by Janie Chang
“It’s a wonderful room,” I said, hardly daring to hope.
“I have no more questions, Miss Zhu,” she said. “I would like to hire you. The children and I are going on a holiday to visit Mr. Ellis’s cousins in Singapore. We’ll come home at the end of June. Would you be ready to start on the first of July? Would that be all right?”
“Oh, it would be all right. Very all right!” I said. Had I ever felt such joy, such relief? A room of my own. A bathroom across the hall. Wages.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” she said, her smile even wider.
“Please, ma’am,” I said, “how is it that you speak Chinese so well?”
“I was born in Shanghai,” she said. “My parents are from France. But I have never lived there. Shanghai is my home.”
Outside, I barely noticed the jostling of pedestrians and street vendors as I made my way home. Crossing a street, I was nearly run down by an automobile and grinned happily in response to the driver’s curses. A beggar girl tugged at my skirt, and I gave her a copper.
My livelihood was secure. I had a place to live after the Yangs left Dragon Springs Road.
When Fox came back, she would see how wrong she had been. If she came back.
IT WAS A lucky day, a day of good omens. I returned to Dragon Springs Road to find Anjuin in a state of delight, but she insisted that I tell her my good news first.
“Your clothes,” she exclaimed, squeezing my hands. “We must sew you some new ones. You must make a good impression.”
“Never mind my clothes,” I said. “What’s your news?”
“Dajuin has a meeting with the International Cotton Manufacturing Company,” she said. “Liu Sanmu knows Mr. Ching, the only Chinese director on the board. And you’ll never guess—Mr. Liu is personally introducing Dajuin to Mr. Ching.”
One of Dajuin’s biggest obstacles in looking for work had been his refusal to make use of the Yang family’s contacts, in case his father found out. Without guanxi, connections, it was hard to open doors. If Liu Sanmu was putting his weight behind Dajuin, it would be very difficult for the director to refuse.
“This is so sudden,” I said. “Mr. Liu must’ve come by just after I went in to town.”
“Yes. He turned up in his automobile and told Dajuin to get ready,” Anjuin said. “Then they left for the meeting.”
“Why is he being so helpful?” I wondered out loud.
“I think Mr. Liu is kind. And impulsive,” Anjuin said. “Think of how he helped you search for your mother. Oh, and Dajuin invited Liu Sanmu to supper. And he agreed! Thank goodness you’re back in time to help.”
Anjuin had already been to the market. There were fresh vegetables in a basin and a gray mullet flapped in a bucket of water. She would make a fish soup, simple and wholesome. I chopped cabbage as finely as I could and cut strips of bamboo into matchstick-sized pieces. These would go in the soup.
She hummed as she prepared the meal. A salad of shredded radish and carrot tossed in a light dressing of vinegar and sesame, tofu with a spicy sauce, and pig’s trotters stewed in a dark soy marinade. I minced up the last of the ham, which Anjuin would steam in a mixture of egg and mushroom. She even made a small eight treasures sticky rice dessert.
“We’ll have to serve Mr. Liu on the kitchen table,” I said, pulling bowls out of the cupboard. “It’s too bad the dining table went to Ningpo with the rest of your furniture.”
“He isn’t a snob,” she said, eyes shining. She arranged plain wooden chopsticks beside the porcelain soup spoons. “As long as the rice is cooked and the soup is hot, it’s good enough.”
Her smile peeped out, just barely, but her happiness revealed itself in the glow of her skin, her animated gestures. But she knew, just had to know, that Liu Sanmu was out of her reach. A tightness formed in my chest every time I saw that small, unconscious smile touch her lips. Poor Anjuin.
IT WAS A small celebration dinner, but a very lively one. Liu Sanmu had brought two bottles of foreign wine, which we drank from soup bowls, all we had to hold the wine.
“Is all foreign liquor like this?” Anjuin asked. The liquid was pale and frothed when poured.
“It’s called champagne,” Liu Sanmu said. “From France. Foreigners drink it on special occasions, especially when congratulations are in order. A toast to Miss Zhu and her career as a governess. A toast to Dajuin, the new senior clerk at International Cotton Manufacturing Company.”
“Nothing to do with me,” Dajuin said. “How can I ever thank you, Mr. Liu?”
“If there’s anyone you should thank, it’s my wife,” Liu Sanmu replied. “My connection to Mr. Ching is through her; he’s one of her maternal uncles.”
I said very little during the meal. I couldn’t think of anything to add to the boisterous conversation, especially when it turned to politics. The discussion grew louder as the champagne emptied, mostly into Liu Sanmu’s bowl.
“I read your piece on Mah Juhou’s unsolved murder,” Dajuin said. “Isn’t it dangerous to criticize the police so openly?”
“I want to shame the Shanghai Municipal Police,” Liu Sanmu said. “It’s been nearly three years and they haven’t come up with a single plausible suspect. My family and the Mah clan are close. In fact, Mah Juhou was my Fourth Uncle’s dearest friend.”
Anjuin’s face was flushed from the wine. And maybe something else. She listened with attention, getting up only when it was time to take the eight treasures rice pudding out of the steamer. We lifted up the bowl by its muslin wrapping and turned it over carefully in a shallow bowl. Anjuin ladled a fragrant osmanthus flower syrup over the sticky dessert and carried it to the table.
But the discussion had become so heated the men barely noticed when Anjuin placed generous portions of the dessert in front of them.
“When they gave our Shandong Province to Japan,” Liu Sanmu said, “the Allies were telling the world what they thought of China. One yellow race is the same as another to them.”
“Do you really think there will be more unrest, Mr. Liu?” Dajuin said. “You hinted as much in one of your editorials about the May 4 student protests.”
We read Xinwen Bao every day now, always on the lookout for Liu Sanmu’s articles. Dajuin pronounced them impressive. Liu wrote at least two pieces each day for Xinwen Bao, a news item and an editorial. He might have belonged to a wealthy family, but Liu Sanmu wasn’t dabbling.
“Students are organizing protests right now in every major city, Shanghai included,” Liu Sanmu replied. “I’m looking into rumors that our government signed secret deals with other nations before the peace talks, while the war was still going on. If it’s true, then China’s position was already compromised. I’m going to ask Wan Baoyuan what he knows.”
“Why would Mr. Wan know?” Dajuin asked.
“He used to be an officer in General Zhang Zuolin’s army,” Liu Sanmu said. “Zhang’s Fengtian clique has as much power in Peking as the Anhui clique, so perhaps Wan can drop me some names to investigate.”
“How do you know this about Mr. Wan?” Dajuin asked, his expression rapt.
“A journalist friend in Peking did some snooping for me,” Liu Sanmu said with a large grin. “I thought it would be prudent to know more about my rival for this property. I’m seeing Mr. Wan tomorrow at the Race Club. He says he hasn’t been to Shanghai in ten years and wants to bet on the horses. Why don’t we all go?”
He included me in his smile.
Anjuin looked uncertain. According to Grandmother Yang, women of good family did not go to the races. It was fine for foreign women to gamble and socialize at the racecourse, but no Chinese woman of good reputation could be seen there among gangsters and their mistresses. Yet it would be rude to refuse Liu Sanmu’s invitation.
“Your brother can be your chaperone,” Liu Sanmu said in a solemn tone. “And I promise not to tell your father.”
Amid laughter, Anjuin and I cleared the kitchen table. Dajuin and Liu Sanmu continued their conve
rsation while we washed up. Every so often Anjuin glanced over with a fond smile and I knew it wasn’t all for her brother. We served tea, then excused ourselves. As we went to our room, the men’s voices drifted out on the night air, fragments of troubled words, musings on our troubled country.
Although we had the house to ourselves now and could’ve used as many of the rooms as we liked, Anjuin and I kept to our old ways. My cot was still pushed up against the far end of her room, and we still used this time to talk over the day’s events.
“A good day,” she said. “You have a job, Dajuin has a job. Tomorrow, we can worry about what Father says.”
“But you, Anjuin,” I said. “I want something good to happen for you.”
“If Dajuin stays in Shanghai, I’ll live with him and Yun Na and their children,” she said. “He’s agreed. Then you and I can visit together on your days off. Your good fortune is also mine.”
In the dim lamp light, her serene smile shone.
“What do you think of Mr. Liu?” I asked in my most innocent voice. “He is so well informed. Are all journalists like that, I wonder?”
“He seems to think of every incident as part of a conspiracy,” she said, “but I suppose that comes from being a journalist.”
“Do you like him, Anjuin?” It was the most I dared ask.
“I’ve never met anyone like him before,” she said, simply. “I admire him very much. It’s enough just to know him.”
“He’s from a great family. His marriage was no doubt an arranged one,” I said. “He probably only tolerates his wife. He could take a second wife. Or a third wife. Or a concubine.”
Her smile was crooked. “I’ve always thought of marriage as a woman’s duty. But I’ve realized I can’t bear the thought of sharing someone I love with another woman, even a First Wife. There’s duty and then there’s your heart.”
It was terribly unfair. Anjuin deserved so much more than to live with her brother and a demanding sister-in-law. She would end up running the household and minding the children, no better than an unpaid servant. Liu Sanmu was a wealthy man who could easily afford more wives. If only he could see her as more than just Dajuin’s sister.
Then for a moment, I imagined Liu Sanmu seeing me as more than just a schoolgirl. I pushed the thought out of my mind. If only Fox hadn’t shown me what it could be like.
IT WAS ANJUIN’S first ride in an automobile, and she sat quietly looking out the window. I’d long since given up all pretense of dignity and craned my neck in all directions. From the front seat, Liu Sanmu pointed out different landmarks. How little I’d seen of the wealthier areas of Shanghai. We passed Jessfield Park, the biggest park in Shanghai. I knew there were gardens, a conservatory, and playgrounds inside. There was even a zoo. I peered at the gate hoping the zoo was visible from the street but caught only a glimpse of large trees and flower beds.
“We can’t go in. The park is for foreigners only,” Dajuin said, seeing my interest.
“Chinese can enter if we apply in writing,” Liu Sanmu said. “Only those from the very best and wealthiest of Chinese families ever gain admission. But plenty of Chinese have been inside, because if you’re an amah or servant, you can follow your foreign master right in.”
The bitter edge to his voice was barely noticeable.
OUTSIDE THE RACE Club, we paused to watch worshippers bow before the stone figure of a deity whose robes were blackened by incense smoke.
“This little shrine outside the Race Club stables is the busiest in all of Shanghai,” Liu Sanmu said. “Even foreign gamblers have been known to light incense before an important race.”
If foreigners were ready to worship a Chinese god for the sake of winning a bet, no wonder the missionaries were having a hard time converting Chinese.
Horse racing was Shanghai’s passion. Inside the Race Club, cries and cheers in Chinese and an assortment of languages assaulted my ears. A confetti storm of torn betting slips and loud curses followed each race. Every nationality and every class of person was there, from the most venerable citizens to the worst of small-time gangsters. Elderly, staid gentlemen with goatees and glasses studied the racing sheets as if they contained lines of Tang poetry. Women with dangling jewelry and bright red lips hung on the arms of older men, coaxing for money to place bets.
Anjuin gave me a nudge. Across the aisle was a group of young women, all modestly dressed. They were giggling and looking around nervously. Girls of good family, out on an adventure.
“The Shanghai Race Club was meant for foreigners,” said Liu Sanmu, leading us up the stairs. “But then they realized how much more money they could make by allowing Chinese to bet. Only the best Chinese families can join the club itself, but anyone can come in to place bets on race days.”
“Well, Mr. Yang,” said a voice from behind, “since anyone can bet, will you wager on the horses today?”
It took me a second to recognize Wan Baoyuan. Instead of a suit and tie, he was in traditional Chinese garb, a long gray changshan gown and black trousers. With his military bearing, he managed to make even a changshan look like a uniform. Traditional cloth shoes replaced his usual leather Oxfords, but he still wore his fedora.
“Our family doesn’t gamble,” Dajuin said, after exchanging greetings. “It’s exciting enough just to be here, watching the races.”
Wan Baoyuan frowned. “You can’t experience the excitement of a race unless you bet. Even a small wager makes a difference. Come. I insist.”
They went down the stairs to the betting windows, Dajuin’s reluctance evident to everyone but Wan Baoyuan.
Just then an expensively dressed group of foreigners made their way from the grandstand toward the exit. A young couple in the lead walked down the steps like royalty. I stared at them.
“The newlywed McBains, back from England,” Liu Sanmu said, seeing my eyes follow the small procession. “Young George McBain’s mother is Chinese. The British Country Club struck McBain Senior off its membership list when he married her. But the McBains don’t care. They’re so wealthy, no one can afford to ignore them.”
It was all right to be hun xue then, as long as there was money. Enough money not to care what others thought.
When they finally returned, Wan Baoyuan held up a bottle and Dajuin handed us glasses.
“Champagne,” Wan Baoyuan said, pouring, “financed by our winnings from the last race.”
I drank eagerly from the cool glass, taking large gulps. Wan Baoyuan refilled my glass, but Anjuin gave me a poke with her elbow and I sipped more slowly. On the track below, jockeys and horses lined up for the next race.
Another group of racegoers, less elegant than the McBain entourage, crowded their way down the staircase toward the exit.
“Wan Baoyuan, what a surprise!” A stocky man in a rumpled suit emerged from the group.
“Shih, how are you?” Wan Baoyuan shook his hand, a smile on his face. The first genuine smile I’d ever seen brighten his features. “Come meet my friends. Mr. Liu Sanmu and Mr. Yang Dajuin. This is Shih Yaopu. We were young army recruits together.”
Shih bowed to Liu Sanmu and Dajuin. “Delighted, delighted,” he said. “Please, take a card. My company, Nanyang Shipping. Please, please, go ahead and watch the track. Don’t miss the next race on my account.”
The crowd roared as the horses left the gate. Shih turned back to Wan Baoyuan. “Wan, are you on leave from the army or have you moved to Shanghai?”
“I’m no longer with the army. I’m here on business. How long have you been in Shanghai now? Four years?”
“Nearly six, can you believe it? How lucky to run into you this time. I saw you, oh, three years ago heading into the Shanghai North Railway Station, but by the time I caught up, I’d lost you in that crowd.”
Was it my imagination or did Wan’s smile become strained?
“Come to the Hotel Shanghai this evening, Shih,” he said. “It’s on the corner of Broadway and Nanzing Roads. Let’s catch up.”
Shih tipped his hat to us and hurried to follow his friends, now almost at the street-level exit. Wan Baoyuan’s eyes followed the husky figure, a strange look on his face.
Why would Wan Boayuan tell us this was his first visit to Shanghai in more than ten years when his friend Mr. Shih said he’d been here just a few years ago?
Light-headed from the champagne, I sat down. Another race started, and Dajuin and Liu Sanmu passed a pair of binoculars between them. Anjuin stood beside Liu Sanmu, feigning interest in the horses. Wan Baoyuan peered down at the racing form in his hand, then looked up to survey the track. He pushed his hat farther back on his head, an absentminded gesture.
That same faint memory stirred again, and I realized where I’d seen Wan Baoyuan before. On Dragon Springs Road, the day of Master Shen’s funeral. He was the young man who had spoken to Mrs. Hao. The same handsome features, the same absentminded adjustment to his hat. Now that he was in Chinese clothing, I recognized him. The memory had been niggling at the edges of my mind, and now I was sure. Exuberance bubbled up, frothy as champagne.
“You must have lost track of time, Mr. Wan,” I said, “because I saw you too when you were in Shanghai a few years ago.”
“Really? Where was that?” he said, his voice quiet.
I prattled on. “At Dragon Springs Road. You were watching Master Shen’s funeral procession.”
“What a coincidence.”
There was nothing unpleasant about his tone, but it made me think of a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. I groaned silently. I had never dared speak to him before, and with my first words I had somehow managed to offend him. I hoped Anjuin hadn’t overheard. She would scold me for being too forward. For getting drunk.
Wan reached over to tap Liu Sanmu on the shoulder.
“There’s a pleasant café across the road,” he said. “Shall we treat the young ladies to some ice cream?”
LIU SANMU AND Wan Baoyuan talked about their travels while we ate ice cream. Xinwen Bao sent Liu Sanmu all over China, and before that, he had lived in America during his university years. Wan Baoyuan had attended military college in Japan and now traveled frequently throughout China on business.