Chapter Text
The carven railings, the jade-white steps must still be there
Only the fair faces have changed.
I ask you, how much sorrow can there be?
As much as the great river flowing east in spring floods.
Li Yu, Song dynasty poet
Lights. Lights, as far as the eye could see.
The street was lit up with an awesome brilliance, yellow orbs of the street lamps dotting the darkness of the night; neon signboards flashing and gleaming, beckoning.
A large building loomed ahead, resplendent with gilded windows and a spire, abundant and full, peaking up to the murky blue-black ahead, painted a luminescent gold from the man-made glow. Those who lived in Shanghai knew it by name, knew it by sight.
The Promenade dance hall, they would say or point, with a hushed and reverent awe.
Home to jazzy enjoyment, pomp and lavishness, even in the times of difficulty. Frequented by the rich, the high-fliers and of course, the soldiers that had laid waste to the rest of the city, that had razed the land.
At night, it was always bustling, always merry. Today was no different.
Lights, bright lights before her, dazzling her eyes.
Ningguang stretches out a gloved arm before her, basks in the adoration, the gazes of admiration, holding her breath. Bating a moment, that seems to hang suspended in the air.
Her lungs swell with air, and she belts out one last time,
“Hana no kanmuri de hito odori, haihō haihō…!”
Her voice carries through the yawning, arching hall, and past the stage, filling the entire place; strong and husky, a delight to hear. The last few beats of the drum, the resounding hums of the cello. She holds the note, lets it fade to a whisper.
She flings her arm down, gives one final smile, coy and sweet, staring nowhere into the audience in particular; holding her breath.
Silence.
Then, slowly but surely, applause, growing from the reedy patter of hands to the sound of rain coming down hard on a pavement. Sweet, sweet applause filling her ears, rolling through the crowd like a wave.
She is breathing a little hard, she realises this now, but its fine. She surveys the sea of faces and bodies before her, feels the eyes on her, hungry gazes roving over her; some lecherous and leering, some mixed with genuine joy and appreciation, cured momentarily of their pangs of homesickness.
The hall is colourful and cloaked with velvet from every inch, from ceiling to floor; and the curtains that line the wall and stage are a deep red pleasing to the eye. There are marble railings; carpeted stairs from the stage and with the little platforms at the side, with plush chaise lounge seats that the crowd separate themselves into, huddling in their little groups, intimate and comfortable.
The dance floor, sleek and laminated red oak, is littered with a handful of couples, women in fabrics of taffeta and slinky lace, their men in debonair suits or uniforms. There are heavy, hanging chandeliers that line the ceiling, dripping with crystals and gold, twinkling in the light.
She stands on the stage, cupped in the white, bright spotlight of glory, that hangs on a pulley close to the second floor balcony, where she can see heads of people milling around, partygoers that wanted a little more quiet and a better view. Same as always, she notes.
She sees the stern blonde men with icy-blue eyes, the red-black swastikas pinned onto their lapels, and wants to shiver.
She notes the faces of the Chinese, collaborators and lackeys, the lot of them--- faces plump and oily with excess and indulgence. Traitors to the homeland, kowtowing to their invaders for greed; luxuriating where their countrymen were starving, suffering under tyrant rule.
She wants to curl her lip, but everyone is looking at her, and a wrong move could turn into a lifetime of regret, worse still, not leave her with hours past tomorrow.
She remembers the way one of these men had fell upon a girl, A’Hua, just two weeks ago, slapping and pummelling her to bits just because she ‘looked at him the wrong way’. Emboldened by his new position as a running-dog--- a position of utter hypocrisy because it was hardly anything to be proud of.
Two weeks later, and A’Hua had not been back. The big sisters who visited her in the hospital came back grave, unsure she could even return to work in the dancehall, ever, much less find a husband in the future with a sagging face.
Finally, Ningguang notes the Japanese soldiers, with neat slicked back heads of black, their uniforms rumpled after a day of work, in that disgusting shade of pale khaki. The stars and badges hanging over the chest. Commanders and their charges. She has never liked it, and it always jars her to see it, but work is work and there is nothing a smile cannot hide, not even revulsion.
They are lounging around, laughing and cawing, guzzling from their perspiring glasses of piss-coloured alcohol. They talk and gesture in their rapid-fire language, some words she recognises not from interest, but from pure repetition and necessity.
The other day, one of them had just pulled Sister Wang into his lap, started pawing at her, tearing at her dress, leaving her nakedness and shame bared for the world to see. He then dragged her off to a corner to mount her, pushing her head into the wall all the while; she could only cry quietly, but not fight back---for it would mean a bullet in the head, or a bayonet blade through the gut.
Better defilement, than death, was it not? To be able to live longer, to cry and get over it later.
The rest of the people in the hall had not blinked, simply looked forward, pointedly ignoring the evil in the back, and the sentiment was clear. Her or us, and better her than us. The rest of the girls could do nothing. This was out of their hands, unless they wanted blood-splattered carpets to clean out tomorrow.
Sister Wang was engaged to the young letter-writer down the road. The man had knocked his writing table over when he heard, then put his head in his hands and sobbed by the gutter while the rickshaws shuttled past him.
Another soldier had caused the death of an elderly vagrant outside, who had been ambling around their main doors, begging for morsels or a few dollars from kind strangers. Eyes clouded with cataracts, she had bumped into him; smeared dirt from the roads onto his sleeves.
She heard it all the way in the dressing room. Two gunshots, loud and horrible, in sound and meaning.
One of the younger girls had let out a little scream, while the others all fell into an uneasy silence. Not the first, and not the last time.
They had to make a call to the funeral parlour, to have some men come down to get rid of the body. The blood stains on the pavement only washed out after three full pails of water.
She eyes the bastards in green again. She wishes that it were real piss they were drinking.
She had always been lucky. Twice a week, she prayed to the Goddess of Mercy at the small altar three streets down never to let them touch her, please don’t let them touch me, please, o Goddess, protect me. Her hands clasped together, bowing her head, and a whippy joss stick of incense as an offering. Please keep me safe.
Being the star performer at Promenade put her in a different league of her own as well. Untouchable; prized for being one of the only few to sing in their language.
It was no coincidence, no sheer luck. She had struggled with the rounded rrrrrs, the sssses and the choppy syllables, but she had persevered, and just as well--- she found herself being called up to the stage almost everyday, now.
Of course, only Japanese-issued songs, only Japanese-approved songs could be sung, after all. Her mother tongue was contemptuous to their ears, spoiled their moods and would dampen the proud, imperialist spirits around. None of the white man’s music either, unless it was German, and she hadn’t even started on her Guten Tags yet.
“Keep them happy, keep them calm. Don’t let them think of anything horrible.” Sister Zhao had told her in the dimness of the dressing room, urgent and quiet, her manicured hand tight on her arm. “Just sing. Just keep singing, and everything will be fine.”
Still deep in her thoughts, swaying slightly on the stage, caught in the last bits of euphoria after a song, the lights still bright in Ningguang’s eyes. She doesn’t even notice when the interloper stumbles up from behind her until he grinds himself up against her, his meaty paws reaching round to seize her waist.
She freezes, stock-still on the stage, and she can smell the fetid stench of his breath, hot and heavy, on her ear. “Kirei onna…” Pretty woman. He reeks of alcohol, and he is half-hard, pressing into the back of her thighs, his hands fumbling at her dress front.
Her stomach plummets and she blinks rapidly, trying to bat away the tears coming to her eyes. She’s afraid, so afraid, and she’s pressing her lips together not to frown, not to cry. She should have noticed something was wrong, when the chatter of the musicians behind her died away so suddenly.
Everybody is watching her--- the girls serving drinks, Sister Zhao peeking out from backstage, a hand on her mouth, eyes wide with horror.
The German soldiers, dispassionate, some of them looking away, perhaps finding it distasteful. The Chinese lackeys, leering for a show. The couples on the dance floor, a mixture of wives and lovers from either side, look past her, or drop their gazes to avoid watching.
The soldier behind her slurs again. “Watashi… to isshou ni kitte…” Come with me.
Everyone is still staring, and how could they not? Right on the stage, right before them, in the white bright spotlight. The leading lady of the dance hall, being molested by a drunkard soldier.
His hands are roaming around, going further down south and she is shaking, trembling. Scenarios are running through her head: the ugly violence, the despoilment of her being before everyone.
Now, even the guests upstairs have noticed and some of them peer down, to watch, their heads dipping down.
Please don’t let them touch me, please, o Goddess, protect me. Please keep me safe.
The tears do not dissipate, they pool at the corner of her eyes. Just as he is about to flip up her skirt---
“Takahashi, mou yamemasu.” That’s enough. At this, the rising tension in the air breaks.
It is a barked order, not irritated, not exasperated, merely commanding in tone. Her eyes dart around frantically, and land on the source. A man in uniform has risen at the side of the stage, a troupe of men on the plush chairs around him. His insignia betrays his rank, with the multitude of stars lining his chest--- a major general, she is guessing.
The hands on her stop, and lift dumbly. She holds her breath, afraid that they will crash down on her once more, but they never do. She all but quakes with relief when she feels the offending heat behind her step back, then shuffle away from her, the smell of the alcohol fading.
The collective sigh of relief amongst the girls, and the musicians is almost imperceptible, almost inaudible and in a way it is. She sees it in the way Sister Zhao sags against the wall, from the corner of her eye; sees the girls in the front relax and turn their heads down; hears the gentle murmuring breaking across the musicians behind her.
Ningguang straightens up, still shaking a little. She sees a man trudging down the side of the stage, decked in that disgusting khaki green, twirling here and there, making incoherent noises. Then he slumps down to the floor, at the side of the hall, in a dead stupor. Her attacker.
She wants to shudder. What a horrid, awful human being.
The voice from below makes her look down. “You, Gyouko-san?” It’s in off-key, pidgin Chinese.
It is the general from before, who has just saved her from a lifetime of pain and trauma. He has sidled over from his seat, stalked across the dance floor and drawn up to the edge of the stage.
Although, when she looks at him, her throat starts to close up. He is bony and tall. His eyes are cold and pale, his black hair slicked back in a severe manner, and he looks expectant, peering up at her.
Maybe he had not saved her out of courtesy, but rather to have her as his own.
She struggles to keep the panic in her from beating its wings, tries to stamp it down. “Yes, I am,” she says in lightly-accented Japanese. That was what her name was, in their language anyways. “Sir,” she adds quickly.
He smiles at her now, and it terrifies her a little, the way his thin lips pull back to reveal vast gums and large teeth, not unlike a reptile. “Sorry about my man. You speak Japanese, I heard. It’s very good.” His smile widens again, if it is even possible. “I would like you to sing the song, Senyu. Do you know Senyu?”
Thank goddess she does, or she is not sure if that smile of his will stay any longer on his face. She nods, anxiety subsiding, and beams at him winningly, hoping to disarm. “I know Senyu. I sing.” Typical, the classic ditty of patriotism. Her Japanese skills are nowhere close to fluent, but she knows enough to communicate without misunderstanding. Better to know something, than nothing at all. She ducks her head, to show respect.
But that’s not all. He continues studying her with those lifeless eyes, curious and unflinching. The eyes of a man who is assessing an object before him.
He must like what he sees, her head bowed in reverence to him, silent, a pleasing picture of submission to the power he holds, because he leans back.
“You are a good singer. I will be back to see you.”
He is pleased, she can see it from the way his shoulders relax, and the smugness surfacing on his face. It is an expression that doesn’t suit him, and just makes him look even more off-putting.
“Thank you sir.” She keeps her eyes downcast the smile still fixed on her face, until she sees him turn away, jauntily striding back to his seat, to receive pats on the back from his counterparts, where they shuffle to make space for him. He looks triumphant, glowing, as if he had just won a prize over. She knows that look. It is the look of a man who thinks he has gotten a woman interested, who fancies himself a gentleman and a clever flirt.
You’re no fucking gentleman, you savage.
She can feel his eyes on her as he settles back into position. She turns back and snaps her fingers at the musician, a motley crew of tired-looking men, plucked from Anhui and Zhejiang province, and the rest, good old, born-and-bred Shanghainese stock. “You heard the man,” she said. The cello player, Qin, rubbed at his forehead, and the trumpet player, Chen shifted in his seat. “We’re going to play Senyu.”
Turning back to greet the audience, with the incident from before still at the fringes of her mind, she takes a deep breath. Smiles, stretches her arms out as if to welcome a long-lost friend. Fixing her eyes on a faraway point, at the doors of the hall where she can see the darkness of the night through the windows. She makes it a point not to meet the general’s eye, lest he be encouraged.
The lights are shining right at her, bathing her silver, and she waits for the slow rat-tat-a-tat of the drums, the blare of the trumpets.
“Koko wa okuni wo nanbyakuri…”
It is quiet and dark outside, aside from the rumble of the trucks that hurtle past in the main road nearby, and the stray, occasional clank of a rickshaw, its puller humming a raspy tune from days gone by. Shanghai’s night air is crisp and smells of rain and dust, and something metallic all at the same time. It is late and the dancehall is closed.
By now, even the last of the guests have gone home, by chauffeured limousine or rickshaws, taking some girls with them; thankfully, all consenting today. The girls that stay for the night have retired to their quarters upstairs, or have been shuttled back to their apartments in a car.
Ningguang leans against the open back door of the kitchen, a cigarette dangling from her fingers; the heat of the smoke filling her lungs, billowing through her nose when she exhales. The kitchen is empty, and gives her the ample privacy and quiet she craves. This is nice, she thinks, feeling the stress from the day fall away from her shoulders as she takes another puff.
The cig makers, the tobacco people, they sure knew what they were doing. They must have put something inside, she reasons. Otherwise, it wouldn’t nearly be so addictive as it was.
Maybe just a few more huffs, she reasons with herself. She absentmindedly tapped the stick with a finger, flicking away the ashes from the glowing tip. She can’t smoke too much anyways; it would ruin her voice.
Sister Zhao had almost strangled her the one time she caught her smoking by the stairs. “Are you crazy?” She had hissed, looking her up and down, eyes wide with incredulity. “Do you want to make your voice all ugly and wheezy like a hag? You’d scare the customers off.”
Ningguang wonders how the woman would have reacted had she found the wood-and-copper pipe tucked under her pillow in her room first. Probably even angrier. Cigarettes were convenient when she wasn’t able to get to her cherished pipe in a moment’s notice.
Not that many people knew about her little past time, either way. To many, it was still a man’s habit, and it was seen as vulgar and distasteful to see a woman’s lips wrapped around these instruments of leisure.
Although, Sister Zhao had been rather delighted just now, awed even. None of the blustering admonishment she gave her just a month ago. She accosted her in the dressing room with a hand that shot out to catch her arm. “Didn’t you know? That was General Tanaka, who called you over on the stage.” The syllables of his name, butchered to discordance by her jabbered Mandarin. Da-nah-ga, dah-nah-ga.
Zhao had leaned back, impressed, eyes alight with ideas and the prospect of having the favour of the ruling power with them, thanks to their star performer. “That bodes well for you; and for us all. Thank god he stopped that dirty bastard from tearing off your clothes on stage.”
Bode well? For her? The connotations that surged to mind were ugly, the images filling Ningguang’s head. To curry favour, to suck up and simper; she imagined parting her legs for a bony body to crawl in between to, remembered the dead eyes and the cavernous grin; the sick shade of khaki. Remembered the groping she had been subjected to.
She shuddered at the thought, her hand moving to clutch her elbow, to steady herself. “I’d rather have my arms chopped off then lie under him.”
Moving quickly over to the wash basin placed near the mirrors, she then spat thrice into it, to expel all the dirtiness and the inauspiciousness of what had just been uttered, as a way of cleansing. The mahjie, the wet nurse at the children’s home had taught her this before, many years ago.
Zhao had stared at her again, taken aback at such a show of vehemence. “Well, I…” She sputtered. “I was just saying. Have it your way, Sister Ning. Times are hard, you know.” With that, she bustled off in a swish of fabric and cloying rose perfume, presumably to somewhere else with people who were less unhinged than she was, people who would be more practical.
She lets the burn spread through her throat, and her chest. The pleasant tingling, the headiness of the concoction. She rests her head onto the door frame, the light from the kitchen spilling out into a puddle of yellow at her feet.
Her bun is too tight, and it is hurting her head after several hours of being held into place. Idly, she twists her feet here and there, playing with the shadows that dance on the floor.
She almost does not see the man charging out from the shadowy depths of the alley behind her.
He comes in a blur of black, out of the corner of her eye. With one strong arm, he grabs a hold of her, and forcefully sweeps them back into the shelter, before she can even scream, pulling the door shut with one practised motion.
Her heart is pounding, as he holds her against his chest, his grip strong and unwavering. A burglar? A rapist? A murderer? Blood rushes in her ears, and she wants to throw up. She sees her cigarette that has fallen onto the floor, the ember end still flickering bright. She smells smoke, and something rust-like, wet and heavy.
Before she can even think about it, his voice is low and steely next to her ear. “It would do you good not to make any noise.” He is behind her, holding in place, and she cannot see his face, even as she twists and turns.
Please, o Goddess, protect me. Please keep me safe. Guan Yin Bodhisattva, hear my plea.
She stands very, very still, weighing her options. She can hear something outside, heavy, stampeding footfall, that grows louder as they draw closer to the door. There are faint cries that her ears strain to make out.
“Yamerou! Yamerou, kusoyarou!” Stop, stop, punk! They are angry, and fierce. She can hear the clanking of metal against flesh, the sound of bayonets whipping against legs as the soldiers give chase.
Her blood runs cold, putting two and two together, and she lets out a soft little gasp before she can stop herself. In response, there is a large hand that clamps over her mouth, with him seizing her a little tighter.
“Quiet, you’ll get us both killed.” He utters this very matter-of-factly, and its all he needs to make her shut up.
They stand there, bodies pressed up against the other in silence; yellow lights washing them jaundiced. The smell of rust and something earthy is very strong now, and she can feel a dampness against her waist. The odour reminds her of the butcher’s stall at the wet market, dirty and splattered, and she freezes, not wanting to think about what the wetness might be.
It is so tense in the room. They are both holding their breaths. Her eyes dart over the sink, the chopping board, the stove, and at the far corner of the kitchen table, she spots a set of gleaming knives in a wooden holder. She makes her plan.
Finally, the footsteps fade away, and so does the shouting. Silence falls, once more.
As soon she feels his hold on her loosen, she plants a elbow into his chest, and shoves, hard. “Don’t touch me, pig!” She staggers to the knives, and the metal sings as she pulls out a chopper to point at him.
It is a little weighty in her hand, and her arm is trembling a little. She cannot remember the last time she’s ever held a knife like this, with her painted hand wrapped around the handle. Even so, she hopes she looks menacing enough. She jabs at him once, to drive it in. This is a warning.
The man has his hair in a bun, and is dressed in black from head to toe, with a similarly-coloured cloth mask that reveals just his eyes. Measured eyes that are a deep shade of amber, that study her. He raises his hands, and takes a step back. A sign of peace.
“I am sorry, miss,” he says after a tense moment of silence. “I meant no harm.” He is breathing a little hard now, she can see. Probably from the running he did just now. “I just needed somewhere to hide.”
She stares back at him.
“You’re a wanted man.” It was not a question, more of a statement. Clearly evidenced by the Japanese soldiers running after him, cursing him to damnation; the way he had charged into the first open door he had seen down the alley.
He doesn’t look away. “Yes.” He spreads his hands, an oddly elegant gesture. “Fighting back, for the sake of the motherland.”
She huffs then, and sets down the blade. It clatters dully against the table. He was one of those of those famed resistance fighters, a legion faceless and nameless, pushing back against the tyranny that had stepped foot into the country.
She had heard countless tales, of them slipping into the Kempeitai quarters, or their houses, slitting throats and ending lives of the oppressors, before bidding a hasty escape. They were the reason why there were barricades set up in street corners, to prevent them from running away. They were the reasons why there were always random checks on the street.
It was ugly when they got caught though. They would be shot dead, strung up in the streets to serve as warnings, their bodies swinging when the wind blew hard enough.
They would be taken down after a few days, when they started to smell, started to bloat and draw crows and flies; thrown unceremoniously into the back of a military truck, no doubt to be dumped somewhere to be forgotten, to decompose.
No graves, set to wander the afterlife lost, with no ancestors praying for their reprieve, or to worship them. Mothers walking by would avert their gazes, would cover the eyes of their children. She would always walk by quickly, with her head bowed. It was cruel. To fight for freedom and to be punished for it.
Every time she passed by a hanging body, she would make a little detour to the little altar two streets down, to pray for their safe passage into the otherworld; clasping her hands and muttering fervently.
Now, standing in front of her, is one of them. Live, in the flesh.
Ningguang straightens up and fixes him with another hard look. “Take off your mask. I don’t help people I don’t know.”
She thought the man might say no or get hostile, even. She does not expect him to comply, does not expect him to reach up behind his head to undo the knot; does not expect to see the kind face gazing out at her as the cloth falls around his neck.
She blinks, and her heart stutters a little, taken back by the gentleness in his expression, and how handsome the man actually is. Her hand flounders on the table, as if to grasp for control. “Your name?”
He shakes his head, still watching her. “I don’t do names.” She thinks a note of wariness has crept into his voice. “Not here, anyways.”
She clears her throat, oddly feeling a little disappointed, as if she weren’t harbouring a criminal right now. “That’s fair.”
By now, the smell of the wetness is growing more and more pervasive, too strong to ignore, and is cloaking the air. Her nose wrinkles. “Do you smell that?” She waves her hand in front of her face, as if to fan the odour away. “There’s this smell, its so…”
“I know. It’s blood. From the man I killed.” He points to a darkened stain at the front of his black shirt that gleams with wet, drawing her notice.
She pales. He speaks so freely in front of her, of murder committed with his very hands, as if it is a secluded hideout they are at, and not in the kitchen of a dancehall oft frequented by the very people he hates. The words spilling from his mouth are at a stark contrast with his calmness.
Killed? Another living, breathing human being? The man is just standing there, arms hanging at his side. He looks so harmless now. But she could be wrong.
He eyes her coolly. “Are you scared?” He takes another step back, again, his eyes gleaming. “Of me?”
Ningguang leans back on the table, her mind racing. “I…” It doesn’t feel real to her. She thinks she might feel a wave of fear gripping her, holding her rigid to the ground, but oddly enough, it never comes. She searches her head for the right words. “No… I’m not. I don’t know why.” She turns to look at him. “Should I be?”
His eyes soften. “No. I do not harm the lives of civilians and my country men.” His eyes harden. “Not unless they wish to sell me out.”
It is her turn to put her hands up. “That’s fair.”
It is quiet, in the kitchen once more. She sees him pulling at the shirt, as if to study the stain, to check on his dirtied shirt.
“Cold water,” she blurts out. He looks at her strangely, with slight alarm, his fingers falling away.
“Cold water… Helps to wash it out, from the clothes.” She finishes. “Trust me. It works.”
He watches her, as if trying to gauge the reason she is telling him this. He relaxes then. “Alright, miss. Thank you.”
There is a clatter and a creaking from the wooden floorboards upstairs, the sound travelling down to the ceiling above their heads, faint but noticeable. Light girlish giggling, and the patter of feet.
It breaks the moment, and catches the man’s notice. He looks up and purses his lips. “I think I have… overstayed my welcome. Thank you, for not…” He seems to be deciding on what to say. “…giving me away,” he settles.
She nods, a tongue running over her lips, tasting the dried rouge she had so painstakingly applied hours earlier. Harbouring a criminal, albeit a complicated one.
Who would have thought it would ever happen? She strides over to the door briskly, then carefully pokes a watchful head out. To the right. To the left.
The coast was clear, the alley dark and empty, no signs of life.
She pulls the door a little more open. “It’s safe now.” He is pulling up the cloth over his face again, so that it covers his nose and mouth. His amber eyes flash at her.
“Thank you, miss.” His deep voice is muffled by the fabric. He slips past her, and out of the door.
“Ningguang,” she calls out. Already cloaked in the darkness, he stops in his tracks, turning back to look at her. The look in his eyes is unreadable.
She steps forward a little. “My name. Not ‘miss’ this, ‘miss’ that.”
His eyes crinkle. He waves a hand in response; then breaks into a sprint ahead. The shadows swallow him up, and he is longer there.
When she closes the kitchen door, the smell of blood lingers just for a while more in the air, then fades away.
That night, she dreams of a warmth pressed to her back and a pair of large, placating hands that fall on her back. She wakes up the next day, and doesn’t remember it, but there is a nagging feeling at the back of her brain.
The man wanders into her thoughts again, occasionally. Had it been real, or just a hallucination brought on by her imagination and the soothing powers of the cigarette concoction?
She doesn’t have much time to daydream anyways, not with all the new girls she has to train, and the dresses she has to send to the tailor. He is forgotten, thrown out of her mind, like discarded sweet wrappers and old newspapers into a bin. It is better that way. A resistance fighter, in their kitchen just a day ago? Pah.
Two days later, they meet again.
“It’s the consultant from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour,” elderly custodian Lai tells her in the personal lounge, where she had been fixing up a little tear in her qipao dress. It is one of her favourites, a yellow and white checkered piece with matching frog buttons.
Lai is a shrivelled man with tanned, leathery skin and a hunchback, that makes himself scarce when the soldiers are around. When he speaks, his eyes glaze over with effort. “He’s here to collect the dues for their services, that we procured just a few weeks back. He’s just outside the hall doors, wearing a blue changshan.”
Ningguang curses, her finger catching on the needle. It pricks, draws a bead of bright red blood that shines in the late afternoon sun; she brings the finger to her mouth to suck on it briefly. “Where is Sister Zhao?”
“Out with a gentleman friend.”
She sighs, and sets her things down, dusting off the front of her dress. “Thank you, Mr Lai. I’ll go now.”
Lai makes a cough of acknowledgement, before he shuffles off to his duties.
After snatching up the cheque book by the safe and a sturdy ink pen, she trots down the winding stairs to push past the heavy doors that lead to the bustling street, head craning here and there to catch sight of the waiting consultant. She smells dust and smoke already.
When she sees him gazing out to the rickshaws, cars, civilians and soldiers, somehow she isn’t surprised. It’s the man from two nights ago.
He turns when she approaches, and their eyes lock. He smiles at her, calm in his expression. “We meet again, Ningguang.”
He is as handsome as she remembers. This time, his hair is down in a ponytail and he is in a blue flowing garment, just as Lai mentioned.
She draws a sharp breath in at the way he says her name. So friendly, so familiar.
The world was funny, indeed. The funeral parlour consultant, moonlighting as a resistance fighter. The same man who had barrelled into the kitchen without a single warning, to hide from danger. A killer, right in front of her.
But the way he is smiling at her, makes her mind go a little blank, blurs the harshness of the term. She looks down, as if something interesting had suddenly appeared at her feet. “How much do we owe to Wangsheng?”
He tells her the amount, and she nods, flipping open the chequebook to jot the numbers down. She signs her name, tears it out and shoves it at him a little clumsily. He takes it, studies it, then folds it and tucks it into a pants pocket. Wouldn’t you lose it, she thinks.
He is looking at the ground now intently, gaze boring into the speckled, dusty cement. “The poor woman. Shot dead here.” He does not elaborate, perhaps all too aware of the many eyes and ears around, hidden or not. “The workers told me about it. This very spot.” He continues to stare, his expression hardening.
It makes her mind swirl. The whammy of his words, combined with his secret identity, and he is standing there looking stern and grave.
“Aren’t you scared?” It bursts out of her, her hand curling into a fist to hover at her chest. Already, she feels the slow burn of heat up her neck. “They’re crawling all over. They’re coming to this dancehall later too, you know.” She is hushed, even though they’re alone, standing at the corner of the pavement.
He follows her pointed gaze, looking far out at the soldiers idling by the street across, dressed in that horrible shade of green. They are enjoying the shade under the fluttering cloth banners that have print and advertisements emblazoned all over them.
There’s another group milling around further down, and another up ahead, sauntering up the road the bayonets clutched to their sides, the blades sharp and threatening.
“What,” he says, turning back to peer at her. “Like you’re going to snitch?”
“No!”
He chuckles quietly at her horrified expression. “Then I’ll be fine. I have a few tricks up my sleeves. Even a few escape plans too, you know.” He shakes his head a little. “After all, a dead man is a useless one.”
He looks at her again, and his hand draws a small piece of white cloth from his other pocket; a handkerchief. Without even asking, he reaches down to take her free hand, the sudden warmth shocking her, and he presses it into her palm. “Your finger is bleeding a little. Smeared the cheque,” he adds.
She stammers her thanks. The needle must have gone further in, and more forcefully than she had thought.
Tucking the pen and the cheque book under her arm, she presses the offending finger into the cloth, and crimson blooms in a little circle. There is a little pinch at the sudden pressure on the wound, and she has an inkling to flip the handkerchief around.
She sees in a corner, little embroidered characters. They read Zhongli.
What an interesting name. She reads it out aloud, rolls it about on her tongue. He looks at her, a little surprised, then his gaze falls onto the handkerchief. His shoulders relax, in understanding.
“It’s a… good name for a funeral parlour consultant. Zhong sounds like sòng zhōng , to pay one’s last respects. Li, for lí bié , for farewell or parting.” She says it carefully, so as to be polite. “Seems like you were made for this job.”
He laughs again, delighted at her wit. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
When she thrusts the fabric back at him, Zhongli waves at her kindly. “Just keep it. I have many more at home.” He taps a finger to the side of his temple, and winks. “Cold water to wash. What great knowledge. Much better than throwing away the clothes away or soaking them for hours in hot water.”
She blinks hard at the piece of information. “I suppose you spend a lot of money buying a lot of new garments then.”
“Quite.” He spreads his hands, the same elegant gesture she had seen two days ago, back in the kitchen. “I don’t earn much as it is, so it benefits me greatly to learn more on proper washing.” His lips quirk up. “My boss can be quite the thrifty lady.” When she says this, suddenly she sees how worn and scuffed his shoes are, and how worn and thin his pants sleeves look. It is his regal demeanour that causes such details to escape her notice.
The handkerchief is limp in her hands now. “You sure you don’t need this one, you sure you have enough at home?”
She breaks off, a sudden thought coming to her, and it’s so silly, but it makes her nervous anyway. “Are you actually Chinese? You know its bad luck to give white handkerchiefs to people. It means saying goodbye forever, to part for good. Its unlucky. Do you do this to everyone you meet?” She’s rambling a little now, and her palm is outstretched, facing him; presenting a crumpled mound of cloth.
Zhongli shakes his head. “No,” he says, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Not everyone.” His hands reach out, and they wrap around her palm, stilling her. The words in her throat die away at his touch. Gently, he folds her open fingers back, so that the cloth is bundled into her loose fist, once more.
“Trust me,” he soothes, eyes searching hers. “I’ve been around death for so long, and I’m still alive and healthy. Superstitions mean nothing. Besides...” He trails off. "I'm sure we will meet again."
It is like the hubbub of the streets, and the rushing of people and vehicles around them have melded into a static blur. He’s drawing all of her attention to him.
The moment passes, and he pulls back.
“I have to go now,” he murmurs. “Boss Hu always says not to idle for too long.” He straightens up and nods at her, cordial once more. “Thank you for engaging Wangsheng Funeral Parlour.”
Leaving for matters of Wangsheng, or of the resistance? His expression betrays nothing, fixed in polite nonchalance.
She can only nod back in agreement, and raises a hand to say goodbye.
The sun is starting to set, and the sky is yolky and brilliant behind him, illuminating his face when he turns. He raises a hand to echo her sentiment and gives her a gentle smile. Then he walks away, the end of his flowing changshan robe flapping behind him.
When he disappears around a street, she hastily makes her way back into the safety of the dancehall, his handkerchief still clenched in her hand.