by Jeannie Lin
“Opium runners,” I declared, forcing the words out. “Smugglers have routes throughout the empire.”
Runners were able to travel along rivers and secret routes to deliver the opium to every corner of the empire. Like ghosts, they managed to evade the most diligent of enforcers. The opium trade had to be alive and rampant in a city like Shanghai.
“I won’t put you into the hands of such vermin,” he insisted.
I started to argue, but Chang-wei silenced me with a tiny motion of his fingers. “I said I would not allow you to go alone.”
Could he possibly mean . . . that this wouldn’t be farewell?
“Let us go together,” Chang-wei said, answering my silent question “There’s no time to waste.”
***
Chang-wei disappeared once more into the inner offices of the yamen, and when he emerged this time, he was no longer dressed in official robes of state. Instead, he’d traded his uniform for an unremarkable dust brown robe, suitable for a clerk or a tradesman. It was a wise decision. Bureaucrats were not looked favorably upon in the countryside where we’d be traveling.
He managed to procure transportation from the yamen. The gears of the carriage whirred as the driver brought it to a stop before us. He extended a hand to help me up.
“Will you be punished for abandoning your duty to come with me?” I asked Chang-wei as he extended a hand to help me onto the transport.
“It can’t be helped.”
The calm, almost dismissive manner with which he defied the crown prince’s order made me see him with entirely new eyes.
Chang-wei took command of the levers that controlled the carriage. I’d seen them in the streets of Peking, but had no experience operating such a machine. Our village still relied on mules and rickshaws for transport.
He directed the carriage toward the east section of the city wall. A large gate guarded what appeared to be another section of the city. Beyond that gate was the foreign concession.
I held my breath as we approached, certain the city guards would have us immediately imprisoned. On the contrary, the sentry hardly made note of us as we passed through the boundary. They sent us on our way with a solid tap against the side of the wagon.
Chang-wei drove the machine forward. “It’s much harder for foreigners to come the other way into the walled city.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, and my final view of the gate told another story. A guardsman was tucking a string of coins into his belt. I’d failed to even notice Chang-wei sneaking the bribe to him.
“Attached on the outside of the carriage, no need to ask questions,” Chang-wei explained.
The moment we were through the gates, I sensed immediately that we had left our homeland behind. The buildings rose two or three stories in shapes that weren’t ugly, yet struck me as alien and forced upon this place. The lines and planes were too sharp, too abrupt. Neat rows of windows and doors. The writing on the signboards was also unintelligible to me.
The foreigners were dressed in stiff and heavy clothing. I was stunned to see not only white-skinned people but also our own among them. In these streets, we were invariably the ones pulling the rickshaws, holding open the doors. Standing meekly in corners. Bowing.
“Have you been here before?” I asked.
Chang-wei maneuvered through the streets as if they were familiar to him. “I have. Not too long ago.”
We veered away from the riverfront filled with Western steamships and clippers. As the wagon rolled deeper into the settlement, the sense of being disoriented, being ripped out of place, became even keener. This was China and it wasn’t.
I could hear the Canton dialect, which, according to Chang-wei, had been adopted in all the port cities as a trade language. Those familiar words were drowned out by the harsh sounds of the Yangguizi tongue.
Among the boxlike buildings, there were a few familiar sights, but their features were exaggerated to the point of ridiculousness. We stopped in front of a building that resembled an ancient temple. Red columns graced the front along with a pagoda-like architecture that rose three tiers high. There were dragons painted everywhere, dragons on the walls, the columns, the steps. Is that how our country looked to them?
As I stepped down, Chinese attendants came to take control of the carriage. Chang-wei guided me into the pagoda. The main room featured an altar upon which a many-handed bodhisattva stood balanced in a dancer’s pose. That was where the resemblance to a temple ended.
We had entered some sort of drinking house. Tables were arranged throughout the parlor, though at this time in the afternoon, only a few were occupied. I followed Chang-wei to a table in the corner near one of the long windows.
The hostess came to greet us, dressed in an enviable green silk that fit her figure as if it had been poured onto her skin.
“The Phoenix Pagoda welcomes you, sir.”
I raised my eyebrows at the ostentatious name, to which the hostess arched an eyebrow right back at me. Her eyebrow was decidedly shapelier than mine. Like a moth’s wing, as the poems described. Her entire face was painted to perfection: red lips, darkly lined cat’s eyes, skin as smooth as porcelain.
“I do apologize, but women are not permitted here,” she continued.
“And what are you?”
I meant the question honestly, but her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
“She is my assistant,” Chang-wei interjected, slipping something surreptitiously to the hostess. It might have been identification papers. It could have been money. Whatever it was, the woman’s look of irritation was immediately replaced by the cool mask we had seen upon first arriving.
Chang-wei ordered wine and then asked for someone with a name I didn’t recognize. I waited until the hostess was halfway across the parlor before speaking.
“This place has a brothel’s name,” I complained. “And if the name is ‘Phoenix,’ then why dragons everywhere?”
He hushed me, his brow knitting in annoyance. “I hope to find someone here who can help escort us to Linhua.”
“Then we are seeking an opium dealer.”
“Not every foreigner is a smuggler,” he chided. “The associate I’m meeting here is a well-respected businessman in Shanghai.”
I shot him a look. Perhaps Yang’s views had tainted me. “What lucrative business does a foreigner have in Shanghai besides opium?”
The hostess returned with two glasses set upon a tray. She leaned in closer than necessary to serve Chang-wei his drink. Mine was set down with a heavy thud.
“Mister Burton will be here shortly,” she announced in a syrupy-sweet tone.
Another single, pointed glance at me and she was gone again.
Chang-wei took a drink from his glass. The liquor was a dark honeyed color, yet the vapors from it were reminiscent of kerosene and chloroform. I left my glass untouched.
“Will the crown prince’s associates be able to pursue you here?” I asked.
“The imperial government has little say in the treaty ports,” he replied, not looking entirely pleased with it. “The crown prince will soon be informed of our success. This”—he paused to consider the word—“excursion is only a temporary detour. His Highness will have to reconcile the triumph of reclaiming the formula with my less than utter obedience afterward.”
I looked down at my hands. “Why are you risking yourself to help me? You’re under no obligation to do so.”
“I am,” he said quietly. “For many reasons.”
When I looked up, he was watching me so intently I could feel my face warming. Had he at one time asked my father for me? Or had Father initiated the arrangement? I would always wonder why this man, out of all possible suitors. I would always be searching for what it was that had set Chang-wei apart.
And I would never know the answer.
“You took all the da
nger upon yourself by seeking out Yang and then being held captive on his ship,” Chang-wei added hastily. “I couldn’t let you face this danger alone.”
“Thank you, Mister Chen.”
He played with the rim of his glass. My fingers drew a restless pattern on the tabletop. The moment had become too personal for both of us. I inspected the surroundings as a distraction.
Despite the decor, which favored painted scrolls and silk screens, the place had a distinctly different feel from a native drinking house. The other patrons were all Yangguizi. They sat in strange garb, also a mix of Western and native clothing. Cigars filled the air with a cloying haze.
The discomfort of being pulled out of place and time persisted. I couldn’t sit still. In contrast, Chang-wei was remarkably composed. He was at ease, wholly accepting of the surroundings, which, by their very appearance, refused to accept him. Chang-wei lifted the glass to his lips, sparing only a casual glance in either direction.
I tried to follow his example but coughed violently as soon as the liquor hit my throat.
“Heaven and Earth,” I sputtered, my eyes watering. The stuff tasted worse than Physician Lo’s bitter ginseng brew.
“You have to drink it slowly.” Chang-wei patted me on the back, which was as ineffective as his advice.
“I did drink it slowly,” I managed between coughs.
The other patrons were staring. I waved Chang-wei’s hands away and forced myself to sit up even though my throat was still burning. I was met by a pair of blue eyes, clear as the sky.
Standing over me was the strangest man I had ever seen. I had heard the Yangguizi had blue eyes and golden hair, but the few I’d caught a glimpse of so far had been darker in coloring. I had just dismissed the tales of ghosts as an exaggeration, but this man was startlingly fair skinned. He was dressed in a waistcoat similar to what Yang had worn. The material was gray and somber, though his demeanor was anything but. His lips were parted in a grin that bared teeth and spoke of familiarity.
Chang-wei stood to greet him. Instead of bowing, the foreigner reached out to clasp his hand and spoke in a torrent of Yingyu. But the absolute shock was when Chang-wei responded back with equal fluency.
“Mister Burton doesn’t speak the Canton dialect,” Chang-wei told me after inviting him to take a seat across from us.
“Not true, Chen,” Burton replied cheerfully in flat yet passable Cantonese. “After five years, even a barbarian can learn.”
He faced me and affected an exaggerated bow. “I am called Dean Burton.”
Burton told of how he had gradually picked up the dialect as part of his business, which I discerned was some sort of trading house. Chang-wei shot me a look when I asked him pointedly what goods he traded.
“Tea and silk,” Burton replied readily, taking a drink of what had originally been my drink, but which I gladly relinquished.
His Canton dialect was rough and my ability to decipher it incomplete, as I was unaccustomed to hearing it from a foreign tongue, but the gap didn’t seem to deter Burton. He proceeded to direct his conversation to me as often as he did to Chang-wei.
“Your country is very beautiful,” the foreigner said. “I feel quite at home here now.”
“It is good to hear that you’ve been made to feel welcome,” I said with some effort.
“Are you from Shanghai, Miss Jin?”
“No, sir. I was born in Peking.”
“Ah, the capital. It would be”—he paused to search for a word—“most fortunate to see the palace one day.”
“Foreigners are not allowed in the Forbidden City,” I reminded him coolly. “Nor are most commoners.”
I wondered if he had ever gone beyond the boundaries of the settlement. Here the foreigners had built a replica of their homeland. A part of me couldn’t forget that Burton was here because my father had fought and failed to prevent the Western invasion, but I tried my best to remain polite.
“I hear that John here has seen it.” The foreigner grasped Chang-wei’s shoulder in a brotherly manner. “You must be more important than we thought.”
I was taken aback by the mispronunciation of Chang-wei’s name. Burton called him that repeatedly as if they were longtime friends.
My overwhelming impression of the foreigner was that he was big. Not so much in size. He was only a little taller than Chang-wei, but everything about him somehow seemed larger. His face, his hands, how loudly he spoke. Every expression appeared exaggerated, as if he held nothing back.
“How did you and John come to know each other, miss?”
“This is considered polite among Western people,” Chang-wei interjected with a note of apology. “An exchange of personal yet inconsequential information.”
“But isn’t it quite consequential how we know each other,” I replied, voice lowered.
“That is the difference between us. We consider most personal matters quite private, while they . . . don’t necessarily feel the same.”
The foreigner’s attention darted back and forth between the two of us. “Hey!”
The utterance was a foreign one, but translated easily.
“Can you speak a little slower? I’m a gweilo after all.” Burton followed his protest with another grin.
“I have come here for an important matter, Burton. You’ve heard of the gangs of rebels in the south?”
His smile faded. “Not gangs, John. An army.”
“I think you must be mistaken.”
After that, the conversation proved to be too tricky in broken Cantonese. Chang-wei switched to Yingyu, and I was left adrift in the flood of gibberish.
“The washroom is in the back.”
I looked up to see our hostess standing over us. Chang-wei and Burton only spared her a glance before continuing their discussion.
“You asked me where you could find the washroom,” the woman prompted. The silver dragon curled around her ear gleamed as she turned her head. “It’s in the back.”
“I didn’t ask—”
With a bow that was more like a curt nod, she went to see to the next table.
Perturbed, I stood and politely excused myself before starting toward the back of the parlor where the hostess had directed me. She caught me with a glance over her shoulder before continuing with her rounds.
Chang-wei had warned me not to trust anyone, but compared to the white-skinned trader, this young woman didn’t seem like a threat. Still, I remained wary as I slipped past the mock altar and the golden bodhisattva.
The washroom was near the back door. I had just entered the tiny chamber when the door swung open once more to admit the hostess. She leaned back against the washbasin, her jade green dress pulling taut over her figure, and folded her arms as she scrutinized me from head to toe.
I straightened. “What is this game you’re playing?”
She turned the jade bracelet about her wrist once before bothering to reply.
“Elder Sister.” Her gaze passed over my brocade jacket and down to my slippers. “It’s obvious that you have a proper upbringing. I can hear it in how you speak. Especially in how you command that bureaucrat out there. Unless he happens to be besotted with you.”
I could feel my face heating. “He’s not besotted.”
Her eyes narrowed at that. “Oh? Do you know your lover is a Western sympathizer?”
“He is certainly not my . . . not that.”
“Chen is aligned with the gweilo.” She was relentless. “I’ve seen him arm in arm with them more than once.”
“That’s none of my concern.”
I tried to push past her, but she took firm hold of my arm. “You don’t know anything about him, do you?” There was no animosity in her tone. “As one woman to another, be careful. The gweilo have come here to get rich; every last one of them. Some of them run opium, but there are goods worth ev
en more than that. The men they can barter away as laborers, but the girls—especially the pretty ones . . .”
My blood chilled. Yang had accused the foreigners of poisoning us with opium to gradually turn us into a land of slaves, but we could also be enslaved without opium.
“You don’t look to be Chen’s mistress,” she continued. “And it’s obvious you aren’t from Shanghai. There’s no family to come looking for you if you were to disappear.”
Suddenly all of Burton’s polite conversation seemed sinister, inquiring where I’d come from, what had brought me here.
“Chen Chang-wei is a longtime friend of our family. I trust him.” Did I? Of course I did. My instincts had chosen him over Yang out in the middle of the ocean.
“Then be wary of that man, Burton.”
I started out into the parlor, but the woman stopped one more time to turn to me. “My name is Ming-fen. You may not believe me, but I speak to you as a friend.”
“Jin Soling,” I replied in turn.
“Be careful, Miss Jin. Newcomers to Shanghai can quickly disappear.”
Chapter Fifteen
When I returned to the parlor, Burton had risen to take his leave. I stood back as the men shook hands and the foreign businessman departed.
Chang-wei appeared bright eyed at my approach. “Mister Burton has offered to hire bodyguards to take us to your village.”
“I don’t trust him,” came my immediate reply.
He was taken aback. “I do trust him.”
Ming-fen, my newfound guardian, watched with interest from the table in the corner. I could imagine how the cautionary tale she told me would play out. To her, I looked like a young woman lured into the arms of the lover only to be abandoned to the wolves in Shanghai. Sadly, I suspected it was a common occurrence in this port city.
“Mister Chen, do you truly believe that your associate has become wealthy by purely trading tea and silk?”
“I believe he deals in many goods in the course of his business,” he replied stiffly.
I glared at him. “Chang-wei.”
“I understand Burton likely has his hands in opium and there are plenty of our own countrymen who have done the same. But Mister Burton and I have established an understanding. He is an ally here in this city. One of the few I can trust to help us.”
