by Janie Chang
“I’ll join you whenever I can,” Sanmu said, “supper every few nights, an afternoon at the Race Club, an evening opera performance.”
If I spent all my time with Wan Taiyong, how could I get to Dragon Springs Road?
Worse yet, how could I fend off my feelings for him?
THERE WAS THE Shanghai Race Club. Taiyong studied the horses with interest but didn’t place any bets.
There was Nanking Road, burnished with prosperity, busy with all the new shops that had opened since the end of the war. Foreigners had regained confidence in Shanghai. The city was sprawling out to the west, outside the boundaries of the international concessions. The Liu family would do very well out of their investment in Dragon Springs Road.
There was Fuzhou Road, famed for books and writing supplies. Taiyong purchased at least a dozen books, scrolls of fine paper, brushes, and ink sticks. The shopkeepers gave me curious looks and bowed to me on our way out. I knew what they saw: the sleek, spoiled mistress of a wealthy man.
Fourth Uncle’s driver, a grinning giant called Gu, followed us from shop to shop, toting Wan Taiyong’s parcels. I was there to watch Wan Taiyong, and the driver was there to watch us both. I encouraged Wan Taiyong to buy an extremely large and heavy inkstone.
“Have you any former classmates or friends living in Shanghai?” I asked Taiyong. “Did your cousin have any friends you would like to visit?”
That was also one of Fourth Uncle’s ideas, to learn who Taiyong might associate with, whether he was in touch with his cousin’s contacts.
But Taiyong shook his head. “I don’t have any classmates or friends here. As for Baoyuan, he only wrote me the one letter, to say he would be buying his ancestral home. He didn’t mention any friends.”
There was Bansong Gardens, a private garden now open to the public for a small admission fee. There we encountered only a few other visitors. It was still too early in the season. Any spring foliage trying to emerge added no more than a hint of green to the scenery. We strolled through shades of brown, relieved only by the deep green of pine trees and a clump of bamboo. I saw Taiyong’s disappointment as he gazed around the park.
“Without the distraction of foliage and blossoms,” I said, “you can appreciate a garden’s structure. See how the sun shines through the branches of that elm. It throws a tracery of shadows on the wall behind, as though the wall were a canvas.”
This was my first visit to a classical garden in the real world. With delight I recognized what Fox had shown me in dreams. All her lectures were made real to me that afternoon. I pointed out to Taiyong the art of concealing and then revealing scenes through the use of winding walkways and corridors of shrubbery. Walls with lattice openings strategically placed to beckon with a view of the garden beyond. Still pools of water enhanced by the contrast of rugged, vertical rocks.
“You’re quite learned on the subject,” Taiyong said, his voice teasing. “Were gardens part of the mission school’s curriculum?”
“I had a teacher who was fond of gardens,” I said, thinking of Fox. “She made me see how skillful division of spaces makes a small garden appear larger. The unexpected touches. The unreal within the real.”
I pointed at a small pavilion, its roof just barely visible behind a low hill. When I glanced over at Taiyong, he wasn’t looking at the pavilion. He was looking at me. “I’ve never thought of gardens this way. I’ve only ever paid attention to open spaces.”
“Oh, you’ve no idea how much I’d love to see those open spaces for myself.” My words came out in a rush. “The grasslands you spoke of. Deserts where dunes rise in ridges like hills. Have you seen the Great Wall? Have you ever been to an oasis shaped like a crescent moon?”
“I’ve only been to the eastern end of the Great Wall,” he said. “Someday I’d like to follow it west through Mongolia all the way to Jiayu Pass. I’ve heard of that oasis, yes, and I’d like to see it with my own eyes one day.”
He smiled. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who wanted to get away from courtyards and cities.” He paused. “Well, perhaps the second. My mother loved the open plains and the grasslands.”
“What are they like, the open plains?”
“One of the things I love about Harbin,” he said, “is that it only takes a half hour on horseback to leave the city behind and enter the grasslands. So many people don’t understand that landscapes of grass can be as beautiful as mountains or lakes. They’re like an ocean when the wind blows, feathery tips of grass bending forward to the air, then falling back so that the entire plain ripples in waves of green and mauve.”
His eyes shone with the memory, a look that filled me with an unfamiliar longing. When he spoke, I could picture the landscape he described. It was like being on a journey with Fox. I didn’t want him to stop talking. His words painted pictures in my mind almost as vivid as Fox’s dreams.
The grasslands fill the empty spaces between stands of deciduous forest where poplars and birches shelter at the foothills of mountain ranges. The grasslands follow river plains where tribesmen herd sheep and goats in shallow valleys of thorny shrubs and fescue. The grasslands stretch westward, to the edge of the Gobi Desert, where tall grasses give way to tufts of short dry tussock.
“Everyone thinks Manchuria is nothing but scrubby thornbushes and desert, hard-baked earth scattered with stones,” he said. His eyes rested on some unseen horizon. “I’ve traveled for weeks in that landscape and I’ve never tired of its magnificence. The terrain transforms with each passing hour as the light changes. It’s a hard-won beauty that reveals itself only to those who pay close attention. I miss it every day whenever I’m away.”
I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to see such places.
His words were soft with yearning. His words made me want to see the landscapes he described. His words made me want to reach out with my hands and feel the stalks of tall grass waver with the wind. I had never wanted anything so much in my life.
Except for him to say my name out loud with that same yearning.
When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me, his eyes as soft as his words.
No. This could not be happening.
SANMU INVITED TAIYONG for dinner at a favorite restaurant, a modest dining spot at the edge of the Old City that specialized in xiaolong bao, “little dragon” soup dumplings. The owner greeted Sanmu with many bows and barked at a waiter to clean off a table. He seated us with a flourish of his dish towel, and although he stared at me a bit too long, his expression remained welcoming. The round table felt too small, too intimate. I felt too close to Wan Taiyong. I tucked my feet under the chair.
“May I ask whether Mr. Shea is making progress?” Sanmu asked.
“He’s said it will be nearly impossible to locate Baoyuan’s older brother.” Wan Taiyong carefully conveyed another of the delicate dumplings into his bowl. “Too many years have gone by. As for clues to Baoyuan’s death, it’s difficult because of the workers’ strike that was going on at the time. Shea hasn’t learned much more than what the police know. Which is nothing.”
My full attention was given to keeping my eyes away from Wan Taiyong. I signaled for more tea, asked the waiter to bring more steamed buns, told another to bring sweet vinegar with shredded ginger. My meal was tasteless. I couldn’t let my composure slip. Couldn’t give in to the urge to touch Taiyong’s hand when I passed him the teacup. Couldn’t let Sanmu realize the color in my cheeks had nothing to do with the warm, steamy air of the restaurant.
“There is someone else Shea wants to contact,” Taiyong said, “even though he doesn’t think anything will come of it. Yang Dajuin, the seller of the property.”
Sanmu smiled. “A good man. His sister is a very sensible young woman.”
“If Shea doesn’t uncover anything soon, I will have him stop his investigation,” Taiyong said. “It’s one thing to find small clues, but he hasn’t made any progress at all. Besides, I must get back to Harbin. My company is very busy.”
I could almost see Sanmu sink back in relief, but he merely held out his cup for more tea.
A FEW DAYS later, I took Wan Taiyong to Zhang Yuan, a private park. Its grounds were famous for a magnificent rockery, four man-made lakes, and a grove of fountain bamboos. We didn’t speak to each other during the drive. Wan Taiyong sat up front beside Gu and they chatted about automobiles.
I thought the park would be quiet and empty at this time of year, as Bansong Gardens had been. Instead, we walked through the moon gate entrance and were met with shrieks and giggles.
On the wide, hard earthen path circling a small lake, young women were riding bicycles. Some pedaled with confidence, some teetered along. Their friends stood beside the path calling out encouragement. There was a rack of bicycles and a sign, LEARN TO RIDE. BICYCLES AND LESSONS AVAILABLE.
A bicycle skimmed past, a man running behind the rider. “Look ahead of you, not down at the wheel,” he shouted. The rider leaned dangerously to the right, but the man grasped the back fender and straightened the cycle, still running.
“Baoyuan taught me to ride a bicycle,” Taiyong said. “Shooting, archery, horseback riding, ice skating. There didn’t seem to be any sport he couldn’t master in a day.”
“Learn to ride, Young Miss,” the attendant said, coming up to us. “Three times around the lake and you’ll be pedaling on your own.”
Taiyong looked at me, but I shook my head. “Not even if I teach you?” he asked, smiling. The wind had blown a wisp of hair across his forehead. I dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat.
“Especially not you,” I replied, trying to return the banter.
The attendant shrugged, then watched intently as a pair of young women rode past, resplendent in brightly colored tunics, brows knitted in concentration. Bound feet pushed against the pedals.
“High-class prostitutes,” the attendant said, grinning. “They’re learning so they can ride around in public parks. Good advertising. Looks modern.”
Taiyong and I continued deeper into the park, past the lake and the novice cyclists. Here the garden was empty of visitors. Its famous bamboo grove rose ahead, vibrantly green amid the dull browns of bare earth and wilted undergrowth. Taiyong headed for the grove, but I pointed to the other side of the garden.
“The pavilion,” I said. “It will give us a perfect view of the bamboo grove. We should go there first.”
It was a gentle climb, but frost still covered the shaded path and I slipped on a patch of frozen ground. Taiyong caught me by the arm. I steadied myself, but he didn’t let go. He took my hand in his, and when I looked up at his face, I could barely breathe.
Silently we walked up the steps of the pavilion. The pavilion was octagonal, fitted with carved lattice screens on all sides. The screen that faced the bamboo grove was open. Taiyong pulled its hinged panels shut and then we stood in shadow, the interior of the pavilion pierced with light coming through the latticework, geometric patterns that fell on the floor, on our faces and bodies.
There was no Fox at work here, no one’s will but mine and his. It was real.
He kissed me. I let him do as he pleased. His lips caressed my throat, his fingers explored the skin along the neckline of my blouse, and then his hands moved along my back.
I didn’t care if he thought me no better than a prostitute. I didn’t care if he believed I was habitually unfaithful to Sanmu. It didn’t even matter if he thought Sanmu had thrown me at him. It was far, far better if he was only using me, because then he would leave Shanghai with no further thoughts of me, and he would never see me again. For at least then he would be safe from Fourth Uncle.
Despite myself, I began to cry.
“What is it, Jialing?” he whispered. “Don’t you want this?”
“Yes,” I sobbed, “but you’re going back to Harbin. And I’m . . . I’m going to hiccup, which is what always happens when I cry.”
He laughed and sat on the bench that circled the inside of the pavilion. He pulled me onto his lap and put one arm around me. I leaned against his shoulder, waiting for my hiccups to subside.
“Do you know when I began to think of you as more than just a rich man’s mistress?” he said. “It was the day we walked through the lobby of the Astor Hotel.”
The hiccups were quieting down. I sniffled.
“All those people turning their backs to you, all those sideways glances. I realized how difficult your life must have been, how difficult it still must be. Yet you straightened your shoulders and sailed through the crowd like a queen. I thought I’d never seen anyone more defiant or more beautiful.”
“I’m just an orphan,” I said. “Zazhong. My mother was a prostitute. I don’t expect anything from you, Taiyong. Just these few days together.”
“You’re not very good at listening, are you?” he chided. “You’re much more than that.”
Every mote of dust hanging in the light was part of this moment. The faint scent of pine needles, the sound of wind shaking the trees outside, the taste of salt tears on my lips. These details were vivid and unforgettable. I understood what Leah meant. I had never felt life as intensely as I did in that moment. The pain was exquisite, a long sharp needle of comprehension that pierced my happiness, knowing that this could not last, that it would inevitably come to an end.
“Your hiccups have stopped,” he whispered.
He kissed the palm of my hand, and it was as though I’d lost any will of my own. I didn’t move as he kissed each of my fingers. I shuddered from the intimacy of his touch as he undid the pearl buttons on my cuff and kissed the inside of my wrist.
We slid down to the floor of the pavilion.
WHEN I ARRIVED home at Yuyang Lane, there was a note from Sanmu. He had to spend some time with his family. I almost sagged with relief. I couldn’t face him. Not now. With the note were tickets to an opera performance.
Please take Mr. Wan to the opera tomorrow.
ANOTHER AFTERNOON PERFORMANCE, this time a troupe from Henan performing The White Snake. We sat in a private box, the one from which Sanmu’s wife had been observing me just a week ago. There was no one else in the box. The lights went down and the orchestra began to play, a bamboo flute and the two-stringed banhu, the high plaintive notes of the suona horn.
Taiyong leaned over and spoke quietly, never looking away from the stage.
“I must leave tomorrow. The company has called me back,” he said.
“Tomorrow?” I nearly dropped my fan in dismay.
“Forget about Liu Sanmu. Come back to Harbin with me, Jialing. He’ll forget about you soon enough. Shanghai men change mistresses all the time.”
For Taiyong, everything was so straightforward. His thoughts were as direct as an arrow released from the bow. But I couldn’t afford such simplicity of thought and purpose. Sanmu and Fourth Uncle would fear the worst if I ran away with Taiyong. They’d worry that I might confide in Taiyong one day and tell him how his cousin really died. Even in faraway Harbin, I couldn’t hide from Fourth Uncle’s hounds if he decided to set them on my trail.
How could I explain to Taiyong that to follow him would be to put us both in danger? Even just revealing the danger put him at risk.
I shook my head, hiding my face behind my fan. “No, Taiyong, please. You must go back on your own. I can’t leave and Sanmu can’t know about us.”
“Jialing, do you really think I would be asking you to come away with me if I didn’t care about you?” The hurt in his voice pierced me with guilt, made me want to cry out that I loved him, that I would follow him anywhere. “I know you don’t love Liu Sanmu.”
I shook my head. “I can’t go with you.”
There was my mother and Fox. There was Anjuin.
“If I don’t see you at the Shanghai North Railway Station tomorrow afternoon, I’ll go without you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “If you decide to come later, wire me at the address in the note. I’ll meet you at the train station in Harbin.”
Onstage the White Snake transformed into a beautiful young woman. The actor sang in a lilting falsetto, one hand outstretched in a stylized gesture that signaled eternal love.
WHEN I RETURNED home and had shut the door to my room, I reached in my handbag for the envelope Taiyong had slipped me during the opera. It contained a folded sheet of notepaper with a short message and the telegram address for his office in Harbin.
Your lineage doesn’t matter to me, nor does your relationship with Liu Sanmu. Harbin is a city of refugees and émigrés. You would not be the first to go there to escape your past, and no one will ask, including me.
There was also a first-class ticket from Shanghai to Harbin.
MY LIFE IN Shanghai was going to change, I knew that. Soon, without Fox’s influence, Liu Sanmu would tire of me, and I might have to leave the house on Yuyang Lane. In time, Sanmu might forget me, but Fourth Uncle would not. Fourth Uncle, with his cold unblinking eyes, was not a trusting sort. To him I would be an abandoned mistress, an unreliable woman who might be tempted to vengeance, someone with a secret worth money. Even if Sanmu discarded me, I couldn’t go to Harbin. I wouldn’t bring danger to Taiyong.
I locked myself in the bathroom so that Little Ko couldn’t intrude. Then I turned on the taps and sat in the tub, the sound of running water an accompaniment to my sobs, the water a pool for my tears.
A LETTER ARRIVED from Yun Na. They had moved into their new apartment and she was inviting me to visit. From her cloying words, I knew she was hoping to draw me closer into the Yang circle, but I didn’t mind. It would be an opportunity to see Anjuin. It would also distract me from thinking about Taiyong, now three days gone.
From my dressing table drawer I pulled out a photograph in a simple wooden frame, a graduation gift from Miss Morris. Anjuin had come to the modest ceremony, my only family. The two of us stood beneath a banner that read UNITY MISSION SCHOOL CONGRATULATES THE GRADUATING CLASS OF 1919. In her old-style tunic and trousers, she looked much older than I did in my school uniform. She smiled out from the photograph, her broad face with its flat features pleasant and serene. I looked at Anjuin, at our clasped hands. If only she were here with me now. How I missed her calm intelligence.