by Janie Chang
“Drink lots of water, eat plenty of nutritious food,” the doctor said. “And you must continue to get lots of bed rest. My guess is that you’ll be in bed for another week.”
“I’ll make sure of it, Doctor,” Sparrow said.
The doctor nodded. “If you send someone to Dr. Yan’s office in the morning, I will have some antibiotics prepared for you.”
“Where is Dr. Yan, sir?” Ah Guo said.
“He’s taking a short holiday,” Dr. Mao said, “and since he’s been kind enough to let me stay with him while I’m in Wen-chou, the least I could do was act as his locum. Reminds me of my days at medical school.”
He laughed as though it was a huge joke, eyes bright in his square face. Shao felt himself chuckle in response to the infectious laugh.
When the door closed behind the doctor, Shao sat back in his chair. The exhilaration of having reached safety drained away and suddenly he felt deeply exhausted again. Sparrow looked at him as if she could sense it too.
“Get back into bed, Young Master,” she said.
Shao sighed and climbed under the blanket. “Where is Lian?”
“Still sleeping. And you should be too.”
“That housekeeper, Sparrow. I think she’s my brother’s mistress. What do you think?”
But his voice was indistinct, slurring with fatigue. He was asleep by the time the question left his lips and didn’t hear Sparrow’s soft reply.
“She may be more than that, Young Master.”
IN HIS DREAM, life had been a misery since the day of the wedding. No matter how hard Shao tried to please them, to carry out their every wish, they could not be won over, any of them. They were kinder to their own servants. Surely, not all in-laws were like this. Life had become unbearable. Now it was time to escape. Outside, rain streamed down from the roofs of the houses around the courtyard. Shao hurried to the far end of the kitchen garden and opened the back door, stepped out into the lane. In the dark, a waiting figure stood, a wide and loving smile on her face. She held out a cloak to fend off the rain. Together they made their escape, running through the water-slick streets of the town, arm in arm, until a familiar red lantern hanging above familiar double doors told them they were home. Really home.
When Shao woke up, it was morning. He was shivering but it was from a memory of the dream, of making his way through cold, windy streets in rain-soaked garments. The room was warm and there were clean clothes folded on the table beside him. His brother’s clothes.
Shao crossed the courtyard to the central hall where the sound of voices led him to the dining room. He greeted Lian, who was nearly finished with her breakfast and chatting with Mrs. Deng. As soon as he entered, Mrs. Deng stood up and bowed, indicating the chair beside Lian.
“Please, sir,” she murmured, then vanished through the door. She returned with a tray and set down a large bowl of congee and a smaller bowl of hot soy milk. The condiments were already on the table, pickled vegetables, shredded pork, and salted duck egg.
He waved her to sit down. “Don’t interrupt your breakfast.” He tried hard not to stare at her, at the fine silky hair that hung over her shoulder in a single loose braid, her complexion as smooth and glowing as a child’s. Her every small movement as graceful as the flight of swallows in the evening sky.
He turned instead to Lian, who met his gaze briefly then looked down at her food. The hollows under her eyes were gone. Her face was scrubbed, her cheeks pink. The high-collared vest she wore over a long-sleeved dress gave her an old-fashioned look at odds with her short hair.
“Mrs. Deng lent me some of her clothes,” Lian said, “while mine are being laundered.”
“Please keep them,” the other woman said. “They have never fit me very well.”
Mrs. Deng’s clothing, while obviously of good quality, was what a woman his grandmother’s age might wear.
“I’ve been telling Mrs. Deng about the Library of Legends,” Lian said. “She’s very knowledgeable about folktales.”
Her voice was overly animated, her smile too bright. As though she were a different person now, someone who didn’t want to be in his company. How could he blame her? She had seen him at his lowest, covered in filth, babbling out his delusions. A liability for most of their journey.
“Mrs. Deng,” he said, “is your husband also an employee of our company?”
“I am widowed,” she replied. “Your brother Tienming was kind enough to make me his housekeeper.” She shrugged. “I’m also his mistress.”
The news didn’t surprise him at all. The new Republic of China frowned upon concubinage, but in many cases, the practice of multiple wives and concubines had simply adapted to keeping women as mistresses. Many of his father’s friends kept separate households, lavishing as much money and affection on their illegitimate children as those by their wives. He was a little surprised at his brother, though. Tienming was absorbed in running the family businesses under his care. He’d never shown any interest in taking a mistress. Tienming’s children seemed to give him and his wife enough common ground to maintain a cordial, if somewhat distant, marriage.
“May I ask how long you’ve known each other?” he said.
“We met just a few weeks ago in Shanghai,” Mrs. Deng replied. “But he was very persuasive. And I liked the idea of living in Wen-chou.”
A few weeks. His brother must be thoroughly infatuated to have made her his mistress so quickly. Yet here she was in Wen-chou instead of with him in Shanghai.
“Why didn’t you go to Shanghai with Tienming?” he asked.
“I don’t like Shanghai.” Another nonchalant shrug. Then she looked at Sparrow, who had just entered the room. “And who would’ve been here to welcome you?”
Sparrow held up a brown paper package, firmly bound with string.
“Good, you’ve got the drugs,” Shao said, reaching for the package. “I’ll take some and we can get on that ship tomorrow.”
BUT MERE HOURS after taking the drugs, it was clear that Shao couldn’t leave his bed, let alone leave the house to get on the next sailing. He lay tangled in damp sheets, unconscious and tossing, drenched in cold sweat. Shao felt a large hand on his forehead, fingers on his wrist. Dr. Mao. A hearty male voice assuring him that all would be well. It would soon be over.
The room, when he opened his eyes, was dim, the shutters closed. He turned his head and saw Sparrow and Mrs. Deng sitting at the small round table in the corner, heads close together. Sparrow was writing something. Lian stood behind, looking over her shoulder. Sparrow brought a piece of paper to his bedside. She spoke, words his muddled senses couldn’t understand. Sparrow had his jade chop in her hand and pointed at the paper. A letter. He nodded, not sure what she wanted, but it was Sparrow, so he agreed and fell back into sleep.
Shao woke for brief spells, aware that Sparrow stood over him. Sometimes it was Sparrow and once, through half-closed eyelids, he saw Mrs. Deng holding a basin beside him as he vomited. But Sparrow was always there, changing his clothing, mopping his limbs with a warm, damp towel. Sparrow holding the spout of a teapot to his lips so that he could swallow some water. The room seemed brighter whenever Sparrow was there.
Light made him force open his eyes. Lian was not in the room, but Sparrow sat at the corner table with Mrs. Deng. They were the source of the light. And yet the young woman he knew as Sparrow didn’t look waifish or plain at all. Her lovely features caught at his heart, a face so strangely familiar, so beloved. Was it really Sparrow?
“I came down to reason with you,” he heard Mrs. Deng say. “Circumstances have changed. All creatures of legend are going home. The Queen Mother wants you home. Come back, dearest Sister. Give up on the Prince. He’s had dozens of chances, hundreds of years.”
Her voice was unlike anything he’d ever heard, sweet as the tinkle of jade bangles on his mother’s arm.
“Hundreds of years is but a blink of the eye to us,” Sparrow said. “I hardly feel as though it’s been that long.” This Sparrow w
as as exquisitely, delicately beautiful as Mrs. Deng but there was something about her, something more than beauty that moved him. He knew her from some other place. But where had it been?
“But when the Palace gates close this time, it will be for all eternity,” Mrs. Deng said.
“I just need a little more time,” Sparrow said.
“You’ve already spent too much time down here,” Mrs. Deng said. “You’ve become tainted by abhorrent human traits. Jealousy. Rage. What you did to that young woman, even though you know he could never love her.”
“She was out to seduce him. I couldn’t have that.” Sparrow’s voice was cold.
“His entanglements have never bothered you before,” Mrs. Deng said. “You know he can never truly love anyone while you’re on this earth. You’ve changed, Sister. But it’s not too late, if you come home.”
There was a long silence.
“You do understand,” Mrs. Deng said, “that he’ll never attain enlightenment.”
“What do you mean?” Sparrow’s voice was startled.
“Mortals strive to live a good life so they can advance with each reincarnation until they reach perfect enlightenment,” she said. “But because of your agreement with the Queen Mother, the Prince never finds purpose, so he never does any good, never advances.”
Another long silence.
“This will be over soon, Sister,” Sparrow said. She reached across the table to hold the other woman’s hand. “One way or another.”
Shao didn’t understand anything of this strange conversation. But dreams seldom made sense. He couldn’t bear so much brightness, so much beauty. He closed his eyes and slept.
SHAO GOT UP feeling stronger and more optimistic than he had in weeks. He opened the shutters and cold, bright sunshine flooded the room. There was a pile of clothing neatly folded on the bedside dresser, his brother’s clothes. There was also a note from Lian on top of the pile.
Shao, I’m sorry to leave ahead of you but each day delayed is another day that Meirong suffers and another day I could be looking for my mother. The first thing I’ll do is see your father to tell him you and Sparrow are safe in Wen-chou. Without your seal as proof, your father might not agree to see me so Sparrow put your seal on a letter of introduction she wrote—you were unconscious but Sparrow said it would be all right to do this.
He dressed and stepped outside to the small courtyard. The fragrance of steamed rice told him it was lunchtime. In the dining hall, Sparrow was laying the table for three.
“I saw the note,” Shao said. “When did Lian go?”
“The ship sailed yesterday. Manager Mah made the arrangements,” Sparrow said. “Miss Hu was very insistent that she get on board.”
“How will we find her once she gets to Shanghai?” he said. “She’s going to look for her mother and who knows where that will take her.”
“She’ll be at my flat.” Mrs. Deng came into the dining room, a tray in her hands. “I’ve given her the key.” At his look of surprise, she added, “Your brother let me have it, to use whenever I’m in Shanghai.”
Chapter 31
The freighter pushed its way through the waters of the East China Sea, the waves brown with sediment from the many rivers that emptied out along the coastline. Weighted down with coal and barrels of tung oil, the Dong Feng sailed so slowly Lian feared it would take longer than two days to reach Shanghai. But apparently, they would reach the port on schedule.
Her courage wavered at the thought of finding her way through Shanghai’s streets on her own. But she hadn’t wanted to stay in Wen-chou any longer than necessary. Now that she knew, she felt like an imbecile for ever thinking that Jenmei had been her rival for Shao’s affections. It was Sparrow and Shao, it had always been the Willow Star and her Prince, for hundreds of years. She had no business getting between them. As if she even could.
“It’s cold out here,” a voice beside her remarked. “And the dining room is serving lunch now. Don’t you want to eat?”
Lian glanced at the man leaning on the rail beside her. “I dare not eat, Dr. Mao. I don’t want to get seasick again.”
She had run into the doctor the day before when she was leaning over the side of the ship in a state of misery. He had given her powdered gingerroot then stayed to chat. But whether it was the ginger or his conversation taking her mind off the nausea, she’d been grateful for the relief.
Dr. Mao had fled from a small town outside Shanghai called Pinghu, now occupied by the Japanese. Since arriving in Shanghai Dr. Mao had set up his practice again. So far, most of his patients were from his hometown, fellow refugees who couldn’t afford to pay much. He had come to Wen-chou to buy drugs. His friend, the absent Dr. Yan, had told him prices were better in Wen-chou because he could buy directly from the boats smuggling medical supplies.
“Some of the drugs are for my own practice,” Dr. Mao said, “and some I’ll take to the German Lutheran Church’s refugee camp. I volunteer there, as do many of my former professors from the Shanghai German Medical College.”
“What do you know about the camps?” she asked. “Are there many? I suppose the Red Cross would be a good starting point to find information.”
“Surely you don’t need to stay at a camp,” he said, a note of concern coming into his voice.
“Oh, I have a place to live, thanks to a friend,” she said. “But the camps, well, I’m looking for someone.”
“Shanghai, Shanghai! We’re almost there!” an excited passenger shouted out.
The ship had entered Hangchow Bay. Passengers crowded the port side railing, pointing at the shoreline as the freighter surged through the bay’s muddy waters. Lian stood at the bow, scarf wrapped around her head and chin tucked into her fur-lined collar. Soon the waters turned even muddier as the freighter swung into the mouth of the Yangtze River and steamed its way toward Shanghai. The river traffic grew heavier at the confluence of the Yangtze and Huangpu Rivers, a sign that they were just around the bend from Shanghai.
The other sign that they were closer to Shanghai was the grim debris being carried out to sea. Human corpses, some wrapped in shrouds, others just floating naked. Lian turned away with a gasp at the sight of a child’s bloated body.
“River burial is the cheapest,” Dr. Mao said. “Poor families who want to do the right thing for their loved ones say a few words, burn a stick of incense, then slide the body into the river.”
“Aren’t there any cemeteries? Crematoriums?” Lian said.
“Shanghai’s crematories burn day and night these days,” he said, “and the poor can’t afford it. Every morning, cleaning squads pick up the bodies of those who’ve died overnight on the streets and in camps. Disease runs rampant in some of those camps. Last week it was cholera.”
“Tell me more,” she said. “Tell me what to be prepared for.”
“Chinese coming in or out of the Settlement are searched by Japanese soldiers,” Dr. Mao said. “Even when cars belonging to foreigners drive through checkpoints, their Chinese drivers must get out and bow to the soldiers.”
Rents were exorbitant, with landlords renting out by the room. Families of eight or nine crowded into one small space, cooked on charcoal braziers out on the sidewalk, emptied their chamber pots in the sewer drains. The doctor was lucky to have a room to himself, a single room he used as both office and home.
Dr. Mao fumbled inside his coat and pulled out a card. “I must get my baggage now, but if you are ever ill, Miss Hu, please come see me.”
LIAN PUSHED HER way down the gangplank to the wharf, where the grand European buildings of Shanghai’s famous Bund dominated the waterfront. She ignored the shouts of vendors, touts offering cheap lodgings, promising well-paid jobs. She was no gullible country peasant, ready to be swindled. She walked away quickly from the wharf with a display of great assurance, both arms firmly wrapped around the carpetbag Mrs. Deng had given her. It was new and more than adequate to hold her few belongings, but Lian missed her rucksack.
&
nbsp; The city looked so normal. Men in business suits hurried along the sidewalks. Women in high-heeled shoes strolled together arm in arm, some wearing Western-style coats and hats, others the formfitting qipao dresses that Shanghai women wore so alluringly.
Cars and rickshaws advanced through busy streets, hampered by traffic at every intersection. Restaurants and shops welcomed expensively dressed customers both Chinese and foreign, banks carried on their business behind polished brass doors. But when Lian looked more closely, some buildings were pocked with holes from stray bullets and sandbags were still stacked beside walls.
Then there were the sights Dr. Mao had warned her about. Shacks built in alleyways using whatever materials could be found: packing crates, tar paper, bamboo taken from fences and scaffolding, even branches torn from trees in public parks. Destitute families huddled in doorways and niches. Any vacant ground, including plots of grass and flower beds, was occupied. Some of the younger refugees were still energetic and enterprising, selling and bartering what little they had. Others had subsided into resignation, waiting for heaven’s will to do its worst.
From time to time, Lian paused to consult Sparrow’s hand-drawn map. Just to be sure, she asked two young women whether she was on the right street. They were beautiful and stylish, wearing short wool coats over flowered qipao dresses, leather pumps adorned with bows.
“Yes, this is Hankow Street,” one said. “Honan Road is just another ten minutes via the Number Eleven Bus.”
“Is it really necessary to take a bus?” Lian said, dismayed. She didn’t know how to use the Shanghai bus system. It was one more obstacle to face.
The young women burst into laughter. “It’s a local expression that means to go on foot,” the other explained, not unkindly. She pointed two fingers down and wiggled them to mime a walking motion. They walked away arm in arm, still giggling. They stopped to speak with a man, their smiles flirtatious. It occurred to Lian they might’ve been prostitutes.