Dragon Springs Road

by Janie Chang

  “There,” Leah said, pointing to a narrow lane, “this one. Next to the Shanghai and Hongkew Wharf. That’s how you remember where to find it. There isn’t really a street name to look for.”

  Grace let out a squeal when she saw us, slapped down a bowl of noodles in front of a customer, and ran out to greet us. She was thinner, but the smile never left her face and she didn’t stop talking.

  “Consider these New Year’s gifts,” Leah said, when Grace protested over the boxes of foreign biscuits we gave her. “We’re a few weeks late, but we’ve both been so busy.”

  I glanced around. The murky yellow waters of the Huangpu River were only a short walk away from the end of the lane. Factories poured their filth into the river, the poor sent their dead out to sea in its currents, and the breeze lifted odors from the water that did nothing to freshen the air. There wasn’t any sign or a name above the food stall Grace’s mother ran. It was just a wooden counter separating the cooking area from four small tables arranged out in the open. Grace’s mother waved at us, then went back to ladling noodles into large bowls.

  When Grace put one of the steaming bowls in front of me, I hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I still remember the rules of cleanliness. It wasn’t easy convincing my mother, but we follow the rules. It’s good for business; no one’s ever been sick from eating at our stall.”

  Leah was already digging into her bowl, and after I inhaled the pungent fragrance of spicy fish and tofu sauce, I wasted no time. It tasted better than anything from the fine restaurants I’d been to in recent weeks. Grace wouldn’t take our money, so Leah gave her an unopened pack of foreign cigarettes, worth several bowls of noodles. Grace took them back to her mother, who tucked it in her apron. Then her mother took a moment to smooth Grace’s hair back from her face.

  That small gesture, more than anything, told me that Grace was happy.

  “How’s your father?” Leah asked, lighting yet another cigarette. We spoke English, for privacy.

  “Mother says he’s coming by more often now that I’m here,” Grace replied. “I translate for them and we chat.”

  Her father was first mate on a riverboat. Whenever the boat docked at the Shanghai and Hongkew Wharf, he came to see Grace and her mother. He told Grace he was the youngest son of a British lord, and that he was in China because he couldn’t pay his gambling debts in England.

  “Oh, Grace,” Leah exclaimed. “Do you really believe he’s an aristocrat?”

  “It makes him happy when he thinks I believe it,” she said quietly.

  Leah put her hand on Grace’s. “Of course you must believe it. He’s your father.”

  Grace gave a cheerful shrug. “He’s a drunkard, but a happy one. How’s your Mr. Stephenson?”

  Mr. Stephenson had promised his English wife that he would never be unfaithful to her with any European or Chinese woman. Leah had read one of Mrs. Stephenson’s letters.

  “And as far as he’s concerned,” Leah said, “he’s kept his promise because I’m not a European woman or even a Chinese woman of good family. I’m no more than a clever pet. That’s all. Thank goodness Peng makes me feel like a human being.”

  “Who is Peng?” I asked.

  “My lover,” she said. Both she and Grace laughed at my shocked expression.

  All too soon, we had to go. Grace walked with us as far as the Garden Bridge and there we said our farewells.

  “Next time, my house,” I promised.

  I took a rickshaw back to Yuyang Lane, a pleasurable ride as I daydreamed of how I would entertain Leah and Grace in my own home. When I arrived home, Sanmu’s car was there, his driver polishing an already gleaming hood. Sanmu had been at his most ardent the night before and promised to spend more time at Yuyang Lane, but I hadn’t expected him back until the evening, after he had submitted his articles for the day to Xinwen Bao’s printers.

  Little Ko took my coat and whispered, “The master has been here for an hour. He’s been drinking. He’s in the greenhouse.”

  Sanmu paced between pots of delicate ferns and wicker furniture. In his dark clothes, his anxiety was so palpable he made me think of a cornered beast. One hand was clenched, and the other held a crystal tumbler. A whiskey bottle stood on the table. Without a word, he pointed at the envelope on the table beside the bottle.

  First I examined the envelope, which was addressed to Sanmu, care of the newspaper. It was company stationery, the return address printed with the name and address of the Anshan Rail Inspection Services Company in Harbin, Manchuria. The postmark, however, was that of the government Postal Office in Shanghai.

  “Read the letter,” he said. His grim expression did nothing to reassure me.

  Dear Mr. Liu:

  Wan Baoyuan was my cousin. He wrote to me while he was in Shanghai and spoke highly of you, so I’ve taken the liberty of making contact. I’m staying in Shanghai for several weeks. I’ve wanted to come since learning of his death, but first I had to deal with various legal matters on behalf of his estate.

  My cousin’s death is still a mystery. While I am here, I plan to reopen the investigation. I’d like to meet you and learn more about his final days.

  Please write to me care of the Hotel Shanghai, on the corner of Broadway and Nanzing Roads. I hope you can spare the time for a meeting.

  Wan Taiyong

  Engineer, Anshan Rail Inspection Services

  Sanmu continued pacing. “If I were his family, I would reopen the case too. The police were so overwhelmed during the strikes they made only a very minimal investigation. They lumped it in with all the other crimes related to looting and assault.”

  The images I had worked so hard to submerge came to the surface with a rush. A trail of scarlet trickling into a puddle. A small moan escaped me and I staggered back.

  He pulled me into his arms, where I stood, shivering. “Hush, my sweet. Nothing will come of this. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Later that night, I climbed out of bed to get a drink of water. There was no point in pretending either of us could sleep. The bathroom light reflected in Sanmu’s open eyes. When I returned to bed, he took me in his arms again.

  “What does Fourth Uncle know about me?” I asked.

  There wouldn’t be a better time to ask. It had only been a day since Fox strengthened Sanmu’s feelings for me, and she had done this with a heavy hand. Even the distress of hearing from Wan Taiyong had not lessened Sanmu’s ardor. He might not answer my questions, but he wouldn’t get angry, either.

  I wished I hadn’t asked, because it turned out Fourth Uncle knew everything.

  At first, Sanmu had been interested in Wan Baoyuan simply because he wanted to know more about the situation in Manchuria. Then as Wan’s association with the warlord emerged, Sanmu had stayed close to learn more about General Zhang. But it wasn’t until I mentioned seeing Wan at Old Master Shen’s funeral that Sanmu began to suspect something more sinister. That was when he confided in Fourth Uncle.

  It was Fourth Uncle’s contacts in the Nationalist Party who had investigated Wan Baoyuan, Fourth Uncle who confirmed Sanmu’s hunch that Wan Baoyuan had been involved somehow in Mah Juhou’s murder. It was Fourth Uncle who had helped Sanmu on that terrible day, Fourth Uncle who used his connections to dispose of Wan Baoyuan’s body.

  What kind of people did Fourth Uncle know who could handle a corpse without asking questions? If I’d known Sanmu would use others to get rid of Wan’s body, I would’ve persuaded him to let me help, gone with him in the car, kept it to ourselves. But I suspected he would’ve told his Fourth Uncle anyway. Fourth Uncle was a strong supporter of the Nationalist party and now I knew he was also involved with some unsavory people. But what about Sanmu?

  In all this, Sanmu had told his uncle one lie: that he had been the one who killed Wan Baoyuan in self-defense.

  “There was a chance my uncle would refuse to help if he knew it was you, Jialing,” he said “But I’m his nephew. I’m family.” />
  “Will you tell Fourth Uncle about this?” I asked. “About the cousin?”

  “You know I must,” he said. “This Wan Taiyong could be part of the conspiracy.”

  Now I knew why Fourth Uncle had asked whether I could be trusted to keep quiet. Fourth Uncle wasn’t just afraid I would put Sanmu in danger. He was afraid I would put him in danger too.

  WORKERS WERE DEMOLISHING the Eastern Residence and taking it away in pieces. Fragments of the courtyard and its houses lay in a pile of rubble, a midden of carved railings and roof tiles, broken bricks and lattice window frames. Wilted rose shrubs lay on a stack of paving stones.

  A memory of Anna pouring water from a bucket, the roses more receptive to her attention than her mother had been.

  I picked my way along Dragon Springs Road, avoiding carts and laborers. In another week the Central Residence would be in ruins, and a few weeks after that, workmen would start on the Western Residence. I had to persuade my mother and Fox to leave.

  It was late February, but it was still as cold as midwinter. As I stepped inside the courtyard, the brown ivy vines covering the walls changed to a tender green, and wilted peony shrubs sprouted heavy buds. The shouts of workmen faded, replaced by birdsong. My mother and Fox were together on the garden bench, throwing millet seeds on the ground for a flock of fan-tailed warblers.

  Fox was in human shape, elegantly attired as always. My mother was bundled up in layers of padded jackets and trousers, a pair of thick woolen socks on her small feet. They were a picture of contentment. It reminded me of the days when Anjuin and I sat together at the kitchen table, leafing through my schoolbooks. Before I even spoke, Fox looked up, her gaze green gold and troubled, already sensing my unease.

  Fox’s features grew more vulpine as she and my mother listened to my story. A soft growl sounded in her throat.

  “Sanmu has invited this Wan Taiyong to call on us this weekend,” I said. “He feels we’re better off to be friendly and learn what we can of his plans. We must find out whether Wan Taiyong is here on his own or at the behest of his cousin’s fellow conspirators. He could be one of them.”

  My mother said nothing, just smiled at me and continued tossing seeds at the birds. Her eyes were vacant. There was something wrong about this. I looked questioningly at Fox.

  Abruptly, Fox’s dream courtyard vanished, and I was back in the real world. The hydrangeas were brown and brittle, the paving stones littered with dry leaves, and I was alone on the bench. Fox sat in front of me, the white tip of her tail twitching, dark amber eyes gleaming. There was something accusing in her expression.

  Come with me, she said, there’s something you should see. And she trotted up the stairs to the main house.

  My mother lay on the bed, her breathing uneven. She looked unconscious, and on the table beside her were teacups and a large brown bottle. There was a sweet, cloying fragrance in the room.

  I took the pipe out of her hands once she fell asleep, Fox said.

  “Why is she taking opium?” I said.

  Your mother is very ill. She’s in a lot of pain.

  “But this is so sudden. I came to see you less than a week ago.”

  Not trusting my mother to feed herself properly, I had brought food: dried scallops to flavor her soups, pastries filled with sweet red bean paste. Today I’d brought warm clothing and paper twists of herb mixtures to soften her cough.

  She was already ill when she came back to Dragon Springs Road two years ago. Fox’s tail switched from side to side. I can’t cure her illness, but I can help her mind ignore the pain. My powers are limited, Jialing. Your mother insisted I use them all on you, to keep Liu Sanmu infatuated with you.

  I sat on the edge of the bed. It was still hard calling her “Mother” to her face. I saw nothing in her of the mother I had longed for, either in looks or temperament. Or were my memories false because they were dim recollections, the yearnings of a lonely child?

  What had made me think our reunion would immediately wash away all the years between us? I had spent a decade wavering between longing and anger, wondering why she had abandoned me. All the while she had spent those years barely surviving, no strength left at the end of each day to think of anything but how to get through the next.

  It was enough for her now that I was willing to spend a little time with her every week, if only out of duty. I knew she hoped these fragments of time would eventually pave the distance between us. She had never asked for more than I was willing to extend. It pleased her to know I had a home, food, clothes, and a generous patron. It was what she understood of survival.

  “I’m taking her to a hospital,” I said.

  Don’t. She doesn’t want that. Fox stood on her hind legs and put her paws on my knee. She doesn’t have long and she wants to live out her days here, in this courtyard where she was happy with you, when you were a child. Where she’s happy now.

  When I’d asked Fox to use her influence on Liu Sanmu, I had thought it would give me a measure of control over my life. But since leaving Dragon Springs Road, it was as if sluice gates had opened. I was as helpless as a twig carried by the outflow, washed out of the calm pool that was the Western Residence and into the rapids of the wider world.

  I had found my mother but lost Anjuin. Liu Sanmu had saved me then put me in danger. I had come to Fourth Uncle’s attention but would never overcome his mistrust of one who was not of his blood. Nor could I control what Wan Taiyong might or might not learn about his cousin’s murder.

  There was only one thing I could control. I took a deep breath.

  “Let her live out her days here, then, without pain. Use your powers on her, not me.”

  Fox leaped onto the bed. Are you sure? This Wan Taiyong could be dangerous. You’re safer if Liu Sanmu adores you, if he’s willing to do anything to keep you from harm.

  I buried my face in her warm fur. “Go ahead, Fox. I have at least another week before your influence on Sanmu wears off. Perhaps longer.”

  It’s possible I gave him too hard a nudge last time, she conceded, and we both laughed, Fox’s body shaking from her small yips of mirth.

  “I feel so old, Fox,” I said, wiping my eyes, “as if a dozen lifetimes separate me from the girl I was so many months ago. And I don’t just mean because I’ve become Sanmu’s mistress.”

  She pushed her head against my hand, and for the first time in almost a year, I was Fox.

  . . . it’s night. The streets of the town are built along canals, and I cross an arched stone bridge. I pause for a moment at the crown of the bridge. The surface of each stone step is crosshatched with chisel marks to offer better footing on wet days. Carved at the edge of one step are the outlines of a horse, mah, and another of a fish, yu. Fox first visited the town when this bridge was built. In the guise of an idle urchin, she had watched two illiterate stonemasons carve these symbols so that even now, three hundred years later, observant pedestrians could know that a man named Mah and another called Yu had built this elegant little bridge.

  The banks of the canal are planted with willow trees and their branches scratch my back as I hurry beneath them. I break into a run when I see the lake. Water hyacinths grow on its surface in such dense clumps they’ve formed floating islands that give rest to water birds and shelter to fish. I follow a track up the hill to an overgrown clearing that overlooks the lake. Humans have forgotten the family buried here, but Fox has not forgotten her old friends. Below, both moon and pagoda are reflected in the still waters of the lake that give the town its name. I drop my offering on a gravestone, the sprig of osmanthus blossom I’ve carried in my mouth all this time. Then I lie down to enjoy the view . . .

  My eyes opened. Both Fox and I were curled on the floor beside the bed. My mother was still in a drugged sleep, but her breathing sounded easier. I smiled at Fox, who put a paw on my knee.

  Did you like that? she asked. Running under the moon, unseen and unencumbered?

  “That was the best part of my childhood,” I s
aid, “when you shared your ramblings with me. Sometimes it was all that made my life bearable.”

  Come back when you know more about this Wan Taiyong, she said. There may be something else I can do.

  SANMU HAD INVITED Wan Taiyong to the house on Yuyang Lane. This made the meeting more informal. When I got ready that morning, Sanmu had me put on a modest Chinese gown of pale green silk. When the front gate buzzer sounded, Old Tan’s warning that he had let a visitor into the property, Sanmu visibly squared his shoulders. He gave me a reassuring smile, his features seemingly untroubled, the slight clench to his jaw barely discernible. Then we both turned to the window to watch our guest approach the house.

  I had been prepared for a man of menacing appearance, middle-aged and humorless, perhaps with a family resemblance so strong that I would think it was Wan Baoyuan’s ghost walking up the gravel path.

  What I hadn’t been prepared for was how young he was. He looked like a university student.

  Wan Taiyong was slimmer and taller than his cousin had been. His mouth was generous, his nose well shaped with a high bridge. There was nothing military about him in posture or manner. He looked about the garden as he strolled up, leisurely, at ease in his well-cut camel hair coat. His movements were unhurried, and this distinguished him from Wan Baoyuan, whose mannerisms had simmered with barely concealed impatience.

  When he shook hands with Sanmu, his smile was open, unreserved.

  When his eyes settled on me, there was no contempt or dislike, only mild curiosity. His smile never dimmed.

  When he spoke, Wan Taiyong’s voice was eager, not at all as though he expected his words to be obeyed as commands. When he leaned forward to pick up his tea from the table, a wisp of hair fell across his forehead, making him look even more boyish and unguarded.