by Ryan Graudin
“Yin Yu thrives off work,” she says when she pulls her finger out, pinches it between the silk fabric of her dress. “It’s the thing that keeps her going.”
“I know.” The other two girls are staring at me. Four eyes dark and full of question, bottomless wells. I can’t hold their gazes for long, so I look at the crimson window covering. It matches the new shiny color of my nails.
I can still feel Nuo staring. “Why did you take over her duties? Do you want to be Mama-san?”
“That’s what Yin Yu said,” Wen Kei pipes in.
If there’s any time I should tell them, it would be now. Memories—ghosts of the boy and his promises—file through my mind like a line of orange-robed monks. There’s a fire in my heart, twisting, wanting to reach out and show them the light. The curtain’s red looks brighter, more like blood than flames.
I want to pull it back, show them the shell. But every time I think of doing this, I hear Sing’s desperate pleas, clawing and scrabbling inside my head. I know the others won’t understand. The way I didn’t understand.
They’ll only try to stop me. The way I tried to stop Sing.
“The meeting is soon.” I change the subject. “We should get ready.”
Nuo lifts her finger to her face. The blood is still there, smoothed out like a second layer of red skin. Her needle must have gone deep. I think of all the many strings stretched tight across her zither, made of cruel steel. “Can you still play?”
She frowns, tucks the cross-stitch under her arm. “Do I have a choice?”
None of us speak, because we all know the answer.
This meeting my hands don’t shake. The black lacquered serving tray is steady as I shuffle through the room, pouring wine and offering lights. So much smoke wisps up from the Brotherhood’s pipes and cigarettes that soon enough I can’t even see Nuo clearly. I only know she’s there because of her music. Despite her bandaged finger, the notes stab through the air, steady and strong.
And despite the hurt in my legs, I walk straight, keep a smile pasted to my face.
We’re stronger than they think.
Longwai holds the ledger close. It’s small: the same size as those notebooks Sing used to sketch our faces in. As long as a brick and as thick as a thumb. The cover is a red as bright as Nuo’s wounded finger, crowned with the crest of a shining gold dragon. Every few minutes he flicks through the pages, running over cryptic characters written weeks and months before. All through the meeting he fills it with notes; a few of the numbers I recognize—characters I learned when Sing tried to teach us how to read. Sometimes he’s so focused on writing down inky lines and loops that the men have to repeat themselves to be heard.
When the meeting ends, I collect the empty glasses quickly, willing Longwai and the book to stay put until I can follow. The glasses clink together, their purple-red rims jostling for space on my tray. I try to move slowly, but in the cabinet’s reflection I see Longwai heaving to his feet, the ledger wedged firmly in both hands. He starts walking to the far hall, in the direction of the stairs. I stash the glasses in the bottom of the cabinet, still coated with the stick of plum wine, and follow.
I’ve never been upstairs before. In fact, I’ve only seen the actual staircase twice. It lies at the end of the east hall, by the door to Mama-san’s room. It spirals like my nautilus shell, up and up, into the dark.
I hang, uncertain, at the edge of the hall, waiting for the master to disappear to the second floor before I make my move. Every part of my body shakes as I push myself down the length of the hallway, farther into the dark.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Deep inside there’s a pull, a line of cowardice tugging, begging me to go back to my room. To sit on my bed and wait. To apologize to the ambassador and accept his offer. To apologize to Yin Yu. To tell the boy I can’t do what he asks of me. To be my mother’s daughter. To keep enduring.
But I remember the demon behind the ambassador’s eyes, and I know things will never be the same between us. Even if he never bruises me again, every single touch will remind me of the night he made me bleed.
I silence every fear and keep walking, all the way down the shadow-drenched hall, all the way up the stairs. The door at the top is cracked open, streaming browned-gold light over the staircase. The air here smells different, heavy with mildew, leather, and ink. Scents both rich and spoiled. They catch in my throat as I rap my knuckles against the doorframe.
The door swings open. Longwai is behind it, his bulk filling up most of the doorway. Beads of sweat dot his brow, and his chest balloons with thick breaths. His eyes cloud and wrinkle at the sight of me. Girls never climb these stairs.
“What are you doing up here?” His words are tight and precise, as if they were cut out of him with a knife.
“I-I wanted to speak with you, sir.” I bow a little as I say this, catch a glimpse of his room under the curve of his armpit. An entire wall of weapons—swords, pistols, rifles, knives. My eyes flick back and forth. No book.
My bow lasts longer than it should. I’m all too aware of this as I rise, feel Longwai’s scathing study.
“I’m busy. Any problems you have should be brought to Mama-san.” He waves a hand down the stairs. The movement creates another brief glimpse. I catch sight of a bed and a screen full of bright moving pictures. His television. Still no book.
“I—” My mind hurtles, searching for words and excuses that might keep me here. Give me enough time to spot that elusive ledger. “I can’t go to Mama-san. I can’t trust her with it.”
Longwai frowns. “Is that so?”
My heart screams profanities in the form of beats. I’m not a spy, nor was I meant to be. The lies I have to feed the dragon, the ones I spent hours thinking of, feel slimy and rotten. Like something he’ll spit back out.
I offer them up anyway.
“She likes to play favorites.” I stand, ever so slightly on my tiptoes, trying to get another glimpse. There are no colors in the drug lord’s bedchamber. Almost everything is black or some drab shade of brown. The furniture, the floor, the wall hangings. The only bright things are the television screen and a tankful of fish. These cast the entire room in a ghost light.
Finally, I catch it. The faintest glimpse of red. It’s only a corner of something, poking out of a gaping desk drawer. That has to be it.
“Most people do.” The master’s booming voice snaps my eyes back to the floor.
“It’s… it’s Yin Yu.” I stumble over my own terrifying words. My veins clog full of guilt, as if the very blood in them has stopped. “She—she’s jealous that I’ve taken over her tasks. I’m afraid she’s spreading rumors about me to Mama-san. And I’m afraid that you or the ambassador might hear something bad about me. Something that isn’t true.”
“You think Osamu is paying for the quality of your character?” His mouth turns into a smile, then spoils into a sneer. “That I’m running some kind of etiquette school?”
I shake my head and push out more small, small words. “I don’t want to end up like Sing.”
“Then don’t,” Longwai says. “Is that all?”
“Y-yes.” I take a step back, only to remember that the stairs are close. My heel hangs off the edge. At this point it might even be a mercy if I fell back. A few scrapes and bruises seem preferable to the way Longwai is staring at me now. Like a piece of meat.
“Don’t bother me again,” Longwai growls.
“Thank you, sir.” I bow again, catch another look at the book. It’s still there, wedged into the drawer.
Longwai grunts and closes the door. I navigate the stairs with coltish knees. They knock and shake with each step. Halfway down I pass Fung, who watches me with his dark, dark eyes. The stairs are tight and our shoulders brush. I have to shrink all the way against the wall to let him pass. We’re so close he can’t not see me shaking.
But the gangster doesn’t say anything about it. His only word is a half-grunted “careful” before he keeps climbing
, without looking back.
I did it. I spotted where Longwai keeps his ledger. I took the risk.
Jin Ling would be proud.
My heart is so swelling and full—with thoughts of my sister, the boy, the sea—that I forget about washing the dirty glasses in the lounge. I keep walking straight up the north hall. Past the tomblike silence of Sing’s room. By Nuo’s and Wen Kei’s and Yin Yu’s closed doors. All the way to the end.
6 DAYS
DAI
When I was younger and needed a place to think, I’d sit by the carp pond. It was one of my mother’s indulgences—a reminder of her home country—installed at the rear of the house where an entire wall of glass looks out on the rock garden. Part of the pond stretches inside the house. The other half juts beneath the glass, into the yard of carefully raked gravel.
Koi swim to the edge of their small world and back again: fire white and liquid amber, scales shimmering. Their movement is smooth and streamlined, like some sort of jeweled hypnosis. It puts my mind at ease.
Whenever Hiro was tired of reading through his endless sets of encyclopedias, he used to come down here and toss coins into the water. They spun through the ripples—comets of silver, copper, and gold—down into the seaweed’s tangled green. He never did hit a fish.
Hiro. I breathe in and dip my fingers into the pool. My confession to Jin—Jin Ling—was the first time in a long time I’ve said his name, or even thought it. I’ve spent so long trying to erase and forget. Cramming him into the world of nightmares. Trying to cut all ties with everything and everyone.
My brother’s ghost is all over this house. Whispering if onlys in my ear. If only I’d listened to him. If only I’d been a better brother. If only…
I spent seven hundred and thirty-eight days in Hak Nam, doing anything I could to get out and find a way back home. But home isn’t what I need. Talking to Jin—Jin Ling—telling her my sad story, only drove this truth deeper into my skull. A fancy mansion on Tai Ping Hill won’t fix me. Trying to forget won’t fix me, either. It will never earn my brother’s forgiveness. Silence the ghosts…
I push my hand in deeper, the waterline up to my wrist. The koi scatter, scales streaking like torches in a night sky. I wonder if Hiro’s coins are still at the bottom, hiding beneath years of algae and fish shit.
The pond is too cold, I decide. I pull my hand out and wipe it against my shirt. I would worry about stains, but I know Father won’t wear this again.
After our conversation, Jin Ling slept, the drugs in her body forcing her through years of rest. Hiro’s book of stars curled at her side, filling the catless space. I’ve never felt more awake. My mind whirls and spins with possibilities. Thoughts of Jin Ling and her sister. The girl and the ledger. The New Year and the six days between.
The girl… she’s been on my mind a lot these days. How her eyes came to life when I gave her the shell. How her hand pressed up against the grate, mirrored mine. How, when I look through the window, I don’t have to see my pieces; I see her, pulling them all together. How her words brought a smile to my face, tugged it out of nowhere like a rabbit from a magician’s hat.
I haven’t smiled like that in a long, long time.
I’ve never felt more awake.
The shuffling of feet causes me to look up, and I see Emiyo standing at the far end of the pond. Her knuckles are so white they look like exposed bone.
“Master Dai, you have a visitor.” Emiyo’s words are screws winched until they can no longer spin.
There’s not much of a question of who’s visiting me. I can smell the smoke from here. “Thanks, Emiyo.”
My handler is in the foyer. He’s pretending to be busy, examining a tapestry woven full of sparrows and cherry blossoms, when I walk in. The coal end of his cigarette glows dangerously close to the fabric.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here,” I say.
Tsang straightens, his stare flicking over to where I stand. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, lets it smolder between his fingers. “And you shouldn’t leave Hak Nam. But here we are.”
“How’d you know?” I let an eyebrow arch, try not to show the fear that’s started to scurry under my belly.
“You missed our meeting. Plus the police processed a very interesting call from a cabdriver a few days ago. Said he took two boys covered in blood to Tai Ping Hill. Didn’t take long to connect the dots.”
I missed the meeting.… Have I really been here that long? This house has a way of making time stand still. Days, months, years. Nothing changes but our faces. What else have I missed?
“I could have you arrested,” my handler goes on, “if I was so inclined.”
“I had to do something,” I say. “My runner was dying.”
“And you did something. Never mind that I told you to get rid of him,” he growls. “Now you’re just sitting on your ass. Wasting days. Watching the clock.”
My jaw bulges. I can’t look at his eyes, or the mole that juts out from the corner of his chin. Instead, I stare down at the cigarette and the ashes it’s raining on the floor.
“I’ve been patient with you so far. But we’re running out of time.” My handler’s wrist flicks, too jerky to be a mistake. White-hot ash explodes across the floorboards. From here it looks almost like snow. “I want you back in Hak Nam by tonight.”
Because I’m feeling surly, I challenge him. “Or what?”
Tsang reaches into his jacket. At first I think he’s going for another cigarette (he’s running low), but he pulls out a fold of paper instead. He holds it up for me to see: my name, my crimes, my pardon. It’s stamped and signed by one of the most powerful judges Seng Ngoi has to offer.
Fresh ink, flimsy paper freedom. So close I could reach out and snatch it.
“You get me the ledger—you get me Longwai’s ass on a platter—you get this. If not…” Tsang pulls the document back, oh-so-close to the amber glare of his cigarette. The air around us singes and stinks. “All it takes is one phone call. One and you’re done.”
He thinks this will scare me, silence any further questions. It should. A lifetime of navy jumpsuits, cafeteria trays, always looking for shanks out of the corner of my eye is hardly something to scoff at. But all I can think about is the promise I made the girl. I can get you out. How I need it to be true.
“The girls in Longwai’s brothel. What will happen to them?” I think of how easy it would be for them to slip through Hak Nam’s thousands of cracks. Get sucked back into the rip current blackness of streets and men’s lust.
“Don’t worry about the whores. Worry about yourself.” Tsang folds the paper back up (quite a feat with only one cigaretteless hand).
“What’s going on here?” My father walks up to my side, but he doesn’t look at me. All his concentration is poured into glowering at the Security Branch agent. His mouth is straight, but his eyes are sharp and snapping, like riled Dobermans. I’m sure it’s the face he uses when he’s trying to intimidate the party on the other side of the table at business negotiations for Sun Industries. It’s the reason our family is wealthy enough to live on Tai Ping Hill.
“Just having a few words with your son here, Mr. Sun.” My handler tucks his hands behind his back, blocking the cigarette from sight.
“It’s getting late,” my father says, even though it isn’t. “Certainly you have work to get back to.”
“I was just finishing up.” My handler gives a smile that’s too thin to be an actual smile. “I’ll see myself out.”
And he does. The door opens and closes, allowing in a howl of cold air that only sharpens the stink of smoke. The floor’s ashes swirl and then die again.
“What are they making you do?” My father follows the ashes with his eyes. We stare at them together.
“Impossible things,” I say, because it’s shortest and easiest and true.
“There are other ways, Dai Shing.”
“Are there?” I look up. He’s standing close to me. Our shirts match, except mine is
still damp with pond water. I notice, for the first time, that I’m taller than he is. “Even all your money can’t buy my way out of drug dealing and three dead bodies.”
Father shuts his eyes. His lids flutter, like he’s in pain. “You can run. We have contacts overseas. Your English is good enough. I’ve already had documents drawn up.”
Running. I wonder why he’s only bringing this up now, down to the wire. He’s asked me to wait so long, forced me to risk so many things to clear my name. Our name. The Sun family name.
The look on his face tells me all I need to know. If I flee the country, it will bring shame to our household. Any chance my father has at acquiring a pardon—of washing our social status clean (even if it is really just a technicality)—flies away with me on that plane. That’s why it’s his ultimatum. His last possible resort.
I could run. Start clean, away from Hak Nam and Seng Ngoi and my family. Away from the Security Branch and Longwai’s ledger. Away from the girls.
Don’t worry about the whores. Worry about yourself.
It’s all I’ve done for a long, long time. Covering my own ass. Worrying, worrying, always worrying. Warning: Side effects of insomnia and selfish bastard may vary.
I think of how small Jin Ling’s hand felt under mine. I think of the girl behind the window, with her midnight braid and faint glow of hope. I even think about that damn cat—tailless and alone in Hak Nam, probably still meowing like he owns the place.
These thoughts twist, twist, twist my heart. They wring out a single, undeniable truth: It’s not just about me anymore.
Maybe it never was.
And suddenly I realize what I’ve been wanting all this time. The ache that coming home couldn’t fix. Redemption. A chance to make things right. I can’t resurrect my brother, but I can help the girls. Their escape is mine.
I can’t trust the Security Branch to find Jin Ling’s sister or free the girl behind the window. These are things I have to do myself.
I’m not walking away this time.
“I have to stay. I have to make it right.” My father’s eyes are still closed when I tell him this. “I’m going back to Hak Nam.”