The Nine Fold Heaven. Mingmei Yip

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Moon, Shanghai’s most fashionable and expensive entertainment establishment, was located in the International Concession between Yuyuan Road—the Fool’s Garden—and Fanhuangdu Road—the Emperor’s Crossing. The nightclub had a gaudily lit circular façade topped with a torchlike cylindrical tower. Inside was a huge hall with tables surrounding a polished dance floor. Above was a mezzanine from which the VIPs could watch those equally rich but less important.

      Though three months had passed—which seemed like an entire incarnation—nothing seemed to have changed inside the fashionable nightclub. Under the chandeliers, an impeccable Filipino band was playing a waltz tune. The richest and most powerful continued to have a good time side by side with the most evil, chugging down expensive wine or liquor and scraping their mirror-polished shoes on the nightclub’s famous glass floor. But there was one curious fact. As the men aged, their women remained forever young—still beautiful, flirtatious, and scheming.

      I asked to be seated in a far corner shunned by the glitterati so I could observe without being observed. That everything looked so familiar after all that happened surprised me. I was back here not as the Heavenly Songbird Camilla, but in my new incarnation as an unknown young lad. This strategy is called jieshi huanhun, “borrowing the corpse to re-instill the soul.”

      Who would have guessed that the young man sitting at a dim corner was the same person who, only three months ago, had taken the center stage of Shanghai’s most famous nightclub endorsed by the most powerful gangster head?

      Since I dressed like the men in a fashionable white suit with half-matching black and white leather shoes, I didn’t think I’d arouse any men’s attention. But that didn’t guarantee the many lonely tai tai, society ladies, wouldn’t harass my boyish face and delicate frame with their wandering eyes.

      The main singer, who’d replaced me, was about my size and age, pretty with a goose-egg face and twinkling eyes. However, I was relieved that both her appearance and her singing were far beneath mine. Because of the narrow range of her barely trained voice, she could only sing within a single octave. To cover up this flaw, she gestured and smiled a lot, with bobbing breasts and a slutty manner that were extremely annoying, at least to me.

      Obviously she was the sort of girl who cared only to attract a rich man to marry, or if he’s already married, at least become his kept woman. These so-called singers spent their time flirting and conniving instead of practicing. I did all these, too, and thanks to my spy training, I did them better. But because I genuinely loved music, I also practiced hard. So though I’d been trained to be rid of feelings, I rediscovered them through my singing.

      But these feelings didn’t emerge right away, only little by little, like flour seeping through a sieve. Big Brother Wang always taught that a spy’s feelings are equivalent to an incurable disease. In contrast, having no feelings protects against danger and might save your life. But I could not help but love singing, and the emotions it evoked progressively grew within me like a baby inside its mother’s womb.

      To my disappointment, after sipping my drink and listening to the girl’s meowing for half an hour, except for one or two vaguely familiar faces, I didn’t see anyone I knew. Where had they all gone? Could it be they used to come only to hear my voice and now did not care to listen to this talentless girl?

      The front table in the middle was empty. Only Master Lung and his entourage dared to sit there—his right-hand man Mr. Zhu, his son, Jinying, his bodyguard Gao, and me. The table, once fully occupied with laughing and shouting, now looked forlorn, like a jilted mistress or a discarded gown after a ball.

      Now I’d been sitting here for almost an hour with the lazy singer’s voice buzzing in my ears but had not detected anything useful. I was wondering if I should just get up and leave, when something happened that I could never have anticipated: my former boss Big Brother Wang was striding into the club with an entourage of eager lackeys, looming bodyguards, elegantly suited business partners, and expensive women.

      In all the time I had sung here and hung out with Master Lung as his number one woman, Big Brother Wang had never once shown his face in Bright Moon. Not that he wouldn’t want to push his way into his rival’s favorite night spot, but because he wasn’t ready to set off a war. Nor could he risk Lung noticing any sign that I recognized his arch enemy.

      So, what was my former boss doing here?

      My heart froze. If he recognized me, a moment later I’d be a bloody corpse lying on the glass floor. Because I betrayed him during the shoot-out at Lung’s secret villa. And he may have guessed that I had stolen his rival’s money and treasures, which my boss thought he was rightfully entitled to steal himself.

      Heads turned as the nightclub manager and waiters dashed to greet Wang and his people. Then, to my utter surprise, the entourage was led to sit at Master Lung’s table!

      To all of us who were regulars at Bright Moon, that table was sacred and untouchable, to only be occupied by Master Lung or at his invitation. This could only mean that the configuration of Shanghai’s underworld had finally shifted. Were Master Lung and his Flying Dragons gang now just one more finished chapter in Shanghai’s unsavory history?

      It was definitely time for me to leave. I tossed a few bills on the table, pulled up my collar, and hurried out.

      6

      The Garden Party

      The following Wednesday, I put on a simple dress and hired a car, then changed to a rickshaw to bring me to Edward Miller’s mansion between Jiangxi Road (West of the River) and Fuzhou Road (Lucky Prefecture), inside the American Settlement. Although in the past, as Shanghai’s famous Heavenly Songbird, I’d been invited to many rich people’s houses, the invitation from a foreign Consul General was something new for me. I felt both nervous and elated.

      The rickshaw let me off in front of a tall black gate with the American Eagle insignia. For a moment, I just gaped at the imposing building. It loomed before me, intimidating and aristocratic with its red fence, white walls, and blue-uniformed guards standing ramrod straight. Outside the gate, there was a grassy area enclosed with shrubs and trees—for dog walking or resting horses, I guessed. Since I was an hour early, there seemed to be no other arriving guests.

      One of the guards saw me and came over. I announced my name, handed him Miller’s signed name card, and told him I was here to sing at the party. The guard went inside and returned with a fortyish, red-faced foreign woman. I assumed she was the governess Emily Andrews, whom Miller had mentioned during our high tea.

      She smiled warmly. “Welcome, Miss Jasmine Chen, please come in. I’m Mrs. Emily Andrews, the governess.”

      At my most polite, I replied, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Andrews. General Miller has already told me about you.”

      I suddenly realized we were speaking English. I’d learned a little of the language during my training as a spy. Though I had no problem with simple conversation, I hoped I would not need it in a complicated situation.

      I followed the motherly figure through the gate, then walked along the path toward the entrance. Unexpectedly, Andrews led me around the building to a side door—the servant’s entrance, I supposed.

      Inside, she continued to lead me along branching corridors and closed rooms until we reached a long flight of stairs and ascended to the first floor. After some more walking, the governess stopped in front of a plain wooden door and opened it for me. Inside, the small room contained but a single bed, a desk, and a closet. Given the grandeur of the building, this plain room must СКАЧАТЬ