is your letter of reference.”
ON THE DAY of the interview, Anjuin helped me dress. She plaited my hair into two neat braids and coiled them at the nape of my neck.
“Dajuin is going into Shanghai to meet someone who’s interested in the property,” she said. “I asked him to share a rickshaw with you, so you don’t show up at this foreign woman’s home all hot and dusty from walking the whole way. Just part of the way.”
The rickshaw man grumbled at having to carry two adults but Dajuin pointed out that I was only a very light girl and would be getting off at the edge of the International Settlement. We were nearly there before I realized I’d said nothing to Dajuin during the ride, so caught up had I been in my own worries about the morning.
“Umm, so Anjuin says there’s a potential buyer for the estate?”
“Yes,” he said. “He has some questions and wanted to meet first. If he likes the answers, he’ll come out to Dragon Springs Road with me for a look.”
“Where are you meeting him?”
“At the offices of Xinwen Bao newspaper.”
THE BURNS HOUSE made me gasp, each window as tall and wide as a man with arms outstretched. My nails dug small white crescents in the palm of my hand. A very superior young man opened the door. I realized that despite the impeccably white collar peeping above the high neck of his tunic, he was merely a servant.
Inside, sunshine flooded through clear glass panes. Each window was draped with enough fabric to sew an entire family’s wardrobe. Vases filled with masses of flowers dazzled my eyes with their luxurious excess. It was so different from what I was used to, arrangements composed of a few well-chosen stems that invited stillness and contemplation.
The servant led me to a sitting room where a large foreign woman waited, a froth of mauve silk ruffles that overflowed a small chair. The man beside her was equally bulky, with a curly beard the color of chestnuts. His eyes traveled over me as Mrs. Burns opened the letter from Miss Morris.
“Well, my dear,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against her cheek. “I have some documents to read before going back to the office.”
She nodded, barely glancing up at her husband as she read the letter. Then she asked rather curtly, “What you can teachee?”
“I can teach arithmetic and reading,” I said, ignoring the insult of her pidgin English. “I have a lot of experience minding children. Also, if you need any secretarial help, Miss Morris says my penmanship is excellent.”
She frowned, regarding me with a look I interpreted as doubt. “Well, at least your English is competent. I thought Miss Morris might’ve exaggerated.”
I smiled, swallowing my anger. “Please, ma’am, how old are the children?”
“They are six and eight,” she replied.
“For what they need right now, I believe my education is more than equal to the task.” My words were confident, but I kept my voice soft and pleading.
She looked out the window. “My children spend too much time with their amah. They speak too much Chinese and have learned too many Chinese superstitions.”
“Mrs. Burns,” I said, as pleasantly a
s I could, “I would only speak English to them. As for superstitions, I’ve been raised by the mission school.”
“Your English is excellent, but I only agreed to see you as a courtesy to Miss Morris. I want a nice English governess, not a half-breed Chinese.”
I didn’t allow the smile on my face to waver as I stood up, but my heart clenched, a fist of resentment. “I understand, ma’am. Do you know any other families who might need a governess? Or even just a nanny?”
“You people!” she said, crumpling up the letter. “Why do you always push for more? Always pushing, pushing. To give a job to a cousin or brother. As if I were obliged to support your entire family.”
“There’s no family to support, ma’am,” I said. “I’m an orphan. Thank you for your time.”
The same house servant took me back downstairs, but once outside the front door, he beckoned me to follow him.
“The master wants to see you,” he said.
Around the side of the house, French doors looked out on a marble terrace. The servant knocked and opened one of the doors. Lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, the room was undoubtedly a study. A huge desk occupied one end of the room, a pair of armchairs the other. Mr. Burns rose from one of the armchairs. I looked around uncertainly. The house servant stood beside the door, so unobtrusive he was nearly invisible.
“Come closer, young lady. So did my wife hire you?” Mr. Burns asked. I could smell hair oil and the heavy sweet scent of foreign tobacco.
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t think she would, you being a half-breed,” he said.
Suddenly he gripped me by the wrist and pulled me toward him. I lost my balance and fell against his chest. He chuckled, and I felt his hands pat my buttocks, travel down my thighs. Shock and embarrassment held me frozen.
“Good, good,” he said, sounding satisfied. “Mrs. Burns goes to her garden club every Tuesday. Come by the house next Tuesday at noon and I’ll pay you well.”
I pushed him away with all my strength, and he fell back against the armchair with a grunt of pain. When I ran out the terrace door, the house servant made no attempt to stop me.
He called out in Chinese. “Why not earn money for yourself instead of some brothel? You think a zazhong girl like you can do better?”
Face burning, eyes stinging with tears, I hardly knew where I went once I ran out the Burnses’ front gate. It wasn’t this one incident that made me despair. It was all the rejected applications and unsuccessful interviews, the hopelessness of the road ahead. I had been better off illiterate, with no expectations of anything better than a factory or a brothel.
I wiped my eyes and began making my way west along Nanking Road. The faster I walked, the sooner I could get back home. I wanted nothing more than to lie on my cot and pull the covers over my head. But although I quickened my pace, the walk seemed longer than usual and I was tired and thirsty by the time I passed the shops on Chung San Road and finally came within view of the entrance to Dragon Springs Road.
Behind me, the rumble of an automobile.
“Jialing!” A man’s voice called out.
It was Dajuin, waving from the passenger window of an automobile. Only the wealthy owned cars and none lived out here, so as soon as the car pulled to a stop, it was surrounded by street urchins, some actually daring to touch the shining dark-green panels.
“Get in, ride the rest of the way home with us,” he said. Beside him in the driver’s seat was a smiling Liu Sanmu.
I scrambled into the car, the disasters of the day receding with the thrill of being in an automobile for the first time, my skirt sliding across smooth leather seats. I couldn’t believe how quickly we reached the entrance to Dragon Springs Road. As the car slowed down, the swarm of excited urchins caught up. Liu Sanmu obliged them by sounding the horn loudly and repeatedly. He got out of the car, laughing at the children, a different person from the serious editor I’d met at the newspaper offices.
The commotion brought Anjuin out from the shop. When Liu Sanmu greeted her with a friendly wave, she turned quite pink.
“Those children won’t leave your car alone, Mr. Liu,” Dajuin said, apologetically. “Let me open the gates of the Western Residence. It has a large entrance courtyard where you can park while looking at the property.”
“Where is Ping Mei?” I whispered to Anjuin.
“Out begging, so they won’t see her,” she said. “And we may as well call it a day for the shop. Dajuin will want tea for Mr. Liu after he’s seen the property.”
She left me to take care of closing the shop. Then I gave the main hall a quick sweep before going to the kitchen. We arranged the tea tray and filled a platter with nuts and dried fruit, but as we carried the trays out of the kitchen, the automobile horn tooted from out on Dragon Springs Road. A few minutes later Dajuin came in to the main hall.
“Mr. Liu has left,” he said. “He didn’t need a close inspection of the houses, he only wanted an idea of how large a property we have.”
Apparently the Lius, an old and established Shanghai family, were getting into the real estate business. In obedience to his grandfather’s wishes, Liu Sanmu was acquiring land for development. If he bought the Yangs’ home, he would tear down the old houses to build modern, Western-style villas.
“How sad,” Anjuin said. “Three beautiful courtyard homes, each with its own well.”
“Three old homes,” Dajuin said, “each in need of expensive repairs. By the way, Jialing, it’s thanks to you that Liu Sanmu noticed the ad.”
“Me?” I said, looking up from my tea.
“Yes. Mr. Liu told me that when he glanced through the newspaper, the street name in our advertisement caught his attention. Then he remembered you. It made him curious and he decided to take a look at Dragon Springs Road even though it’s farther out of Shanghai than he likes.”
AS SOON AS we had finished supper, I went to the Western Residence. Ping Mei was in the kitchen on a chair, her back against the wall, feet pointed at the charcoal brazier. Her lids were half closed, a sign that she had just taken some laudanum.
“Well. To what do I owe this visit?” she asked, but her tone wasn’t unkind or sarcastic.
“To tell you it looks as though there might be a buyer for the estate,” I said. “The automobile that was in the front courtyard earlier.”
“I saw the car out on Chung San Road when it drove by,” she said. “Well, I suppose I’d better make plans to leave.”
Her voice was slightly slurred, and she didn’t sound concerned. She sat up and peered at me. “What’s worrying you, child?”
“Even with Miss Morris’s help, I can’t find work,” I said, sitting on a kitchen stool. “The Englishwoman I went to see today didn’t want me. She wanted a British governess for her children.”
But Ping Mei had dozed off again.
Liu Sanmu would make a very suitable patron, a smug voice behind me said. You already know he’s kind and wealthy. Now he’s interested in buying this property.
“Fox, seduction isn’t the only way to solve problems,” I said, poking at the fire. “Anyway, to him I’m just a schoolgirl.”
Turn around, Jialing.
I did, and it was unnerving. I had never seen Fox this way before. She wore a foreign dress, as she often did, but beneath the close-fitting velvet, her lithe form seemed more rounded, more voluptuous. What startled me most was the change in her face, the same and yet not the same. Her complexion glowed, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips, which were slightly parted, were moist and red, fuller than usual. She gazed down at me with shining eyes, the pupils wide and dark. Her hair, usually looped and twisted elaborately on her head, streamed down her back in a loose, shining ripple of ebony.
I wanted to reach out and stroke her hair. I wanted something I couldn’t describe. In that moment, I knew how it would feel to have a man like Liu Sanmu under my spell. A surge of confidence swelled through my bones, a rush of triumph so warm and strong I nearly fell off the
stool. Then the moment passed and the heat drained away.
I agree there are other ways to approach problems, Fox said, but I can’t help turning to my particular Fox talent when it’s all I have to offer.
She gave her head a toss and once again her hair was coiled on top of her head. The brilliance that had streamed from her only a moment ago faded.
“What particular Fox talent?” I asked, the last of the heat tingling at my fingertips.
To influence. A small tug here, a slight prod there, touches so delicate the mortal mind never suspects, she said. Subtle influences last longer. Over time, they wear grooves into the mind that make the emotions real. Given the right subject, such feelings can even become real.
“No, Fox. I won’t be some man’s mistress.” I pushed away the memory of heat coursing through my bones, of Fox’s red lips.
Your foreign education has given you unrealistic expectations, she said. There’s no shame in doing what’s necessary to survive.
“There are women schoolteachers and nurses now,” I said, “even doctors. There’s a bank for women, run by women. I could be a clerk or a secretary. I could tutor small children. China is changing.”
It’s not changing fast enough for the likes of you, Fox said. You’re the daughter of a prostitute and an unknown white man. You have no lineage, no family.
“Other orphans have careers,” I snapped. “Mary attended the mission college for teachers.”
If Mary had finished college, who would’ve hired her?
“Why can’t you understand, Fox?” I cried. “I don’t want to end up like my mother. Leave me alone!”
I ran out of the Western Residence.
THAT NIGHT, I dreamed on my own, wandering through a world of hazy colors and indistinct faces. There were voices and images, but nothing meaningful, nothing that stayed in my mind when I woke up.
After washing up the breakfast dishes, I hurried back to the Western Residence. From the kitchen, Ping Mei’s voice drifted out, humming a vaguely familiar melody. Whatever the tune, it was made unrecognizable by her raspy voice. I knelt beside the veranda in front of the erfang and parted the hydrangea shrubs.