The Nine Fold Heaven. Mingmei Yip

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СКАЧАТЬ said, smiling handsomely while tapping my flute with his.

      I returned his toast with a coyly flirtatious smile. “To our cruise, Edward.”

      My diplomat friend went on enthusiastically. “We will be passing some of Shanghai’s most scenic spots: the Bund’s Western-style skyscrapers, the Customs House with its bell tower, Shasun Mansion with its pyramid top, the Garden bridge at Suzhou Creek, and many more. I’m sure we’ll have a good time.”

      From behind his back, Edward produced an orange orchid and put it above my ear.

      Staring at a few sea gulls gliding above the waves, I thought of a poem and began to recite it for Edward:

      Last year the plum blossom failed to bloom,

      This year it bloomed aplenty.

      Every year the petals unfurl to welcome Spring,

      How many times to appreciate a flower,

      even if you live to a hundred?

      Why busy oneself rushing in all directions?

      After I finished, he exclaimed, “What a lovely poem! And how well you recite it!”

      “You flatter me too much, Mr. Ambassador. Poetry is just a hobby for me. And, Edward, you know so much about Chinese culture!”

      “Jasmine, from the first time I met you I knew you were different from the others. As the Chinese say, ‘After one look at the loftiest mountain, all the other hills look flat.’ ”

      What a naive foreigner, and a Consul General at that! If only he knew how different I was: That I could throw knives with deadly accuracy. That I was skilled in having sex in the most contorted positions possible. That I was indeed an orphan but rescued from the orphanage, not because of anyone’s compassion, but, on the contrary, to be trained as an assassin.

      After more compliments bouncing back and forth between us like Ping-Pong balls, Edward suggested we go down into the salon for a late lunch. From the galley he took a platter of cold snacks, placed them on the center table, and we began to eat. When he was busy consuming his shrimp, chicken, beef, or whatnot, I took the chance to look around.

      The room was decorated with old charts and paintings of Chinese junks. A wooden shelf was filled with books, held in by an elastic cord. On one wall was mounted a miniature Chinese dragon boat.

      The dragon boat reminded me of what I had read about the Chinese luxury boats of the past. The wealthy would invite a select few to enjoy their aquatic paradise. The guest list might include close friends, celebrities, high monks, talented scholars, beauties, and honest merchants. The last category always amused me. If there are “honest” merchants, are there also “sincere” spies like me, “on the house,” or on the boat, courtesans, “compassionate” gangsters? What about “spiritual” monks, who ate meat, drank wine, and seduced women?

      These rich people’s boats were lavishly decorated with lanterns, ribbons, and latticed windows. In these pleasant surroundings, the honorable guests would engage in sipping aromatic tea, or expensive wine, dancing, doing calligraphy, reciting poetry, and meditating on the ever-changing waves. The boats were given names based on their unique shapes, like Gourd or Banana Leaf, or poetic images, like Swallow’s Garden, Jade Pavilion, Pine Grove....

      I wondered, in a past life, was I a courtesan entertaining on one of these luxurious boats? Had my past karma led me to be gliding over the water with a high official on his beautiful yacht? I inhaled the clean air, imagining myself living in the purity of tall mountains, far away from this dusty world. But sadly, reality always paints a different picture.

      My life was a boat drifting on a limitless expanse of water—when would it land on the shore?

      Miller seemed to be enjoying himself so much that he was oblivious to my sadness. As we ate and drank, he rambled on about the city and the sights we were passing. I mostly listened, fearing the more I talked, the more chance I would reveal more of myself than was prudent. I didn’t want to spoil this seemingly pure, innocent encounter. Or was it? Maybe he had more in mind than simply rescuing a poor orphan girl from her horrible fate.

      But I put this out of my mind for the moment as the rocking of the boat, soothing in its monotonous rhythm, gave me a sense of peace and security. It was a little cooler now, and the setting sun was casting golden highlights on the waves. Feeling mesmerized and nostalgic, a song involuntarily slipped from my mouth.

      Everyone has parents, but I don’t.

      Where are you hiding, dear mama and baba?

      When, if ever, will we meet?

      Would we recognize each other,

      Or merely rub shoulders as we pass?

      To my surprise, after I finished, my host was blinking back tears.

      I asked. “Edward, are you all right?”

      He took a small meditative sip of his wine, then softly put down the glass. “It’s your singing. It makes me sad, for you—and also for myself.”

      “How’s that?”

      He spoke slowly, his tone sad. “I also consider myself an orphan.”

      I was surprised to hear this and quickly put on a sympathetic expression. “What do you mean?”

      “My parents were missionaries in Shanghai years ago. When I was fifteen, our house burned down and they were killed.”

      “What a horrible accident!”

      “It wasn’t an accident; it was murder.”

      “Murder! But who would want to murder harmless missionaries?”

      I was not at all sure that missionaries are absolutely harmless, and didn’t feel much about his parents, since I would never meet them. But I knew I should sound sympathetic.

      He shook his head, his blond hair glistening under the yacht’s yellowish light, rendering him still handsome but now sad, and vulnerable.

      “It was gangsters.”

      My heart skipped a beat. “They were killed by gangsters?”

      What I really wanted to know was whether they’d been killed by the Flying Dragons or the Red Demons.

      He split a bitter smile. “My parents did nothing but preach God’s good deeds. I think this offended the gangsters because they believe only in their own gods, who don’t mind illegal deeds.”

      To my surprise, my hand had already reached to touch his. “Edward, I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.” I paused, then, “At least now you have a good life.”

      I suddenly realized why this privileged American ambassador took an interest in me. Because he and I shared the same fate, though he’d known his parents, but I hadn’t.

      I was starting to worry. Although I constantly reminded myself to stay emotionless, was I starting to feel more for this man than was safe for me?

      Edward gently lifted СКАЧАТЬ