The Nine Fold Heaven. Mingmei Yip

      3

      Home to Heartbreak

      With light luggage, a heavy heart, but at least a thick purse, I dragged myself aboard the ship for the short trip back to Shanghai. In my modest stateroom, I unpacked my few belongings. Soon the ship was under way and I went up on deck to watch people. Some looked like harried businessmen, others, excited tourists, and yet others, happy families going home. But sadly, I felt none of their cheerfulness. I turned to look at the infinity of the turquoise sea, and into my mind popped the words of the Tang dynasty poet Wei Zhuang’s “Jiangnan, South of the River”:

      The Spring water is bluer than the sky,

      I listen to the soft rain, dozing off aboard the painted boat,

      By the fire sits a woman beautiful as the moon,

      Her pale wrists white as frost and snow.

      Don’t go back to your homeland, not until you’re old,

      Because returning home is heartbreaking.

      I had no idea why Wei thought that homecoming—to Shanghai, which is south of the river—was heartbreaking. And why it’d become bearable only after you gathered snow on your sideburns. Is it because only when we are old can we let go of painful memories?

      Finally, the next evening, with much shouting of the crew, the ship bumped against the same pier that I’d left in a hurry three months ago. With more shouting the ship was made fast and the gangplank was lowered with a crash. To take no chances of being recognized, I had disguised myself as a man. This way, I felt a little less anxious because I could not imagine anyone would recognize me as Shanghai’s most famous songstress. Just in case, I’d made up a man’s name—Shen Wei—and would pose as a university student returning home from overseas. I’d also made up a woman’s name—Jasmine Chen—for when I didn’t need to dress like a man.

      But I had no illusion that even with my new hairstyle, new name, and new gender, I was out of danger. I might not look like Camilla now, but I did not want to be looked at anyway. So as soon as I was off the ship, I hired a car to drive me to a slightly shabby hotel on Rue Lafayette in the French Concession. I hoped this busy street inside a foreign territory could give me some protection.

      After settled inside the hotel room, I washed, unpacked, and then took out a pen and paper to write down my plans. My first step would be simply to explore my surroundings and gather information. I needed to read the local newspapers to see what news there was about Master Lung, Big Brother Wang, Jinying, Gao—and myself. Then I’d quietly walk by the apartments of those I needed to visit—Jinying and Madame Lewinsky—to be sure they were not being watched by gang members. It was my singing teacher Lewinsky who’d helped me when I gave birth to Jinjin—and her who had told me he was stillborn. Too, I wanted to revisit the Bright Moon Nightclub where I performed.

      The next day when I woke up, it was already three o’clock in the afternoon. I hadn’t realized I was that exhausted. Dressing in my man’s outfit, I slipped out, bought two evening newspapers, and read them while I had an early supper in a noodle stall. I worked my way through the newspapers carefully but was surprised to find no news about me or the gang war that I’d set off.

      With the newspapers under my arm, I set out for a walk in the crisp Shanghai air, hoping to clear my mind. I was still hungry, so I stopped at a street vendor selling fresh-out-of-the-boiling-wok doughnuts. The snack looked fresh and golden. Just what I needed: a fresh start and an golden opportunity! After I paid, the vendor wrapped the doughnut in an old newspaper, then handed it to me. Soon I was savoring golden hotness, both in my hand and my mouth. Then, when I had finished and was about to throw away the paper, I saw the word Camilla—my name.

      Heart beating fast, I unfolded the paper and read the headline:

      Police Chief Li Suspects Shanghai’s “Heavenly Songbird”

      Killed Lung, Chief of the Flying Dragons

      After an intensive investigation, Police Chief Li has announced that the famous nightclub singer is now hiding in Hong Kong. But even if Li is right, the police cannot arrest her because China has no jurisdiction in the British Crown Colony.

      Police believe Lung has been killed because he has not been seen in Shanghai since the shoot-out in his secret villa.

      Master Lung’s Harvard-educated lawyer son, Lung Jinying, refuses to say anything about his father, or his mistress, Camilla. He says he knows nothing about the shooting, except what he’s read in the newspapers. But Chief Li is sure the son knows a lot more than he is saying—

      Damn. The rest of the article was cut off, just at this crucial place. I looked at the dateline: It was more than two months ago, three weeks after my escape. But no more news. It seemed I would have no choice but to see if Jinying was holed up in his apartment.

      It was good that Police Chief Li thought I was still hiding in Hong Kong when I was actually back in Shanghai. As in the saying, “The most dangerous-seeming place may actually be the safest.” But not always. To go to Jinying’s place would really be dangerous, but I knew I would go there anyway. But I waited until midnight before I took a tricycle rickshaw to my lover’s flat.

      My first worry was the police would still be watching, even though it was unlikely after three months. So I kept my disguise as a man, wearing a suit, glasses, a hat to cover up my hair, even a mustache. I was well aware that the chance Jinying would be staying in the same place after all that had happened was close to zero, but I had to see for myself—and even if he was long gone, I might find a clue as to his whereabouts.

      I sighed with relief that there were no police, nor any pedestrians near Jinying’s place. Looking at the building, bittersweet memories rose up in my chest. This was where Jinying and I had first consummated our forbidden love, despite my being his father’s mistress—with little lost Jinjin the result.

      Blinking back tears, I took my time walking up the stairs, savoring my memories. Arriving at his floor, I took a deep breath, smoothed my hair, and knocked, preparing for anything and everything. I could feel the beatings of my heart like that of a lost deer bumping around in the dark. But what if he was there? How would he react to me as a man? I had no chance to find out, for despite more and more knockings not a sound came from inside the apartment.

      Finally, I decided to make use of my spy training. I took out my Open-One-Hundred-Doors key, the same one I’d used to open Shadow’s apartment to steal her magic secrets. This key proved itself so worthy that with just one twist, Jinying’s apartment opened like the sore legs of a desperate prostitute. I pushed the door open just a crack so as to see what was inside, in case someone else was now living here. After making sure that his sofa, redwood dining table, landscape paintings, bookcases, and the upright piano with its decorative objects were in their familiar places, I went inside.

      “Hello, anybody here?”

      Not even a ghostly response.

      “Jinying, are you there?”

      The ghosts, if there were any, remained stubbornly silent. I looked at the bedroom, the restroom, and kitchen; there was no Jinying, not even his pleasant body scent. Disappointed, I sat down on the sofa to think. It was late, why wasn’t he home? Suddenly a chill rose in my heart—perhaps he had forgotten me already and was now in a nightclub admiring another pretty singer. After some disheartening thoughts, I started to search his apartment for clues of his whereabouts.

      I started with his drawers, then methodically went through his writing desk, cabinets, and closets. But there were only piles of bills, receipts, old magazines, and newspaper clippings, mostly about me. Then my wandering eyes landed on his upright piano and I dashed over to open its lid. Yes, a notebook, almost new, was staring at me like an orphan baby begging to be picked up. I snatched it out and opened it to discover that it was a diary filled with Jinying’s irregular, agonized handwriting. There were also some drawings of a naked woman who actually