Dragon Springs Road

by Janie Chang

  What would happen to Wan Taiyong if Fourth Uncle and his associates decided he was a danger to them? I couldn’t let that happen. I had to convince them of what I believed. That Taiyong knew nothing.

  IN THE MORNING, I took a rickshaw along the Bund toward the Quai de France in the French Concession. This visit was something Sanmu had suggested.

  I got out at the rue Fokien. Narrow stairs led to a hallway of small offices, the half-light doors of each painted with names in English and Chinese on the frosted glass. I opened the one for ROBERT SHEA INVESTIGATIONS.

  Inside, two clerks looked up, one Chinese, the other European. The Chinese one, in a suit too large for his slight frame, stood up and gave me a small bow. He rapped on the door to his right before opening it.

  “Miss Zhu.” Shea stood up from behind the desk to greet me. “I was delighted to get your note.”

  “Please, call me Jialing,” I said, settling in the chair opposite his desk. “I’m here to ask you a favor, Mr. Shea.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I hope nothing troublesome has happened.”

  He looked solid and muscled, but his seamed face attested to too many late nights, too much drink. Too much grief and guilt. Shea was still searching for Anna’s abductors. According to Sanmu, Shea could’ve been a very wealthy man, but he spent too much time and money following up every rumor, every report and sighting. He traveled to other cities if necessary and paid well for information. Whether it came from a swindler or someone who sincerely believed they had seen Anna so many years ago, he almost always paid.

  “No. Nothing untoward,” I said. “It’s just that . . . I met a man the other day. A Mr. Wan Taiyong from Harbin. He said he hired you to find Master Fong, the one whose family lived at Dragon Springs Road. Please don’t mention you already searched for Master Fong when you were looking for my mother.”

  “My clients are guaranteed confidentiality,” he said. “He wouldn’t know of our dealings any more than you would’ve known he was my client if he hadn’t told you.”

  There was the slightest hint of rebuke in his voice, as if to a child who should’ve known better. Shea was known for his absolute incorruptibility, his dedication and persistence. There had been cases where he carried on searching for abducted children even when the parents could no longer afford his services.

  “Do you need to know why?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Your reasons don’t matter. Professional confidentiality holds.”

  It would do no good to probe further, to ask about his investigation into Wan Baoyuan’s death. It was clear that Shea was unyielding in his discretion. Although I was sure he knew of my situation, I felt I owed him what honesty I could afford.

  “Perhaps you know that I now live with Mr. Liu Sanmu,” I said.

  “Yes. You’ve found a generous patron.” His smile was a little sad as I stood up to leave. “If you ever need help, please come see me, Jialing. You were Anna’s dearest friend during her short time on this earth. I hope you always remember her.”

  “Of course I remember, Mr. Shea,” I said. I held my hand out to him.

  His hands were calloused but gentle. “You had such an imagination. You wanted me to believe Anna had walked through a door to the land of immortals. Not a day goes by without me wishing I could believe that story.”

  Anna had been gone eleven years. What words of comfort could I offer to a man who lived each waking hour tormented by the mystery of her final hours, by the constant grief that must grind against his heart every day?

  “It’s a story I still believe, Mr. Shea,” I said softly.

  Riding back home, a hundred memories of Anna cascaded over me. The way her hair ribbon was always untying itself from her curls, the freckles that spangled her eager face, her scraped knees, and the glints of green in her amber-brown eyes. Anna reading to me from a storybook open to a picture of a girl looking out to the sea, half fish, half human.

  Then the bright edges of the Door, the scent of grass and orchards, and Anna in her torn white dress stepping over the threshold. And then Fox, whining as she ran back and forth in front of the Door. A Door that was closing very slowly, its opening wide enough for a child to pass through. Or a Fox.

  I gasped and held on to the side of the rickshaw. Fox could’ve gone through the Door all those years ago. But she didn’t.

  “Fox promised to look after you,” my mother had said.

  Because of her promise to my mother, Fox hadn’t dashed through the door.

  Oh, Fox.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dear Sanmu,

  I’m completely certain Wan Taiyong doesn’t know anything about his cousin, nor is he part of any conspiracy. They were not close and his work for the railway inspection company meant he was away from Harbin much of the time.

  I also went to see Mr. Shea, on the pretext you suggested. He is as discreet as ever, and we will not learn anything from him and in fact would arouse his suspicions if we prodded.

  When are you coming home?

  Jialing

  Sanmu sent his driver back with a reply. He wouldn’t be coming to Yuyang Lane for at least two days. His note was folded around a pair of tickets for an afternoon performance at the opera, the day after next.

  I want you to attend this performance. I’m sure you will enjoy it. Take a friend if you like.

  What friend could I invite except Leah?

  She came by on the afternoon of the opera.

  “Can we go where your maid won’t overhear us?” she whispered while Little Ko took away her coat and hat.

  “Come upstairs and help me decide what to wear,” I said. “Little Ko, please set out some cold drinks in the greenhouse, we’ll be down shortly and then we’ll be heading out to the opera.”

  “I saw you at the Astor Hotel the other day,” Leah said as soon as I shut my bedroom door. “Who was that beautiful man with you? He was too young to have been Liu Sanmu.”

  “It’s . . . a friend of Sanmu’s from Manchuria,” I said. “Was that Peng with you at the hotel?”

  Leah tried to sound offhand, but her face glowed when I mentioned her lover’s name. Her smile lit her eyes, suffused her entire being.

  “He wants me to leave Stephenson,” she said, “but I’m not willing. Peng can’t support me. He’s a gambler. Both of us are better off if I stay with Stephenson.”

  “But you love him, don’t you?” I said. She was in love, real love. The kind of love I longed to feel, longed to have someone feel for me. Not an infatuation that depended upon a Fox’s enchantments.

  “Jialing, I’m not blind,” she said. “Peng would never marry a hun xue girl. He wouldn’t even take me into his home as a concubine. I’ll be his mistress for a few years until the novelty wears off. I’m hoping he’ll see that and stop trying to make me leave Stephenson.”

  “How can you live this way?” I said. “How can you love him all the while expecting it to end?”

  “You forget I’m practically a third-generation prostitute.” Her rueful smile made her look older. “I don’t believe in happy endings. It’s enough to feel life so intensely. Happiness that makes your heart twist in pain, Jialing, the exquisite pain of knowing such happiness will end.”

  I thought about Wan Taiyong, about all that was forbidden to me. It was small comfort that Leah, so cynical and self-contained, had been unable to resist her gambler any more than I’d been able to withstand the tidal pull of my feelings for Wan Taiyong.

  “Tell me what to wear,” I said, opening the wardrobe doors. “I’m glad you can come with me. Sanmu was quite insistent about this opera.”

  IT WAS THE first time the famous singer Cheng Yanqiu was performing in Shanghai. Even those who knew nothing about Peking opera were going to his performances.

  “I’m glad you invited me,” Leah said. “Peng has tickets for tomorrow night’s performance, but of course I can’t go. I must be home to pour drinks for Mr. Stephenson.”

  We rode to the opera in an a
utomobile, vehicle and driver on loan from Peng. Leah had insisted it was too cold to ride in an open rickshaw. A lone figure on the street made me lean toward the window.

  It was Anjuin. Even from a distance, I could tell it was her. In her dark, old-fashioned tunic she looked like a servant, not the daughter of a respectable merchant family. With a start I realized Anjuin looked as she always had. I was the one who had become used to fine clothes and expensive shoes. She stopped at a shop window and lifted a small child to look at the display. Her niece, Dajuin and Yun Na’s eldest. Anjuin’s expression was soft and fond, smiling as she talked to the little girl. I wanted to jump out of the car, buy for them whatever had caught their eye. But the car weaved its way along the street and I soon lost sight of them.

  “WELL, IT WILL be interesting to see how he compares to Mei Lanfang,” said the man seated beside us. “I’ll never forget that performance of ‘The Dream in the Garden.’ Cheng has a lot to live up to.”

  “You really can’t compare them,” the woman beside him said. “They are two completely different styles. Cheng’s interpretation of female roles is more wistful, more tragic. We’re lucky to be seeing him at this stage of developing his distinct style.”

  They spoke loudly over the noise of the audience below. The woman glanced over at us and her expression froze.

  When Cheng Yanqiu came onstage, the noise died down. This was a sign of great respect, especially from an afternoon crowd who regarded the stage as background entertainment for the real business of gossiping. Face painted and dressed in blue satin, Cheng Yanqiu sang the first aria, his arms and body moving in stylized gestures that conveyed the feelings behind the heroine’s words. She had dreamed of a handsome youth and, upon waking, suffered intense sorrow that it had only been a dream.

  The audience was in raptures. Had Cheng Yanqiu been a disappointment, the unruly crowd would’ve shouted him down or thrown peanut shells at the stage.

  All through the performance I had the sensation of being watched, but perhaps it was because I was with Leah. Dressed in a tunic of gold silk and black trousers, her honey-streaked tresses made her stand out.

  During the intermission, we stood up to stretch. From our box seats we could look down on the ground floor, where theater attendants circulated through the audience selling packets of peanuts and pouring hot water for tea. The couple beside us left and didn’t come back.

  The houselights dimmed to begin the second act. That was when I saw the woman across from us, in a box seat close to the stage. There was no one else in the box with her. She was beautiful, well dressed. And she was staring at me, with a look on her face that pushed at the edges of a memory.

  I sat down and leaned back into the shadows. Giving Leah’s hand a small tug, I said in a low voice, “Leah, who is that woman across from us, all by herself in that box? Pretend you’re not staring.”

  She appeared to scan the audience below, and then eased back into her seat. “She’s in the Liu family box,” she said. “Those wealthy clans never attend afternoon performances. My guess is that one of the Liu women wanted to get a look at you. In fact, I’m willing to bet that’s your Sanmu’s wife.”

  SANMU NEVER SPOKE of his wife in my presence. If I’d thought of her at all, it was as some faceless well-dressed matron, a dutiful woman married to Sanmu because of an arrangement between their families. The woman at the opera was not matronly. She was younger than Sanmu, with delicate features and an intelligent expression.

  I had never been curious enough about his wife to try and catch a glimpse of her, but evidently she had wanted to know more about me. The shadowy memory came into focus. I remembered where I had seen such an expression before. On the day I crept into the Central Residence, I had peered through the window at Noble Uncle’s family. One of his daughters had looked back at me. Sanmu’s wife reminded me of that girl, her features dull with resignation and despair.

  WHEN I ARRIVED back home, Sanmu’s car was there. So was Fourth Uncle’s bicycle rickshaw. Sanmu’s uncle was one of the wealthiest men in Shanghai, but he only ever wore a dark-colored changshan gown and cloth shoes. He usually traveled by rickshaw, albeit a bicycle rickshaw and driver belonging to the Liu family. If sedan chairs had still been practical in Shanghai, I was sure Fourth Uncle would’ve preferred being carried behind curtained panels, a relic of feudal times.

  “They’re in the greenhouse,” Little Ko said, “arguing very loudly. It must be politics.”

  I sighed. There was no avoiding the courtesies. “I’ll take the tea tray to them, Little Ko.” I followed the voices to the back of the house.

  “It’s wrongheaded of Dr. Sun Yat-sen to even consider taking help from the Soviets. We’ll have Communists infiltrating our party.” That was Sanmu.

  “If another Western nation had helped us finance a campaign to bring down the warlords, Sun wouldn’t have had to turn to the Soviets,” Fourth Uncle said. “He had no choice.”

  I pushed open the door to the greenhouse, and the conversation stopped while I set down the tray.

  “Did you go to the opera?” Sanmu asked. In front of Fourth Uncle, he refrained from gestures of affection.

  “Yes, to Cheng Yanqiu’s afternoon performance.”

  Fourth Uncle snorted. “His style is overwrought, his singing mediocre.”

  Cheng Yanqiu went up in my esteem.

  Sanmu grinned at me and I went upstairs, hoping they would both leave to go out for supper, that Sanmu wouldn’t stay the night so that I wouldn’t have to hide the turmoil of my feelings. But the front door opened and shut, and when I looked out the window, there was only Fourth Uncle crunching his way down the gravel path. Old Tan saluted as he opened the gate, his stance straight and respectful.

  As Sanmu’s footsteps came up the stairs, I willed myself to be more vigilant, even more controlled in front of him. Fox’s influence wouldn’t last much longer. Whatever intrigues Sanmu and his uncle were concocting, I wouldn’t let them ensnare Wan Taiyong. I just wanted him out of Shanghai, safely back in Harbin.

  “Your uncle doesn’t like me,” I said, looking out the window so that I wouldn’t have to face Sanmu. “I worry that you’ll give me up. Tell him I was the one who killed Wan Baoyuan.”

  He pressed his lips to my neck. “Never. And it hardly matters now. We’re all implicated in his death because we disposed of the body. Besides, I think any conspirator would laugh if I told them a schoolgirl was responsible for Wan Baoyuan’s death.” His voice turned teasing, his hands more lingering.

  “Fourth Uncle has a lot on his mind,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to my neck, ran his hands down my hips. “He’s worried that Shea might turn up something about Wan Baoyuan’s murder.”

  “If Shea turns up anything, he’ll never tell either of us.”

  Sanmu sighed. “It’s essential that Wan’s death remain unsolved. If General Zhang retaliates against us, if there’s another assasination . . . it’s a delicate time for the Nationalist Party. We need every man of influence behind us, every resource to rebuild the party.”

  Then his kisses grew urgent and he didn’t say anything more for a long while.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the next morning that he told me what Fourth Uncle wanted.

  Fourth Uncle was willing to believe Wan Taiyong was not involved in any sort of conspiracy. His main worry now was what Shea might discover. Fourth Uncle didn’t want to bring anyone else in to the situation until he knew more. He wanted us to remain close to Wan Taiyong, to take him out on the town, to the races, to parks. To win his friendship and his confidence. To lend a sympathetic ear and learn whatever Shea had shared with his client.

  “If I took too much time away from the newspaper or family business,” Sanmu said, “it would make me seem more interested in him than I should be. Fourth Uncle says it’s up to you, Jialing. I wasn’t so sure yesterday, but now I think he’s right. It has to be you.”

  “What sort of reason would I have to follow him everywhere, all day?” I asked
, brushing my hair in front of the dressing table. “Why can’t Fourth Uncle’s people cosy up to Wan Taiyong?”

  There was a pause. “Please, just do as I ask.”

  “All right,” I said, getting back into the bed. “If you’ll do something for me.”

  He smiled and kissed my fingers. “What is it? Do you want your own car and driver?”

  “No, nothing for me. For Anjuin. Can you help find her a husband?”

  Sanmu pulled me closer. “I know you’ve been unhappy since you argued with her. Would she accept your help?”

  “No. But she doesn’t have to know it’s my idea. In fact, if the Yangs believed you had used your connections to help her find a husband, even Grandmother Yang wouldn’t protest.” I pressed my lips against his shoulder. “If you know of someone suitable, just bring it up with Dajuin. Please, Sanmu. Anjuin has always said she doesn’t have to be a First Wife. She just wants children of her own.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do what I can. And you’ll do your best to win Wan Taiyong’s trust.”

  It was not a request.

  Mr. Wan:

  Jialing mentioned how much she enjoyed her day out in your company. She also mentioned that you wanted to see more of Shanghai before you return to Harbin. May I ask a favor?

  Between the newspaper and family business, I have not shown Jialing as much of Shanghai as I’d promised. If you take her along with you as you explore the city, I would be very grateful.

  In exchange, I’d be happy to lend you a car and driver to make your sightseeing more enjoyable. I hope you will consider my request.

  Liu Sanmu

  The ploy reeked of desperation and of Fourth Uncle. Both car and driver were his. It would look as though Sanmu was throwing his mistress at Wan Taiyong. Two weeks ago, he would never have considered a scheme that put me in such close and constant company with another man. Fox’s influence was definitely slipping, and I was getting a first taste of how much Sanmu truly valued me.