by Nova McBee
“A person who is full refuses honey,” he said in a low voice, moving the bowl to his lips, “but even bitter food tastes sweet to the hungry.” Then he slurped down his soupy porridge and walked away.
His analogy was clear right away, but it had the opposite effect on me. Honey came to my mind instead, then butter and warm toast. My stomach growled. I remembered how hungry I really was and cursed myself the rest of the day for refusing an opportunity to fill it with more food.
The next day he came again. I retreated to the back of the cell. He squatted, flat-footed, by the edge of my cell. “Why are you here?”
I didn’t answer. King forbade me to give any such details to anyone here for fear that Madame would learn he kept me alive. Besides, I found it strange that this old man spoke to me because no one else in this underground prison would.
When I didn’t respond, he took a piece of white chalk from his dirty pocket and scribbled a string of symbols on the floor. I supposed he was writing something, but Chinese characters all looked the same to me—that was, until I looked closer.
As his hand wrote from top to bottom, left to right, a pattern in the strokes emerged. I began to decipher different strokes on the left of each pictogram. Whether I liked it or not, my mind assigned numbers to the different parts of the characters. I leaned in closer to continue my observation. A certain pleasure surged within me. Stimulation. The language was a puzzle. I had the first variable in the unknown equation. I was learning.
The man Red noticed me watching and stopped. He stood. With those intense eyes he stared me square in the face again, reaching. “Do you read?”
I remained silent.
“Is my English coming out in German?” He feigned a test of his ears.
I shook my head.
“Ah ha, you do understand,” he said. “They have etched two 8’s onto your cell. Do you know what 88 signifies in China?”
I shook my head again.
“A sign of great prosperity. Perhaps the luckiest number in China. Is that what you are? Lucky?”
I knew it. King was mocking me with my new designation. Most likely this old man was too. Didn’t Guard San call him crazy?
“I don’t believe in luck,” I said, in a whisper.
“Interesting.”
“Why are you talking to me?” I asked, a slight crack in my voice. “No one else talks to me.”
“No one else respects you.”
“Why not?” I squeaked. I was nothing but a cornered mouse.
“First, you belong to King. Second, you are not one of us. You’re a laowai. An outsider. You know nothing about our ways, cannot speak our language. Why should we waste time with you? Especially in the Pratt. Here, you earn respect.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” he said. “What do you want from me?”
The question threw me off. I shivered with fear wondering what he could mean. Before I processed a proper response, I snapped back, “Nothing.”
After one last glance from his intense eyes, he dipped his head and left. That was twice now that I watched him go and cursed myself. Why did I shoo away the first person who talked to me, who gave me information, who asked me what I wanted? Wasn’t it obvious I wanted to go home? Of course, it was. That could not be what he was asking.
So what was he asking? A web of possibilities spun in my brain. Did I want something from him? If so, what was it?
16
Past: Double-Eight
THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA
After my blindfold was removed, I looked around. The Port Lands looked like a cemetery for derelict buildings, old rusty boats, a rundown lighthouse that King used as a watchtower. There were signs of what used to be docks but now they were a string of broken wood. The sea was close, but I couldn’t see it. A line of trees, a small tributary, and an ugly warehouse blocked the view.
I breathed deep. The air here smelled of chemicals and coal, smothering the scent of salt, but at least it was better than the air I breathed down below in the tunnels of the Pratt.
I shivered as I descended the steps of Building Seven following Guard San underground. No one could believe that under this wasteland were hidden such a complex framework of old tunnels. Judging by the decay in the walls, I’d bet if they did some optical dating down here, they’d be more than just old; they’d be ancient.
I resigned myself to the dank air and followed San after another day spent embezzling for my master. Down the aisles, we passed different crooks living in King’s odd mix of private prison and criminal safe house.
In the first group of cells, a handful of Chinese men set their cards down to look up at me. I was one of only a few females in the Pratt, so it didn’t matter that my body was still young and undeveloped. As I passed the men’s cells, their eyes followed and feasted on the few curves I had. One of the men asked the guards, “When will she grow up so she can give us a real show?” I shuddered with disgust and pulled my jacket tighter.
Red’s words echoed in my mind. No one respects you. Here you earn it. I saw now what he was talking about. In the States I was often mistaken for being much older because of the way I talked, or the things I talked about. These men saw only flesh and bone, and I remembered how young I really was.
Further down there was another area holding a few Russians and Azerbaijanis gambling over a game-fight. They set their faces against the bars to see who was coming. They were relieved it wasn’t King and resumed their match of sweat and blood.
When I arrived at the hall of my cell, the man named Red was speaking to one of the guards. It wasn’t Mandarin Chinese, or what they called common speech. It was a dialect. It was the third time I’d heard him switch in and out of a different language, not including English. How many languages did he know? Why was he here? How much did he know about this place?
Red noticed my return and said goodbye to the guard. His gaze lingered on me before he walked over. His face and ears had dark spots, most likely the result of frostbite. His teeth were stained, and his body looked like it could fall apart if exposed to daylight. He must have had a miserable existence here. Although, I had to admit his eyes were bright and untroubled.
He pulled a small box from his pocket. The box unfolded and became a small chessboard. He arranged the pieces. “Play a game?”
I glanced at the chessboard. He really was crazy. The last thing I wanted to do was get cozy and play games or gamble like everyone else did in here, even if he wasn’t creepy like the other inmates. I thought there was something different about him, but maybe he was just an old man, driven mad by being locked up in a rat hole.
“No, thanks,” I said, disappointed.
“I can teach you if you want.”
For some reason, that annoyed me. King knew I was smart but no one else did, and I was sick of looking like a pathetic little kitten who got pushed around. “I know how to play,” I said, arrogantly. “In fact, chess is too easy for me.”
“Too easy?” he said, rubbing his chin. “Ah ha.”
“It’s a game of numbers and odds,” I said. “Predicting countermoves. Too easy.”
“Ah ha, you are special,” he said, “but you forget that every game is different, because every king and queen have a different weakness and every pawn has a different strength. What if I am good at countermoves too?”
“I’m not interested.”
His eyes were just a slit open, but that small slice pierced me. “Ah ha. Then what are you interested in—gold?” he said in a long, drawn-out hum, as if he was pondering something. “King keeps you in a private cell. Protects you. To him, you are gold. Which kind would you say? There’s all kinds of gold here.”
The mention of gold reminded me of Celia and I completely snapped. “Stop talking about gold! I hate gold!” I screamed. Another greedy lunatic obsessed with gold. “I hate money. And I hate people who want it. You’re just like the rest of them. You asked me what I want?” I raised my voice, my anger f
illing the eight-by-five-square-foot cell. “I want out of this godforsaken place and I want you to leave me alone!”
I was on my feet, retreating to the corner of my cell, fighting back tears, waiting for him to leave. I wanted to isolate myself as I did at Madame’s. I glanced over my shoulder. I expected him to spit some dirty remark and leave, but he stayed there, face calm, no vengeful response to my red-faced blow out. He set his chess pieces down, cleaned them up very mechanically, without an ounce of anger. It made me feel worse.
He stood and set his face against the bars of my cell. We locked eyes. “You fear your circumstances more than you fear yourself. Pure gold does not fear the fire—it endures it. In the end, it will shine brighter than the sun, and the sun cannot be caged.”
Then he walked back to his cell.
For three weeks his words burned into my head. Pure gold does not fear the fire…More than you fear yourself…What had he meant?
His cell was right next to mine, but we hadn’t spoken to each other since that day. Partly because King took me out of the Pratt for transactions, then had me working on several investments in another cell next to where the laundry was done.
When I next saw Red, he was writing on the walls with chalk. As I watched, my mind processed the language. I could recognize over one hundred symbols now. I wanted to ask him what they all meant, but I didn’t. Instead I avoided his stare because I sensed he was doing it for me.
Pure gold, he’d said. All kinds of gold here. He may have been crazy, but he knew something about this place I didn’t, and for unknown reasons he was willing to share it with me. Numbers spun in my mind and an idea wove together about what I really wanted.
King was in Shenzhen, crossing the border into Hong Kong with the forty thousand I made for him on Tuesday. I had a week off from wondering what atrocities he was planning. It was a good time to talk to Red.
If I admitted it, speaking to another human may have been my first motivation. Besides the few words of English I’d spoken to King, which didn’t count because it was either yes or no or quoting a number, I hadn’t spoken to anyone. Red was the only person who spoke English well enough to have a real conversation.
He saw my wave and came over.
“Um,” I attempted an apology. “Last time—”
“Forgotten,” he said.
I nodded and gathered up enough courage to ask a question. “How do you know what all the other inmates are saying?”
“I speak many different dialects,” he said. “And English, like you plainly hear.”
“How did you learn them?” I asked.
“A good ear and a few years,” he said. “I am a teacher.”
“You mean were?” I motioned to the bars.
“Am. Bars cannot change who you are.” He started writing again.
“What are you writing?”
“Classical Chinese poetry. It talks about how even a small flower has purpose in our great world.” He set his chalk aside. “What is your purpose?”
I glanced at the three walls and the bars in front of me. “I don’t have one.”
“Impossible,” he said. “We all do, if we are willing to find it.”
“Maybe I’d know if I could get back to America.”
“Ah, Meiguo. Beautiful country,” he said. “But are you so sure you have no purpose here?”
“No disrespect but I’d leave today if I could and never come back.”
He frowned. A pang hit my gut. He didn’t do anything to me.
The lines of his mouth softened. “Ah ha. China and America are very different. So are the sun and moon, but both bring light into the world. Perhaps you will see it in time. For now, what do you want?”
“I want you to teach me,” I said. “I want the respect you talked about. To speak Chinese, dialects, poetry, understand conversations in the Pratt.”
His face remained unchanged. “Why?”
“Before I came here, all I ever wanted was purpose. But that was taken from me. Now the only thing I want is my life back,” I said. I didn’t explain that I’d need allies and language to get out of here. I held my tongue about Maxima, the root of my pain—and how I’d stop at nothing to cut her down. But Red wasn’t blind; he saw anger burning in my eyes like flames.
He scratched his head, gauging his decision. A solemn smile came over his lips. “When do you want to start?”
“Now.”
He squinted. I could barely see if his eyes were open.
“Hao.”
He grabbed a white piece of chalk. “First lesson. My name is Red, but you will call me Grandfather.”
I scoffed. “Why? You’re not my grandfather.” I looked at the holes in his jacket and his black woven shoes that were falling apart.
“Culture and language are not separate from one another.” His eyes fixated on me. “If you cannot do this, you will speak but you will never understand.”
In my world, the word grandfather was an intimate name connected to birthdays, football games, and family—but now, family was connected to a knife ripping up my insides. Logically, however, it made sense for language study and I wanted to learn. “Fine,” I said, reluctantly. “I still don’t get it.”
“You do not know how to respect your elders,” he said. “I am old enough to be your grandfather. So you must treat me with respect and honor. If you call me Red, I become your equal and you dishonor me. I allow it because you are not Chinese. Only when you can say this can we start our lessons. Now, do you understand?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. By the look on his face, he wanted me to prove it. The word was lodged in my throat. Red waited.
My eyes locked on to some divot in the cement, as if something in the crack pulled me into it. “Yes, Grandfather,” I finally choked out.
“I, in return, will call you granddaughter,” he said, “and in here, you will be like my own family. I will teach you everything I know, and I will love you like my own flesh and blood.”
My neck snapped up, catching his fatherly gaze. Love? I hadn’t heard that word for months from anyone. I’d forgotten that word existed; lied about the need it encompassed, the weight it carried, the power it possessed. I told myself love wasn’t real, when really, I was desperate for it.
Instantly, I wanted my mom, to hear her voice. For her to pull me close and tell me she loved me. The word consumed me as it ricocheted in my mind.
Love. Love. Love. To love. To be loved.
Infinity raced in my calculations. One path with two loops forever chasing each other without end. A limitless world. As it spun, my heart was on fire and frozen like ice. I was shot dead and resurrected. I was hungry, thirsty, brave, and frantic; like the tide coming in and out, I had no control. Love was supposed to be infinite. Love was made to last. So why was I alone?
Hot tears burned trails down my cheeks as I reached out. For my mom. For my dad. For anyone. But they were all gone. I had lost everyone I loved and Red saw it in my eyes.
He bent down beside me. His old hand, warm and light, rested on my shoulder through the bars.
“Yes, granddaughter. Love. We are created for it. To become one with it. Without it, we die. A lesson more powerful than them all,” he said. “Come now, let’s start.”
17
Present: Phoenix
SHANGHAI TOWER, SHANGHAI, CHINA
My eyes blink open at the light sneaking through the window. I check the clock. Not yet six. The bad news sits on my desk like a meteor streaming towards earth. Sadly, experts will see the pattern but not understand how colossal it will be until it is too late. Hopefully, Chan’s bout of superstition will be enough to convince him.
I walk to the bathroom. The large mirror haunts me as I watch a girl wash the tears off her face. It’s not Phoenix staring back at me. It’s some girl I don’t know, asking if there is anyone out there who can love her for who she is. Not the money. Not the gift. Not even her face. Who could love the girl, for whoever she really is?
Whoev
er I am.
Josephine. Octavia. Double 8. Mila. Phoenix. An American. Laowai.
After the 74 steps back to my office, I’m driven to print off an old article about myself as a child. I want to see the girl I used to be. To remember what it felt like to be her. When I pull the paper off the printer, it’s hot and crisp. But I can’t read it. Can’t even look at it. Instead I shove it in my drawer.
I stand and walk to the window. My fingertips touch the glass, as I stare at the city. The red sun battles for its throne in the hazy eastern sky. The streets and squares of Shanghai’s financial district enjoy their last few minutes of rest before they’re crawling with millions of people.
The skyline towers with the tallest buildings in the world. I find myself admiring the Oriental Pearl Tower, the icon of Shanghai. In my sleep-deprived state, it looks like a pillar of bubbles, glowing purple and blue. It reminds me of riding the elevator up the Space Needle in Seattle with my parents and sisters when I was a little girl.
The Waitan is also magical at this hour. With my eyes, I float down the Huangpu River to the historical boardwalk where hundred-year-old buildings line the west bank of the river. The different architectural styles—Gothic, Baroque, Romanesque, Classical and Renaissance mesh with modern day China. Did they imagine a hundred years ago that Shanghai, a small fishing town, would become a major global contender?
Beyond the river, past the banks, penetrating the vast circuit of thousands of apartment complexes, commercial centers, and hotels, are more than 40 million people, sleeping, showering, eating, working, laughing, and crying. Warmth stirs in me. Even after everything that has happened, I still want that. A family. Home. Love.