These Violent Delights

by Chloe Gong

  “Is your father not home?” Juliette asked.

  “No. He is in a meeting,” Paul replied. “The rent will not pay itself, after all.”

  The gate slid open, resounding with a firm click. Paul offered his arm.

  “Indeed,” Juliette muttered. The rent wasn’t paying itself. So how much could a merchant be making to afford this, and how could he have made so much so fast? Other houses along this road were occupied by bankers and lieutenants and well-to-do diplomats. Walter Dexter had marched into Shanghai desperate enough to beg the Scarlet Gang for an audience. He had slunk into the burlesque club with a suit that bore a small rip at the sleeve. He certainly had not started out in this house. He certainly had not swept into this city already brimming with money.

  And yet the evidence before her said otherwise.

  They passed the statues installed on the lawns, depictions of goddesses and sprites piled over one another, faces forlorn and marble skin glistening. The front door, which Paul pulled open for her, was etched with gold, bold against its other entranceways and against the swooping exterior staircases that framed the house.

  “It’s beautiful,” Juliette said quietly.

  She meant it.

  Juliette came through the foyer and entered a circular living room, her shoes echoing loudly on the hard flooring and drawing the attention of the servants who were folding linens. Upon sighting Paul, they gathered their things and hurried out, exchanging knowing glances. None of the servants bothered closing the quaint doors at the side of the living room—doors that were framed by pots of flowers and gave way to an expansive backyard. They were pulled wide open, letting a strong breeze trail in with confidence, billowing at the gossamer white curtains in a way that reminded Juliette of dancing showgirls.

  Paul hurried to the doors and pulled them closed. The curtains settled still, fluttering to a sad stop. He remained there for a second longer than necessary, staring out into his yard, his eyes gleaming with the bright light outside. Juliette came to stand beside him, breathing in deeply. Standing here, if she tried hard enough, she could almost forget what the streets of Shanghai looked like. She could be anywhere else. Rural England or the American South, perhaps. The air smelled sweet enough. The sights were pleasant enough.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Paul asked softly. “A September sun, losing some of its heat if not its brilliance…”

  “We are far from the Colorado range, Mr. Dexter,” Juliette replied, catching his quote.

  Paul jumped, unable to hide his surprise. Then he grinned and said, “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. For a Chinese woman, your English is extraordinary. There is not a trace of an accent to be found.”

  Juliette placed her hand on the doors. When she pressed down, she felt the cold of the delicate glass seep into her bones.

  “I have an American accent,” she replied dully.

  Paul waved her off. “You know what I mean.”

  Do I? she wanted to say. Would I be less if I sounded like my mother, my father, and all those in this city who were forced to learn more than one language, unlike you?

  She said nothing. Paul took the opportunity to touch her elbow and lead her into the rest of the house, speaking excitedly about his surprise. They wound through the long halls, passing surrealistic paintings that hung from the pearl-white walls. Juliette craned her neck every which way, trying to inspect the rooms she could glimpse into, but they were walking too speedily for her to get a good look.

  It turned out that Juliette needn’t have worried about searching for Walter Dexter’s locus of business. Paul led her right into it. They came into a large office space—likely the biggest room in the entire house—with smooth wooden flooring and high bookshelves lining the walls. Here the air felt different: murkier, more humid, a result of the sealed windows and thick curtains. Juliette’s eyes went to the giant desk first, taking in the menagerie of files and stacks upon stacks of papers.

  “Hobson,” Paul called. “Hobson!”

  A butler appeared behind them: Chinese, dressed in a Western getup. There was no way his name was truly Hobson. Juliette would not have been surprised if Paul had merely assigned him this name because he did not wish to pronounce his Chinese one.

  “Sir?”

  Paul gestured into the room, to the spacious area in front of the desk where there was an oval gray rug and, atop it, four easels with four large canvases, covered by a coarse cloth.

  “Would you do the honors?”

  Hobson bowed. He strode into the room, his spine straight and his white-gloved hands held in front of him. When he pulled off the cloth, the fabric blended with his gloves.

  Juliette looked at the four canvases.

  “Oh… my…”

  “Do you like them?”

  Each canvas was a painting of her: two as a study of her facial features and the other two involving scenery, placing her in a garden or what might have been the world’s loneliest tea party. Juliette didn’t know what was more horrifying, that Paul thought this was a gift she would be pleased to receive, or that he actually spent his hard-earned dirty money from the Larkspur on this. She didn’t even know what to say, perhaps except: “My nose isn’t that high.”

  Paul jerked back, ever so slightly. “What?”

  “My nose”—Juliette pulled her elbow from his grasp and turned to face the paneled windows, so he could see her side profile—“is rather flat. I am beautiful from the front, I know, but my side profile is rather lackluster. You’ve given me too much credit.”

  Hobson started to fold up the cloth sheet. The sound was too loud in the abrupt quiet that had settled into the room. Paul’s lips were slowly turning down, faltering—finally, finally, for the first time all day, picking up on Juliette’s attitude. This was not ideal. She was supposed to be winning his trust, not trashing it, no matter how creepy he was. She quickly turned to face Paul again, beaming.

  “But I’m so incredibly flattered. How very kind of you. How could I thank you for such a gift?”

  Paul grasped her offer of recovery. He inclined his head, pleased once more, and said, “Oh, it is my pleasure. Hobson, pack up the paintings and send someone to take them to Miss Cai’s house, would you?”

  Juliette was looking forward to tossing the canvases in the attic and never looking at them again. Or maybe she should burn the horrific things instead. If Rosalind saw them, she would never let Juliette live it down.

  “Shall we continue our walk, then?”

  Juliette startled. If they left Walter’s office now, could she find the time to come back without being spotted? The house was full of servants, and she doubted anyone would hesitate to tell on her if they caught her lurking about.

  Hobson cleared his throat, meaning to inch past Juliette with one of the canvases in his arms. Absently, still contemplating her options, Juliette took a step away and cleared a path, her back pressing to the cool wooden column behind her. It was mightily warm in this part of the Dexters’ house. Unnaturally warm.

  As Hobson exited, inspiration struck.

  “All this excitement,” Juliette said suddenly, placing a hand to her forehead. “I—” She feigned a swoon. Paul rushed forward to catch her. He was quick enough to stop her from hitting the ground, but by then she had settled herself solidly into a crumpled position, her knees curled up beneath her.

  “Miss Cai, are you—”

  “It is merely the heat. It rushes right to my head,” Juliette assured him breathlessly, waving off his concern. “Do you have tiger balm? Of course not—you British have no clue about our medicines. I’m sure one of your house servants must know what I’m talking about. Can you fetch me some?”

  “Of course, of course,” Paul stammered quickly. Harried, he let go of her gently and hurried off.

  Juliette immediately scrabbled up.

  “I’m really making a habit out of snooping around other people’s desks,” she muttered to herself. With the countdown ticking, she shuffled through the files
, her eyes scanning for any mention of the Larkspur. She found dozens of calling cards, dozens of letters containing contact information, but there was no invoice with the Larkspur—not even anything to do with lernicrom. He was certainly still trying to sell the drug, so where was the evidence?

  There was no time to mull further. Footsteps were coming back down the hallway.

  Cursing under her breath, Juliette tidied the ordered stacks of files, then returned to the spot where she had collapsed, leaning onto her elbows. She didn’t look up when Paul appeared before her, pretending to be too dizzy to lift her head higher than a few inches from the ground.

  “Apologies for my delay,” Paul puffed. “I accosted Hobson and demanded this elusive tiger balm of him, but he was unreceptive to my hurry. He said he had already placed some in my briefcase last week when I complained of my headache. I had to hunt down my briefcase.”

  Two clicks rang through the room. Juliette peered through her darkened lashes and saw Paul shuffling around the mess in his briefcase. As he stuck his hand into one of the pockets on the lid, muttering when his fingers got stuck in the tight space, Juliette caught sight of business logs lying in the case, delivery invoices marked with such tiny font that it was a miracle her eyes caught ATTN: LARKSPUR.

  Juliette barely held back her gasp. Paul perhaps interpreted the sound she emitted as one of gratitude, because he twisted open the jar and gingerly touched the balm, slathering enough on his finger to bring it to her temple.

  At least he knew enough about this balm to know where it was supposed to be applied. His fingers were awfully cold.

  “Thank you,” Juliette said. She forced her eyes to wander, so that Paul wouldn’t note where her attention had snagged. “I feel much better. I don’t suppose I could have a drink of water? I’ll feel much better once hydrated.”

  Paul nodded eagerly and rushed off once again, this time leaving behind his open briefcase.

  Juliette snatched the business logs.

  Invoice #10092A

  September 23rd, 1926

  ATTN: Larkspur

  10 boxes—lernicrom

  The signature below certifies responsibility on behalf of signee that he will assure the remaining passage of the product to the intended recipient.

  Deliverer: Archibald Welch

  “Archibald Welch,” Juliette muttered in echo. She had never before heard the name. But the invoice in her hands made it as clear as day that this man had personal contact with the Larkspur, running between Walter Dexter as the middleman. Quickly, she flipped through each sheet in the pile, finding them all to be different dates with various amounts of boxes, but identically signed. It wasn’t the same as directly finding the Larkspur’s address, but it was one step closer.

  Juliette placed the logs back neatly. Paul returned, a glass of water in hand.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. He gave her the glass and watched her take a sip. “Does your head feel clearer?”

  Smiling, Juliette set the glass down. “Oh,” she said demurely. “Everything is clearing up now.”

  * * *

  “You’re home late.”

  Juliette tossed her jacket onto her bed, then tossed herself on too, rocking the entire frame with her weight. Kathleen was almost thrown out of the comfortable position she had made herself at the foot of the bed. She shot her cousin an evil glance as the bed stilled, but no glare from Kathleen ever looked sincere.

  “I’m heading out again in half an hour.” Juliette groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes. Merely a second later, she quickly removed her arm, rubbing the stray cosmetics from her skin and wincing, knowing that she had smeared the product on her lashes. “Where’s Rosalind?”

  Kathleen rested her chin in her hand.

  “She was needed at the club again.”

  Juliette frowned. “More foreigners?”

  “The French are getting antsy with this madness,” Kathleen replied, “and if they cannot do anything about it, they will pretend they are being useful by asking for continuous meetings to discuss their next course of action.”

  “There is no next course of action,” Juliette said dryly. “At least not from them. Unless they wish to mobilize their armies against one monster lurking in the shadows of Shanghai.”

  Kathleen sighed in response. She flipped to the next page of her fashion magazine.

  “By the way, your father came around earlier looking for you.”

  “Oh?” Juliette said. “Did Bàba want something?”

  “Said he was merely doing a head count.” Kathleen grimaced. “He’s on edge about the White Flower spy. It seems he’s contemplating evicting some distant relatives from the house.”

  “Good,” Juliette muttered.

  Kathleen rolled her eyes, then extended her hand. Juliette threaded her fingers through her cousin’s, immediately less burdened, the tension in her body softening.

  “Are you still following the Communists?” Kathleen asked.

  “No, we—” Juliette paused, her pulse jumping. Quickly, she corrected, “I’m waiting on more confirmation before I make any accusations.”

  Kathleen nodded. “Fair.” She flipped another page in her magazine with her other hand. When she had flipped three and Juliette had not said anything more, opting to stare at her ceiling instead, Kathleen wrinkled her nose.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Trying to mentally organize my time,” Juliette replied wryly. She pulled her hand away and rolled over, squinting at the little clock ticking on her vanity. “I need a favor.”

  Kathleen closed her magazine. “Go on.”

  “I need all the information there is on a man named Archibald Welch. I need to know how to find him.”

  “And is there a reason?” Kathleen asked. Though she questioned, she was already getting off the bed, grabbing her nearby coat and shrugging it on.

  “He may have the Larkspur’s true identity.”

  Kathleen pulled at her coat collar, then tugged out the hair that had gotten caught inside. “I’ll send a messenger over with whatever I find. Do you need it before your meeting?”

  “That would be optimal, yes.”

  Kathleen mocked a salute. She moved fast, her objective square in her head, but just as she came to the doorway, Juliette called, “Wait.”

  Kathleen paused.

  A beat passed. Juliette sat up straighter, drawing her knees to her chest. “Thank you,” she said, her voice suddenly shaky. “For sticking by me. Even when you disapprove.” Even when my hands are dripping with blood.

  Kathleen almost seemed amused. Slowly, she came back into the room and settled into a delicate crouch before her cousin.

  “I get the feeling you think I’m a little judgmental of all you do.”

  Juliette shrugged. Earnestly, she asked, “Aren’t you?”

  “Juliette, come on.” Kathleen got out of her crouch, opting to sit beside her cousin instead. “Do you remember Rosalind’s friend? The annoying one?”

  Juliette wasn’t sure where this was going, but she searched her memory anyway, sifting through the few friends she remembered Rosalind to have had.

  She came up blank.

  “Was this before we all left for the West or the first time I came back?”

  “The first time you came back. Rosalind was working at the burlesque club already.”

  By the look of Juliette’s constipated expression, Kathleen figured she wasn’t remembering.

  “Her name was some gemstone,” Kathleen kept trying. “I can’t remember exactly what, but… Ruby? Sapphire? Emerald?”

  It clicked suddenly. A suppressed laugh escaped from Juliette, and then Kathleen—even as she tried to clamp her lips together—was laughing too, though the memory was hardly something to be humored over.

  “Amethyst,” Juliette said. “It was Amethyst.”

  Amethyst had been at least five years older than all of them, and Rosalind had worshipped the ground she walked on. She was the long-legg
ed star of the stage, the one training Rosalind to become the next dazzling meteor.

  Amethyst also drove Kathleen up the wall. She was always telling her to buy those whitening creams, to get a new qipao fitted, edging closer and closer toward the most offensive insinuations—

  Until the day Kathleen finally snapped.

  “Juliette!” she remembered her cousin yelling from the back of the burlesque club. “Juliette!”

  “What is going on?” Juliette had muttered, leaving her table and moving toward the sound of Kathleen’s call. Eventually, she found herself slipping into Rosalind’s dressing room, and though Rosalind was nowhere to be found, Kathleen was pacing the length of it, guarding a slumped figure sprawled on the floor.

  “I think she’s dead,” Kathleen cried. “She tried to grab me, so I pushed her and she hit her head and—”

  Juliette waved a hand for her cousin to stop speaking. She knelt on the ground and put a hand on Amethyst’s neck. There was a small smattering of blood coming from the girl’s temple, but her pulse was thudding just fine.

  “What is she even doing in here?” Juliette asked. “Did she follow you?”

  Kathleen nodded. “I got so angry. I was only defending myself! I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, hush, she’s fine,” Juliette said, standing. “I’m more concerned about how loudly you yelled for me to come—”

  Rosalind’s dressing room door flew open then. Two other dancers barged in, with Rosalind in tow. Immediately, the dancers rushed for Amethyst on the floor, crying out in concern.

  “What happened?” Rosalind asked, horrified. The two dancers immediately looked to Kathleen. Kathleen looked to Juliette. And in that moment, as Juliette and Kathleen exchanged a glance, an understanding had clicked into place. One of them was always safe. The other was not.

  “Maybe Amethyst should mind her own business,” Juliette said. “Next time I’ll hit harder.”

  One of the dancers blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” Juliette said. “Get her out of my sight. In fact, get her out of this club. I don’t want to see her face ever again.”