by Janie Chang
Lian woke to the fragrance of steaming rice and the sounds of crockery being set out. She dressed and hurried out to help but breakfast was already waiting on the table. Congee the way Lian remembered it, with salted duck egg crumbled on top of the soupy mix, a small dish of sliced cucumber and radishes pickled in soy and vinegar for sharing. Her mother moved around on crutches but always made their meals. It was a pleasure to be cooking for two again, she’d insisted.
Dr. Mao had urged her to eat as much as she could. Her body and bones were mending and she needed food. In the few weeks they’d been together, her mother’s cheeks had plumped up and the shadows under her eyes were all but gone. Her face was more lined, her hair streaked with gray, but her hands moved gracefully as she poured hot tea for Lian. She listened with her head slightly tilted to one side. Lian’s father used to say she reminded him of a blossom on its stem. Lian’s mother did this because she was hard of hearing in one ear. But unless you knew this, it appeared merely a charming trait, one that suited her mother’s name. Beihua, Northern Flower.
At the hospital, Lian had spent every waking moment at her mother’s bedside, telling her everything that had happened since the bombing at the Nanking railway station. About the evacuation from Nanking, the long days of walking, the cold and hunger, always alert to the sound of airplanes. About the Library of Legends. About Mr. Shen, the first of them to fall. Mr. Lee’s threats and Wang Jenmei’s murder. About Meirong’s arrest and execution. How Wendian had gotten Mr. Lee arrested. The escape from Shangtan, and the journey east with Shao and Sparrow.
Then she had told her mother about her fright when she’d seen Mr. Lee at the hospital in Changsha. And the completely unexpected news that her father’s name had been cleared. That his file now showed he’d been an innocent victim.
“We don’t need to be afraid anymore, Mother,” Lian said, holding her mother’s hand. “We can use our real names. You can be Jin Beihua again.”
“All those years of hiding, the false identities.” Her mother began to cry. “And all that time, they knew where we were, who we were. I was so foolish. I ruined your childhood.”
“Don’t worry about that, everything’s worked out,” Lian said. “What matters is that the authorities have cleared Father’s name. Do you think his cousin knew, the one who got us the false papers? Why didn’t he tell us everything was all right?”
“He died a few years after we moved to Peking,” her mother said, wiping her eyes. “I saw the obituary.”
Her mother’s journey to Shanghai had been somewhat less eventful than Lian’s. She’d attached herself to some foreigners, missionary families glad to have help with children and the elderly, having left their own servants behind in Peking. Beihua had entered the International Settlement as part of their group, posing as a member of the household, a humble Chinese servant.
And now her mother was restless, worried again.
“Lian, we need to make some changes,” she said, looking around the beautiful room. “We can’t go on taking advantage of the Liu family’s generosity. Even though you helped bring their son home while he was so sick, it’s not a debt of gratitude that goes on forever.”
It wasn’t just the flat either. Whenever Sparrow came by, she brought food sent by Old Zhao, the Lius’ cook. When Lian’s mother had to return to the hospital for a follow-up visit, Shao sent a car and driver to take them.
When her mother had fled Peking, she had taken a large sum of money with her, almost all her savings. But the journey had depleted those funds. Transportation was expensive and so were the bribes that allowed her to get on trains and trucks as she followed the missionary families to safety. She’d added what was left to Lian’s small cache and it was clear they would soon run out of money. The pantry was emptying at an alarming speed. Rice, flour, soy sauce, even salt.
“I must get back to the Southern Baptist Mission,” her mother said, struggling onto her crutches. “It pays a pittance but it’s better than nothing. Work is nearly impossible to find in Shanghai. Even if it’s only a cot at the Mission office, we’ll need somewhere to live when we lose this flat.”
When, not if. Rents in Shanghai were increasingly exorbitant. Even the Liu family would take notice soon and want to make the most of the opportunity.
“But not yet, Mother,” she said. “You’re still on crutches. You can’t walk to the Mission every day.”
“I don’t need crutches to type,” her mother said, sitting down again. Her hands clenched tightly around a teacup. “I can take a rickshaw. It’s worth the expense just to hold my place there. You could come with me. You can bring me documents from the filing cabinets, run errands so I don’t have to get up and walk. You should meet the Mission staff. You’ll make a good impression. Who knows, they might give you a job too. I must get back, let them know I’m ready to work again.”
Lian had to calm her down. She put her hand over her mother’s. “You still need to rest. Let me go to the Mission office and tell the staff you’re coming back. I’ll ask them to hold your job for you.”
Slowly, her mother’s fingers eased their grip and let go of the cup. Lian felt her shoulders tense, recognizing that once again, she needed to look after the two of them.
“Remember, we invited Shao and Sparrow tonight for dumplings,” Lian said. “And Dr. Mao. Do you need anything from the market while I’m out?”
THE SOUTHERN BAPTIST Mission refugee camp was only a forty-minute walk from the apartment. Lian felt relief for this time on her own, to think on her own. She and her mother had been apart for only two years, yet so much had befallen them during that time. They had been living as normally as they could, creating a home in rooms that were not theirs, in a city that was trying to do the same amid misery, chaos, and political unrest. They made plans. Plans that depended on a quick end to the war, others that assumed the war would go on for years. Plans for what to do when they had to leave the luxurious flat.
Her mother still had a few gold coins hidden away, sewn into the lining of her wicker suitcase. But those were for emergencies. And even if they used the gold, it wouldn’t last long once they had to pay rent. Even a single room cost a fortune these days. They might have to share with strangers. Their best and cheapest option was to share the cot at the Mission office, if they were allowed. Lian hoped her mother’s attempted suicide hadn’t frightened off the missionaries.
It was clear to Lian that she needed to find a job, to start earning something, whether or not her mother went back to work at the Mission. But every refugee in Shanghai was hoping to find work, even those lucky enough to have family connections. The only connection she had was Shao. She didn’t want to ask him, didn’t want to owe him more. But there was also Sparrow.
She hadn’t told her mother about the Willow Star except as a legend. A topic for the term paper she still wanted to write. Nor did she mention her feelings for Shao since there was no point. Even if her mother had advice to offer, what good would it do? Lian could dream all she wanted but Shao would never love anyone but the Star.
No, he couldn’t even love the Star. The Star had forfeited that when she bargained it away, because she’d wanted her Prince to live comfortably in every one of his reincarnations.
How could she resent Sparrow, who had loved and endured without reward for centuries? It was far better to marvel at the presence of an immortal in her life. An immortal she could call friend. An immortal who seemed to be going along with the notion of a marriage arranged by Shao’s second aunt.
WHEN THE MISSIONARIES and workers learned who Lian was, they gathered around her, clucking sympathetically and asking about her mother’s recovery. They didn’t utter a word of condemnation about her mother trying to take her own life.
“This war has pushed people to the limits of physical and emotional endurance,” a woman said, shaking her head. “Your mother had suffered so much, seen so much suffering. And then she thought she’d lost the one person she loved. If only she had trusted in the
Lord.”
“Miss Mason is the one who hired your mother,” another said. “You need to speak with her. She’s busy doing her rounds. Can you wait for about an hour?”
“Of course,” Lian said. “But please, let me do something in the meantime to help.”
They put her to work cleaning the office and small porch outside. A trio of girls who sat huddled on the porch steps edged away as she swept, then drifted back once she’d finished sweeping the steps, moving like flotsam carried by the tide’s ebb and swell. Lian recognized their furtive determination. They were staking out their place.
A plump foreign woman entered as Lian finished wiping down the furniture. She had wisps of gray-blond hair falling out from the roll pinned to the top of her head, a style outmoded for at least twenty years. Her blue eyes crinkled in a smile upon seeing Lian.
“I heard the news,” she said, opening her arms to pull Lian into a talcum-powder-scented embrace. Her Chinese was excellent. “You’re Lian. And your mother is on the mend. We’ve been so worried.”
Lian tried not to look startled. Were all foreigners this effusive?
“Thank you for your concern, Miss Mason,” Lian said. “My mother is hoping to come back to her typing job soon. And I’d like to do something to help also. As a volunteer, of course. I did learn some first aid, simple wound care, bathing invalids.”
“How I’ve missed your mother,” Miss Mason said. “She’s fast and accurate, and she could decipher the worst handwriting. I’d be happy for her to come back anytime, but only if she feels strong enough.”
“She’ll be on crutches for a long while yet,” Lian said, “but she doesn’t need crutches to type. And I can run her errands around the camp if need be.”
“Perfect, perfect,” the foreign woman said, clasping her hands to her heart. “I can’t ask for more. I think we could use you, Lian. As a letter writer. Many of the refugees are illiterate. They need to get in touch with their families.”
“I can start right now, if you like,” Lian said. “Perhaps just for a few hours?” She wanted to make a good impression on this woman.
At the end of a few hours, Lian returned to the office with a shoebox full of letters she had written. Miss Mason was typing, her fingers pecking determinedly on the keys. She paused to hand Lian a small box of stamps and a tin can for coins. Lian dropped in the coins she had collected. She had written letters only for those who had money for postage. The Mission simply couldn’t afford to give them stamps as well as stationery.
“Although there are emergency situations where we do,” Miss Mason quickly added when explaining.
Lian began pasting stamps on envelopes, conversations with the people who had dictated their letters coming back to her as she handled each one. The young man now responsible for his sister’s children as well as his own. A haggard face, haunted eyes. A baby under one arm, hungry toddlers beating on his back. We are in Shanghai. Tell our parents Second Sister died. The middle-aged woman, her elderly in-laws seated listlessly on the ground behind her. Her husband too injured to move. A pleading letter to siblings. We are in Shanghai. Send money. The young mother with two children, her face impassive, impossible to read. Forbidding Lian to ask. We are in Shanghai. Is it safe to come home?
“Sometimes I feel as though the world is ending,” Lian said. “How much more tragedy can these people survive?”
“It can be overwhelming.” Miss Mason looked up. “No, it is overwhelming, no denying that. Thank goodness we got through the cholera epidemic.”
“Miss Mason,” Lian said, “does anyone outside China know how bad conditions are?”
“Oh yes, yes,” she replied. “All our churches get regular bulletins. Your mother types up those reports.” She studied Lian for a moment. “But what you want to know is whether other nations will help.”
Lian nodded. “Yes. Or are we on our own?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” Miss Mason said. “I don’t know enough about politics. I can’t even say how much my own church is able to help. I only know that with something as big as this war, the best I can do is make a difference for a few people. Or even just one person, Lian. If each of us could make a difference to just one person.”
“You’ve made a difference to my mother,” she said. “Thank you for taking her in. Giving her work.”
Miss Mason made a dismissive noise, inserted another sheet of paper into the typewriter.
“Miss Mason, there’s something I need to tell you,” Lian said. “My mother and I may need to live here soon. We can both sleep in this office as she used to. If it’s all right with you.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Miss Mason blinked. “I’m so sorry, but those girls on the front porch sleep here now at night. When we heard your mother was living with you, we thought she didn’t need a bed anymore. And there are so many others in need.”
Chapter 37
The evening was pleasant, cool but not windy. Rather than hail a rickshaw, Shao walked. Sparrow had gone to the flat ahead of him, to help Lian and her mother with the cooking. He strolled up Rue Joffre, not minding its congested sidewalks. Restaurants were lively with diners and music, touts beside nightclub entrances called out to Shao. In his neatly pressed wool slacks and silk tie, a new cashmere coat, he looked exactly like what he was, a princeling, one of Shanghai society’s elite.
He’d meant to see Lian more often but he didn’t know what to make of her anymore. It was as though she didn’t want him around. Perhaps he just needed to wait until she and her mother had spent more time together. And then . . . and then what?
Anyway, his social life wasn’t suffering. When word got around that Shao was back in Shanghai, he’d been invited to round after round of parties. Sammy Chung, never seen without a bowler on his head, was especially insistent. Resplendent in flannel suit and loud paisley tie, Sammy had pulled a card out of his wallet and jotted down the date and time of a party at the Majestic Hotel.
“This weekend, the biggest party of the season,” Sammy said, pressing the card into Shao’s hands. “For men only, if you catch my meaning. A little gambling, good dance music. Pretty hostesses, a few foreign ones. Russians. Promise you’ll come. We all want to hear about your adventures.”
Shao knew these weren’t his friends, not really. They had no interest in listening to his tales of life on the road, didn’t want to know what he’d seen of rural China. Before the war, Sammy and his friends had fluttered at the periphery of his and Pao’s circle. Pao had dismissed them as shallow. But Pao wasn’t in Shanghai anymore and neither was the rest of the Zhu family. The day after he arrived home, Shao had gone across the street to pay his respects. But the gatekeeper told him the Zhus had left Shanghai and moved south, to their summer home in Kunming. Pao had transferred to the University of Hong Kong and now lived there. Sammy and his friends merely filled a vacancy.
Sparrow didn’t hide her dislike of Sammy. “Mr. Chung is a waste of your time, Young Master,” she said.
“I have nothing but time these days,” he snapped, annoyed that Sparrow would judge his choice of friends.
He told Sparrow very little about what he did when he was out with Sammy. But he knew Sparrow could tell. She still looked after Shao’s wardrobe and these days the suits she hung to air out reeked of cigarettes. Sometimes, there was lipstick on a collar, wine stains on a necktie. When she found gambling chits in trouser pockets, Sparrow put them in the lacquer tray on his chest of drawers. All without saying a word.
Shao regretted losing his temper with her. He didn’t understand his restlessness, the impatience. The drifting, untethered feeling, as though waiting for something to happen. Something beyond his control. It had seemed so heroic, traveling to Shanghai in the middle of a war to see his dying mother. Offering Lian the protection of his company. He’d done the right thing, he knew that. Even though he’d ended up sick and a burden, it had been better for Lian to travel with him and Sparrow than run away on her own.
But now, he found himsel
f quelling resentment. Sitting beside his mother day after day had proved a thankless duty. The opiates from Dr. Mao clouded her mind. Her words were incoherent, ramblings that made no sense, questions he couldn’t answer. On the occasions when she was lucid, she was also in pain, suffering with every movement, even the slide of silk sheets over her skin could make her cry out.
“It’s as though I have powdered glass in my joints,” she said, closing her eyes as the nurse put the needle in her arm.
Shao felt useless. There were times he stayed out so late he slept through the morning then woke up filled with guilt for missing breakfast with his mother. But it didn’t matter. Dr. Mao was steadily increasing her dosage and she slept most of the time now. All Shao could do was hold her hand while she gazed at him, her vague smile still lovely. He couldn’t be sure she even knew him. Or his brothers or father when they came into the sickroom.
“She knows someone she loves is with her,” Dr. Mao said. “That’s what matters.”
Now Shao hardly went to her room except for short, token visits. It was too easy sliding into the life he had always known, giving in to people like Sammy Chung. He told himself he needed the distraction, deserved some fun.
He wondered if everyone at Minghua had reached Chengtu safely. He couldn’t help wishing he were still with his classmates. At least at Minghua, he’d been part of something important, something worthwhile. He wrote to Shorty Ho, addressing the letter to the Chengtu campus.
He hoped Shorty would write back, the lazy ass. He really missed Shorty.