by Ryan Graudin
When the noise dies, I realize the room is completely silent. The girl in the corner has stopped plucking her stringed instrument. Dai’s foot is flat on the rug.
“I wish I’d been there to see it.” Longwai wipes the corner of his eye. “Bring me the package.”
I hold the brick as far away from me as possible. He takes the block and studies it for a minute.
“All there,” he says. “I’m not surprised this happened. He was a new client. He’s given others trouble before.”
Stale breath stutters out of my lungs. I look over at Dai, expecting the older boy to be happy. Or at least not so green.
“It was a setup, then?” Dai’s voice is cool, but his foot is tapping again. Faster than ever.
“More or less.” Longwai shrugs, unconcerned. “I’ve been looking for some good street boys. Runners I can trust aren’t easy to come by.
“But you’ve proven yourself today. How would you feel about becoming my personal runner for my more… discreet jobs? I pay well. Both you and your friend here will get a cut. He’ll need to stay here during the runs. As continued insurance, you understand.”
It’s strange, almost eerie, that Longwai thinks human collateral will work. That he thinks we’re capable of trusting each other. I wonder if he would’ve done the same with other vagrants, or if he looked at me with those black scalpel eyes and cut straight to my weakness. My need to protect.
I say nothing. The third rule burns in my calves. All I want to do is run. Far, far away from this place of stinking smoke, filthy money, and fear.
A sharp snap fills the air—Longwai’s fingers striking together. “More wine! And a light!” he calls over his shoulder.
I’m about to tell him no when a woman edges into the room. Wait. Not a woman. A girl dressed in women’s clothing. Her face is caked in makeup. Just like the girl in the alley. The sight of her—tight red serving dress, tray balanced perfectly in her hands—chokes off my answer. I remember why I’m here.
This girl. I know her. She’s from my province. From the farm four li west of ours. Her name was—is Yin Yu. I saw her face in the back of the van that took Mei Yee away. She was taken the same night.
“Have a fancy for flesh?” Longwai laughs as more wine is poured into his cup. It smells disgusting. Like alcohol and sappy, sweet plums. “Got plenty of that around here. If you’re willing to pay.”
I shake my head. The girl—Yin Yu—walks away. Her silk dress flashes red before it disappears back into the shadows.
If Yin Yu is here, Mei Yee could be, too. It’s not much to hold on to. It’s nothing at all, really. But right now, it’s all I have.
I have to accept Longwai’s offer. I have to keep looking.
“Yes.” I say the word with dry lips, knowing I can never take it back. “I’ll be your runner if Dai wants to sit.”
If he’s willing to risk his life every time I go out into the streets. If he thinks he can actually trust me.
“I’ll sit.”
Apparently he is. He does.
Longwai doesn’t even smile. He takes a long drink of wine. Some of it spills onto his hand. The trailing, deep red streams remind me of the jade dealer’s blood. “Come back at sunset tomorrow. I’ll have another job for you then. My man will give you your payment at the door,” he continues with a wave of his free hand. A sign for us to go.
We follow Longwai’s man to the entrance, where he hands us an orange envelope. Stuffed full of cash. All the doors along the hallway are still closed when we pass. I can’t help but wonder if my sister is behind one of them. Waiting.
MEI YEE
There’s a single window in my room. It’s a strange gap, the only one in the whole building. Six cinder blocks forgotten by the construction workers—filled in with afterthoughts of metal bars and glass. It hides behind a bright scarlet cloth, blocking my view of the outside. There isn’t much to see there. It isn’t even a proper alleyway—just a gap between buildings used by street children and cats. The ghost lights that shine from the main street don’t make much of a difference here… only enough to see forgotten piles of trash.
It’s a disgusting sight—all gray and rot. I never understood why Sing loved it so much. During the early-morning hours, when our clients were elsewhere, she sat on my bed, shoved the red curtain aside, and stared through the metal lattice. There was always a glaze in her eyes that made me wonder if she was really seeing the view in front of her.
After two days alone, when the walls start to close and choke, I pull back the tapestry and look out the window. At mildewed cinder block, snack wrappers, and shattered liquor bottles. I stare at the sight and try to see what Sing saw.
Something moves on the other side of the window. I can’t see much, only the reflection of the latticed metal and fragments of my face. Maybe I just imagined the movement.
But then the glass rattles. A spread palm, white and startling, swallows the space where my face just was.
My heart shudders as much as the window. I blink—again and again—but the hand doesn’t leave. It’s still there—five fingers, palm creased like a cobweb. The lines are deep and tangled, with just a hint of dirt in them.
I’m just wondering what to do—if I should draw the curtain or scream out to Mama-san—when a voice speaks, too strong for the thin glass to hold back. “Hello.”
I lick my lips, trying to think of something to say. “Who… who are you?”
The hand pulls away so the window is all darkness again. And then, a face. At first it’s just traces, collections of light and shadow curving and colliding to show the person on the other side of the glass. But then my eyes adjust to the streetlamp’s damp glow.
He’s young. I can see the strength of his arms even through his hooded sweatshirt. There’s no bulge where his belly should be. He looks as men should—active and fighting. Not made pasty fat by cakes and lazy with smoke.
And his eyes—they’re as clear as a night over the mountains. They stare hard at me, outside looking in.
“You… you’re one of Longwai’s girls,” he says finally.
I nod. I know the boy sees me. It would be impossible not to, with the light of so many paper lanterns rising up behind me.
He stays quiet. Those sharp eyes keep staring. They make the insides of my stomach lurch and flutter in a way I’ve never known before.
I don’t know what to say or what to ask. My mind is blank. All I can hear is the flow of water, the tik-tik-tik of drips that means somewhere, far above us, it’s raining.
I shouldn’t be asking anything at all. If I were a good girl—an exemplary girl—if I knew what was best for me, I would drop the curtain. I would forget about the boy, roll over, and gaze at my painted stars. I would wait for the ambassador to come with a new bouquet of flowers.
But the rain. The dirt. His eyes. The flutter in my stomach. Things both forgotten and new. They keep me at the edge of the window, make me lace my fingers through the lattice.
“What’s your name?” the boy finally asks.
My name. Mei Yee. It was my mother’s choice. I remember her telling me about the moment. She was standing outside, letting the early-night breezes tangle her hair. Her face was turned to the setting sun, cast entirely in gold. It was strange seeing her so clearly. The house, the kitchen where she spent most of her living hours, was so dark.
We stood together under the fanning yellowed leaves of a ginkgo tree, watching as the mountains grew purple and ragged, like the back of a sleeping dragon.
“It’s so beautiful,” my mother said, “just like you.”
I felt my cheeks grow hot, turn into the color of not-so-ripe plums.
“I knew you would be a beauty as soon as the midwife placed you in my arms.” Mother’s throat caught, as if she was getting ready to cry. “You made my life bright and new. That’s why I gave you your name. Mei Yee.”
Mei Yee. Refreshing beauty.
I don’t want to tell this boy my name. Too many people have
stolen it, used it in ways I never intended. You never know what a fragile thing a name is until it’s used as a weapon, screamed like a curse.
“What’s yours?” I ask through the glass.
He ignores my question. “What’s it like in there?”
I look back at the room. Nothing is new. It’s what I’ve seen every day after day after day. A bed. A washstand and a tin chamber pot. Crimson drapes and paper lanterns. The shelf with the golden cat. My rainbow row of silk gowns. Violet flowers, now wilting. Dying petals, withered leaves: the only things that ever change.
Even when the door is unlocked, I can’t go far. Just my hall and the other girls’ rooms. Sometimes the lounge, if the ambassador wants to smoke and chat at the same time. He usually doesn’t.
It’s a small world.
“What’s it like out there?” I ask instead.
It seems all we want from each other is answers.
“Cold. Wet,” he says.
Beads of rain gather like crystal ladybugs on the end of the boy’s nose. I find myself staring at how they glint and shimmer against the street’s dim light. I can’t remember the last time I felt the hush of rain on my skin.
“Your turn.” The boy nods and the drops fall, glimmering bursts of silver light. Like wishing stars.
“Warm. Smoky.”
“What else?”
“It’s your turn,” I point out.
“What do you want to know?”
What do I want to know? Why am I even here, face pressed anxious against the grating? Why am I tormenting myself with tastes of a life I’ll never have again? I should pull back, let the curtain fall.
But the boy… he’s looking at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before. It’s a stare that turns my cheeks the color of plums again. What started as a flutter in my stomach is now a burn.
What do I want to know? What did Sing want to know? Outside. No more walls. I think of Jin Ling leaning against our window, hungry, so hungry, for the secrets of stars. Watching to catch them and pull them inside. I lean against my own window, feel the same stir, the same want and sick storm cloud in my chest.
“Anything,” I tell him. “Everything.”
“That’s a lot of things.” The boy frowns and his arms cross over his chest. For a moment I fear our game is over. That he’ll vanish down the alley to the song of bottle shards and dented cans. “Maybe we can arrange a trade.”
“A trade?”
“Yeah, a trade. My information for yours.”
“My information?”
“Stuff about the brothel. Do you… see them? Longwai and the other Brotherhood members?”
“Sometimes.” My mouth is dry—the same way it was when the Reapers gagged me with a cotton kerchief for the pitch-black van drive from our province to the city. What started off as a game is quickly becoming dangerous. To talk of the Brotherhood, to share the things I’ve seen, could end very badly for me.
“Don’t ever order shrimp from Mr. Lau’s booth. He keeps them out far too long. It’s a surefire way to get sick. Last time I got a dish there, I couldn’t eat again for about three days.”
“W-what?” My tongue still stumbles from the dry, feels as if it’s tied up in knots.
“We’re trading. Remember?” the boy reminds me. “You answer, I answer.”
“Oh.” Anything. Everything. Spoiled shrimp sold by a Mr. Lau. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it’s something. I never knew there were shrimp booths so close.
“They hold their meetings in there, yeah?” His question is so quick and intentional that I suddenly don’t believe his appearance at my window was an accident. All our words and pauses have been dancing up to this: The boy wants something in here. Something he can’t reach.
And I want to know what it is. What can he want so badly in this place of smoke and locks? There’s a gleam in his eyes that reminds me of Sing’s fire. But while she was looking out, he’s staring in.
There’s the slick sound of metal sliding against itself. Behind me. I hardly have time to piece the two together. I jerk the tapestry back over the window and dive into bed.
The first thing I see are his flowers. A dozen white chrysanthemums burst through the door, and the ambassador follows. He’s a big man, and his steps shake the room. I smell the wet on his coat as he sheds it, but I can’t see any drops. He must have used an umbrella.
My pulse is all race and beat when he comes to my bed. There’s something in his hands: a gleaming gold box with a ribbon. The ambassador sets it in my lap.
“I brought you chocolates.” His voice is calm. Steady. Just the sound of it reminds me of how flustered I am.
I smile and say thank you. I untie the ribbon slowly. All I can think about is the window at my back. Is the boy still behind it, waiting for me? The burn of his eyes stays in my stomach. I pray to the gods that my cheeks aren’t flushed.
None of the lace-cupped chocolates are the same—they aren’t circles or squares, but strange shapes I’ve never seen before.
“Seashells,” the ambassador offers when he sees the bewilderment on my face. “What clams and oysters come from.”
“Seashells.” I trace the edge of one. “From the sea?”
“Yes.”
Wen Kei always loved to describe the sea. She could talk about it for hours. How it rose and fell with the size of the moon. How it gnashed like an angry cat on windy days. How its waters gleamed like fire against the sunrise. It was always impossible for me to imagine that there was so much water in the world. Sing even said there were mountains underneath—something she’d learned in school long ago. None of us believed her. “Have you ever been to the sea?”
“Many times.” He smiles. “I grew up on an island. I couldn’t go anywhere without crossing water.”
I know I’ll never be able to imagine so much water until I actually see it with my own eyes. “Do you think, maybe one day, you could take me to see the sea?”
The smile vanishes. “That’s not a good idea.”
Normally I wouldn’t push—I would stay demure and quiet, the way he likes, follow our unspoken rules—but my heart is full and thrumming from my meeting at the window. “Why?”
“You’re my princess. This is your ivory tower. You have to be protected. People outside… they wouldn’t understand us. It’s best if you stay here.”
These walls are made of cinder block. Not ivory.
I’m not sure I understand us, either.
But I’m not brave enough to tell him these things.
We go through our ritual. Our dance. By the end, my cheeks are hot. This time, instead of gazing at the stars, I look at the window and its crimson curtain. I think of the night behind it. The sharp dark of the boy’s eyes.
Maybe it wasn’t the cinder block and trash Sing loved. Maybe it was the possibility, the knowledge that the universe isn’t all opium smoke and cross, sweating men. There is a world outside, with shrimp restaurants and star secrets. A place where it rains and handsome boys get dirt wedged into their palms. A place where the sea stretches all the way out to the sky.
15 DAYS
DAI
The window was hard to find, even after I knew it was there. It took me a good half hour, dodging the storm leaks in the pipes above while I circled the brothel, trying not to be seen, before I spotted the patch of scarlet from the other end of the alleyway. But if finding the window was hard, then facing what was behind it was even harder.
I wasn’t ready for the girl.
City of Darkness. That’s what the people of Seng Ngoi call this place when they glimpse it from their penthouse apartments and high-rise offices. A black spot of slum and crime in their shining city. A better name, I think, would be City of Pain.
The suffering is everywhere here. Crouching inside the steel workshops and weaving mills, where workers hunch over their machines for fourteen hours every single day. Threading through the corridors of strung-out prostitutes and knife-scarred youths. Lurking around the ta
bles where drunken men toss money at one another and curse at the speed of their betting pigeons.
Usually I can ignore it, look the other way, keep walking.
Not this time.
I don’t really know who I expected to find. A prostitute, yes. But the girl behind the glass was nothing like Hak Nam’s other prostitutes—the ones with bloodshot eyes who hover in doorways, trying to lure men with bare shoulders and heavy lids. Her eyes weren’t bloodshot, but they were full. Full and empty at the same time. When she stared at me, I knew she was both young and not.
Haunting. Yearning. Hungry.… Her eyes showed the bars for what they are: a cage. Her want reached through the grating and lodged its claws in my chest, made me babble about food poisoning and second-class seafood. Made my palms sweat like a lovesick middle schooler.
I looked at this girl, saw myself staring back. Ghosts of Dai etched in glass, fragmented, held back by the metal weave of grating. The trapped soul wanting out.
Other than the haunt in her eyes, she was beautiful. I can see why Osamu is obsessed with her—black hair woven into a braid over her shoulder, like night against her star-white skin. The kind of girl my brother and I would’ve whispered about while the maid brought us puffed rice chips and scolded us to finish our homework. The kind of girl I might’ve asked to a movie or played the street arcades for just because she wanted the prize.
But Hak Nam doesn’t have any feature films or cutesy plastic kittens with bobbly heads. And I’m not going to ask her on a date. I’m going to ask her to spy on the Brotherhood. To find the thing I can’t.
Hunger preying on hunger.
Will she have what it takes? This is the question I ask as I shove my hands into damp pockets and duck through Hak Nam’s cursed streets.
I don’t know. It’s a huge gamble I’m making. If worse comes to worst, I always have a second door into the brothel. As long as Jin keeps running for me. I can get all the key information from the girl and make a break for it at the last possible moment. A suicide mission at best.