The Nine Fold Heaven. Mingmei Yip

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      I turned to his father. “Edward, your son is such an adorable little boy!”

      The father smiled proudly.

      I asked, “So, Henry is already learning Chinese?”

      “Yes, in school.”

      “He is hen ke ai.”

      “Daddy, what is henkeai?” Henry asked his father in English.

      “That means you are very lovely and likeable.”

      The boy turned to give me a big smile. “You henkeai, too, Aunty Jasmine.”

      Edward laughed as he affectionately patted his son’s head.

      Henry pulled at my dress. “Aunty Jasmine, please come play with me!”

      “Henry, Jasmine Ah Yi is too busy to play with you now. She needs to get ready to sing for us.”

      “But, Daddy, I want to play with henkeai Jasmine Ah Yi!”

      Edward turned to me, “I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be back in a moment.”

      The ambassador left to greet the distinguished guests who kept streaming into the garden. I was relieved that none of these people was likely to recognize me—they were mostly foreigners, probably rich businessmen, influential politicians, prominent professionals.

      Henry pulled out two plastic cars from his pants pocket, put them on the ground, and made roooom, rooom noises.

      Seconds later, Emily appeared and said to the boy, “Henry, stop bothering Miss Chen, let me take you to the kitchen.”

      Then she turned to me. “Excuse us, Jasmine, I need to get something for Henry to eat. He’s hungry.”

      Happy to be left alone for a moment, I began to walk around discreetly to see if I could eavesdrop anything useful.

      A bespectacled gentleman with a hat and suit said loudly, “When will the shipment of cigarettes arrive in Hong Kong?”

      Another one in a suit and bow tie exclaimed, “The Charter bank has just doubled its profit and its stock keeps shooting up!”

      Yet another one described to his lady friend how he had his portrait done by the first Chinese oil painter in Shanghai.

      Except for a few curious glances from the ladies, probably hoping for some juicy gossip, it seemed no one was paying me much attention. I guessed that the honorable guests assumed I was insignificant—either a maid, a young cousin, or maybe even a mistress. And if I were a mistress, then people would politely pretend I did not exist. For my part, I was in accord with the saying, “It’s better to be silently seen than loudly talked about.”

      Soon, I became bored listening to the rich and powerful, because I had no interest in politics or business. So I sat down by a corner and sipped my drink. But my hope for a few moments of relaxation was broken by hearing a plump man with a bulbous nose talking loudly to his small group of listeners.

      “I’ve heard that the execution will take place on Sunday at the execution ground outside the city.”

      A plump woman exclaimed in her high-pitched voice, “Oh, how horrible! Who’d be the unlucky guy?”

      “I forget his name, but it’s some gangster.”

      My heart almost stopped at the word gangster. Because they were, in a way, my people. I was trained by them, surrounded by them, worked for them, and made love to them—until I finally succeeded in ruining some of them. But now I had to run away from those I had not ruined.

      One of the group, a man holding an elegantly carved walking stick asked, “What did the poor chap do wrong?”

      “Who knows? Maybe he didn’t do anything wrong at all. Just bad luck. But you know, I plan to go have a look. I’ve never seen an actual execution. It’s my opportunity, since the Chinese are so uncivilized as to do it in public. Anyone care to join me?”

      A gangster was to be executed. I needed to know who it was. But I kept quiet about my rather morbid curiosity. Then I was thinking. Could this man be someone I knew? Could it be Master Lung? Unlikely, for either he was now burning in hell or, if alive, hidden away, tasting the bitterness of his own karma. And it certainly wasn’t Big Brother Wang, because I’d just seen him at Bright Moon Nightclub, gloating at Lung’s specially reserved table. What about Gao, Lung’s bodyguard and my one-time lover? This thought sent a chill down my spine.

      Then the chill spread through my whole body when I suddenly realized—I, too, was wanted by the police for murder! Would the ax fall on my head, too, someday?

      I took several gulps of my champagne, though hardly in a celebratory mood. Then I thought of my host and decided I’d better capitalize on my good luck at having been “rescued” by him. Because, if I were headed for serious trouble, who better to have on my side than an influential foreigner?

      Just then Miller came over to me. “Jasmine, sorry that I’ve been neglecting you. There are so many people I need to greet. Now, can you sing us a few songs when appetizers are served?”

      I hoped this was not the only purpose that he’d invited me here—to provide free entertainment. I thought he genuinely appreciated my singing, but hoped that his interest in me did not stop there.

      I scrutinized the guests again. Some already eating their salad, while others still chatting with drinks in their hands. As far as I could tell, there were no Chinese at the party. Feeling relieved that no one would recognize me, it was time to show off my singing, the better to lure the Consul General further into my skeleton net.

      “All right, Edward. What do you want me to sing?”

      He pointed to the live orchestra under the sprays of pink blossoms.” I already told them you sing Carmen beautifully, so they’re prepared. After that, I hope you can also sing a few Chinese songs. As you see tonight, most of my guests are British, French, and American. Some are new here like me. I’m sure they’d love to hear something local and authentic.”

      Talking, he led me to stand in front of the orchestra. Before anything could be said to introduce me, the players had sounded the first notes of the aria.

      I half closed my eyes and meditated. Seconds later, I sank my qi to my dantian, then drew it back up to my chest and head before I delicately exhaled the first words. I did my best to make it sound innocent, vulnerable, and heart-melting like a baby’s breath.

      Love is a gypsy’s child,

      It has never, ever, recognized the law.

      If I love you, you’d best beware!

      The bird you hope to catch,

      Will beat its wings and fly away. . . .

      Love stays away, making you wait and wait.

      Then, when least expected, there it is!

      While I continued to sing, before my eyes reeled bitter memories like a flickering silent movie. I remembered СКАЧАТЬ