by Sandi Tan
“They’re going to kill them all,” he shouted.
Then he, like Camel and Bitter Gourd, vanished, just as the first drops of rain came plummeting down.
Back at the house, my legs could feel no sensation. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t contain my heaving sobs.
“But what on earth were they doing in that awful place?” asked Mr. Wee.
Mr. Wee, it turned out, had known beforehand about the raid on the slum. What he hadn’t known, and found inexplicable, was that Father and Li had chosen to live there. Of course, I’d been too ashamed to tell him, or Daniel. Trying to be kind, Mr. Wee vowed he would work on extricating my people, as he called them, from Queenstown Prison, where thousands of Chinese were being “processed.” Then he ordered me upstairs to bed like an invalid child.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Cassandra,” he said, “but my colleagues are very particular, and I must respect their wishes. Every little misstep these days is the difference between life and death.”
I trudged upstairs, still shaken by the little ghoul’s words at the slum. Daniel came to the bedroom a few minutes later and was no more consoling than his father. He carried a glass of water and a sleeping tablet and placed them meaningfully by the bed.
“Get some rest, dearest,” he said.
“You were there at the meetings…You must have heard about the raid. Why didn’t you tell me anything?”
“Hundreds of things are said; one can never keep track of what’s what. Mostly they turn out to be rumors. The men are mainly concerned with keeping the power stations and water supply free from tampering, and their own families safe.”
Self-interest—but of course! I’d seen no evidence of any organized resistance against the invaders in the city, and it suddenly dawned on me that Mr. Wee and his gilded chums might have been playing it both ways: accommodation—that is, collaboration—by day, subterfuge by night. Hence the obsessive secrecy, hence the paranoia, hence Kenneth’s and Issa’s hasty departure to the jungle. At least Li and Father had stayed true to their principles.
“You don’t understand, do you?” I cried. “If I had been at those stupid meetings, I could have saved my family!”
“But you never said a word about them. So how can you possibly blame us for not knowing!” Daniel was losing his temper. He took a deep breath, calmed himself. “I know you’re very cross. But give Daddy time and don’t ask too many questions. He’s doing all he can to make sure we’re safe. He’ll solve things. I promise you he will. And anyway, remember—we’re your family now.”
“I wish Kenneth were here,” I heard myself say before I could stop it.
The color seeped from Daniel’s face. “Why?”
I shook my head. I had lashed out thoughtlessly, cruelly, when it was my own propensity for keeping secrets that had led us all to this. I embraced Daniel and prayed that it was apology enough. It took him a few minutes to forgive me.
I cultivated my little corner of freedom. I was sent to Fatty Wai’s shop three times a week, and three times a week, I decided to make the most of my time away from the house. At this point, the city’s dead harassed me more than the soldiers did. I’d mastered the art of dressing drably and looking inconspicuous with my wares, so the guards never paid me any mind. The spirits were a different story. They rushed up with missing limbs, pressing their bleeding bellies against me, shouting demands—revive them, find their relatives, locate their disintegrated bodies. They weren’t malevolent—far from it. Their situation was only grotesque because their lives were finished and they couldn’t accept it. If only I had completed my lesson with Issa. I might have known how to bring them peace. As it was, all I could do was look away.
To avoid them, I took a route that passed through the checkpoints. Instinctively, the dead stayed away from the enemy. The young soldiers were usually too busy fiddling with some stolen toy or another to bother me. The quieter ones even read books.
One morning, things changed. As usual, I had asked the shifty, sweat-soaked Fatty Wai for chicken, but today all he would give me were two odiferous, wriggling slabs he claimed were horse mackerel but were certainly live eels and a weeping block of tofu. These meant I’d have to make my way home as briskly as possible.
As luck would have it, the checkpoint guards were absent that morning. Enemy-free, the dead swarmed, grabbing at me as I headed to my tram stop. Cursing the soldiers, I elbowed my way through the throng of mendicant dead, hardening my heart with every step, closing my eyes to their open wounds. There’s nothing I can do for you, Uncle. Madam, please, I don’t know how to help you.
Approaching the tram stop, I discovered it was where the soldiers had gone. Ten or twelve were gathered around the shelter, locked in some new excitement. One of them, a bespectacled boy I’d earlier seen delighting over a pocket watch, was playing with a toy of a wholly different kind: a girl.
And not just any girl. She was the one with the shorn hair I’d met just a few days ago, the one who thought the bicycling soldiers were here to save us. I thought it couldn’t be—the irony was too harsh—but indeed it was that same girl with her big, naïve eyes. She’d been stripped naked and was being spread-eagled on the wood bench by four giggling soldiers her own age, about seventeen, while their bespectacled leader unwrapped her shopping, layer by layer, with his pale, skinny fingers. From the slime-soaked newspapers, he pulled out a drooping eel. The girl had clearly been to Fatty Wai’s, too.
In a show of encouragement, his enablers yelled, “Banzai!”
Unlike his accomplices, Bespectacled Boy did not laugh. With frowning, almost bookish devotion, he gripped the eel’s head and rammed it into the crevice between the girl’s thighs. She screamed hoarsely, retching a dribble of white froth down the side of her mouth. The boy continued to feed the eel deeper inside her until his hands were coated in blood. As the girl began to choke on her vomit, he shut his eyes, luxuriating in the effects delivered by his sexual surrogate.
I turned to run, fearing his friends would spot me—and discover my own eels—but fate intervened. A band of Chinese men burst out of a nearby shop house wielding rocks and knives. A brick whipped through the air and cracked Bespectacled Boy square in the head, knocking off his glasses and sending him sprawling to the ground. The other soldiers released the girl and reached for their guns. These looked like children’s toys until one of the boys raised his and fired a crackling shot.
This was a call to arms. Yelling like men possessed, the Chinese militia rushed past me and fell on the soldiers, swinging their weapons. More shots rang out, and bodies fell on both sides. The battle then spilled onto the tracks. In the midst of this, I heard the clanging of the approaching tram. I rushed forward, preparing to hop on. But as the driver slowed down, repeatedly sounding his bell to warn those fighting on the rails, the violence spiraled instead onto the tram. Both sides leapt aboard and began clashing anew, forcing the driver to abandon ship with his hands in the air.
“Miss…” Somebody reached for my waist.
I panicked. Without glancing back, I sprinted down an alley that I knew to be infested with souls. My assailant quickly caught up and netted me in his arms. I struggled, heart pounding, but couldn’t break loose.
“Shhh…Don’t worry,” he cooed in English. “I’m not part of that fracas.”
Nor was he one of the dead. He was obviously a civilian like myself, caught in the crosshairs. When he released me, I was grateful for his company, as the ghosts around us scattered. I turned around to look at him. Not only did my rescuer possess a regal Oxonian accent as startling as Kenneth’s, but also he was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick brows and a light beard—not a man to be trifled with.
He bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me if I frightened you.”
I examined him more closely. He was fair-skinned, rather Northern Chinese in his features and old-fashioned formality. I sensed Peking in him—genteel, gold brocade Peking, not the Peking of bureaucrats and petty civil servants.
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“I worried that you’d be caught in that fray. And I couldn’t not intervene.”
“Thank you.” I was still panting. Gazing down quickly at my package, I discovered that the wrappings had come loose. The smelly, slimy pieces of eel were now sloshing around the bottom of my market bag.
“You’re carrying fish,” the man said matter-of-factly.
“It’s not fish and it’s not mine. I’m carrying this for somebody else.”
“Lucky them.” He smiled. “May I offer you a lift somewhere? My car is just here.” He pointed out a black Ford, parked on the side of the road. “The tram’s obviously not a wise choice today.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Of course I could—the eels even demanded it—but his chivalry felt too good to be true. “Were you following me?”
He blushed, and my fears were somewhat allayed. “I didn’t intend to,” he said. “But once in a while, a beautiful woman comes along and takes my breath away. My only regret is that I didn’t act sooner, so you needn’t have seen what those monsters did.”
What those monsters did.
“Please accept my offer. It’s not safe for a girl to be walking around like this. I’ll drive you to your destination and shan’t bother you after, charming though you are.”
I looked at the car, mere steps away, and then back at the man, with his kindly, gentle eyes. The heavy, disgusting eels, for which I had paid Fatty Wai a small fortune, eventually decided things for me.
“Thank you.”
As we drove, I marveled at his calm. He clucked at the sight of armed soldiers guarding Wonder World, whose tall red walls the Turnipheads had turned into some kind of a fortress. But other than these mild objections, my new friend showed little distress over what had become of our city, even as we drove around intersections blocked by blackened buses and fallen walls. His detachment reminded me again of Kenneth; he simply refused to let the horrors overcome him.
Once we emerged from the city and plunged into the leafy suburbs, with their scent of orchid and fern, I relaxed.
“Did you study in England?” I asked. “I have a friend who studied at Oxford. You sound a bit like him, actually.”
“England?” He chuckled. “Oh no. But I had very good teachers.”
“Where did you study?”
“Japan.”
The back of my neck went tight.
“How…interesting,” I said carefully. “How long were you there?”
“All my life.” He threw me a dashing smile. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself. My name is Taro. It means ‘boy.’ I was the baby in my family, you see, with two older brothers. My parents called me Taro because they never wanted me to grow up. Unfortunately, I had to disappoint them.”
Now I was speechless—and frightened. Why was this Japanese man helping me? We cruised up the lush green lanes of Tanglewood, all of the properties shabby with untended lawns, before he spoke again.
“How long have you lived here—I mean, delivered fish to the people here?”
“About a year.”
He cast me a look of strange tenderness and continued giving me little smiles until my cheeks began to prickle. It was clear he’d seen through me. But instead of pointing out my deception, he stepped very gently on the brake, as if this slowing down would be a prelude to some sort of courtship, perhaps even a kiss.
Home was just fifty yards away now, the driveway packed with cars. I grew nervous. Mr. Wee’s secret friends were here. I looked at Taro, but nothing in his expression changed. He didn’t seem to find the cars unusual, thank heavens.
It was then that I heard a vroom and saw a military jeep pull up alongside us. In that moment, a chill ran through me. Taro remained calm; he gave the driver a solemn, respectful nod and waved for it to overtake us.
I relaxed. But only for a second. Swerving suddenly, the jeep crashed through the Wees’ gate, speeding over the lawn and screeching to a halt in front of the mansion.
Taro placed one firm hand on my wrist. He watched, smiling, as four soldiers spilled out of the vehicle and barged into the Wee house—two through the front, two through the back. When I tried to bolt, his fingers tightened into a vise.
“You bastard!” I cried.
“That’s not a very ladylike thing to say.”
He drove us up the driveway in time to see Daniel and Violet stumbling out the front door, hands on their heads, tears streaming down their faces. A soldier followed close behind them, his rifle pressed against Daniel’s back.
When Daniel saw me, he gazed at me with eyes that were less accusing than hurt. Betrayed.
“Cassandra!” he cried. “Why?”
Taro glanced at me. “Your name’s Cassandra? Yet you didn’t see this coming.” He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and locked my wrist to his with a decisive click.
“Daniel,” I wailed, “listen to me! I didn’t know! I really didn’t!”
“I always knew there was something wrong about you!” Violet hissed, her venom rising to the surface. “I saw it first but none of them believed me! You’re evil! You’re pure evil! You’ve destroyed everything!”
Taro chuckled. “I think this one likes you.”
The soldier jabbed the back of Violet’s head with his rifle, nudging her and Daniel to the side of the house.
More prisoners were marched out the front door, six men in shirts and ties—Mr. Wee’s cabal, meeting in the afternoon for a change. These “conspirators” were brought out under the bright sun and displayed, I realized, for Taro’s benefit. Without their scarves, dark glasses, and the cover of night, they looked utterly ordinary and vulnerable, squinting in the light, white singlets showing through their thin cotton shirts. They were all on the short side, balding and paunchy, each the very picture of the typical Chinese towkay. There were no Resistance heroes here, only small, nervous men wearing bright rings and expensive watches.
Taro nodded quietly, registering each of their scared faces. Finally, the pièce de résistance was brought out in handcuffs: Ignatius Wee. He was followed by a soldier holding up a stack of papers and an intricate map, evidence of subterfuge, perhaps. Taro nodded again. Mr. Wee’s face was red with frustration. He couldn’t resist glancing at the confiscated map, like an inventor forcibly removed from his life’s work before he’d made his breakthrough. His eyes filled with shocked dismay when he spotted me in the car; this turned into a kind of dark puzzlement when he recognized Taro.
“Officer,” he said, clearly trying to keep his calm. “Lieutenant Colonel Rukumoto, I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I’ve been working with Colonel Nagata. Please call him. My friends and I were just discussing your plans for the factory. We were hoping to—”
“There’s no misunderstanding, Ignatius-san,” Taro replied coolly. “I’m sorry to break up your little tea party, but you know very well you were not to share these plans with anyone, not even your wife—were she still alive. ‘Not even the Pope’ I believe were Nagata-san’s exact words. Well, Colonel Nagata always said he trusted you because you’re such a quiet little man; I didn’t because you seemed too quiet, too obedient. I like to think I have a good nose for treason, and I’m always delighted when my suspicions are proven correct. So, arigato—thank you.”
Leaning his head out the car window, he gave orders to his men in gruff, guttural Japanese. The soldier watching over Daniel and Violet instantly began pushing them, using the blunt force of his rifle butt, toward the jeep. Another soldier leapt into the driver’s seat and waited for the two captives. As brother and sister passed in front of Taro’s car, Daniel cast his eyes away from me, whereas Violet shot me a glare boiling with the promise of vengeance.
“Daniel!” I couldn’t bear him thinking me treacherous. “I love you!”
At this, Taro turned again to me, diabolically tickled. “Tell him you’ll send him chocolates.”
Mr. Wee ran to Taro’s window, his face melting with panic. “Please, Lieutenant, I beg you. Don’t take my childr
en. They have absolutely nothing to do with this. Nothing! Please, Rukumoto-san, have mercy. I’ll give you anything. You can have the house! Take my beach house as well. Just, please, leave my children. They’re completely innocent. They know nothing! I beg you!”
Taro waved, and instantly a soldier struck the back of Mr. Wee’s head with his rifle, knocking him to the ground. The poor man crawled on all fours as blood trickled darkly down his collar. The soldier yanked him up with one hand, slapped his face, and then, as Mr. Wee was still stumbling to find his feet, kicked him toward the back of the house.
Daniel and Violet were loaded onto the jeep, sobbing violently at the sight of their father in pain. I felt equally sick. This had all happened because I had placed my trust in a handsome stranger. Not true, of course, but it was how I felt at the time.
Violet shrieked her battle cry: “Cassandra, I’ll hunt you down!”
Taro raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Where are they taking them?” I asked him. I was startled by how small my voice sounded.
“Where the children of traitors belong.”
“But they had nothing to do with their father’s dealings. I swear to you. Please!”
My words meant nothing. The jeep’s engine started with a jolt that nearly threw the driver off balance. Then it took off with Daniel, Violet, and their armed guard in the back.
As they disappeared, I realized all this business had been conducted by the lieutenant colonel without any show of force, without him even raising his voice or emerging from the car. It was his calm, not his men’s violence, that was most chilling.
Finally, he decided to step out of the Ford. I climbed out through the driver’s side after him, as we were literally chained, and followed him inside the house. Stepping into the foyer, he looked around with an exaggerated air of wonder, like a homebuyer come to claim his new manse. He closed the front door behind us.
“What a pleasant house,” he said. “Good bones.”