by Janie Chang
SPARROW HAD ARRIVED at the flat on her own, bringing vegetables from Old Zhao’s kitchen garden to add to the dumpling feast. Dr. Mao was also there. The older man’s cheerful greeting immediately lifted Shao’s mood.
“I heard there were dumplings for dinner so I came,” the doctor said, shaking Shao’s hand with real warmth. “It’s been so long since I tasted homemade dumplings.”
“Dr. Mao has been very kind,” Lian said. “He’s been coming here to check on my mother’s recovery, so we haven’t had to make the trip to the hospital.”
The two men chatted while dinner cooked. It was the first time Shao had spoken with the doctor about anything other than his mother’s health. Dr. Mao was a scholar of the classics and only too happy to discuss literature. He knew about the Library of Legends and shook his head in admiration at Minghua 123’s role safeguarding the books.
Lian’s mother called them to dinner. She had put on weight since coming back from the hospital. Her cheeks glowed from the warmth of the kitchen and her eyes were bright. Shao could see in her an older Lian. The conversation shifted as Lian told them about her day at the Mission with the refugees.
“A lot of them were peasant farmers hoping to return to their land,” she said, “but Miss Mason says there’s also teachers and domestic servants, merchants, handicraft workers. Useful trades, but even though some of the factories are starting up again, there are more willing workers than jobs.”
“It’s not easy to reestablish yourself when you’re a refugee,” Dr. Mao said. “I see this with some of my patients. Carpenters, bookkeepers, artists. People with skills, educated people. Now it’s as though they’ve been stripped of those qualifications. Reduced to the category of ‘refugee’ and treated as members of a needy multitude.”
“I hope your practice is growing, Dr. Mao,” Sparrow said.
“Indeed, it is,” the doctor said. “Last month I barely made the rent for my single room. But this month’s rent won’t be a problem. And soon, two rooms!”
He slapped his knee and burst into laughter so infectious they all joined in. Shao had never met anyone so willing to be happy, whose mere presence could make others so happy. He looked at Lian’s mother, giggling behind her napkin, her eyes on the doctor. And Dr. Mao gazing back.
“There’s something going on down in the street,” Shao said, getting up. “Hear that music? Let’s open the balcony door, Lian.”
On the street below, a long line of convertibles filled with musicians and revelers moved with deliberate slowness, creating a traffic jam in the westbound lane. Trombones and trumpets, saxophones and clarinets, snare drums, even a double bass. There must’ve been two dozen musicians and as many passengers riding in the cars. Women in evening gowns sparkled with jewels that reflected back the streetlights. The men riding with them were impeccably turned out in tuxedos. Shao guessed they were entertainers, promoting a new club.
The cavalcade approached slowly, ignoring irate shouts and tooting horns. The musicians played a jaunty tune. A tune Shao recognized as one Shorty Ho used to whistle all the time while walking, but he couldn’t remember its name.
“Young Mr. Liu,” the doctor called from the dining room. “Do you know how to wash dishes? I think it’s the least we can do for our hostesses.”
Shao turned to go back inside, then stopped. He reached inside his jacket and gave Lian an envelope. “Before I forget,” he said. “From my brother.”
LIAN TOOK THE note and put it in her apron pocket. Whatever was in the note, it could wait. The parade below was too interesting to miss. She leaned over the balcony to watch the procession, the cars and musicians, passengers in evening attire.
Then Sparrow came to stand beside her and it all changed.
The shiny black convertible leading the parade was no longer a convertible. A handsome bearded man led the procession, robes of heavy silk fluttering against the flanks of the tall black horse he was riding.
Sparrow waved at the bearded man, who bowed gravely in return.
Open horse-drawn litters carried his entourage, men and women dressed in ancient garb. The women’s diaphanous gowns were rich with embroidery, the men’s robes bright as jewels. They were all, every single one, male and female, scandalously, seductively beautiful. One of the women looked up at the balcony and winked at Lian. A slow, lascivious wink. Then she raised her bamboo flute and continued playing. The music hadn’t changed, a lively familiar tune from some Hollywood movie.
“Who are they?” Lian asked, fascinated.
“Ba Meishen, the guardian of prostitutes, and his assistants,” Sparrow said. “Shanghai has been a good home base for them. Leaving was a hard decision.”
The end of the procession passed below them, and gradually Lian heard only music, the lively tune above the noises of traffic, the shouts of sidewalk vendors. From inside the flat, the sound of spirited conversation, Shao and the doctor discussing literature, their voices raised, the dishes forgotten. Outside on the balcony, Lian could’ve done fine embroidery by the light of the Star.
“It’s nearly over,” Sparrow said. “Almost everyone is on their way. The Shanghai City God has promised me he’ll be the next to go.”
“How will we manage,” Lian said, “without help from the gods?”
But Sparrow wasn’t listening to her. The conversation inside now held her attention, the words drifting out clearly to the balcony as both men’s voices grew louder in their enthusiasm.
“But that one word shen carries multiple meanings,” the doctor said, “making interpretation quite a problem.”
“But the poem must offer context,” Shao said, “to indicate whether shen means the human spirit, supernatural spirits, or something spiritual and unfathomable to human minds.”
Shao loved this sort of discussion, picking apart words and debating nuances of meaning. It was the most animated he’d been all evening. When he first arrived, Lian thought he looked as though he wished he were somewhere else.
“In this case, I feel the poet offers room for all three meanings,” the doctor said. “He’s asserting that the gap between humans and gods can be bridged through enlightenment. That mortals hold within us the capacity to advance, and as we advance with each reincarnation, we have the potential to achieve spiritual enlightenment, which in turn achieves immortality. Thus, a mortal can become an immortal, even a deity.”
Lian heard Sparrow’s small gasp. The Star’s eyes were fixed on the doctor as the two men finally began taking dishes to the kitchen. And from far away, up the street, the faintest echoes of a tune came to Lian’s ears. A tune she could finally name, “Pennies from Heaven.”
LIAN’S MOTHER EXCUSED herself from the party. She had to lie down.
“Your body is hard at work repairing damage,” Dr. Mao had said. “You need lots of sleep, lots of food. Go, go. No apologies necessary.”
Lian had noticed all evening how often Dr. Mao’s gaze rested on her mother’s face, how he leaned closer when speaking to her. And all evening, soft color had bloomed in her mother’s cheeks whenever he addressed her. She’d laughed at his jokes, her eyes bright and alert. But he was at least fifty, more than ten years older than her mother. With a plain, square face, he was not at all like her father, who had been as handsome as a film star. Her parents had been the most beautiful couple at any gathering.
Their guests left shortly after her mother went to bed, first Shao then Dr. Mao. Shao, to meet some friends at the Majestic Hotel. The doctor, because he had patients in the morning. They’d left half the dishes unwashed, a chore neglected when they’d become absorbed again in conversation. Lian shook her head and shrugged. She finished the washing up then sat at the dining table for a final cup of tea with Sparrow, who seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.
“Shao seemed unhappy when he first arrived,” Lian said, clearing her throat. “But I suppose it’s because of his mother.”
“He’s hardly ever home now,” Sparrow said. She shook her head, a sign o
f disapproval. “He’s out all day to avoid spending time with her.”
“I don’t understand,” Lian said. “All those hardships, all that risk. He wanted to be at his mother’s side.”
“It’s hard for him to watch her fade away,” Sparrow said, “especially now that she’s unconscious most of the time. But Shao isn’t avoiding his mother. He’s avoiding the person he turns into when he’s with her. Helpless, impatient, angry.”
Sparrow knew Shao so well, understood his moods and what he needed. No one else could love him as she did. As she had for centuries. All of Lian’s lovelorn yearnings, all her heartache, they were minor inconveniences compared to what Sparrow had endured.
“He cares about you, Lian,” Sparrow said, pouring herself more tea. “More than any other mortal he’s encountered in all his lives. You should know this. If not for my presence here on Earth, he would’ve recognized his feelings long ago.”
Lian didn’t know what to say or what Sparrow meant by telling her all this.
“It’s a game to the gods, a cruel and not very good one,” Sparrow said. She looked sad. Resigned. But she managed a wry smile. “All will be revealed, as they say in those foreign films.”
She finished her tea, then looked at Lian. “Minghua University is in Chengtu by now. The Library of Legends should be safely stored away. I have no more obligations.”
“What does that mean?” Lian said. “You don’t need to stay in our world anymore?”
“Strangely enough,” Sparrow said, “I’ve never had to stay at all until this life. I could’ve given up the Prince at any time. This life has been different. I was given responsibilities. Seeing to the safety of the Library of Legends. Rousing the guardians and spirits to leave.”
“And now, what will you do?” Lian said.
“My sister says being mortal through so many lifetimes has finally affected me,” Sparrow said, “and she must be right because I look at things differently now.” She blew on her tea and sipped it. “I think I should write to Professor Kang.”
FOR THE SECOND time that night Lian stood at the balcony. She watched Sparrow’s glowing form cross the street, followed her light as it moved farther away into the darkness until it vanished around the corner. Then she sat in an armchair and took out the envelope that had been in her apron pocket for the past hour. A letter from Liu Tienming. Who she supposed was their landlord.
Miss Hu, our property manager has decided all our vacant properties should be rented. I’ve told him that you are occupying the flat until the end of July, after which he will offer it to you at a discount. It’s the best I can do.
Even at half the price, they could never afford this beautiful, luxurious flat. They had another two months. Two months to find an affordable place to live, in a city where a single room might house a family of nine. Two months for her to find work, in a city where businesses had their pick of desperate workers. She would have to tell her mother about this in the morning. And also the news that they had lost the cot at the Southern Baptist Mission office.
Chapter 38
Shao’s mother died at the end of June. The family had been planning her funeral for months.
Shao didn’t feel like talking to anyone but Sparrow, but she was not her usual self. She’d never been talkative, but she was even quieter than usual lately, more withdrawn. Distracted. She lingered about doing pointless housework, wiping dust off an already spotless side table, sweeping floors that had just been cleaned. Most incomprehensibly, she had taken to chatting with the gatekeeper, then bringing in the mail. This had been going on for days. Weeks.
“What’s the matter, Sparrow? Are you worried about Second Aunt?” he asked, picking up the gold and onyx cuff links he would wear that evening. “You know she takes her matchmaking very seriously. She’s always made good choices.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she said, giving his suit a final pass with the clothes brush. “It’s your choices I worry about.”
“No need,” he said, trying to quell his irritation. “When I’m back at university, I won’t have time for Sammy Chung.”
Shao and his father had discussed whether he should attend classes for the next few weeks while the family observed mourning. After his father spoke to the chancellor of Jiao Tong University, they decided he would stay home but do the assignments. Shao’s professors would send them to the house.
But Sparrow didn’t respond, just gazed out the window at the gate. He’d finally grown accustomed to seeing her in a qipao instead of a maidservant’s tunic and trousers. Today she wore a qipao of deep blue, blue as the night sky. Second Aunt had given Sparrow a new wardrobe in anticipation of meetings with prospective in-laws. To the best of Shao’s knowledge, Sparrow had only met one family so far.
“What’s wrong, Sparrow?” he said. “You can tell me anything.”
She shook her head. “I’m just waiting for news.”
“I was right. The matchmaking,” he said. At this, she made a scoffing noise and left the room. A moment later, her slight figure appeared below his window, walking toward the front gate. She greeted the gatekeeper, who gave her a bundle of mail.
Then the old man rushed to open the gates. The relatives were arriving. Shao quickly finished dressing. His father and brothers were already downstairs, ready to greet guests.
THE LIU FAMILY burial grounds were to the west of Shanghai, outside city limits, at a location deemed to have good feng shui. A long procession, suitable to the family’s standing, wound its way through the streets of Shanghai. It was an expensive funeral, made even more expensive by bribes his family paid to ensure the funeral rites wouldn’t be interrupted by Japanese soldiers or gang-related violence.
The entire clan attended, a line of automobiles following slowly behind the hired mourners. Shao rode in the car his mother had used, chatted politely to the relatives beside him, his mother’s cousins. Every so often he caught the scent of freesia and bergamot, and it made him close his eyes with painful regret. He wished he’d been a better son. More loving. More patient.
After the funeral banquet, he moped in the back garden for a while, sitting in the pavilion built over the artificial lake. Then his cousins joined him, carrying a bottle of cognac purloined from the dining room. Shao left them still drinking, went up to his room, and stripped off his jacket. He fell asleep on top of the covers.
In the morning, he saw the letter on his bedside tray. It was too early for the morning mail to have arrived, so it had to be from yesterday’s post. The letter was from Shorty Ho. He tore it open. A page and a half of writing, a big effort coming from Shorty.
He expressed relief and astonishment that Shao was still alive. He passed on greetings from various classmates.
The military police came by the day after you went missing. They had Professor Kang call an assembly. We received a blistering lecture from a police captain on the evils of wasting their time with false accusations when they have so many real problems to deal with. Then they drove away. Tan Wendian was expelled. Apparently, she was the troublemaker behind Mr. Lee’s arrest.
So the police cars they saw had been on their way to deliver a lecture, not make an arrest. This was good news for Lian. Wendian’s accusations had gone nowhere.
Professor Kang didn’t travel with us, he went to Zunyi with the Library of Legends, to store them in some caves. You remember Old Fan and Bantien? They’re living in the caves to look after the Library of Legends. We held a small farewell ceremony as the truck drove away with crates of national treasure. I confess to being surprised at how sad I felt, as though the gods had abandoned us. Anyhow, between walking and the rides on army trucks we were able to get, Minghua University made Chengtu in only four weeks instead of five.
And your letter was waiting when we arrived. Chengtu itself is beautiful. Or maybe it’s just because of springtime. But so much for the government’s interim campus! We live in flimsy shacks with hard earthen floors. We’ve plastered over cracks in the walls wi
th mud. Once your mother gets well, catch an airplane to Chengtu and join us. Our numbers are growing. Now that the universities have settled in for the duration of the war, students from all over China are making their way here to enroll. Some of our old classmates showed up the other day.
When Shao turned over the page to read the last few lines of Shorty’s letter, his heart sank. Another bit of news he’d have to tell Lian. Perhaps Sparrow could go with him to visit Lian.
Shao asked everyone, the servants, the gatekeeper, but no one had seen Sparrow since the day before. The gatekeeper thought he saw her walking out to the street, but he couldn’t be sure. He had been busy opening and closing the double gates.
Shao waited until the evening, then went to see Lian on his own. He wanted to see her very badly. And he was worried about Sparrow.
SHAO WAS THE last person Lian expected to see. It was only the day after his mother’s funeral, his family still in mourning. He hung back, his expression both stern and miserable, but then Lian’s mother limped up to the door on crutches and took Shao’s hands in both of hers.
“We are so very sorry about your mother,” she said. “Sometimes we prepare ourselves for the inevitable and when it happens, we realize we were really not prepared at all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hu.” His shoulders sagged imperceptibly. “Lian, I have a letter from Shorty that you should read.”
Lian read Shorty’s words, then looked up from the letter to her mother. “Wendian didn’t accuse me of being a Japanese spy. Or else she did and no one believed her. Mother, do you know what this means?”
That there were no more shadows in their lives. Her father was blameless and now she was too. There was nothing left to fear.
“It means you can go back to Minghua!” her mother exclaimed. “I’ve been so worried about your education. I didn’t know how we could afford it. But you have a full scholarship at Minghua. You can still go back.”
A small wave of excitement rippled through Lian. Hope. That there might be a chance to finish her studies. Perhaps after the war. Not right now.