The Nine Fold Heaven. Mingmei Yip

      “It’s okay, Jasmine, it’s only forty, not five hundred. As a Consul General I think I can afford that.” He smiled.

      “But, sir, we hardly know each other. . . .”

      “All right, then what about your family, you want me to take you back home?”

      Damn. Make up something, quick!

      I avoided answering his question. “Sir, I’m not feeling well and starving. Can I have something to eat first? Then I’ll tell you about myself.”

      He looked at his watch. “Of course. I have to be at a meeting in two hours. I’ll take you for high tea, how’s that? My favorite is the Heavenly Tune café on the roof of the Wing On department store. Have you been there?”

      What a question. If I were a poor girl, how would I have the chance to go to an expensive place like that? That’s why Chinese always deem the Americans naive, sometimes even stupid. Of course, we Chinese have had five thousand years of history to build up our cunning. But I wasn’t complaining, because his naïveté was to my advantage.

      As The Art of War teaches:

      Pursue profit and advantage.

       Seize the moment.

       This is the winning strategy.

       The way of war is the way of deception

       To maintain the advantage, feign inability.

      We think the Americans naive, but I know how they think of us Chinese: backward, superstitious, barbaric, dog-and-cat-eaters!

      Of course, I had been to the famous café, but my answer was, “No, how could a poor student like me have this kind of chance?”

      His smile was gentle and his eyes tender, like silk. “Jasmine, I’m sorry if I . . . Anyway, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Let’s go.”

      5

      Heavenly Tune Café and Bright Moon Nightclub

      Edward Miller led me to where his driver was waiting in his car; then we rode to the café on the busy Nanking Road. I didn’t feel very comfortable exposing myself in this popular café, but I didn’t want to suggest somewhere else in case he got suspicious why I’d turn down such a generous offer.

      The open-air rooftop café provided a panoramic view of Nanking Road—Xin Xin department store, Intercontinental Hotel, the China Peace Insurance company, and the famous horse-racing track nearby. I looked around; to my relief, there were only a few customers, probably because it was still early for high tea. All seemed absorbed in their own business—or their own troubles—or both.

      Since I was pretending that I’d never been here, I had to feign excitement. I inhaled deeply the fresh air and exclaimed, “Ambassador Miller, this place is like heaven!”

      He smiled his American naive smile. “Glad you like it here, Jasmine.”

      Then he led me to sit down at a corner table. Good. Less likely anyone would notice us, that is, me. We ordered—him black coffee, me orange juice, then mini sandwiches for both of us.

      After the drink and food arrived, he raised his cup to tap mine. “To our encounter.”

      I smiled back but remained silent.

      The Consul General took a generous sip of his black coffee. “Now tell me why such a pretty young girl would be crying inside an alley.”

      If only he knew what I’d been doing!

      I suddenly remembered I should be hungry. So I took a big bite of my sandwich and washed it down with an equally big gulp of my orange juice.

      After that, I asked an irrelevant question: “Mr. Ambassador, do you like Shanghai?”

      “I can’t really tell yet; I’ve just been here for a few weeks.”

      Good. Since he was new here, maybe he hadn’t heard about the gang war three months ago and all the juicy gossip about Camilla the Heavenly Songbird.

      He went on. “Now, Jasmine, tell me about yourself. Why were you crying?”

      Quick! Think of a good answer.

      “Ambassador Miller—”

      “Please call me Edward.”

      “But—”

      “There’s no but.”

      “Edward, I live in an orphanage.” I lowered my head to stare at my hands, exuding sadness and humiliation.

      One of his bushy brows was raised in question.

      I went on. “But I’m not an orphan in the sense that my parents abandoned me. On the contrary, my parents loved me very much. My father was a high-school teacher, but he died four years ago when I was fifteen. A year later, my mother, a kindergarten teacher, also passed away. That’s how I ended up living in an orphanage.”

      He covered my hand with his. “What about your relatives, why didn’t they take you in?”

      “I’m already too old. Besides, my grandparents were all dead. An uncle from my father’s side has eight children himself.”

      “Jasmine, I know I cannot take away your pain, but if I can help you in any way, please let me know and I’ll try my best.” He tenderly squeezed my hand one more time before withdrawing it.

      I smiled coyly. “Edward, I’ve been very independent after spending two years in a heartless institution. So I think I’m doing all right. But I appreciate very much your kind offer.”

      “I believe you. But don’t hesitate to call on me.”

      I nodded.

      He took a bite of his ham sandwich. “Did the orphanage also pay for your study?”

      “Yes, I graduated from its own high school. The school is not good, but its library is, though rarely used, because the girls don’t like to study. They only like to flirt, hoping to be adopted into a rich family.”

      I went on. “But I also learned to cook, sew, even dance and sing. And I’m very good at the latter.”

      “I hope I have a chance to hear you sing someday.”

      “I hope so too.”

      He thought for a while. “Jasmine, why are you still living in the orphanage?”

      “I left the orphanage last year for a while. At eighteen, we’re considered adults, so we’re expected to leave.”

      I took a year off from my age so I was now nineteen instead of twenty. I hoped I’d seem more vulnerable and innocent, although I was anything but.

      “Then what do you do?”

      “The orphanage found me a job as a live-in private tutor and babysitter for a well-off family.” I put up a sad expression. “But the master . . .” I stopped, as if unable to go on.

      Of course, he already guessed what I was to say. What else besides being harassed or even raped by the lascivious master? Maybe even getting pregnant with an illegitimate child and being ruined.

      He leaned toward me from across the table and looked into my eyes. “Jasmine, don’t be shy. You can trust me and tell me.”

      Was this naive, nice-looking American already falling for me—or my made-up story? But what I’d told him were not exactly lies, were they? Since I was an orphan growing up in a horrible orphanage, and the truth about my life was even more appalling than what I’d just told him.

      I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. He immediately took a white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I buried my face in the ambassador’s scented silk.

      “Please tell me, Jasmine.”

      I gradually