Memoirs of a Courtesan

by Mingmei Yip

  These threatening words, delivered in portentous tones, frightened me and left me drained. So my eyes wandered back to the baby’s statue. But rather than feeling comforted by the ritual, I felt sorry that my son’s little spirit might be witnessing this disturbing event. I closed my eyes, only to be startled by a shout, ‘AAAHHHH …!’

  I opened my eyes and saw a bloody chicken head plunge onto the ground. Zhu held up a bloodstained knife in one hand and the body of the chicken in his other. He upended the headless chicken, still seizuring, and squeezed its blood into a row of small cups. While he was busy with the unlucky chicken, another gang member began to burn a small stack of yellow talisman papers, then poured the ashes into the same cups. After that, Zhu made a signal, and all the initiates came to the front of the altar, took up a cup and drank the ash-spiced chicken blood in a single gulp.

  What happened next was even worse. One young man had picked up and drunk from a cup that was chipped. Suddenly his face turned as pale as the ashes. Zhu and another bodyguard went up to the man, took him by his arms, then dragged him out of our sight. Seconds later, a loud gunshot sliced through the deathly silence of the cemetery.

  Lung’s voice suddenly rang loud and clear in the suffocating air. ‘Brothers, now you know the fate that awaits anyone who betrays us by leaking our secrets! The chip on his cup was the mark of the traitor.’

  No one spoke.

  The boss spoke again. ‘Brothers, you just witnessed how a spy meets his disgraceful end!’

  At the word spy, my face turned pale, and my body trembled so hard, I could barely stand. Fortunately no one was paying any attention to me. How did Lung detect that this man was a spy? Did he, like me, work for Big Brother Wang? Would I end up like him? The only comforting thought was that he was granted a quick death instead of having to suffer horrible tortures. If they found out about me, would I be granted the same mercy? Or would Gao secretly let me escape? I knew he loved me, but he was a sworn member of the gang, after all.

  When I saw Gao, I thought he looked a bit shaken. Or maybe that was only my wishful thinking. Then I realised why these ceremonies were held in cemeteries – so that any corpses could be conveniently dumped into waiting pits!

  If any of the initiates or members were disturbed by this cruel spectacle, they did not show it.

  A plump, middle-aged gangster announced, ‘Now please prepare for the bath of purification!’

  Out of nowhere, a yellow-robed Daoist priest appeared and walked up to the altar. He meditated for a few seconds, then began to mutter some kind of esoteric mantra as he moved around in rhythmic steps. As he was dancing, his right hand wielded a sword, while his left hand performed peculiar gestures. Next he went up to the altar, picked up a willow branch, dipped it into a bowl of water and flicked the water onto the baby’s statue. After that, he continued to chant and dance, flicking more of the sacred water onto the ground in front of the altar.

  Gao’s voice rose, startling me. ‘The priest is singing the mantra not only for the baby but also for the traitor.’

  I was surprised to hear this. ‘But why the traitor?’

  ‘The Flying Dragons respect all dead people, traitors or not.’

  I felt another chill. Maybe Lung would perform the same ceremony for me after he found out I was a spy and snapped my neck with his callous hands? Of course I knew full well that the real reason for the ‘respect’ for the traitor was to appease the ghost of the murdered man so he would not come back for revenge.

  Finally, everyone was given a basin to wash his face, upper body, and feet, after which they put on white robes and straw sandals.

  Gao spoke again, ‘This is the end of the ceremony. These young men’s old lives have been washed away by the sacred water; now they are reborn as triad members.’

  Lung stepped close to the initiates and announced, ‘The initiation ceremony of the Flying Dragons is now over. Let me congratulate our new brothers!’

  Thunderous applause exploded in the ghostly air. Though the members smiled, I could tell their facial muscles didn’t relax; their smiles were, as the saying goes, ‘smiles only with the skin, not the flesh.’

  When the cheering and applause finally died down, Lung spoke again. ‘Now as brothers we will celebrate with a great banquet at the Grand Palace Restaurant!’

  More cheering and applause burst out, turning the sinister cemetery into a ghastly festival.

  27

  A Wandering Baby

  As soon as I arrived home from the frightening ceremony, I undressed and climbed into bed. Sleep came quickly but was troubled. I dreamed again of my baby boy, but this time he had a name – Jinjin, Little Handsome. This was different from the name that Lung had given him at the ritual, which was Jinxiong, meaning handsome and mighty. His living son’s name, Jinying, meant handsome hero. But apparently just a handsome hero was not mighty enough for Lung, who was still hoping to spawn a handsome gangster.

  In my dream, Jinjin strutted around my bed on his strong, chubby legs, like the baby Buddha who took seven steps right after he was born.

  Then Jinjin stood in front of me and bowed deeply. ‘Mother, your son Jinjin pays you respect.’

  I smiled at my dark-haired little cutie as I studied his features – big, double-lidded eyes, pencil-inked, crescent-moon-shaped eyebrows, high-bridged nose, rosy cheeks. Smiling, his pink lips resembled two petals dancing in the breeze.

  ‘Little Jinjin, come and give your mother a hug.’

  To my utter surprise, he stubbornly shook his round head. ‘No.’

  Did I scare him with my overly high-pitched entreaty? I lowered my Heavenly Songbird’s voice. ‘Jinjin, be a good boy, and give your mother a hug please.’

  ‘No,’ he said again in his innocent yet stubborn voice, tugging at my heart.

  ‘But why not? I’m your mother!’

  ‘Because I am a ghost.’

  ‘Please, Jinjin, I’m your mother, and I love you still!’

  ‘Mama, no one, ghost or spirit, has ever crossed from the yin world into the yang one. We are forever separated by death.’

  ‘But I love you,’ I pleaded, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  ‘Then how come you didn’t love my father? He saved your life, but you broke his heart.’

  I asked, ‘Who is your father? Do you know for certain?’

  He nodded. ‘You know who. But it is you who is most tortured by your own bitter heartlessness. Why can’t you love or show some concern for my father?’

  ‘I love you dearly, Jinjin, but you left me alone in this dusty world! I also love your father dearly, but up here in the land of the living, fate won’t let me!’

  ‘Nah, you don’t love me or my father!’

  Now he began to bawl loudly. I could ignore his babyish reproaches but not his crying. ‘Jinjin, come let your mama hug and kiss you; then you will know how much she loves you. Please!’

  ‘No,’ he said, vigorously shaking his head as he started to walk away on his chubby feet.

  He looked so cute and adorable that I could feel my heart split with a wrenching crack.

  ‘Jinjin, wait! Where are you going?’ I reached out to his retreating back.

  ‘To find my father who loves me and you more than anything else in the world!’

  ‘Please don’t leave your mother! Stay, please …’ But as I watched, he floated away from me. I screamed. ‘But, Jinjin, you are in the yin realm, and your father is here with me in the yang world. So how are you going to see him?’

  ‘He loves me so much that I believe he can resurrect me from death like the scholar resurrected his beloved Liniang! You wait and see.’

  This referred to the opera Peony Pavilion that Jinying had taken me to, where the scholar used the power of love to resurrect his beloved woman from the grave.

  Suddenly my baby’s heart seemed to be beating within my own. Then, just as suddenly, the beating ceased.

  I cried out, ‘My son, are you all right?’

  �
�Mama, my heart is broken, for you and my father!’

  ‘Let me help you, please!’

  He shook his head, turned around, and began to toddle away from me. ‘Mama, I have to go now.’ He scurried away, as if leaving a trail of broken pieces from his heart.

  ‘Please come back, Jinjin! Please! Your heart is here!’

  But Jinjin did not turn around. His body slowly faded from my eyes, but as it did, he seemed to grow into a handsome young man, looking just like his father …

  I awakened to find my pillow soaked with my tears, warm but hopeless.

  The dream stayed in my mind for many days. I am not a superstitious person, but somehow the initiation ceremony and the dream unsettled me so much that I decided I must appease the departed soul of my baby, just in case it was Lung’s, with his vindictive genes.

  Lung had already carried out a ritual for him, but on the other hand, if he was not the father, the offerings might not reach Jinjin in the yin world. So to be sure, I decided to have a ceremony just for my baby and myself, and I would be sure to mention Jinying. If my baby’s soul was appeased, I believed he’d stop entering my dreams to sadden me so. Of course I liked seeing him; I just didn’t want to see him suffering.

  So the next day I had a Daoist priest came to my house to perform the ceremony. Inside my bedroom, he set up a small altar surrounded by red and yellow talismans filled with esoteric characters and symbols.

  The priest was a forty-something, solemn-mannered man, looking small in an oversized yellow robe embroidered with golden soaring cranes and Yijing trigrams.

  He said in a low, sonorous voice, ‘Miss Camilla, let me first explain to you about babies who die. Please don’t talk or ask questions until am I finished. You understand?’

  I nodded respectfully. As he began, I understood the reason for his admonition, as he was quite long-winded.

  ‘We all have two souls, the hun and po. When we die, the hun soul rises up to heaven and becomes a spirit, while the po remains with our corpse in the grave. But in the womb the child possesses only the po, so if he dies unborn, the soul cannot go up to heaven but is trapped here below. I must warn you that your baby’s po soul may become a hungry ghost, wandering in misery seeking revenge. To protect yourself, you must give him a proper burial.’

  ‘But I passed out, so I never even saw him! The woman who helped me refused to even tell me where he is buried.’

  ‘Then it is imperative that you have the proper ritual for your baby. Since he lost his chance for a full life in the yang world, he needs to be fed and nurtured in the yin one. Remember, Miss Camilla, even if your baby did have a chance to experience this life for a few hours, he never experienced his mother’s love.’

  Upon hearing this, I burst out crying.

  He ignored my outburst and went on officiously, ‘I’m going to chant incantations and mantras to invoke and liberate your dead baby’s soul. But because of what you have told me, to prevent him from becoming a wandering ghost, I will need to do a ritual in my temple every day for a year.’

  I cried more, even though I knew this was probably just a way for the priest to squeeze even more money out of me.

  The priest adjusted the embroidered sleeves of his robe and instructed me, ‘Now kneel in front of the altar, put your hands together and listen to my chanting. Even if you don’t understand, concentrate on my energy and the inflection of my voice. The best is if you can also silently recite a prayer to release your child from all suffering.’

  He inspected the few things on the altar that he’d positioned: a small wooden baby figure, which represented my died-few-hours-after-birth baby, a small bowl of rice soup, a bottle of milk, sweets, toys and flowers.

  He spoke again, his voice turned somber. ‘Your baby is wandering and suffering without a mother or a father to love and care for him. When I recite the mantra, I’ll summon his soul here to enjoy the food, gifts and especially to receive the love of his mother, you. Even though your baby’s body has perished, his living soul will still feel your love and warmth, and he’ll be happy and greatly comforted. You understand?’

  I nodded, my tears continuing to flow.

  ‘Right after I’ve started the ceremony, please focus your love and qi on the wooden figure. During the ritual, I will summon his soul to reside in it, then activate his soul with my mantra.’

  Would my baby really descend onto the altar and reside in the wooden figurine? As if aware of my doubt, the Daoist master explained. ‘Miss Camilla, because you have never cultivated your spirituality, you may not see or feel anything now. But, unlike you, I have practised and cultivated for thirty years to open my third eye, so I am able to see beings from the other realm.’

  Now memories of all that had happened rose up in my mind: my loveless childhood, my life as Big Brother Wang’s spy, the cold, black water of the Seine, Jinying loving me enough to risk his life to save mine, blood spurting from Shadow’s finger, my labour pains, Madame Lewinsky telling me my baby was dead, the terrible ritual in the cemetery, Wang’s threats on my life and, now that ghosts and spirits were about to be brought into my home, I felt as if my grip on reality was finally slipping. Had I really had a baby? Was he really dead? And why did I feel such love for a baby I had felt inside me but never seen? In my dream, Jinjin had blamed me for not loving his father. But since I’d never been loved, could I be blamed if I was not capable of it myself? Or was I capable of it, after all? The master had said that I’d never cultivated anything spiritual, but all I had been taught was scheming and dissembling. Was the fault with my fate or with me?

  The ritual went on for almost an hour. Of course I didn’t understand a word of what was said or even if this pacifying-my-baby drama was anything more than a scam. When the priest finished, I bowed and thanked him, then gave him his fee in a red envelope. I also told him that this ceremony should be strictly private between him and me. Feeling the thickness and weight of the red envelope, he promptly agreed.

  Before he left, the priest gathered up the items he had placed on the altar. ‘I’ll bring these back to my temple and place them together with all the other babies’ figurines, portraits and offerings. In that case, your boy will have company, and I will continue to look after him. You understand?’

  I nodded, and then a thought hit me, and I asked, ‘Did you really see my baby?

  He looked at me curiously. ‘Of course. I told you, I opened my third eye.’

  ‘Can you tell me what he looks like?’

  ‘A very handsome boy with big, double-lidded eyes.’

  ‘Then do you know his name?’

  He hesitated for a few seconds before he said, ‘No, since he never speaks of himself.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Anyway, your baby will grow up to be a very handsome and intelligent boy.’

  ‘But my baby is dead!’

  ‘Hmm. All right, I’d better go now.’ He began to put each item from the altar into his cloth bag. ‘Take very good care of yourself, Miss Camilla. Don’t worry, your baby will be looked after very well in the temple. Goodbye.’

  ‘Thank you, Master, and goodbye.’ I bowed again, walked him to the door and saw him out.

  I wasn’t sure I even believed in the ritual, but now, afterwards, I somehow felt my son’s presence. It was a strange feeling, because it felt warm and cold, happy and sad, empty yet full at the same time.

  At least I knew there was love in this cold world, and I had had the luck to taste it, even if only in a dream.

  28

  The Pink Skeleton Empire

  Although I felt surprisingly relieved after the ritual, I felt I had no choice but to try to set aside my thoughts about my baby so as to get on with my mission. I knew Wang meant his threats. But now that I realised Lung was my baby’s grandfather, how could I have him killed? Unfortunately I didn’t have anyone to ask for advice, certainly not Big Brother Wang. He wouldn’t care about any of this; he just wanted Lung eliminated, so he could take his place as the number one gangster.

/>   While in this state of confusion, I unexpectedly received a letter from Rainbow Chang.

  Dear Miss Camilla,

  I am glad that you are recovered and have come back to sing at the Bright Moon. Recently I heard a lot of things about you but I am not sure what is true. So please visit me at my place so we can talk. Or so I can cheer you up.

  I sincerely hope that you will grant me the pleasure and honour of accepting my invitation.

  Yours fondly,

  Rainbow Chang

  I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t think I could turn down her invitation, either. In China, journalists are called ‘crownless kings’ because they can destroy as quickly as a king. They only difference is that they remove your head with words instead of axes.

  Rainbow Chang’s apartment was situated in an expensive area inside the French Concession. My driver let me off in front of a majestic row of white houses facing a wide boulevard. Tall poplar trees lined the street, like sentries to protect the rich and famous, as well as to shelter them from thunder, rain and lightning.

  An amah opened the door, let me in, then led me through a foyer with a gilded mirror above a console table into the living room. Inside a spacious, Western-decorated room sat Rainbow, ambiguously dressed as usual in a stark white suit with a pink tie. As always, she was attended by an entourage of young, pretty women clad in pink silk or lace dresses. In their midst, the regal-looking gossip columnist reclined on her divan, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. The girls sipped drinks and chatted languidly with one another. A few fussed over Rainbow like Gao and Zhu over their boss, Lung.

  ‘Camilla, welcome to the Pink Skeleton Empire!’

  Smiling, the gossip columnist extinguished her cigarette and got up to greet me. In an elegant gesture she lifted my hand to her lips and pressed it tenderly.

  ‘Enchanted, Miss Camilla. Your presence brightens my humble residence.’

  Her manner was as gallant as a Frenchman’s. One never knew what she did with her many pink-clad ‘mistresses.’ Could it be that she would ask me to become one? Although I found the idea ridiculous, I was nevertheless intrigued. Did they follow her into her bedchamber, like the concubines of the ancient emperors?