I recognized him, and inwardly I groaned. He’d been a year or three ahead of me at the Mission school. A nasty one.
I didn’t remember his personal or family name, but when the Missionaries taught us the English word, Bully, the description fit him so perfectly that it became his nickname. Over time the passage of voices from mouth to ear to mouth again had transformed his nickname to the American name, Billy.
Billy once stole apricots from a street grocer and stuffed them in the pockets of a slow-minded boy; then he turned the innocent, addle-brained child in for theft.
Billy once led a group of boys tormenting Mao’er, though it did not end well for him.
Billy was one of the boys who liked to play at kung fu in the lumberyard at night. His size and the shape of his body endowed him with natural strength, and he had a fluidity of motion that made him formidable, but he lacked the discipline to become a great fighter, or even the mental focus to take on anyone his own size. He sparred with Rocket once, and only once; my man tried hard, he really tried, to avoid badly humiliating Billy in public, but Billy made it difficult for him; there was mental laziness behind each of Billy’s blows, an inability to shift tactics.
“Well well,” Billy said. “Li-lin, aren’t you an employee of the Xie Liang tong now?”
“I am here on a peaceful mission, to speak with Xu Shengdian, who is a sworn brother of the Ansheng tong,” I said.
“I see you’re still the girl who didn’t know how to show respect,” he said.
“Before your match with Rocket, you asked me to hold your spectacles,” I said. “After the fight I ran after you, shouting ‘Billy, stop! Let me give you back your eyeglasses!’ But you just kept running. Where is the disrespect in that?”
His eyes, through the twin fishbowls of his lenses, told me it had been a mistake to remind him of that day. “Shove her up against the wall.”
Bodies pressed around me in the narrow corridor. I felt many hands on me, roughly. My sword and rope dart were taken from me, and hands rummaged through my pockets, pulling out my matches, talismans, and the page I’d transcribed from the faceless girl’s sheet of spirit paper. For a moment men were pulling me in two directions at once, but some unspoken signal must have caused them all to agree to turn me in the same direction. I saw an opening to lash out; I could have stomped my heel on the bridge of one man’s foot, or slammed my elbow into another man’s stomach; but it would get me nowhere, and I felt no grudge against any of these men, aside from Billy. So I let myself be pushed and pulled and pinned face-first against the wall.
“You still haven’t learned how to lower your head, Li-lin,” Billy said.
He stepped closer, and his breath smelled like garlic and beets. Pinned against the wall, I could do no more than squirm, and I would not make my helplessness into a spectacle by wiggling like netted fish.
“Turn her around,” he said. “I want her to see it coming.”
They turned me to face him, keeping my limbs pinioned. He made room so he could wind up and swing. I controlled my face to show none of the fear I was feeling. His eyes sighted my ribcage; even the thought of that made me wince. I couldn’t afford broken ribs, not now, with a child’s ghost and the faceless girl needing rescue. I needed him to swing for my face.
“Why did you run away when I tried to return your spectacles, Billy?” I said, desperate to change his focus. “Did you think I was going to beat you up, too? I wouldn’t have beaten you up. I don’t pick on weaklings.”
His eyes switched to my mouth.
He put all his force into it, and swung. It was a fairly expert swing, with nothing held back. The weight of his body added to his muscle power, his hips amplified the force, his spine sprang forward like a slingshot, his shoulder launched his arm like a cannon firing, his elbow snapped straight and drove all that force right at me. His strong body moved like a smoothly oiled machine, adding a lot more power than his strength alone to the punch coming at my face.
I made one small adjustment before his fist landed and then all I could see was fireworks, colorfully spinning, flaring brightly in the dark night that threatened to swallow me.
Painful, dizzying. He’d punched me so hard that my teeth felt loose. Stars danced and golden frogs leapt in and out of my head. They sparkled around me, filling my vision with spinning colors and swirling blindness. Struggling to remain conscious, I would have fallen to the floor if the men had not held me nailed to the wall.
“My hand!” Billy shouted. “The bitch broke my hand!”
He’d aimed for my face but at the last moment I bent my neck so his fist collided with the crown of my skull, the hardest, most densely shielded part of the body. When that much force hits something hard, something is going to break; and the bones running through the palm are some of the weakest. Even as I felt the wallop of impact, I heard his small bones crunch and snap.
My world was spinning. I let my weight fall, since the men held me in place anyway, while I waited for the blur to leave my vision, for the room to sober up and stop drunkenly spinning around me. My hair would cover any bruising, but aside from some tenderness on my scalp, I doubted I’d be any the worse for the punch.
My mouth felt numb, but I needed to use my lips, shape the words and speak them clearly.
“I do know how to lower my head, Billy.”
That set off a roaring round of laughter. It seemed Billy was not well-liked. Imagine that.
A man led Billy away, continuing to bellow insults and meaningless threats, while the others continued chortling at him.
“Why do you follow Billy?” I said to the men around me. “You don’t even like him.”
A man took my chin in his hands; it felt as if he was holding my wobbly head straight rather than being aggressive. “I don’t follow Billy, I follow Sharkie Tse, and Billy’s his second.” This man was skinny, snaggletoothed, at the tail end of adolescence, but he didn’t seem harsh; I asked a question and he was answering it, as if we were simply talking. The shift in tone was to my advantage; I’d prefer having a conversation over being held captive. The obvious next step would be to talk about Sharkie, one of Mr. Wong’s older lieutenants, but I knew him only by reputation.
“Sharkie Tse is great,” I said. “He taught my husband some of his moves.”
The young man pursed his lips. “Sharkie was my father’s best friend,” he said. “So he’s the only family I have left. I may not like Billy, but he’s like family too. The loutish cousin.”
I nodded, understanding how the ties of family extended among people who lived in a country where they had no blood family, understanding how the kindnesses of past decades translated to family bonds today.
This young man valued family, his past, his deceased father. Death and memory could make him the ally I needed. Perhaps all the years I spent assisting my father’s reverences for the Ansheng tong, chanting the names on his ancestral tablets, would be worth something now.
“What is your name?” I said.
“Junior Bee,” he said.
“Your father was Big Bee?” I asked.
A pause. “Did you know him?”
“Not when he was alive,” I said, “but each year at his birthday, my father and I burned offerings for him . . .” oh please, I thought, do not let my memory fail me, “during the ninth month.” I heard his breath catch. “Your father’s birth name was Zou Wenhuai. Your grandfather’s name was Zou Renjie. Your great-grandfather’s name was Zou Tongzhang.”
“You made offerings to my ancestors, Miss?”
“If Billy is a loutish cousin,” I asked, “could someone who spent years commemorating your ancestors’ birthdays be considered a devoted niece?”
“Your commemorations are appreciated,” Junior Bee said. The formality of his reply made me think he wasn’t going to help me, but he turned from me. “Dai Lo,” he said, addressing one of the other men. The Toisanese term literally meant big brother, but it also meant a gangster with seniority. “The priestess
has harmed no one but Billy, and we all know he earned his broken hand. Should we not release her?”
“We can’t let her off so easily,” another man said, an asthmatic wheeze in his voice. “Billy may be an ass, but think of how it would look if a Xie Liang sends one of us to the infirmary and walks away unscathed.”
That was that, then. I felt the men’s hands on me, their grips tightening. But then the door swung open and someone else entered. The group turned to face the newcomer.
Xu Shengdian, the widower, the gambler, strolled up to the men holding me, his gait casual. “Good morning, brothers,” his accented voice said. “What are you doing to my friend Li-lin?”
The wheezing man said, “She hurt Billy, Mr. Xu. We can’t just let her go.”
“Can’t you?” The widower’s voice sparkled, all charm and cajoling. “Consider it a favor, for me.”
A dubious silence greeted him, and in this silence, the gambler spoke again. “Tell me, brothers, have any of you ever smoked a Cuban cigar?”
A chorus of “No,” “Never,” and “No, Mr. Xu?” My captors’ voices sounded younger now, and less certain.
“Exquisite things, Cuban cigars,” Xu Shengdian told them confidentially, “and expensive. Like most of the best things in life, they cost more than ordinary people can afford; only the elite will ever get to taste the smoke of a Cuban cigar. You inhale, and the way the smoke puffs into your mouth . . . . It’s like nothing else.”
Mr. Xu had taken total control of the situation. Dashing and stylishly dressed, he had all the men caught up and rapt, dreaming of luxury.
“It just so happens,” Mr. Xu dropped his voice to a murmur, as if he were sharing a secret, “I recently received three boxes of the very best cigars from Cuba.” He whispered the next words with reverent intensity. “Triple. Gold. Star. Premium. Cuban. Cigars.”
My captors hung now on every word from his mouth. “I was thinking I could give one box of these exceptional cigars to some of my friends.”
The asthmatic-sounding man responded, “Aren’t we your friends, Mr. Xu?”
“Ha!” Xu Shengdian said. “How could I consider you my friends, when you mean to harm my friend Li-lin?”
One after the next, hands released me, until I became free. Straightening, I regained my composure, then met Mr. Xu’s eyes and thanked him with mine. Men did not often come to my rescue. I was impressed that he had resolved the conflict without violence. Standing among tough young men, Xu Shengdian looked dapper and graceful as a dancer, and I stepped closer to him for protection.
“I plan to keep one box for myself,” he addressed the men now, his tone teasing. “If I give a box of Cuban cigars to you rascals, this would leave me with one box left over.”
The men watched him, and listened. And so did I; Xu Shengdian put on a masterful performance.
“Perhaps . . . some ‘little brothers’ of the Ansheng tong would like to give this box of premium cigars, Triple Gold Star Premium cigars, from Cuba, to Mr. Wong?”
All the men caught their breath. Offering the leader of the Ansheng tong a gift of such rarity and value would get them noticed, raise their status, and open career paths for them; opportunity would blossom after such a gift; their lives might improve, forever.
“I’d like to give this additional box to some friends,” Mr. Xu said, “but I’d also like to see my friend Xian Li-lin treated better from now on.”
“Mr. Xu?” a voice said, and it startled me to realize it was mine.
“Let go of whatever grudge you hold against my friend,” he said. “From now on, I want you to treat her the way you would treat a member of my family. Show her respect; keep her safe; welcome her to dine at your table in the restaurant; if Billy causes trouble for her, give him a punch in the nose and tell him it’s from me. Do we have an understanding?”
The men glanced at each other, making sure everyone was in agreement. “It’s good to deal with you, Mr. Xu.”
Xu Shengdian’s face turned hard, the first time I’d ever seen any negative emotion in his expression. The men noticed, and they followed his gaze, which he very deliberately turned toward me.
“Priestess Xian,” the asthmatic man said, “you received poor treatment here today. I apologize. We had not known of your friendship with Mr. Xu.” The others murmured agreement. “Have you been injured? We could escort you to the infirmary. Or could we offer you lunch, on the house?”
“That will not be necessary,” I said. I could not stop smiling, gazing flabbergasted at Xu Shengdian; for the price of cigars, he’d not only managed to come to my rescue, he’d also provided me with safety in my future. His cigar-bribe was as effective as any form of martial arts I’d ever seen, and I felt grateful that he’d offered his prize imports on my behalf. After today, I owed him a great deal. Silently I renewed my vow to help his wife’s soul; it was the least I could do for him.
Junior Bee picked up my peachwood sword and handed it to me, politely. “Your sword,” he said. He passed me my rope dart. “Your rope dart,” he said. He handed me my talismans. “Your talismans,” he said. He handed me the indecipherable piece of paper I’d copied over from the sheet the faceless girl had dropped the night before. “Your train schedule,” he said.
“My what?”
Mr. Xu navigated us through the restaurant, wearing a broad smile. In this bottom-floor dining area, where working men gathered to eat Toisanese food together, it seemed as if everyone wanted to greet him, say hello, tell him a joke. It seemed as if no one was aware of his wife’s death.
I kept glancing down at the paper, my eyes seeing the rows and columns anew. The numbers were dates and times; the odd pairs of words must be the names of railroad stops.
As Xu Shengdian guided me through the crowd, he shook hands, patted shoulders, and offered the diners various words of encouragement and signs of friendship. It was impressive to see him at work; everyone who crossed his path seemed to go away feeling better about themselves, as if he magnified them. Even me.
He glanced toward me and took a few steps in my direction. His devil-may-care expression melted off his face, replaced by a sincere, serious look. “Miss Xian,” he said. “Please, come with me. We need to talk.”
SEVENTEEN
Ifollowed Xu Shengdian in silence, downhill along one of Chinatown’s steep streets, and up a sturdy flight of stairs, to a walkway above a barbershop and a restaurant, and to his door. He opened the door and I entered, looking around.
Xu Shengdian’s quarters were unlike any I’d seen before. They were clean and mostly empty, large rooms with fancy rugs and fancy stained-wood furniture with velvety cushions, the kind I’d only ever seen fleetingly, in top-tier, fancy restaurants.
Mr. Xu turned to me, a flickering, haunted look in his eyes.
“Mr. Xu,” I said, “you told me that your wife would play music, but then you said she did not play an instrument. I was wondering, could you explain what you meant?”
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, I see why that would be confusing. Here, let me show you her favorite thing.”
He led me to a cabinet where rested a large, manufactured horn above some kind of rectangular machine. “Anjing was so happy when I bought this for her. Here,” he said, reaching for my hand. As soon as his fingers clasped my wrist, I felt the heat of his body so close to mine.
No matter how gentle his grip on my wrist, the touch set me instantly to scout for weaknesses in his body: openings, imbalances, places to strike and damage. A flicker of amusement rushed through me, laughing at myself; standing close to an attractive man, my mind went immediately to working out the most efficient ways to break his bones.
I let my hand go limp in his grip. He floated my fingers over to a crank and closed my fist around its polished wood. He removed his hand from mine, then gestured that I should move my arm in a circular rotation.
I turned the crank, a black disc began to wheel in place, and from the horn there came crackling noises. As my hand moved, the disc s
pun on its tray, and sounds piped up through the horn and out into the air. An American band started to play.
“They haven’t gotten around to recording Chinese music yet,” Xu Shengdian said. “All they have are dull American dance-hall numbers, and some minstrel songs, which have more energy. Anjing loved it, loved putting her little hand on that crank and making the music come out.”
I let go of the crank and the music came to a stop. The gramophone was a wondrous invention, and an expensive one, but the song had not touched me. A question had been answered, yet the answer opened up no greater understanding.
I looked around at my surroundings. There were two beds. The larger one was modest, a stiff mattress with cotton sheets, but the smaller bed had silken coverings, and a soft-looking blue woolen blanket. Mr. Xu had arranged for her bed to be comfortable but left his own rough. All was tidy.
“I thought she had a stuffed rabbit?” I said.
Xu Shengdian’s face looked tender. “Yes,” he said. “I bought it for her from a street vendor, because it made her happy. I haven’t seen it recently.”
I nodded, moving through his quarters. There was something about his rooms that made me feel vaguely uncomfortable. I had seen twenty men living together in a space this size, and though that kind of living arrangement felt too tight, too enclosed, it was also filled, with camaraderie and friendship; men would joke and laugh, tell stories, gab enthusiastically, even play pranks on each other. Xu Shengdian’s quarters just felt empty, an overabundance of silence that I didn’t think even a child would be enough to disturb. Perhaps that was what the gramophone was for: to fill the silent corners of Mr. Xu’s spacious rooms.
Or perhaps it only felt so silent because death had vacated it, and grief pervaded its atmosphere.
Xu Shengdian’s possessions were sparse but lavish. A pair of large picture windows opened onto a second-floor balcony; many men grew potted plants on their balconies, but Xu Shengdian’s planks were bare. Beside the window, a finely-crafted wooden dresser stood, inlaid with elegant designs, with an ornate, blown-glass water basin on top of it. A heavy linen towel, and a dish full of peppermints wrapped in paper sat next to the water basin.
The Girl with No Face Page 13
