Dragon Springs Road

by Janie Chang

  Then I sat on the garden bench and calmed my thoughts, but I couldn’t feel her presence. An emptiness in one corner of my mind. I didn’t know whether to worry or feel relieved.

  Fox’s den was empty. She was gone.

  CHAPTER 16

  Days passed into weeks and to the Yangs’ disappointment, there was nothing more from Liu Sanmu.

  “He’s a wealthy man,” Dajuin said. “This isn’t as urgent for him as it is for us. He’s busy with other matters.”

  “This is why,” Anjuin said, holding out the newspaper, a copy of Xinwen Bao. She pointed at the editorial, written by Liu Sanmu. “He’s in Peking, covering the student riots.”

  May 4, 1919. Peking. Thousands of students obstructed the streets of Peking to protest the Paris peace talks. Already there is talk of protests spreading across China as citizens gather in anger, and there is much to be angry about.

  China joined in the Great War on the side of the Allies. In exchange for sending noncombatants to Europe, the Allies promised to return to China territories held by Germany, most notably Shandong Province, the birthplace of Confucius.

  More than 140,000 volunteers of the Chinese Labour Corps went to Europe. They dug trenches for the Allies, carried corpses off battlefields, unloaded cargo from trucks, trains, and ships. They built roads and repaired vehicles. Many lost their lives. We still don’t know how many have returned now that the war is over.

  What we do know is that the Allies have betrayed us by handing over Shandong Province to Japan. We have been betrayed by our foreign Allies, perhaps by our own government.

  Dajuin put down the paper and sighed. “I don’t suppose he’ll be back in Shanghai any time soon.”

  I prayed the student protests in Peking would keep Liu Sanmu there for much, much longer and delay purchase of the estate. It would give me more time to find work.

  There was more disappointment in store for the Yangs that day. A large house within walking distance of the mission school had come vacant and Miss Morris had decided to take it. There would be no more rent from the Eastern Residence. I couldn’t blame Miss Morris. Dragon Springs Road, once a quiet neighborly enclave, had become a street of empty properties, some in the process of being torn down. There would be more noise and more dust soon. Instead of the quiet the teachers valued so much, there would be the shouts of workmen and the crash of sledgehammers.

  “We’re terribly sorry to leave our home of so many years,” Miss Morris said to Dajuin, “but you can’t predict when the property will sell and we can’t risk having to move unexpectedly. We will leave at the end of this week.”

  Once more, a procession of oxcarts and handbarrows left Dragon Springs Road. Maiyu rode away on a handbarrow, her short legs dangling over the side, arms firmly wrapped around a canvas sack. She looked small and lost, not at all the terrifying washerwoman of my childhood.

  “Good-bye, my dear,” Miss Morris said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I will keep trying to find you a position.”

  She knew I was walking into Shanghai every day to find work. I delivered carefully written application letters to clerks whose smirking indifference told me my letters would be tossed in the wastebasket. Some didn’t even wait for me to turn my back before crumpling up the paper.

  “It’s all right, miss,” I said. “I know how difficult it is. I don’t expect anything. Please, take these.”

  I pressed three small envelopes into her hand, the English words carefully printed on each in blue ink. Violas, clove pinks, forget-me-nots. Seeds I had gathered from Anna’s flowers.

  DAJUIN RETURNED FROM the post office, bringing letters from the Yangs in Ningpo. Master Yang never wrote more than a brief page of questions and instructions, never any mention of how the clan had been treating his family since their return.

  For that, we could count on Yun Na. Rambling and filled with mistakes, her letters complained about being snubbed by the clan. Dajuin leaned on the counter of the shop and read the latest one out loud while Anjuin and I dusted the bolts of fabric on the shelves.

  Husband, sell the property on Dragon Springs Road quickly and return to Ningpo. The only kind words I hear in this house are from your grandmother. Your relatives constantly remind me of the mill’s failure: that they had to make room for us in the family home, that our children are badly behaved, that the Yang family fortunes will never recover from this setback. I swear, if the breakfast congee overcooks, it’s somehow our fault.

  Anjuin leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I don’t look forward to Ningpo. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I hope the property doesn’t sell too quickly.”

  “It will now,” Dajuin said. “Now that the war has ended, Shanghai’s foreigners are more optimistic. The city will grow and it can only spread westward, out here to the External Roads. Every other property on this street has been sold. We’ll be next.”

  “I suppose there’s one good thing about losing our old neighbors,” Anjuin said. “The new ones don’t know any stories about ghosts and suicidal concubines. They can’t frighten off buyers.”

  The cheerful blare of a horn made us jump to our feet. Dajuin hurried to the open gate.

  “It’s Mr. Liu,” he called to us over his shoulder. “I’ll go unlock the Western Residence.”

  When they came in, I saw that Liu Sanmu was carrying a white cardboard box tied with red string. Dajuin continued through to the main courtyard, but Liu Sanmu ducked into the shop and put the box on the counter. He gave me a wink, then hurried to catch up with Dajuin.

  Anjuin opened the box, revealing six éclairs, each on a white paper doily.

  “Let’s hope Mr. Liu is serious,” I said, “especially now that the teachers have left.”

  “Yes,” she repeated. “Let’s hope so.”

  Her eyes lingered, watching Dajuin and Liu Sanmu walk way. Anjuin was twenty-four, and while no one could call her pretty, her skin was pale and unblemished, her eyes clear and intelligent. I thought it was unfair that others didn’t realize how attractive she was, with her demeanor of quiet self-assurance.

  I put down the éclair. “I’m not hungry. My stomach is churning.”

  She looked at me with her deep calm eyes. “It’s because Mr. Liu might buy the property. And then you’ll have nowhere to live.”

  A quiet shuffling at the door of the shop, and we both turned to see Ping Mei, leaning on her stick, her ravaged features twisted in the grimace that we now knew was her smile. She jingled some coins in her hand and put them on the counter.

  “For a bit of salt and rice,” she said. “I was going to the kitchen to get it for myself, but there’s an automobile in the Western Residence so I thought I’d check with you first.”

  “Yes, it belongs to someone who wants to buy the property,” Anjuin said. “You’d better get out to Chung San Road before they see you.”

  “I’ll bring you some salt and rice later, when you come back,” I called to Ping Mei, as she shuffled away.

  Anjuin flipped open the lid of the sewing machine and beckoned me to sit down. I was learning how to use it, sewing row after row, practicing to keep the stitches straight. But I’d set the tension too tight and the thread was bunching up. Only Anjuin seemed able to work the fickle machine.

  “Why don’t you come to Ningpo with us anyway?” she said, watching me slice a tangle of threads away from the needle. “Once you get there, it will be harder for Grandmother to turn you away.”

  “You know your grandmother is finished with me,” I said. “After the mill burned down, even she believes I’m part of the bad luck that came with this estate.”

  But Anjuin didn’t reply. She was staring at the entrance of the shop. Just outside was a man, tall and broad shouldered, dressed in a Western-style suit of gray flannel, a fedora on his head. He was gazing around the front courtyard, his back to us. When he finally came inside the shop, I saw that he was even more handsome than Liu Sanmu. His face was tanned, his eyes alert and observant. The stranger’s glan
ce fell on me, then moved on to Anjuin.

  “I’m looking for Yang Dajuin,” he said, addressing her.

  “He’s inside, sir,” she said. “Is he expecting you?”

  The man held out a newspaper clipping. “I’m here to look at the property.”

  “I’ll go get him.” And she left me alone with the stranger, who ignored me.

  The man stepped outside again. He walked around and looked through the moon gate at the main courtyard. He ran his hands over the whitewashed brick walls and pulled at a stray honeysuckle vine that had crept over the top of the wall. It seemed to me he was looking at everything very carefully, the sign of a serious buyer.

  Dajuin came out, followed by Liu Sanmu, Anjuin right behind.

  “I’m Yang Dajuin,” Dajuin said, with a slight bow.

  “My name is Wan Baoyuan,” the stranger said. “I’m here to look at the property.”

  “Ah, well, ah, I’m afraid Mr. Liu here wants to make an offer,” Dajuin said.

  “An offer is not the same as a sale.” Wan Baoyuan’s voice was quiet, but it was the voice of a man used to taking command. “Is the property sold or isn’t it?”

  “I expect to have the funds in place soon,” Liu Sanmu said with a smile.

  Wan Baoyuan turned to Dajuin. “Mr. Yang, let me satisfy my curiosity by looking at the property. If it doesn’t appeal to me, then that’s the end of the matter. If it does and I’m willing to offer more than Mr. Liu, then you’re in a better position, aren’t you?”

  Both Wan Baoyuan’s expression and voice betrayed impatience, as though explaining something to a dim-witted schoolboy. Dajuin looked uncomfortable. Then Liu Sanmu laughed.

  “Give Mr. Wan a tour,” he said. “Let’s all three of us go. I wouldn’t mind another look myself.”

  “Of course,” Dajuin said, sounding relieved. “Let’s start with the Eastern Residence.”

  After all this time, suddenly there were two potential buyers. I watched them leave, my hands gripping the edge of the countertop. How soon would it be before I’d have to fend for myself? Outside the shop window, Ping Mei’s figure limped out of Dragon Springs Road. Her timing was uncanny; she always managed to be away from the Western Residence whenever her presence would’ve raised questions.

  That could be me in a few weeks, I thought. Perhaps Ping Mei can teach me how to beg.

  Anjuin spent the next half hour tidying up an already tidy shop while I took the broom to the paving stones and swept furiously. Then I heard voices and the creaking sound of rusty hinges. Dajuin was opening the gate to the Western Residence. I couldn’t catch their words, but the men’s voices were lively and friendly, any earlier tension now absent.

  There was a look about Wan Baoyuan, a look I’d come to recognize as confident arrogance. He was a man accustomed to getting his way. A faint memory stirred, something else about him, something I couldn’t place. I put away the thought.

  Then from the Western Residence came the rumble of Liu Sanmu’s automobile starting up, the creaking of gates, and the sound of tires on stone driving away. Dajuin came into the shop, looking relieved.

  “We’ve come to an arrangement,” he said. “Mr. Wan did make a better offer, but it will take him a few weeks to get the money to Shanghai. The agreement is that if Mr. Wan doesn’t get the money here by the first week of June, Liu Sanmu will buy this place at his original price.”

  “So we wait a bit longer, get more money,” Anjuin said. “And if it doesn’t work out, we still have the original offer. Didn’t this upset Liu Sanmu?”

  “The Liu family is one of the wealthiest in Shanghai,” Dajuin said. “He doesn’t really mind one way or the other. There are many other properties he could buy. In fact, Liu and Wan are quite friendly now.”

  “How on earth did Mr. Liu manage that?” Anjuin said.

  It seemed that Wan Baoyuan was from Harbin. Ever the journalist, Liu Sanmu had asked Wan for his views on the situation in Manchuria. By the end of half an hour, the two were chatting quite amicably.

  I could imagine it, Liu strolling through the courtyard, discussing news and politics with Wan Baoyuan. He would be at his most pleasant, his attention sincere, his questions well informed. He had charm enough to warm someone as stern as Wan Baoyuan.

  Or as reserved as Anjuin.

  WAN BAOYUAN CAME to Dragon Springs Road the next day driving a car that looked just like the one Liu Sanmu owned. I opened the front gate, and he gave me a brief nod. Two men followed him, carrying notebooks and a tripod.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing surveyors to measure the property,” Wan Baoyuan said to Dajuin. “And please open the gate to the Western Residence again for the car. There are children climbing all over it.”

  “Of course,” Dajuin said. “I’ll walk around with your surveyors in case they have questions. Please come in to the main hall and have some tea. Jialing, tell Anjuin Mr. Wan is here.”

  Poor Anjuin. She would have to make small talk with this unsociable man. But when I carried the tea tray to the reception hall, Wan Baoyuan was almost animated. He had taken off his fedora and appeared quite relaxed.

  “It’s a historic problem,” he was saying. “At the beginning, China’s railways were financed by loans from Britain, Japan, and different European countries. It meant we were obliged to purchase machinery and equipment from those countries.”

  “So that’s why the railway tracks are all different sizes?” Anjuin asked. “That seems very wasteful.”

  I didn’t know how Anjuin managed to look so interested.

  IT TURNED OUT that the car Wan Baoyuan was driving belonged to Liu Sanmu, who had loaned it to Wan. Liu Sanmu owned another car. A spare automobile. I couldn’t imagine such wealth.

  “Well, I suppose one of us will have to be home at all times,” Anjuin said, “to open the gate to the Western Residence for that car.”

  “No need,” Dajuin said. “I’ve given Mr. Wan a key to the Western Residence. More convenient for him when he brings surveyors and architects to take a look at the property.”

  SOMETIMES LIU SANMU would arrive in the car with Wan Baoyuan. I couldn’t imagine how two men so different could’ve grown so friendly. When Liu Sanmu learned that Wan Baoyuan hadn’t been to Shanghai in more than ten years, he’d insisted on showing him the sights: the shopping streets and nightlife, theaters, sports clubs, dog racing at the Canidrome.

  Liu Sanmu included Dajuin in these invitations. Who would’ve thought such a man would consider Dajuin, a mere cloth merchant’s son, worth his attention? Dajuin felt uncomfortable at the thought of such entertainments and always turned down the invitations.

  “He seems so friendly,” Anjuin said. “He likes you.”

  “Mr. Liu is a journalist,” Dajuin said. “He’s interested in my views of what’s going on in the factories, what the workers have to say, because the situation with students and workers is getting explosive. He’s friendly with Mr. Wan for the same reason, information. With General Zhang ruling Manchuria, every newspaper wants more insights on the situation.”

  I RECEIVED A note from Miss Morris. She had promised to keep trying to find me a position, but I never believed she would be successful. Yet here was hope.

  My dear Jialing,

  There may be an opportunity for you. Mrs. James Ellis requires a governess for her two children. She is a very kind woman and you’ll find her sympathetic to your situation. She is at home Wednesday morning.

  Enclosed is a reference letter for your interview.

  My very best wishes for your success,

  Jane Morris

  The Ellis villa was in one of the lanes behind the rue Joffre. It wasn’t as grand as the Burnses’ home, nor was the lawn as immaculate, but the overgrown hedges and cheerful yellow daylilies in the front yard seemed friendlier. A croquet set lay abandoned on the grass, and a large calico cat dozed on the front steps.

  A young man in blue servant’s garb opened the door. He smiled when he bowed, and I cou
ldn’t detect any contempt in his expression. I followed him along a wood-paneled hallway, my shoes sinking into thick carpet.

  The woman who stood up from her chair to greet me wore a friendly smile. She spoke English with a soft accent.

  “Miss Zhu? I am Suzanne Ellis. Miss Morris tells me you are good with children. Please sit.”

  I sank into the chair opposite hers and held out the reference letter. She scanned it quickly and then asked me to read from the Shanghai Daily News. She listened for a few minutes then stopped me. I folded the newspaper in my lap.

  “Your accent is very good,” she said, this time in perfect Chinese. “American English. Like your teachers at the mission school. Tell me about yourself. How many years did you spend at the mission school? Which subjects did you like the most?”

  Her questions were straightforward, and there was nothing condescending in her manner. Slowly, I loosened my grip on the newspaper.

  “Here are the books my children are reading,” she said, pointing at some books on the side table. “Or rather, trying to read.”

  I looked through the small collection. Just So Stories. The Blue Fairy Book. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  “Who has been teaching them?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I have. But I’m too fond a mother and not strict enough. Also, these days I have no time. My husband has a new job, and we must entertain more. Come upstairs.”

  The room she showed me contained a small desk, a bookcase, and a bed covered with a quilted bedspread. Pale yellow walls and curtains printed with fat yellow roses made the room cheerful and welcoming. Mrs. Ellis pulled back the drapes and beckoned me to look down. In the garden below, two children, a boy and a girl played a lopsided game of shuttlecock, the younger boy always missing. Their amah sat comfortably on a wicker chair, mending clothes.

  “I’m afraid this is rather a small room,” she said, “but the bathroom is just across the hall and you would only have to share it with the children.”