Calculated

by Nova McBee

  Up top, I watched King hop into a sleek black car and drive away. He didn’t live among his subjects, but he would be back tomorrow to swindle all he could from others’ mistakes. Madame was not the only one who used his services.

  King was too resourceful to throw out another man’s trash without searching the pockets. He liked information, so he never just “took care of business” without learning something useful so he could have the upper hand. King called it his “tax”.

  Besides an occasional date with my head under water, King left me alone as long as the money kept rolling in. Although I was silent most the time, I paid attention and calculated, especially when we were out of the Pratt. Even though I was blindfolded, I recorded the distances and directions we drove, which way we turned, how many miles, feet, minutes. A map developed in my head.

  I could have walked from the Pratt to the Port blindfolded by now, but I would really have liked to map my way to the warehouse. All of King’s and Madame’s records were there. I’d been there once, in a whirlwind of activity before and after, so I wouldn’t be able to map my return.

  On another occasion, King forgot to blindfold me right away. I saw a sign, a name of a town, Song Valley. Later that day, I asked Red about it and his eyes darkened. I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, so I dropped it.

  In the Pratt, however, I was not blindfolded, and things happened here—like last night—that took days to forget.

  King had drunk too much. I sat watching, as he spilled secrets he shouldn’t have to Madame’s buyer.

  “Our shipping containers sent upriver never get checked,” he boasted with a raspy laugh. “My men often sample the cargo before it leaves.”

  After discovering those hidden files of Madame’s, I knew that cargo meant girls and I almost threw up.

  The two men’s graphic terms clawed at my mind until it bled me dry. Tears wet my face. A condemning voice sliced up the last of my integrity. “You helped them commit these crimes.”

  I will end this, I vowed. I’d gain the guards’ trust, turn everyone against King. I’d sneak up to the warehouse, light it on fire. I’d rescue the girls. I’d send those buyers to their own abyss.

  And King—the unknowing fool—revealed that his records of shipments, schedules for new shipments, and buyer information, even the names of dirty custom officers who worked for Madame, were stored at the warehouse. To destroy Madame and King, I’d need that information.

  Having a plan to destroy them didn’t erase the turmoil of guilt festering within me. My only consolation was in meeting Red. Day by day, I opened up to him about my pain. I even told him about Mara and my family.

  A violent cough across the way shook me from my daze. Red was back, and we’d start our class. I sat up and strutted over to his cell.

  “What are we learning tonight, Grandfather?” I lowered my eyes in respect to him as I sat on the floor beside his cot.

  “We will start with poetry,” he said. “Your local dialects and slang are good, but your classical Chinese is behind. Later you’ll review geography, economy, and history.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” I grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote the classic poem in Chinese that Red insisted I start each lesson with. I read it as I slid the chalk down the wall.

  “White sun leans on the mountain then vanishes. Yellow river flows into the sea. If your eyes desire to see a thousand miles, go up one more floor,” I finished.

  “Again, this time in perfect Beijing accent,” he commanded.

  “Grandfather,” I said, “why must I always rehearse the same poem?”

  “This poem is famous. Everyone knows this poem by Wang Zhi Huan,” he said. “My teaching would be nothing if I did not teach you this.”

  Reluctantly, I repeated the poem again—enunciating those extra errrs that Beijing people add to the end of their words—all the while thinking about King, and all the money I made him. I still wasn’t sure where it all went.

  “Red?” I said when I finished, “when we first met you told me that King has ‘all kinds of gold’ but actually, there’s no account for him personally, which means he must have a stash. Am I right? Is that what you were referring to?”

  The way Red breathed deeply, contemplating his response I knew he knew. But he ignored me. “Focus, Granddaughter. Wielding your numbers is more important.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, not letting him drop it. “You know where his stash is. I know you do. If we find a way to take it, we could be free and hurt King where it counts. Come on,” I whined. “Tell me where it is.”

  “No. You can’t understand what I want you to learn. Justice is what you should pursue—making the wrongs right—but you seek revenge. You won’t balance the equation that way.”

  My eyes shifted to the part of the wall marked 105—the number of days I’d sat in my cell. “He kills, he steals, he destroys. Why is it wrong that I wish him to die?”

  “He will die. As you and I both will one day. You see, three things are certain in this life. Purpose. Change. Death. But death refuses us an option to change. We must make that choice while we are living. So must King.”

  “Who will defend my cause if I don’t?”

  “Fool,” he said. “That’s an orphan thinking!”

  “I am an orphan!” I shouted back. “My parents are dead! I’ve been kidnapped, and I’m nothing more than a slave!”

  “That’s not who you were created to be!” he retorted.

  “I don’t care anymore! I want justice! Those girls need justice!”

  “Orphans dream of vindication. Sons and daughters dream of destiny,” he whispered. “You are not ready. You have not understood my teachings. I will not speak of King’s stash again.”

  It was Tuesday. Another day of me racking up profitable investments for King went by. King’s depravity was like radiation. I couldn’t shake the nuclear feeling crawling down my spine.

  But even though I kept my eyes down, my ears were always open. I was rewarded with another piece of information: according to King, half of the X girls were distributed into the Shanghai system of what Madame calls “the lower five”— high-end hotels, massage parlors, hole-in-the-wall venues, and personal buyers. More info stored at the warehouse.

  Evening came. After a meal of tofu soup, Red brought up my gift.

  “You don’t use your gift to your advantage.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, slurping up my soup.

  “For being a genius, you’re pretty slow,” he said, poking me with a smile. “Your gift is for much more than making money. It’s a key to unlock your destiny. You say you can see what will happen in advance?”

  “In theory.”

  “So then, you can move faster than everyone,” he said. “Get what you need, learn who to trust, become your destiny—it has brought you here and you must ask why. History depends on it.”

  All of Red’s talk about destiny was pointless. I’d never be able to do anything as long as I was in the Pratt.

  “Betrayal brought me here, Grandfather,” I reminded him.

  “Perhaps. But destiny or not, you are here nonetheless,” Red said. “Now focus on the numbers.”

  “It’s hard. Sometimes they clutter my mind,” I admitted. “They project multiple possibilities. I don’t always know which outcome I should pursue. I see all the outcomes, but I can’t choose.”

  “You’re still acting as if these numbers are separate from you. Wield them. Harness them. Become one with them. Let them guide you, teach you what is already inside. Then you will know where to help, which answer to choose.”

  “How do I know what’s inside of me?”

  “Let the numbers teach you, like your game Seagulls,” he said. “You are full of destiny. You dream and hope to make things right, to see the X girls freed, King and Madame stopped. Each time you see an equation, react to its answer. Make sure all you do matches who you are in your heart. This is the key. If you can’t find the answer here”—he tapped
his heart—“you won’t find it anywhere.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Here,” I said, also tapping my heart. “Grandfather, I’m losing who I am. I feel it. I don’t want to trust anyone, only you. You’re right to say I want more than just justice. I want them to suffer like we have. I want them to rot in the Pratt for years, eating mush, their fingers turning blue, reliving the moment when everything was taken from them.”

  “Revenge is not justice. Their time will come. But first, promise me that you will find your destiny.”

  “What destiny, Grandfather? Why do you keep saying that? I don’t know what I’m destined to do!”

  “Have you understood nothing? Destiny is not what you do. Destiny is who you are. Everything flows from who you are, then folds into everything you do.” Red was angry and solemn, and calm all at the same time. “Destiny gives, saves, loves. Destiny creates legends and history. Do you think history just happens? No. History isn’t made. It’s calculated.”

  “Then why do I have this gift?”

  “Listen to yourself!” His face was hard set on mine. “Wasn’t it you who told me there is no coincidence? That day by day you see each circumstance constructed?”

  I nodded.

  “So, stand up straight and stop your sulking! You can affect this world with who you are and what’s been given to you. It starts here, now. Don’t wait. Use your gift to become who you are.” He calmed down, but his intensity grew like a fire and it started to blaze within me too. “You have the ability to make very large decisions in a moment because you see the future unfolding before anyone else can. Therefore, you can also make small decisions. Use your gift to win people over. Show them there’s a better way. Friends are worth more than money. Do you trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then do as I say and trust others too. Or you will never have the blessing you desire,” Red said.

  When it was time for me to work for King, a younger guard instead of Guard San came to fetch me. I bowed my head to Red and made my way through the tunnels, head full of thoughts. Who was I? What was my destiny?

  The guard dropped me off at Guard San’s office, but no one was there. The younger guard told me to wait. Five minutes passed and no one came around. I poked my head around the corner. Guard San’s chair was still empty.

  “Guard San?” I looked further down the hall. I came upon him crumpled in a corner, head gripped in his hands. He had never been kind to me. I wanted to walk away, but something urged me to turn back.

  “What happened?” I asked him. He didn’t look up. He mumbled something about losing his family if he didn’t pay another large debt.

  There was a jolt in my chest. I understood what to do, or rather, what I wanted to do. Were my numbers and my heart aligning? Were they showing me who I was? A thumping started in my chest. I was nervous.

  I took a small step towards him and whispered, “I can help you.”

  Guard San looked up and scowled. “Why would you?”

  One more step, and I reached out my hand. “Because I can.”

  If Red were right, this small decision would not only affect my relationships in the Pratt but my future.

  20

  Past: Double-Eight

  THE PRATT, SHANGHAI, CHINA

  I focused on the dull fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in the dark corridors. I pretended the hum was the sound of cicadas and imagined myself lying outdoors on a hot summer night because tonight I ate meat. It wasn’t much, but it was meat all the same, compliments of Guard San. It was also the ninth night in a row he didn’t lock my cell.

  As I lay on my back, hands under my head, I reflected on my last week stepping out with my gift. A suggestion to the prisoner with the hurt leg, tipping others on the game-fights, wowing them at a card game. I was acknowledged as I passed them now, and occasionally joined in their gossip.

  The Pratt was changing. I was gaining respect. Red said if I kept it up, I’d run the Pratt. What he meant is I could be free.

  I got up and trailed the tunnels, numerically mapping out the twists and turns as Red taught me. A hundred years ago foreign businessmen named this area the Port Lands. The Chinese locals mispronounced it, deeming it, the Pratt Lands, eventually reducing it to the Pratt.

  Shanghai’s ports were located on the Yangtze River delta. Over time, as mud and sand built up along the delta, the shoreline moved south to where the main ports were now.

  Red wasn’t clear on who discovered the underground tunnels first, or how the facility was kept secret from the authorities, but the shift in the shoreline had at some point revealed the underground tunnels, some nearly two miles long. Red suspected they were part of an ancient local folk legend from the Song Dynasty, which claimed that an estranged emperor’s son had built underground caverns to store his treasures arriving on ships from across the seas. The legend was written off as false because historians and archeologists never found any evidence of the tunnels or the treasure. Yet here we were, held captive in a warren of tunnels clearly as old as dirt. King cared nothing for history, only the secrecy it provided. Song Valley must have once been connected to these tunnels.

  Which reminded me of King’s warehouse. I assumed it was by King’s house in Song Valley, but it must have been closer to the Port, closer to the tunnels. A map derived in my head. Finally, I could clearly see its location.

  Down the hall, Red’s ragged cough preceded his voice. “Granddaughter, is that you?” Apart from the quiver, his voice soothed me as I arrived.

  “Yes,” I responded loud enough for Red to hear.

  “Are you coming?” His voice was soft, weak. His cough had gotten worse since winter.

  Guard San mumbled something about fetching me around dinner to tip him off on his mahjong game, then shooed me in Red’s direction.

  “Just one minute, Grandfather.”

  I entered my cell. The wall, wet with moisture, had two characters written on it. Pure gold. Under that, a sticky substance like sap dripped from a crack. On the floor, an apple core decayed. I forgot it was there. Now small black bugs crawled all over it.

  My hour above ground had been warm. Now the sunless chill of the Pratt cut through me, reminding me of months of shivering in my bones. I reached for my leather jacket, the only coat I had. The leather was faded and worn, but there were no holes. Thank God I was wearing it when I was plucked from Madame’s.

  The cell next door was open. Red lay on his cot, wrapped up tight in his blanket. Why had he never tried to run? Of course, there was nowhere to go. The gates of the Pratt were locked so heavily and the tunnels so vast, that you would die trying to find a way out. And people had. Red said his time would come. Until then, he didn’t cash in on that one favor.

  As I entered, Red brushed his thinning gray hair off his forehead, obviously trying to hide the pain and tiredness he felt. He coughed all the time now. His body seemed to age a year each day. But his kindness, a quality hard to find in the Pratt, radiated brightly.

  “It’s time for your studies,” he said and sat up. I took off my jacket and rested it over his shoulders.

  A normal student back in America might turn their nose up at a man who made them study every waking moment they were not busy. But these lessons were life to me—not only the academic ones but also Red’s sayings, which taught me more than any teacher at Stanley.

  “I’m ready.” I dove into classical Chinese and history for the next hour, as Red asked me to retell portions of the history of the Tang and Ming dynasties.

  After we finished, Red told me to close my eyes. I knew what he was asking me to do. I drew in a deep breath and released it.

  “Rays of sunlight paint my face orange and red,” I began. “The salty, green scent of the ocean mingles with the crescendo of waves. I walk forward. The water is cold. Each wave rolls in, bubbling, fresh, the sand between my toes feels—” I stopped. My hands folded over my forehead through my hair. “I can’t do
this anymore. Pretending won’t get me there. It’s a stupid game.”

  “It’s your game,” he said, referring to Seagulls, “and it’s your home. I don’t want you to forget.”

  “My home is gone, Grandfather. I can never go home again.”

  “Let’s reenact the funeral. Last time you couldn’t finish. Close your eyes.”

  “I can’t do it. I’ve tried,” I said, regretting I ever told Red about the game Seagulls. Visualizing going home was one thing but performing a mock funeral for my family was another. “All I see is Mara’s face the day she dropped me off. I can’t speak the kind words you want me to.”

  “You must resolve this if you are ever to be free. Now try again. Go back to them. Bury your family in peace and finish this.”

  “They are already dead!”

  “But you are something worse. You lie at the bottom of a sea of bitterness while there is still life above the surface,” he said. “There is a way back, if you will learn to swim.”

  “Grandfather,” I cried, not in defiance, but pain. The thought of them needled at my heart. I wanted to speak to them, to let them go like Red said; but I couldn’t help thinking my chance was gone. I’d never see them again. I threw my head into my hands, holding back the sting behind my eyes. “They are dead.”

  “There now,” he said. “Your pain is not without love. And love is always stronger than pain. Do not let them go in this way. Bury them in peace and forgiveness, and in peace and forgiveness you will be reborn.”

  I lifted my head.

  “Now,” he said. “Are you ready to try again?”

  “Yes.”

  My head fell on his shoulder. One by one, hot tears streaked my cold cheeks as I tried, as Red instructed me, to go back to a happy memory. Soon I was there, with Mara on the beach, laughing, and I began to speak to her.

  After three months, everyone knew my name in the Pratt. Well, not my name. Some called me Double-8, others called me laowai, but they all knew who I was and respected me. The blonde highlights that Madame gave me were long gone, faded into beach wood brown. They had forgotten any traces of my white face and a time in which I couldn’t speak Chinese fluently, or even multiple dialects. More importantly, I knew who they were.