by Janie Chang
“Go back?” She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you again, Mother. Shao, this is wonderful news. This is such a relief. Thank you. You must be so very busy right now, but you came to show me this.”
But he still looked morose. “Read the other side,” he said. “There’s more news.”
Perhaps you’ve heard already. Wei Daming was killed only a few days after he returned to the front.
Lian closed her eyes for a moment, then read Shorty’s words again. Daming was dead. She offered up a silent prayer to the gods. Before remembering it was no use anymore.
“Poor, dear Daming.” Lian sighed, sinking back on the settee. “We would never have made it back without his help.”
“Was he the young army doctor?” her mother said. “The one who was your classmate?”
“He never claimed to be a doctor,” Shao said, “but he did the job as best he could. Before he was expelled and joined the army, he was even more useless than Shorty. The war changed him completely.”
“I liked him,” Lian said sadly. “He had a good heart.”
“I should get back home, but I wanted you to know the news,” Shao said, lighting a cigarette. “The good and the bad. By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve seen Sparrow? She hasn’t been around all day.”
Lian had to resist putting her hand in her pocket to touch the note from Sparrow. Slipped under the door the day before. A note Shao couldn’t know she had.
LIAN HAD NO luck finding work in Shanghai. She had walked up and down the streets for the past few weeks, scanning signs for the names of businesses, climbing staircases to knock on door after door. If she saw a typewriter, she mentioned her mother’s qualifications. Any secretarial work was bound to pay better than the Mission.
Some factories had relocated inside the Settlement. Others in bombed-out districts were rebuilding, getting back into production. Even war could only put a temporary damper on Shanghai’s enterprising spirit. If she had to, Lian would do factory work. Hopefully somewhere inside the Settlement so she wouldn’t have to cross the gauntlet of Japanese soldiers and barbed wire each day. But the situation had become truly pressing. Right now, she’d be willing to take any job, inside or out.
She gave up for the day, walking home on a route that would take her past some stores. She had to get a block of tofu. Her string bag was rolled up in one pocket. Her hand reached inside the other pocket and touched the edges of Sparrow’s note. She had memorized the words, could see them in her mind’s eye, Sparrow’s neat, exquisite handwriting.
Lian, I will be leaving soon. Don’t tell Shao. I can wait for him. I have the advantage of eternity. You only have this life. You will know when I am gone.
Sparrow had decided to leave. Leave the Liu household? Leave Shanghai? Or was she going to the Kunlun Mountains? Lian couldn’t help but worry. Although Sparrow was immortal, she had no powers. She was as vulnerable as Lian to hunger and cold. To injuries and violence. The only part of the note she understood was that she shouldn’t tell Shao. And by inference, no one else either.
When Lian opened the door to the elevator lobby, her mother called down the staircase. “Don’t come up yet! Go around the corner and buy a yellow croaker fish. I’m making fish soup with noodles. Dr. Mao is coming for dinner.”
Lian sighed and went down to the street again.
Much as she liked Dr. Mao, Lian didn’t like opening up the small, safe circle that was her two-person family. Her happiness was still too precarious, her mother still too fragile to trust an outsider. But whenever Dr. Mao’s cheerful voice filled the flat, she saw her mother brighten, then blush with pleasure at the small gifts he always brought. A bunch of irises, a small basket of oranges.
In his traditional long gown and with his plain, honest face, Dr. Mao looked exactly like what he was, a country doctor. Lian couldn’t deny his gentle manner had a calming effect on her mother. Or that his stories made her mother laugh, loud whooping hoots Lian hadn’t heard in years. Since Harbin.
THE DOCTOR SIGHED contentedly upon finishing the last of the noodles in fish broth.
“Eating fish always reminds me of the tale of Old Quan the Miser,” he said. “A classic. Old Quan was too stingy to buy a real fish for the family New Year’s dinner. So he hung a painting of a fish on the dining room wall and told them to look at the picture instead. There it was, a plump, whole fish laid out on a bed of watercress, slivers of ginger arranged just so over its body, the eyeballs glistening and lifelike.
“So lifelike that Quan’s youngest grandson couldn’t stop staring up at the fish. Whereupon Old Quan landed a sharp slap on the side of the boy’s head, shouting, ‘You greedy brat! Do you think we’re so rich that you can look twice?’”
Lian’s mother laughed until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes. Lian brought out the pastries, egg tarts the doctor had brought. Her mother hobbled to the kitchen to boil water for tea. Dr. Mao cleared his throat.
“My practice has grown very quickly, Lian,” he said. “The Liu family has referred so many people my way I hardly have time to see patients and also keep my appointment diary and patient files organized. I can’t pay very much yet, but would you be willing to work for me?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Lian said. “More than willing.” Then bit her lip at those last words. Had she sounded too eager? Did she really want their lives more closely entangled with his?
When the doctor left, her mother lingered at the door and didn’t shut it until he had descended the staircase.
“He’s here for dinner so often, Mother,” Lian said.
“We need to build our connections,” her mother said, looking flustered. “It’s how the world works.”
A loud pounding interrupted what Lian was going to say. Shao’s voice called her name and when she opened the door he almost fell inside. He looked disheveled and frantic, as though he hadn’t slept all night.
“Is she here? Have you seen Sparrow?” he asked. His eyes darted in all directions about the room as though Sparrow might be hiding from him.
“Not recently,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s been days and she’s still missing,” Shao said, collapsing into a chair. “She’s been very quiet, maybe even troubled. I hoped she had come to see you. That she might be here.”
Sparrow’s room in the servants’ quarters was tidy, the bed neatly made. He’d searched the drawers, the trunk at the foot of her bed, but not knowing what she owned, he couldn’t tell what was missing. Neither could anyone else.
“But I found this.” He pulled a letter from his jacket, gave it to Lian. “It’s to Sparrow from Professor Kang, of all people. I think it must’ve arrived the same time as the letter from Shorty, both mailed from Chengtu.”
I agree with your assessment. Each advancement brings us closer to enlightenment and with enlightenment comes the possibility of immortality. A man who lives a passive existence without purpose cannot advance to a better state in the next life. Perhaps the best choice is to let go and wait. Trust in the Wheel of Rebirth, whose purpose is to bring worthy souls closer to enlightenment with each reincarnation. The advantage of immortality is that one can wait.
“It sounds as though they were carrying on a discussion about spiritual beliefs,” he said. “It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with her disappearance.”
The advantage of immortality is that one can wait. Lian handed back the letter. “What will you do next?”
“My father has called the police.” He put his head in his hands. “Tomorrow there’ll be a missing persons notice in the newspaper. I knew she wasn’t happy about an arranged marriage, but she should’ve said something. No one was going to force her.”
“Will you stay for something to eat?” Lian’s mother asked.
“No. I’ve a car outside. I’m going to drive up and down some of the streets, ask if anyone’s seen her.” He paused at the door. “Shanghai has always been dangerous, the way any big city is dangerous. But now with the war, differ
ent factions, gangs fighting each other—innocent people can get hurt. That’s what really worries me.”
You will know when I am gone.
Trust in the Wheel of Rebirth.
THAT NIGHT LIAN dreamed there was a procession on the street below. She stood on the balcony watching it go by. The Shanghai City God was leaving and the entire city had turned out to mourn his departure. Dressed in the court robes of a high-ranking Ming Dynasty official, his long black beard hung down to his belt and beaded strings of jade and coral hung from his hat. He sat in a magnificent sedan chair carried by giants. There was music, flutes and drums, cymbals and horns.
And in the entourage walking behind the City God, she recognized Sparrow. She gleamed more brightly than Lian had ever seen her shine. When the procession passed under the balcony, Sparrow didn’t look up. Lian kept watching the procession move along the street, to the next block and beyond, until she could no longer see Sparrow’s light.
Chapter 39
The Shanghai Municipal Police were too stretched to search for a servant, even one valued by the Liu family. The private detective firm Shao’s father hired to search for Sparrow hadn’t found a single clue. The missing persons notice in Xinwen Bao attracted only fraudsters and cases of mistaken identity, and finally ceased appearing.
Shao came to the flat nearly every evening. Morose and restless, he seemed to take comfort in the company of Lian and her mother.
“I should’ve spent more time with my mother before she died,” he said. “Even just to hold her hand a little longer. But I couldn’t face it, Lian. So I went out all the time.”
“No one blames you,” she said. And then, because she knew he needed to hear it, “Sparrow understood.”
“She was a good friend,” he said. “She was like a sister and knew me better than I knew myself. And I never appreciated her as much as I should’ve. My father says we’ll have to give up the search soon, tell the private detectives to quit. Either she’s run away or it’s too late to do anything.”
You will know when I am gone.
What did Sparrow mean by that? There had been a dream, Sparrow leaving for the Kunlun Mountains in the company of the Shanghai City God and his assistants. It had been so vivid and intense, but was it only a dream or had it been Sparrow’s way of saying farewell? How long would it take for the City God and his entourage to reach the Kunlun Mountains?
“I feel so . . . like a boat that’s drifted off its moorings.” He paced up and down the room. “Do you need a car to help you move? Is there anything you want to take from this flat? No one will miss it. If they do, I’ll say I gave it to you.”
When Dr. Mao learned about Lian and her mother’s predicament, he made a suggestion. His practice had grown to the point where he could afford larger quarters.
“Beihua, let’s just hurry up and get married,” he said. “Life is precarious, happiness fleeting. Come live with me. Let’s be a family.”
Family. The word made Lian catch her breath, chopsticks halfway to her mouth.
“Lian and I will talk it over,” her mother said, fixing Lian with a look that made her close her mouth.
“Of course,” Dr. Mao said. He looked very humble and hopeful. “It should be a family decision.”
When Dr. Mao left, Lian turned to her mother. “Why doesn’t a man like Dr. Mao already have a family?”
“But he did, didn’t I tell you?” Her mother looked perplexed. “He had a wife and two sons. They were staying with his parents in Tongxiang when a cholera epidemic swept through. He lost his whole family.”
“But he seems so cheerful,” Lian said. “Not at all like someone who has suffered so much tragedy.”
“He’s so willing, no, determined to be happy again,” her mother said. “It’s one of the reasons I admire him. He still manages to be kind and generous despite such tragedy. He doesn’t drag around the sorrows of his past.”
THEY MOVED INTO a flat, two small rooms, but it had its own kitchen and bathroom. They were lucky to have a space that could accommodate both clinic and home in a single apartment. A folding screen partitioned the larger front room to create a cramped consulting area where Dr. Mao examined patients. Lian worked at a desk facing the door. After hours, the desk doubled as their dining table and at night Lian slept in the outer room, on the examining table.
Her mother no longer worked at the Mission, laughed more often, and the few times when she was overcome with fear, it was Dr. Mao who soothed her. Not Lian. Not anymore. The tightness in Lian’s shoulders eased and, in less time than she thought it would take, she began thinking of him as her stepfather. Her two-person family circle widened.
And there was Shao. Her mother invited him to supper often. Lian sometimes glanced over and caught him watching the three of them rather wistfully.
“You need friends your own age,” her mother said to Lian. “You’re not at school anymore and he’s a former classmate. And you’re fond of each other, so you should keep up the friendship.”
By now she had confessed to her mother her feelings for Shao. “It’s hopeless and it will pass,” she said. “He belongs to the wealthiest, most influential family in Shanghai.”
“Your stepfather is a well-respected physician,” her mother retorted. “Don’t think so little of yourself. And of us.”
How could she tell her mother that a thousand-year-old celestial agreement stood between her and Shao? Between Shao and anyone on this earth?
At first hesitant to intrude after the three of them moved into their new home, Shao became a regular visitor, bringing books for the doctor, poetry and literary journals. Some of their debates lasted long into the night, loud and enthusiastic. But those were the pleasant visits.
There were times when he dropped by, unshaven and reeking of cigarette smoke, his handsome features haggard from lack of sleep. So restive he stayed only a few minutes. He complained of boredom.
Finally, Lian could take no more. “You’re attending university, Shao. How dare you grumble while our Minghua classmates are living in shacks and eating millet porridge?”
“I didn’t mean bored of university,” he muttered, looking embarrassed.
“Of course not,” she said. “You can’t be bored with classes you never attend.”
“If you’re bored, come with us tomorrow night to the Lutheran Mission,” Dr. Mao said. “They’re holding a charity auction for the orphanage. If nothing else, the missionaries serve excellent coffee.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Shao agreed. Then after some more cajoling from the doctor, he even promised to round up some family and friends.
Dr. Mao beamed. “You’ll have a good time. All sorts of interesting people attend this annual auction. It’s quite the thing, I’ve been told.”
LIAN AND HER mother had promised to arrive early and help with refreshments, so Dr. Mao said he would go early as well and look in on some of the children he’d been treating. The skies had clouded over, and on the Lutheran Mission’s lawn, workers were putting up a large marquee where the auction would take place. As soon as the three of them entered the wrought-iron gates a woman hurried over to greet them. She looked haggard, as though she hadn’t slept in days.
“Dr. Mao, you couldn’t be more welcome,” she said. “Missionaries from Henan arrived an hour ago with a truckload of orphans. The poor children need to be examined for infections, lice, malnutrition, the usual.”
The Lutheran missionaries had stayed in Henan as long as they could to help the city’s victims, but in the end, they’d had to leave. The front lines were getting too close. Henan was a name to make them all wince. In the long list of battles since the war began, Henan was proving one of the bloodiest.
“The poor little creatures,” Lian’s mother said. “May we help? Perhaps with their bathing and feeding.”
Wearing a borrowed pinafore, Lian carried buckets of hot water from the kitchen to the hut where the orphans were being washed. Her mother sat on a low stool beside a woo
den tub, briskly scrubbing a small girl’s feet. All around them, the hum of conversation in several Chinese dialects, German, and occasionally, English.
Lian counted two dozen children, all girls. Some had been at the Henan orphanage for years and looked healthy, reasonably clean, and calm after their harrowing journey through a war zone. Most, however, were recent casualties of war, orphaned or abandoned, seized from harm. These children were silent and thin, confused and timid. She caught snatches of conversation as she walked back and forth between kitchen and hut.
“The difficult part was how to bring the children,” said one of the women. “The army ordered us to evacuate, but the missionary ladies refused unless they provided enough transportation for all the orphans. Waah, those army officers were so eager to be rid of the foreigners, two large trucks appeared at our door the very next day!”
Lian carried a tub outside, tipped the dirty water into a flower bed. She took the wooden tub back to her mother and together they filled it with warm water. An orphanage worker brought another toddler over to the tub and began removing the little girl’s rags.
“Let go of that ribbon,” Lian’s mother coaxed. “I’ll put it down here and you can have it back later, after your nice, warm bath.”
The child gripped the dirty strip of red closer to her chest. A red crocheted ribbon. Lian’s breath caught in her throat. She looked more carefully at the girl’s face. Dirty and thin, unsmiling. The cheeks no longer plump, the eyes no longer bright.
“Duckling?” she said, kneeling beside the child.
At the sound of her name, the girl looked up and around. “Baba?” she said, in a plaintive, uncertain voice. Father. She was looking for her father. Private Fung, whose wide smile she had inherited. A father who couldn’t have been prouder of his little daughter.
“Do you know this child?” the worker asked.
“Yes, her name is Duckling,” Lian said. “Family name Fung. From Shaanxi Province. Her father . . .”
Her father. Young Private Fung was probably dead on a Henan battlefield. Or dying in an understaffed hospital. Lian didn’t want to think about the horrors Duckling must’ve survived if her father had actually taken her to the front. Surely by then he would’ve understood the danger. Surely he had changed his mind, left his daughter behind in a safe place. A place where the missionaries had found her. She prayed this was what he’d done.