Each shop sells something different and unusual. There’s a shop where everything’s made out of silver – teapots, jugs, bowls, even chopsticks. Another sells Chinese painting equipment. A lady is sitting out the front making paintbrushes; a baby is asleep on her back, wrapped in a blue-and-orange cloth tied around her waist. I watch as she bundles together soft white hairs. She tells me they are the hairs of a goat. ‘Feel them,’ she says, brushing the hairs against my cheek. They are silky soft. ‘These brushes are good for calligraphy or painting landscapes.’ She ties the hairs together with fine black thread then glues it into a shaft of bamboo. Next she wets the hairs of the brush with watery glue and smooths them down so that they are perfectly straight with a point at the end.
‘This protects them until they are ready to be used for the first time.’ The baby wakes up and she reaches over her shoulder and pats its downy black head. ‘Before you use a brand new brush for the first time you must soak the hairs in water.’
Just for fun I buy one made out of white goat hair, for Jess, and one made from the hairs of a squirrel for Bronte.
I hear a soft tink tink tink coming from the shop next door and move on. In this shop are all kinds of brass locks in cabinets and hanging on the walls. They shine so brightly they seem to glow. They aren’t ordinary locks like you would use for locking your suitcase, or padlocking a gate. They fit on the front of cupboards and chests.
Mama has one on the camphorwood chest in the hallway but I’ve never seen locks as beautiful as these before. They’re shaped like pagodas and butterflies and flowers. There’s even one of the Eiffel Tower and the Sydney Opera House.
A man is sitting in the back of the shop working with a tiny hammer. He smiles when I come in and shows me the lock he’s making for a customer’s front door. It’s a crane flying through clouds. It’s lovely and costs a lot of money. I say goodbye and walk further down the alley where there’s a covered walkway along the canal.
I can speak Chinese better than I can read it, but I instantly recognise the two characters on a restaurant sign up a little way. They say tang yuan, my most favourite dessert in the whole wide world – well, except for pavlova and crème brulee and chocolate-ripple cake and souffle. Tang yuan are glutinous rice balls filled with either black sesame, peanut or red bean paste. Black sesame are my favourite. Mama used to say black sesame makes your hair strong and shiny.
I go into the tiny café. All the tables and chairs are miniature like the ones we used to sit on in kindergarten. I sit with my knees almost touching my chin and watch a lady make the tang yuan. After she rolls them into balls, she drops them in boiling water. They only take a few minutes to cook.
I bite into the chewy white ball and my mouth fills with the sweetness of the black sesame paste. Delicious!
I’m gazing out across the canal, savouring the texture and flavour, when I see her. A girl wearing a rainbow scarf. Ting Ting. She’s standing in one of those large water taxis.
I burn my mouth as I gulp down my last tang yuan, then I stand up and pay the lady. I keep the boat in sight as I race out of the shop and along the canal. I don’t want Ting Ting to see me, so I keep well back. Then the boat turns a corner into a larger canal and out of sight.
It takes me five minutes to reach the same spot. I’m puffing hard. I look down the canal, but now there are three water taxis all going in the same direction. Then they split off into two canals.
Which one is she on? My eyes dart from one to the other. But it’s no use. I’ve lost her.
I walk back to the clinic. Por Por has finished her treatment and is in the waiting room reading a newspaper.
‘I think I saw Ting Ting just now,’ I say, still out of breath.
‘Good,’ Por Por says. ‘At least she’s here.’ She stands up.
‘Do you feel better, Por Por?’ I ask, helping her put on her jacket.
Before Por Por can answer, we hear a man calling her name.
She looks back into the crowded treatment room. Three rough-looking men are sitting next to each other on stools, with their shirts off.
The man who is being treated by the doctor raises his hand. ‘I need to speak with you, Mrs Bao.’
I follow Por Por into the back room. The man’s dark brown skin is thick like leather and the doctor is hitting his shoulder with something that looks like a little hammer with tiny needles sticking out of it.
Por Por and the man speak to each other in the Isle of Clouds’ dialect, so I don’t know what they’re talking about. There’s a flash of flame and a smacking sound as the doctor rapidly places glass globes over the man’s back and shoulders. They stick on all by themselves and I see the man’s skin swelling up inside the glass like huge boils!
My mouth drops open.
The doctor looks at me and smiles. ‘Do you understand Chinese?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Well, these men are porters. They have to carry very heavy loads on their shoulders. The suction pulls out blood that has stagnated from the weight of the yoke.’ He pulls away one of the cups – it’s half-full of a black liquid like old blood! Eeeuw, disgusting. The doctor wipes the blood away with a towel.
I hear Por Por thank the man. I say goodbye to the doctor and we leave the clinic. But I notice that Por Por’s face has gone pale.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
‘They were tearing down the walls of the old prison and they found my father’s diary.’ Her eyes are full of tears. ‘I must go and get it now.’
I don’t know what to say so I walk in silence beside her. I feel shadows lurking in doorways, on balconies and rooftops. They are the ghosts of the past, watching and waiting.
I sit at the kitchen table looking out over the canal. Across the way, the black and grey spotty dog barks at a passing boat. I look towards Por Por’s room. She hasn’t come out since we got back. I’m guessing she’s reading her father’s diary. I’m writing in my diary, too. There’s heaps of stuff I want to write about and my hand flies over the page like a feather caught in a breeze. This is unusual for me because I’m not very good at writing. I usually write boring stuff. This is what I wrote three weeks ago:
‘I went to a movie called Peekaboo with Jess today. We shared a box of popcorn and wasted most of it when I jumped at a scary bit. Luckily I wasn’t holding the can of Coke …’ and ‘School was boring as usual, except for choir practice at lunchtime when Mrs Sillitoe asked me to sing a solo.’
I never write about my feelings. Well, I never used to before coming here. I was always scared that if someone knew my deepest thoughts they would have some kind of power over me. But being in the Isle of Clouds makes me want to write down everything. There’s just too much to keep inside my heart all at once.
At last Por Por comes out of her room. Her eyes are red from crying. I pretend not to notice. She takes her padded jacket off the doorknob. ‘Come, Little Cloud,’ she says, wiping her nose with her handkerchief. ‘I promised to show you Bao Mansion, and now is the time.’
We catch a water taxi to the north side of town. In the distance, behind the town, I can see the mountain with its head in the clouds.
Por Por sees me looking at it. ‘That’s Mount Mystery,’ she says. ‘It’s the tallest thing in these parts. Its peak is only visible a few times each year. We will go there one day soon, when it’s time to scatter your mama’s ashes.’
I look at Por Por, then at the mountain again, and I feel small and lonely. She takes my hand and holds it in her lap. Por Por understands me like nobody else. She’s the wisest, kindest person I know and I suddenly realise how much I love her.
In this part of town, willows have been planted all along the canal. Their graceful branches skim the surface of the water.
We get off the boat and walk into a square. At the end of the square are two massive gates in the shape of a Chinese vase. There’s a high white wall, and behind it I can see the top storey of a huge old house with a curved black-tiled roof.
�
�That’s Bao Mansion,’ Por Por says.
My mouth drops open.
‘Do you see that room up there, the one with carvings of fish all around the windows?’
I nod.
‘That used to be my bedroom,’ she says.
I can almost see Por Por as a cheeky girl looking out that window. She’s wearing a pale blue embroidered silk top with butterflies across the front and she’s laughing, her plaits jiggling on her shoulders.
Por Por pushes the gates open. The hinges are rusty and creak with age.
The front of the house is covered with bamboo scaffolding, and there are spare tiles and planks of wood all over the messy front garden. A pretty lady in a yellow jacket is standing in the middle of it all. She looks up as we come in.
‘Nin hao,’ she says, politely. ‘Can I help you?’
‘My name is Bao Min and this is my granddaughter, Little Cloud,’ Por Por says. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I used to live in this house when I was a young girl and I was wondering if I might show my granddaughter around.’
The lady’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Oh, Mrs Bao, welcome, welcome. We have heard so much about you. Do come in, please. My name is Tan Yi and my husband and I are the new owners.’
We cross a wooden plank, single file, to the front door.
‘Please excuse the mess. As you can see, we are renovating. We are opening a spa hotel. In fact, I was hoping to call it by its original name of Bao Mansion … if that is all right with you,’ she says, wiping her hands on a towel.
‘It would please me very much,’ says Por Por.
‘Well, let’s not stand out here in the cold. Come inside and I’ll fix some tea.’
Mrs Tan leads us into a big room with a high ceiling held up by thick, dark-red pillars. White sheets are thrown over furniture piled high in one corner and sunlight streams in through the carved windows. The house smells of fresh paint. Mrs Tan lifts the sheet and drags out three stools and a small round table. ‘We are just about to paint this room. I’ll go and make us some tea,’ she says. ‘Please make yourselves at home.’
Por Por looks around at the cracked walls and peeling paint. ‘I haven’t been inside Bao Mansion since I left as a child all those years ago and now look at it,’ she says with a sigh. ‘How could those people let it deteriorate like this? It’s little more than a ruin …’
‘Who owned it before Mrs Tan bought it, Por Por?’ I ask.
‘It’s been in the Shen family ever since we were forced to leave,’ she says. ‘Shen Da Pai had two sons but the older son somehow tricked his younger brother out of his share in the inheritance. When Shen Da Pai died, the younger son was left with nothing and had to move out of the house with his wife and child and begin life all over again in Shanghai. The brothers never spoke to each other after that.’
I wonder how anyone could be so mean to their own brother.
Por Por looks out at the courtyard garden and I follow her gaze. There is a run-down zigzag bridge over a small lake choked with weeds. Strangely enough, the water is still crystal clear.
‘After the younger brother moved to Shanghai with his wife and little girl, I got to know them quite well,’ Por Por says. ‘But then they were killed in a bus accident.’
I look at Por Por, shocked. ‘You mean Ting Ting is …?’
Por Por nods. ‘Yes, her name is Shen Ting Ting. She is Shen Da Pai’s granddaughter.’
The shutter swings back and clatters against the wall.
Por Por touches my hand urgently. ‘Little Cloud, there is one thing Ting Ting does not know and I don’t want her ever to find out.’
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘She has no idea what her grandfather did to my family, no idea that he was the cause of my father’s imprisonment and death. And I want to keep it that way. A secret between you and me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Por Por,’ I say.
Mrs Tan comes back carrying a tray, which she sets down on the table. She hands Por Por a Chinese teacup made of fine porcelain, and gives a glass of lemonade to me.
‘I don’t mean to pry, Mrs Tan,’ Por Por says, taking a sip of tea, ‘but I’m curious to know why the Shens sold the house so quickly. The last time I was in the Isle of Clouds, just three months ago, there was no talk of them moving.’
‘Well, it’s a rather peculiar story,’ Mrs Tan replies. ‘I heard they fell in with a Shanghai businessman who told them that they could develop this land into a multi-storey international hotel. Even though the town is preserved, he told them he could get special permission from the government. But of course it was a lie. After the Shens invested all their money with him, the businessman simply vanished. It left them penniless. So when my husband and I came along and made a reasonable offer for the house, they were only too happy to sell and move away.’
‘It makes me very happy to know that at last Bao Mansion will be restored,’ Por Por says.
Mrs Tan pours more tea into Por Por’s cup. ‘We were going to contact you to see if you would be able to help us. You see, there are no photos of the house. We want to make it as authentic as possible but there is nothing for us to go on.’
‘I’ll be more than pleased to do what I can to help,’ Por Por replies. She looks around the room and smiles. ‘This used to be the reception room. All the guests would be greeted here and offered tea before being shown to my father’s office. Over there were four high, straight-backed chairs with a marble-topped table in between them. And mounted on that wall was a five-panel screen exquisitely carved with a beautiful mountain scene. The servants would shuffle in with tea and snacks of nuts and sweets and cakes.’
‘I will see if we can find a similar screen and table and chairs,’ Mrs Tan says, looking pleased. ‘Now, if you have finished your tea, Mrs Bao, would you like to show your granddaughter the rest of the house?’
Por Por leads the way down the corridor. ‘Bao Mansion was different from the traditional houses of the time,’ she says. ‘It was built around a hexagonal inner garden, so it has taken on that shape.’ She stops to look out through a sliding wooden door. The lake shimmers like the delicate wings of a dragonfly. It seems to be calling us to its banks. Around the lake is a rockery and a miniature forest of maples.
‘The water is so pure, you can drink straight from it,’ Por Por goes on. ‘This is the lake fed by the underground spring with life-giving powers. In fact, this whole garden was designed by a famous landscaper and feng shui expert back in the Tang dynasty. In winter, the lake would be covered with lotus and the sweet scent would carry through the house. While in autumn, chrysanthemums would bloom. It was once such a beautiful garden.’
‘And it will be again,’ Mrs Tan promises.
In the doorway to each room Por Por stands very still at first. I can see she’s waiting for the memories to surface. Then she goes in and touches the walls, feeling around inside for the stories buried there. She begins to tell us about the people, and the things that happened in the house – what furniture was inside each room and where it was placed. Sometimes there is a sadness in her voice. At other times she’s as excited as the young girl she once was. We go upstairs and look inside the many rooms. When we come to Por Por’s old room, she stands in the centre with her eyes closed for a moment. Then she pushes out the carved shutters to let in the fresh air.
Long shadows stretch across the marble floor as afternoon turns into early evening.
‘It’s late,’ Por Por says, turning. ‘You have been very kind to let us look around.’
‘Not at all,’ Mrs Tan replies. She leads the way back down the stairs then stops in the hallway and places a hand on Por Por’s arm. ‘I … I wanted to speak to you about something before you go, Mrs Bao.’
Por Por tilts her head, waiting for Mrs Tan to continue.
Mrs Tan rubs her arm, as if she feels a chill. ‘People tell me that you are a …’ She stops and looks at me.
‘Go on, Mrs Tan,’ says Por Por.
‘…
well, that you deal with ghosts and haunted houses.’ Mrs Tan seems embarrassed.
‘That is my line of work, yes,’ Por Por replies. ‘And don’t worry about Little Cloud. She is not only my granddaughter but also my young apprentice.’
‘Well, when we first moved into Bao Mansion everything seemed to be fine. We loved being here, making plans for our spa hotel. But then …’ Mrs Tan takes a deep breath that ends in a shudder. ‘About a week ago strange things started happening.’
‘Yes?’ Por Por says.
‘It sounds crazy, but furniture began moving all by itself. Doors and windows bang in the night when there’s no wind. And we hear someone, or something, walking around. It’s horrible. And our little dog, Pepe, is too scared to come inside the house now. I have to carry him in and put him in his basket, and that’s where he stays, shaking the whole time. I’ve had to leave him with a friend, he’s so scared. Now my husband has gone to Shanghai on business while I deal with the workmen and I’m too afraid to be here alone at night.’ Mrs Tan’s lips tremble and she dabs tears from her pale face. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bao … I didn’t mean to …’
Por Por lays a hand on Mrs Tan’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. We will take a look around. Collect some things and find a place to stay until I call for you. Will you do that for me?’
Mrs Tan nods. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bao. I feel a lot better now. I will go and pack right away.’
‘Aren’t we going home to get the equipment, Por Por?’ I ask.
‘First I’ll do a preliminary investigation to see what we’re up against,’ she says. ‘I might be able to get rid of whatever is here fairly easily without needing to use any weapons. Sometimes that’s possible.’ She rubs her hand over the wall in the hallway then puts her ear to it. ‘You can often hear or feel the vibrations of ghostly apparitions,’ she says.
A Ghost in my Suitcase Page 6
