Dragon Springs Road

by Janie Chang

  When Anjuin asked him about Harbin, Wan Baoyuan recited statistics: population and nationalities, distances and sources of commerce. Liu Sanmu’s descriptions of Harbin, however, painted pictures in my mind.

  “Winters are cold there, unbelievably cold for us Shanghai natives,” Liu Sanmu said. “But without that cold, you’d never see how Harbin’s lakes become smooth expanses of ice or the way trees hang heavy with clusters of frost that sparkle in the clear air. There’s ice skating in the parks, even at night, because it’s so bright from moonlight reflecting on all that snow. Those foreigners love ice skating.”

  I liked the sound of Harbin, exotic and not Chinese at all, with even more European residents than Shanghai. I wanted to see the Russian cathedral at the center of the city, its spires and domes built of wood, the entire edifice standing without a single iron nail. I wanted to stand at the edge of the city and gaze out at endless horizons beyond the river. Harbin sounded wonderful.

  Liu Sanmu had captivated me with his descriptions. No, not just me. Even if no one else noticed, I could see how Anjuin’s clear-eyed gaze softened in his presence and how her cheeks glowed.

  THAT NIGHT I lay in my cot, reliving the excitement of the day.

  Shrieks of delight from the women behind us when their horse won. The middle-aged foreigner in a plaid suit whose face had crumpled like the slips of paper clutched in his fist. The wealthy McBains gliding out, an entourage in their wake. Mr. Shih’s outstretched hand as he greeted Wan Baoyuan, a large gold ring on one knuckle. Wan Baoyuan’s expression as his friend hurried away. Had it been regret or unease?

  I wondered whether Fox had ever been to Harbin. What if she never came back? But she had to. She was waiting for the Door to open.

  When sleep finally came, I dreamed of streets where foreigners strolled in and out of shops and restaurants, the white smoke of their breaths lit by streetlamps, the echo of conversations in so many languages that one could well believe this was Russia or France and not China.

  CHAPTER 17

  Dajuin wrote to his father as soon as he started his new job at International Cotton Manufacturing. Master Yang’s reply was filled with sorrowful accusations, disappointment that Dajuin had chosen to leave the family business.

  “He’s not that unhappy,” Anjuin said to her brother, studying the letter. “I would say under all that disappointment he’s pleased you’ve made Liu Sanmu’s acquaintance. A valuable association.”

  Yun Na’s letter left no doubt as to her feelings.

  Husband, such wonderful news, but now you must find a home in a nice part of Shanghai. Of course it must be convenient to your place of work, but we should think of our children and their education. The best schools are within Shanghai’s international concessions.

  I will come as soon as you’ve found something suitable. Your grandmother can’t keep me in Ningpo if you have a job and a home ready for us in Shanghai. I would rather have my baby there, at the foreign women’s hospital. Tell Anjuin she’s welcome to live with us, especially since none of the servants are willing to come with me to Shanghai.

  After breakfast, Dajuin went out to the city to find a place to rent. He took Anjuin with him. When I’d washed and put away all the breakfast dishes, I scraped some leftovers into a bowl and went to the Western Residence.

  Anjuin had insisted I choose some fabric from the shop to sew myself some new clothes before starting my job as a governess. With her help, I’d managed to make the temperamental sewing machine behave long enough to stitch some plain but perfectly decent clothes. To our surprise, Ping Mei had offered to embroider for me. Rather dubious, Anjuin gave her a small swatch of fabric, some thread, and an embroidery hoop.

  “First, show us a sample of your work,” she said.

  The very next morning, as soon as Dajuin left, Ping Mei came over and handed Anjuin the piece of fabric. Then she hobbled out to beg.

  Ping Mei’s work was astonishing. A perfect lotus bud seemed to grow out from the fabric, the petals shading from cream to pink so naturally it looked like brushwork instead of needlework. It was better than anything I’d seen from First Wife. I imagined such embroidery on the cuffs of tunics, on the borders of bodices. Peony, plum, chrysanthemum.

  “But if she embroiders, she won’t have time to beg,” I said to Anjuin.

  “If we give her food in exchange for the work, Ping Mei won’t need to beg,” she pointed out.

  Ping Mei was in the erfang, in the shelter of the veranda, squinting at an embroidery hoop. She looked up when I came in to the courtyard, waved one hand in greeting, and bent again over her sewing. I was sure her embroidery could sell for much more than a bowl or two of vegetables and tofu, but she didn’t seem to care.

  On my way to the kitchen, I stood by the hydrangea shrub as I always did these days, but I couldn’t sense Fox. Where could she be? Had I offended her so much that she wouldn’t come back? What if she did come back after we had all gone? How could she know I’d found a job and that I would be living with the Ellis family? I’d have to leave a note on the altar and hope for the best. Hope she would come and find me.

  I realized Ping Mei was watching and thought how I must look, staring into a shrub that wasn’t even blooming. I hurried on to the kitchen and put away the bowl of leftovers. I hauled a bucket of water and splashed the flowers growing around the hydrangeas. Although I had sown seeds from Anna’s flowers in all three courtyards, they grew best in the Western Residence courtyard. The violas nodded their yellow-and-purple heads at me, and the clove pinks bloomed incessantly. And everywhere, forget-me-nots had seeded themselves.

  There was no need to speak to Ping Mei on my way out. She had dozed off, head nodding over the embroidery. I crept up silently to look at her work. She had created a border of yellow chrysanthemums, the green leaves so real I could almost smell the slightly bitter odor of crushed petals.

  OUR FORMER NEIGHBORS on Dragon Springs Road had sold their property and moved away. The old houses around us now stood empty, front gates padlocked. The Shen estate was a construction site. Courtyards filled with rubble as workers tore off roof tiles and knocked down walls. There was a constant parade of laborers and oxcarts carrying out debris. Dust hung suspended in the air, even indoors.

  The little dry goods shop in the front courtyard was no longer open for business, but the temperamental sewing machine was still there. After seeing Ping Mei’s progress, I knew I’d have to hurry with my own sewing or she would be done with the skirt border before I’d finished the actual skirt. With a deep sigh I went to the shop and lifted the cover off the sewing machine.

  Half an hour later, I was picking at a clump of thread caught under the needle, swearing out loud. It was with relief that I heard a rapping at the front gate. I opened the door to Liu Sanmu, who was wearing a simple dark blue changshan gown and carrying a satchel. He looked like a university student. A well-dressed university student.

  “Is Dajuin here?” he asked.

  “No, he and Anjuin have gone in to Shanghai to find a place to rent,” I said. “Let me open the gate for your car.”

  “No need, I came by rickshaw in case demonstrators block the roads,” he said. “Well, I was hoping Dajuin could guide me through the factory district in Chapei. I’d like to interview some of the workers there.”

  “They should be back very soon,” I said, hoping to keep him there as long as possible, to give Anjuin the opportunity to see him again. “Will you wait in the reception hall? I’ll bring you tea.”

  When I brought the teapot and cups to the reception hall, he was settled into a chair with his newspaper. It felt daring to be alone with a man.

  He tapped the page with one finger. “Do you ever get that feeling when a memory refuses to come to mind? Elusive. Like a goldfish that keeps slipping out of your fingers. The name of the victim in this article sounds familiar.”

  I leaned over to read.

  Homicide. Chinese male, identified as Shih Yaopu, a manager at Nanyang Shipp
ing. Shih was found murdered in the alley behind the Starlight Gentleman’s Club on Pakhoi Road. The Shanghai Municipal Police are asking for witnesses who might have seen anything suspicious on Tuesday night.

  I frowned. “The man who came up to Mr. Wan at the Race Club was a Mr. Shih. Could it be a coincidence? A different Shih?”

  “That’s it,” he said, folding the newspaper. “And he worked for a shipping company. Shih gave me his business card. I should look for it when I get back to the office. Well, if this is Wan Baoyuan’s friend, it’s a sad coincidence. What do you remember about Mr. Shih?”

  Mostly I remembered how my head had lolled against the leather seat of the automobile, the clumsiness of my limbs, my thoughts muddled from too much champagne. A voice like a wire pulled tight.

  “Just one odd thing,” I said. “Mr. Shih mentioned he’d seen Mr. Wan in Shanghai a few years ago, but Mr. Wan told you he hadn’t been here in at least ten.”

  “He’s really lost track of time. There’s a big difference between a few years and ten.”

  “There was something else,” I said. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  “Tell me anyway.” His smile was friendly, his voice coaxing. This was how he persuaded people to give up their secrets to him, to write the stories he needed for his newspaper.

  “I saw Mr. Wan in Shanghai before this too,” I said. “When I mentioned it, he got rather irate. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I did see him. Right here in Dragon Springs Road three years ago.”

  “You seem very sure it was three years ago.”

  “Only because it was the day of Old Master Shen’s funeral,” I said. “Nineteen sixteen, the ninth day of the ninth month. The Shens’ fortune-teller picked the date to make sure the day of the burial was an auspicious one. It was easy to remember.”

  He sat up very suddenly, startling me so much I almost dropped my teacup. He opened the newspaper again to the page about Mr. Shih’s murder, his expression intent.

  “The ninth day of the ninth month. Nineteen sixteen. A date to remember indeed,” Liu finally said, his voice soft. “Why didn’t you recognize Wan Baoyuan before?”

  “He always wore Western suits,” I said, “and the man I saw was dressed like a student, in a long gown. It was only when I saw him at the Race Club in Chinese clothing that I remembered where I’d seen him before. And now he’s come back to Dragon Springs Road to buy the property. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

  Liu Sanmu put the newspaper down on the table. He got up and paced outside in the courtyard for a few minutes.

  “Have you mentioned to anyone else that you saw Wan Baoyuan at Dragon Springs Road three years ago?” There was an urgent tone to his voice as he stepped back inside the door.

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t mention it to anyone, Jialing,” he said, coming back inside the shop. “And don’t tell Wan Baoyuan that you told me. It’s very important. Promise me. Tell no one, not even Anjuin.”

  I nodded, startled by his intensity.

  “I can’t wait for Dajuin any longer, but please tell him I will come by tomorrow.” He slung his satchel over his shoulder and left.

  SHANGHAI’S STUDENTS AND workers held a general strike the next day.

  “It will begin in the factories in Chapei. I need to meet some of their leaders,” Liu Sanmu said. “Dajuin, will you come with me?”

  He had come by rickshaw and was dressed very plainly again, a cotton scholar’s gown and a long tunic vest, the pockets bulging with pencils. He carried a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder and his face glowed with excitement. With thousands of students flooding in to the city center, campuses in Shanghai had closed.

  “There are banners strung across buildings blaming the government for losing Shandong Province to Japan,” he said. “Businesses are boycotting Japanese goods. Let’s go.”

  Liu Sanmu and Dajuin left for the walk across to Chapei. Anjuin’s gaze followed them as they turned on to Chung San Road. She sighed. Then she gave a wry smile when she realized I’d been watching her.

  A FEW HOURS later, Dajuin came back alone. Liu Sanmu had met some student leaders in Chapei and was following them around as they roused the workers.

  Anjuin looked anxious. “I should go to the market and buy more food in case the strike spreads and they close the shops here too.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Dajuin said. “Things could get chaotic.”

  A scattering of clouds and a light wind foretold showers. Already I could see heavier clouds pushing their way across the sky. Any moment now, there would be the patter of rain on roof tiles. I ladled some leftover soup into a bowl for Ping Mei, payment for her embroidery. It was best to take it over to the Western Residence before the rain started.

  Ping Mei was on the veranda of the erfang, perched on a rickety wooden chair, a length of fabric spread across her knees. Pale yellow chrysanthemums grew on stalks of jade-green leaves. It was a wide piece of fabric, a panel that matched the skirt border she had just finished. It would contrast beautifully against the ink-blue of my new jacket.

  “It’s very quiet today,” she remarked. “Nothing out on the street.”

  “It’s the strike,” I said. “The factories have shut down. Even the construction workers across the road are nowhere to be seen. Anjuin just left for the market to see whether any shops are open. Dajuin went with her, in case of trouble.”

  “Bring the soup inside.” She folded the cloth onto the chair and hobbled into the erfang.

  My former playroom still looked much the same, pallet bed on the floor, a low table and chair in the corner. I spotted my old enamel jug on the windowsill. A lopsided cupboard, missing its doors, was the only addition to the room. On its one shelf Ping Mei kept a neatly folded quilt made from scraps of fabric. I had seen her working on it. The space underneath the shelf was stuffed with rolls of cloth, old rags, and sacks.

  Ping Mei gave the soup an appreciative sniff, then sat on the chair and began slurping it down. It was a hot day, despite the light breeze, and the humid air clung to my skin. I went outside to walk around the courtyard. The day would cool off once it rained.

  A familiar sound made me pause, the creaking of the front gate of the Western Residence. There was the noise of an automobile engine. Was it Liu Sanmu? The front gate creaked shut, and a minute later, to my disappointment, Wan Baoyuan appeared on the path through the bamboo garden. He was wearing a suit and tie as usual, and there was a jaunty air about him.

  “Mr. Wan, what a surprise,” I said, a little too loudly, to warn Ping Mei to stay hidden. “How did you get in?”

  “Dajuin lent me a key so I could park the car here, away from those street urchins,” he said. “Is Dajuin home? No one answered when I knocked at the Central Residence.”

  “He’s at the market with Anjuin,” I said. “There’s no one home.”

  “There’s no one home,” he repeated. His gaze swept over the main house and then to the bamboo garden. “How long do you think they’ll be?”

  “Perhaps an hour. Can I serve you some tea?” I asked, anxious to get him out of the courtyard. “Please, let’s go to the reception hall in the Central Residence.”

  “There’s no need,” he said. “I only came by to give Dajuin some good news. As soon as the strike is over and the banks are open again, this property will be mine.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, still uneasy.

  He wandered over to the derelict erfang across the courtyard and pushed open one of its doors. Dust drifted down on him, but he just chuckled. I would never have believed Wan Baoyuan could be so cheerful. He strolled to the main house and peered into its windows. He went inside and came out a few minutes later, still smiling.

  Yet when his smile turned in my direction, I shivered.

  “Let me share something else with you, Miss Zhu,” he said, walking toward the erfang. He was closer now, beside the bamboo garden. “I lived here when I was a boy. This estate was once my home.”
/>   “You lived here?” This made no sense.

  “Yes, the Yangs bought this property from the Fong family, did you know?” Another wide smile. “I was born a Fong.”

  He grinned, a boy who had just played a trick. “An uncle on our mother’s side wrote to us. He had no sons and wanted to adopt me. Since my Eldest Brother had squandered our inheritance there wasn’t any point in staying here. So I went to live with my uncle in Harbin.”

  He was Noble Uncle’s younger brother.

  “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?” I asked.

  “If Dajuin realized how much this property meant to me, he might’ve raised the price,” he said, still smiling. “When our uncle adopted me, I took his family name, Wan. But this is my ancestral home. I had to get it back. And now I have.”

  He did a slow turn, arms outstretched, and suddenly something fell into place.

  “It was you on the day of Old Master Shen’s funeral,” I blurted out. “You came to see your old home.”

  “I wanted to know whether my brother was still here,” he said. “That’s when I learned he was gone, the estate sold.”

  I still didn’t understand. “But why did you say you hadn’t been to Shanghai for ten years?”

  “Does anyone else know that you saw me?” The question was so casual, so matter of fact, but I found myself trembling. Not trusting my voice, I shook my head.

  “Those were complicated times, Miss Zhu,” he said. “I had business in Shanghai. Business no one could know about.”

  Although a smile remained fixed on his face, I had the urge to flee, away from the bamboo garden, away from Dragon Springs Road.

  “Your friend, Mr. Shih,” I said. “He saw you too.”

  His smile turned regretful. “Yes, unfortunately he saw me too.”

  And Mr. Shih was dead. Murdered in an alley behind a Shanghai nightclub.

  With a small cry, I ran toward the erfang. All I could think of was to hide inside my playroom, shut the door between me and this man until Dajuin and Anjuin came home. Get Ping Mei to help me push the cupboard against the door.