Everybody on the bus is changing seats to get out of the rain. There must be holes all over the bus. There are four umbrellas up … no, five. They’re going up everywhere. It’s so crazy! I grin. This would never happen in Australia, but I kind of like it.
Soon all the passengers have settled into their new seats and we jig along the bumpy road. It’s pitch-black outside now. I feel the bus straining up the mountain. Then it comes to a stop. I wipe a clear circle in the fogged-up window and look out. There are no lights, no houses, no cars. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if the bus has broken down.
To my surprise, the driver opens the door and a farmer wearing a woven bamboo hat and a cape made
from long dried grass gets on. He’s carrying a basket with two brown ducks inside it. The man takes the empty seat behind us, leaving his ducks and cape in the aisle.
We pick up more and more passengers as we climb higher and higher. A woman carrying a piglet in her arms, a man with a baby tied to his back, a lady with a basket full of vegetables on a long bamboo pole. By now, the floor of the bus is covered in a layer of muddy water and it’s still pouring outside. When we go around a bend, the water sloshes from one side of the bus to the other. I lift my feet when it comes my way but my shoes and socks are already soaked.
I’m just thinking how funny this bus ride is when something plops onto my shoe. It’s heavy, wet, cold and alive!
I scream, pulling my legs up to my chest. It’s so dark, I can’t see a thing down there.
Por Por looks at me. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.
Then we hear a loud croaking sound.
‘Just a family of frogs hitching a ride,’ she says with a chuckle.
I look up and down the aisle. She’s right. Huge frogs as big as a man’s fist are jumping against everyone’s legs. I’ve always liked frogs, but only when I can see them. I can’t keep my legs up like this forever, so I put them down carefully. No one else seems to care, so I won’t care either. I try hard to pretend that the frogs are just large soft stones rolling around on the floor.
Once we cross the mountains, we travel along flat ground again. It has stopped raining and we put our umbrella away.
I look out of the window at the mist that swirls around our bus. Mama told me the Isle of Clouds isn’t really an island. It’s just that the mist is so thick it makes the whole town look as if it’s floating on a sea of clouds.
I feel the wheels of the bus rumble over the wooden slats of a bridge.
Pale yellow lights appear and disappear in the fog like ghostly faces. Some seem to come right up to the window, blink at me with big eyes, then fade away.
‘Yun Dao, the Isle of Clouds,’ Por Por says, but I hardly hear her voice. I suddenly feel so sleepy.
I’m a prisoner locked in a stone dungeon. A shard of light shines through a crack high up in the wall. It’s cold and damp and my bones ache. I hear squeaking, the rustling of rats in the corner, and the sound of rushing water. It grows louder and louder, surging towards the door of my dungeon. I scream but it’s as if my throat is stuffed with cotton wool.
I wake up with a pitiful frog-like croak, and lie there in the semi-darkness. It was only a nightmare, I tell myself, but the dream has left me shaking.
My bed is not nearly as soft as my bed at home where there are hollows and ridges in all the right places. I remember being so tired last night when we arrived at Por Por’s house. I can’t even remember how we got there. I know it’s morning because I can see slivers of daylight through cracks in the wooden walls. I lie for a few more moments looking around the tiny darkened room as the fog of sleep clears in my head. There’s a small cupboard with its door open, and a single coat hanging inside. A low table with some pens in a glass jar sits in the corner beside a lamp with a crooked cloth shade. On the wall above my head is a photo of Ting Ting smiling, taking the oar of a boat.
Then I hear the sound of water slapping and gurgling below me. Am I still dreaming? I kneel on my bed and push out a wooden shutter that is hinged at the top of the window. Light streams into the room, making me squint at the brightness. A cold breeze brushes my bare arms, and I shiver. There’s a pole lying on the sill, so I use that to prop the window open. Then I lean out.
I’m looking out over a canal so narrow I could swim across it in ten easy strokes. The legs of our house are standing in water, as are all the other houses along the canal. Some are made of white stone, with black-tiled roofs that turn up at the corners into graceful points. Others, like Por Por’s house, are made of dark red wood. A black and grey spotty dog barks at me from a verandah across the way. Some of the houses have tiny windows covered with intricate lattice, and pots of yellow and pink flowers sit on ledges and windowsills.
Steps lead down to the water where a row of wooden boats with canvas canopies are tied up to a stone wharf. Other boats glide silently past my window, leaving a trail of diamond-studded water.
Further up the canal I see an arched stone bridge that seems to float above the water, its reflection like a pale green moon. And in the distance, behind the houses, a mountain rises up, then disappears into the clouds.
Why didn’t Mama tell me how beautiful the Isle of Clouds is?
‘Wei!’ cries a voice below me. I look down at a man standing in a boat full of fruit and vegetables. He leans on his long oar, knocks the bill of his cap back, and smiles. ‘Is Bao Min at home?’ he asks.
Bao Min is Por Por’s actual name, and before I have a chance to reply, the window in the room next door opens and she pokes her head out. ‘Ling Feng,’ she greets him happily, wedging the pole in place to hold the shutter open. ‘It’s good to see you, old friend.’
‘It’s good to have you back,’ Ling Feng replies.
Por Por and Ling Feng start joking with each other but I can’t understand a word. Mama said there was no point teaching me the Isle of Cloud’s dialect because it’s only spoken around here. She taught me Mandarin instead, which is used all over China.
Ling Feng slaps his thigh and his laughter bounces off the moss-covered walls of the canal. The boat rocks from side to side. I think it’s going to tip over, but Lin Feng steadies it with his legs as if he was born on the water.
‘This is Little Cloud,’ Por Por says, switching back to Mandarin. She nods towards me. ‘She comes from Australia.’
‘Wah, I never realised that Australians look so much like Chinese,’ Ling Feng says.
Por Por laughs. ‘She’s my granddaughter, silly.’
Ling Feng nods, a little embarrassed. ‘What would you like today?’ he asks.
‘What have you got that’s fresh?’ Por Por replies playfully.
‘Ah, it is all fresh, Bao Min! I have some very nice cabbages.’ He holds up a handful of small, leafy green vegetables. ‘And the bamboo shoots and the turnips are very good, too, picked fresh this morning.’
I realise then that Ling Feng is a floating fruit-and-vegetable shop!
As Ling Feng weighs out the fruit and vegetables, Por Por ducks back into her room. She reappears with her purse and a wide basket, which she lowers down to him on a long rope.
‘Did you hear about Bao Mansion?’ Ling Feng asks.
‘No, what news is that, Ling Feng?’
‘A nice young couple have bought it. They are going to turn it into a spa hotel.’
‘I see,’ says Por Por, lifting her eyebrows. ‘What happened to the Shens?’
‘Not sure why, but they moved out quite suddenly. There was something fishy going on. Next thing we knew, Bao Mansion had new owners. Aiya! That house has never been the same since it was so cruelly taken from your family.’ Ling Feng sighs.
I wonder what he’s talking about and look at Por Por questioningly.
‘Thank you for keeping me up to date,’ Por Por says. ‘I will drop by later on today and introduce myself to the young couple. I’d like to show Little Cloud where her por por grew up.’ She smiles at me.
‘Good idea,’ says Ling Feng.
‘There, all done. Haul it up and I’ll be off.’
Por Por raises the basket.
I watch Ling Feng as he rows up the canal. Another customer leans out of her window, calling to him. This town is amazing – everything seems to revolve around the water.
‘Come and have some breakfast, Little Cloud,’ Por Por says, pulling her head inside the room.
I meet her in the cosy kitchen.
‘Sit over there by the window. That way you can see all the comings and goings in the Isle of Clouds.’
I slide along the small bench and sit close to the window. I feel as if I’m in a secret treehouse, high up in the sky, watching the world go by.
The table is set with small dishes of roasted peanuts, salted fish, pickled vegetables and mantou – steamed white bread.
I’m so starving I could eat a horse. Well, not really, because I love horses. But I could eat almost anything.
‘I made some rice porridge with fish,’ Por Por says, ladling some into my bowl. She adds finely chopped spring onions and ginger, and a few drops of sesame oil. I stir it in with my spoon. Mmm … delicious! It warms my stomach and I feel tears well up in my eyes. Mama used to cook rice porridge for us. Whenever I was sick in bed with a cold or sore tummy there was nothing I felt like eating more. She would bring it to my room on a tray, and we would talk about nothing at all – the shape of the clouds drifting by, the song of the magpie up in the old oak tree, our next family holiday …
Mama never told me much about the Isle of Clouds. Did she want to forget her old life? Or was it because I never asked her? I wish I had been more interested. Now it’s too late.
I don’t know much about Papa’s family history either, or Lyons – the city where he came from. He talks about it sometimes, but I’m going to make sure I ask him more questions when I get home. I have met my French grandparents. They’re really nice. They’ve been out to Australia a few times but I’ve never been to visit them in France. We can’t afford holidays to places far away because Papa’s an artist. And most artists don’t earn very much money.
‘What is Bao Mansion?’ I ask Por Por. ‘And what did Ling Feng mean when he said it was taken from our family?’
Por Por looks at me for a moment. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ she says.
I shake my head. ‘Mama told me we came from a rich family, but then something bad happened.’
Por Por looks sad. She gazes out the window, across the canal to the houses on the other side. ‘My father, your great-grandfather, was a very clever and very wise man,’ she begins, as if she’s telling a story. ‘He was Judge of this town and everyone loved and respected him. We lived in Bao Mansion, which was the grandest house in the Isle of Clouds. My father inherited it from his father and his father inherited it from his father, and so it was passed down through the generations for over five hundred years.’
‘Five hundred years!’ I am surprised that any house could be that old and still be standing.
Por Por nods and smiles. ‘I spent the first twelve years of my life in that grand old house. I lived there with my parents and two younger brothers and lots of servants. I remember the lake that was fed by an underground spring. It was so pure, we took all our drinking water from it. And the rooms … there were so many of them that if you wanted to, you could hide for days and never be found.’ She sighs. ‘They were such wonderful times.’
Then she frowns and her mouth becomes straight and hard. ‘But one day my father was accused of stealing a large amount of money. He was put in jail without a trial, so there was no way he could prove that he was innocent. The people in the town were shocked and disbelieving at first. “Not Judge Bao,” they said. “He wouldn’t do such a thing.” But Shen Da Pai, a corrupt and evil official, convinced them that my father was guilty. The day he was arrested was the last time I ever saw my father.’
Por Por puts her elbow on the windowsill, resting her chin in her palm. She’s not crying, but there are rain clouds in her eyes where there used to be bright shiny stars. ‘My father was an honourable man,’ she says. ‘He would never have done such a thing.’
‘What happened after that, Por Por?’ I ask, softly.
‘He died … in prison, five years later.’
I sit there, stunned. ‘But why did that man, Shen … whatever his name is, do something so bad?’
‘Shen Da Pai was not without his own problems,’ Por Por says. ‘When he was a young boy his leg was crushed in an accident. After that, he walked with a limp. His father was ashamed of his crippled son and ignored him. So Shen Da Pai learnt to bully others. At the same time he learnt to be extremely charming. My father and Shen Da Pai were classmates. Shen Da Pai was clever but lazy, and he craved power. He never wanted to work hard but he wanted everything my father had. After my father was put in prison, we were driven out of Bao Mansion.’
‘But it belonged to your family for generations! How could they just take it like that?’
‘My father was disgraced, so his house and lands were confiscated.’
‘Where did you go then, Por Por?’
‘We were able to stay with relatives for a while but that became impossible as my mother had no money. So I was sent away to work for a rich family in Shanghai, helping out with cooking and cleaning.’
‘When you were only twelve?’ I say. I can’t imagine leaving my family to clean and cook for someone else. I can’t even imagine cleaning and cooking for my own family.
‘Every month I would send money to my mother who had moved away from the Isle of Clouds,’ Por Por continues. ‘Then, one day, the money I sent was returned.’ She shrugs and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what happened to them. They simply disappeared.’
‘But didn’t you go and look for them?’
‘Oh yes, I searched and searched, Little Cloud … but China is a huge country with millions of people.’
I feel like the hole in my heart has just grown twice as big as before. Por Por didn’t just lose her mother, she lost her whole family. I think of Papa and Robbie, and I shiver.
SHEN DA PAI. The name is like an icy wind that cuts straight through me.
‘The Isle of Clouds hasn’t changed that much since the Ming dynasty more than five hundred years ago,’ Por Por says as we leave the house. ‘Everyone either walks or travels by boat as the alleyways are too narrow for cars.’
At the bottom of the hill is a wharf. A row of water taxis are lined up waiting for passengers. We take a two-seater and sit under its black canvas roof.
‘Where to, Mrs Bao?’ the boatman asks.
‘The marketplace, thank you,’ Por Por says.
The boatman positions himself in the back, takes up the long oar and manoeuvres the boat out into the middle of the canal. We glide silently under a stone bridge and pass a teahouse overflowing with people having their breakfast, or perhaps it’s their morning tea. I know how much the Chinese love their food – they like to eat all the time. The double doors open onto the canal and there are wooden tables and stools out on a balcony. Plates and chopsticks clink and clatter and there is lots of laughter. Then the noise slowly fades till the only sound is the water gently slapping the side of our boat.
Por Por waves and calls out to a lady wearing a blue-and-white jacket, with a pink scarf around her head. She’s squatting on some stone steps, washing vegetables. The lady’s round face stretches into a big smile when she sees Por Por.
‘Eh, Bao Min, hui lai le, you’re back! Let’s get together and play a game of mahjong sometime soon.’
The canals are narrow in some places, and when we meet other boats it’s like squeezing through the neck of a bottle. But the boatmen are good navigators and the boats glide past each other without even touching sides.
Soon we pull up at a large marketplace. It’s filled with chatter and animal noises and people selling meat and fruit and vegetables. We get off the boat and walk past the stalls with live chickens and ducks and small finches in pretty bamboo cages. Then w
e’re in the narrow alleyways again between rows of wooden houses. All the doors and windows are carved with patterns of mountains, trees, birds and flowers. I imagine what it must have been like in the olden days, the men strolling down these same alleyways, their long silk gowns swishing as they walked, while the ladies peeked out shyly from behind the lattice windows.
Mama told me that in those times, women weren’t allowed out of the house unless they were poor peasants who had to work in the fields. Even when the girls married, they were taken to the groom’s house in a covered sedan chair, their faces completely hidden under a red silk headdress.
It’s so quiet and peaceful as we wind our way deeper into the town. Por Por and I don’t talk. I like that because I want to listen and imagine. The houses seem to be talking to me, murmuring their old secrets. Some buildings feel as if they are smiling, others are grumpy, or sad. How is it that I know so much about this place, I wonder. Is it because my ancestors lived here for hundreds of years?
I hear footsteps behind us and we both turn.
‘Wei, Mrs Bao,’ a man calls out. He’s carrying a small boy in his arms. ‘I’ve been waiting for your return,’ he says to Por Por.
‘Mr Guo, you seem a little agitated,’ Por Por replies. ‘Is there something troubling you?’
‘We need your help. There are some strange goings-on in our house.’
‘Is your wife at home now?’ Por Por says.
‘No, she’s with a friend. She’s too scared …’
‘Good. What I want you to do is to stay away this evening. I will see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Mrs Bao,’ the man bows, then hurries off, the little boy bobbing in his arms.
‘We won’t be able to visit Bao Mansion today, I’m afraid,’ Por Por says. ‘I’ll need to check out Mr and Mrs Guo’s house first.’
‘What does he want you to do?’ I ask, wondering what’s going on. First it was the Frenchman in Mrs Wang’s house in Shanghai, now there’s something weird happening in Mr Guo’s house. And why do they come to Por Por for help? Why don’t they just go to the police?
A Ghost in my Suitcase Page 4
