The evening was pleasant, cool but not windy. Rather than hail a rickshaw, Shao walked. Sparrow had gone to the flat ahead of him, to help Lian and her mother with the cooking. He strolled up Rue Joffre, not minding its congested sidewalks. Restaurants were lively with diners and music, touts beside nightclub entrances called out to Shao. In his neatly pressed wool slacks and silk tie, a new cashmere coat, he looked exactly like what he was, a princeling, one of Shanghai society’s elite.
He’d meant to see Lian more often but he didn’t know what to make of her anymore. It was as though she didn’t want him around. Perhaps he just needed to wait until she and her mother had spent more time together. And then . . . and then what?
Anyway, his social life wasn’t suffering. When word got around that Shao was back in Shanghai, he’d been invited to round after round of parties. Sammy Chung, never seen without a bowler on his head, was especially insistent. Resplendent in flannel suit and loud paisley tie, Sammy had pulled a card out of his wallet and jotted down the date and time of a party at the Majestic Hotel.
“This weekend, the biggest party of the season,” Sammy said, pressing the card into Shao’s hands. “For men only, if you catch my meaning. A little gambling, good dance music. Pretty hostesses, a few foreign ones. Russians. Promise you’ll come. We all want to hear about your adventures.”
Shao knew these weren’t his friends, not really. They had no interest in listening to his tales of life on the road, didn’t want to know what he’d seen of rural China. Before the war, Sammy and his friends had fluttered at the periphery of his and Pao’s circle. Pao had dismissed them as shallow. But Pao wasn’t in Shanghai anymore and neither was the rest of the Zhu family. The day after he arrived home, Shao had gone across the street to pay his respects. But the gatekeeper told him the Zhus had left Shanghai and moved south, to their summer home in Kunming. Pao had transferred to the University of Hong Kong and now lived there. Sammy and his friends merely filled a vacancy.
Sparrow didn’t hide her dislike of Sammy. “Mr. Chung is a waste of your time, Young Master,” she said.
“I have nothing but time these days,” he snapped, annoyed that Sparrow would judge his choice of friends.
He told Sparrow very little about what he did when he was out with Sammy. But he knew Sparrow could tell. She still looked after Shao’s wardrobe and these days the suits she hung to air out reeked of cigarettes. Sometimes, there was lipstick on a collar, wine stains on a necktie. When she found gambling chits in trouser pockets, Sparrow put them in the lacquer tray on his chest of drawers. All without saying a word.
Shao regretted losing his temper with her. He didn’t understand his restlessness, the impatience. The drifting, untethered feeling, as though waiting for something to happen. Something beyond his control. It had seemed so heroic, traveling to Shanghai in the middle of a war to see his dying mother. Offering Lian the protection of his company. He’d done the right thing, he knew that. Even though he’d ended up sick and a burden, it had been better for Lian to travel with him and Sparrow than run away on her own.
But now, he found himself quelling resentment. Sitting beside his mother day after day had proved a thankless duty. The opiates from Dr. Mao clouded her mind. Her words were incoherent, ramblings that made no sense, questions he couldn’t answer. On the occasions when she was lucid, she was also in pain, suffering with every movement, even the slide of silk sheets over her skin could make her cry out.
“It’s as though I have powdered glass in my joints,” she said, closing her eyes as the nurse put the needle in her arm.
Shao felt useless. There were times he stayed out so late he slept through the morning then woke up filled with guilt for missing breakfast with his mother. But it didn’t matter. Dr. Mao was steadily increasing her dosage and she slept most of the time now. All Shao could do was hold her hand while she gazed at him, her vague smile still lovely. He couldn’t be sure she even knew him. Or his brothers or father when they came into the sickroom.
“She knows someone she loves is with her,” Dr. Mao said. “That’s what matters.”
Now Shao hardly went to her room except for short, token visits. It was too easy sliding into the life he had always known, giving in to people like Sammy Chung. He told himself he needed the distraction, deserved some fun.
He wondered if everyone at Minghua had reached Chengtu safely. He couldn’t help wishing he were still with his classmates. At least at Minghua, he’d been part of something important, something worthwhile. He wrote to Shorty Ho, addressing the letter to the Chengtu campus.
He hoped Shorty would write back, the lazy ass. He really missed Shorty.
SPARROW HAD ARRIVED at the flat on her own, bringing vegetables from Old Zhao’s kitchen garden to add to the dumpling feast. Dr. Mao was also there. The older man’s cheerful greeting immediately lifted Shao’s mood.
“I heard there were dumplings for dinner so I came,” the doctor said, shaking Shao’s hand with real warmth. “It’s been so long since I tasted homemade dumplings.”
“Dr. Mao has been very kind,” Lian said. “He’s been coming here to check on my mother’s recovery, so we haven’t had to make the trip to the hospital.”
The two men chatted while dinner cooked. It was the first time Shao had spoken with the doctor about anything other than his mother’s health. Dr. Mao was a scholar of the classics and only too happy to discuss literature. He knew about the Library of Legends and shook his head in admiration at Minghua 123’s role safeguarding the books.
Lian’s mother called them to dinner. She had put on weight since coming back from the hospital. Her cheeks glowed from the warmth of the kitchen and her eyes were bright. Shao could see in her an older Lian. The conversation shifted as Lian told them about her day at the Mission with the refugees.
“A lot of them were peasant farmers hoping to return to their land,” she said, “but Miss Mason says there’s also teachers and domestic servants, merchants, handicraft workers. Useful trades, but even though some of the factories are starting up again, there are more willing workers than jobs.”
“It’s not easy to reestablish yourself when you’re a refugee,” Dr. Mao said. “I see this with some of my patients. Carpenters, bookkeepers, artists. People with skills, educated people. Now it’s as though they’ve been stripped of those qualifications. Reduced to the category of ‘refugee’ and treated as members of a needy multitude.”
“I hope your practice is growing, Dr. Mao,” Sparrow said.
“Indeed, it is,” the doctor said. “Last month I barely made the rent for my single room. But this month’s rent won’t be a problem. And soon, two rooms!”
He slapped his knee and burst into laughter so infectious they all joined in. Shao had never met anyone so willing to be happy, whose mere presence could make others so happy. He looked at Lian’s mother, giggling behind her napkin, her eyes on the doctor. And Dr. Mao gazing back.
“There’s something going on down in the street,” Shao said, getting up. “Hear that music? Let’s open the balcony door, Lian.”
On the street below, a long line of convertibles filled with musicians and revelers moved with deliberate slowness, creating a traffic jam in the westbound lane. Trombones and trumpets, saxophones and clarinets, snare drums, even a double bass. There must’ve been two dozen musicians and as many passengers riding in the cars. Women in evening gowns sparkled with jewels that reflected back the streetlights. The men riding with them were impeccably turned out in tuxedos. Shao guessed they were entertainers, promoting a new club.
The cavalcade approached slowly, ignoring irate shouts and tooting horns. The musicians played a jaunty tune. A tune Shao recognized as one Shorty Ho used to whistle all the time while walking, but he couldn’t remember its name.
“Young Mr. Liu,” the doctor called from the dining room. “Do you know how to wash dishes? I think it’s the least we can do for our hostesses.”
Shao turned to go back inside, then stopped. He reached inside his jacket and gave Lian an envelope. “Before I forget,” he said. “From my brother.”
LIAN TOOK THE note and put it in her apron pocket. Whatever was in the note, it could wait. The parade below was too interesting to miss. She leaned over the balcony to watch the procession, the cars and musicians, passengers in evening attire.
Then Sparrow came to stand beside her and it all changed.
The shiny black convertible leading the parade was no longer a convertible. A handsome bearded man led the procession, robes of heavy silk fluttering against the flanks of the tall black horse he was riding.
Sparrow waved at the bearded man, who bowed gravely in return.
Open horse-drawn litters carried his entourage, men and women dressed in ancient garb. The women’s diaphanous gowns were rich with embroidery, the men’s robes bright as jewels. They were all, every single one, male and female, scandalously, seductively beautiful. One of the women looked up at the balcony and winked at Lian. A slow, lascivious wink. Then she raised her bamboo flute and continued playing. The music hadn’t changed, a lively familiar tune from some Hollywood movie.
“Who are they?” Lian asked, fascinated.
“Ba Meishen, the guardian of prostitutes, and his assistants,” Sparrow said. “Shanghai has been a good home base for them. Leaving was a hard decision.”
The end of the procession passed below them, and gradually Lian heard only music, the lively tune above the noises of traffic, the shouts of sidewalk vendors. From inside the flat, the sound of spirited conversation, Shao and the doctor discussing literature, their voices raised, the dishes forgotten. Outside on the balcony, Lian could’ve done fine embroidery by the light of the Star.
“It’s nearly over,” Sparrow said. “Almost everyone is on their way. The Shanghai City God has promised me he’ll be the next to go.”
“How will we manage,” Lian said, “without help from the gods?”
But Sparrow wasn’t listening to her. The conversation inside now held her attention, the words drifting out clearly to the balcony as both men’s voices grew louder in their enthusiasm.
“But that one word shen carries multiple meanings,” the doctor said, “making interpretation quite a problem.”
“But the poem must offer context,” Shao said, “to indicate whether shen means the human spirit, supernatural spirits, or something spiritual and unfathomable to human minds.”
Shao loved this sort of discussion, picking apart words and debating nuances of meaning. It was the most animated he’d been all evening. When he first arrived, Lian thought he looked as though he wished he were somewhere else.
“In this case, I feel the poet offers room for all three meanings,” the doctor said. “He’s asserting that the gap between humans and gods can be bridged through enlightenment. That mortals hold within us the capacity to advance, and as we advance with each reincarnation, we have the potential to achieve spiritual enlightenment, which in turn achieves immortality. Thus, a mortal can become an immortal, even a deity.”
Lian heard Sparrow’s small gasp. The Star’s eyes were fixed on the doctor as the two men finally began taking dishes to the kitchen. And from far away, up the street, the faintest echoes of a tune came to Lian’s ears. A tune she could finally name, “Pennies from Heaven.”
LIAN’S MOTHER EXCUSED herself from the party. She had to lie down.
“Your body is hard at work repairing damage,” Dr. Mao had said. “You need lots of sleep, lots of food. Go, go. No apologies necessary.”
Lian had noticed all evening how often Dr. Mao’s gaze rested on her mother’s face, how he leaned closer when speaking to her. And all evening, soft color had bloomed in her mother’s cheeks whenever he addressed her. She’d laughed at his jokes, her eyes bright and alert. But he was at least fifty, more than ten years older than her mother. With a plain, square face, he was not at all like her father, who had been as handsome as a film star. Her parents had been the most beautiful couple at any gathering.
Their guests left shortly after her mother went to bed, first Shao then Dr. Mao. Shao, to meet some friends at the Majestic Hotel. The doctor, because he had patients in the morning. They’d left half the dishes unwashed, a chore neglected when they’d become absorbed again in conversation. Lian shook her head and shrugged. She finished the washing up then sat at the dining table for a final cup of tea with Sparrow, who seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts.
“Shao seemed unhappy when he first arrived,” Lian said, clearing her throat. “But I suppose it’s because of his mother.”
“He’s hardly ever home now,” Sparrow said. She shook her head, a sign of disapproval. “He’s out all day to avoid spending time with her.”
“I don’t understand,” Lian said. “All those hardships, all that risk. He wanted to be at his mother’s side.”
“It’s hard for him to watch her fade away,” Sparrow said, “especially now that she’s unconscious most of the time. But Shao isn’t avoiding his mother. He’s avoiding the person he turns into when he’s with her. Helpless, impatient, angry.”
Sparrow knew Shao so well, understood his moods and what he needed. No one else could love him as she did. As she had for centuries. All of Lian’s lovelorn yearnings, all her heartache, they were minor inconveniences compared to what Sparrow had endured.
“He cares about you, Lian,” Sparrow said, pouring herself more tea. “More than any other mortal he’s encountered in all his lives. You should know this. If not for my presence here on Earth, he would’ve recognized his feelings long ago.”
Lian didn’t know what to say or what Sparrow meant by telling her all this.
“It’s a game to the gods, a cruel and not very good one,” Sparrow said. She looked sad. Resigned. But she managed a wry smile. “All will be revealed, as they say in those foreign films.”
She finished her tea, then looked at Lian. “Minghua University is in Chengtu by now. The Library of Legends should be safely stored away. I have no more obligations.”
“What does that mean?” Lian said. “You don’t need to stay in our world anymore?”
“Strangely enough,” Sparrow said, “I’ve never had to stay at all until this life. I could’ve given up the Prince at any time. This life has been different. I was given responsibilities. Seeing to the safety of the Library of Legends. Rousing the guardians and spirits to leave.”
“And now, what will you do?” Lian said.
“My sister says being mortal through so many lifetimes has finally affected me,” Sparrow said, “and she must be right because I look at things differently now.” She blew on her tea and sipped it. “I think I should write to Professor Kang.”
FOR THE SECOND time that night Lian stood at the balcony. She watched Sparrow’s glowing form cross the street, followed her light as it moved farther away into the darkness until it vanished around the corner. Then she sat in an armchair and took out the envelope that had been in her apron pocket for the past hour. A letter from Liu Tienming. Who she supposed was their landlord.
Miss Hu, our property manager has decided all our vacant properties should be rented. I’ve told him that you are occupying the flat until the end of July, after which he will offer it to you at a discount. It’s the best I can do.
Even at half the price, they could never afford this beautiful, luxurious flat. They had another two months. Two months to find an affordable place to live, in a city where a single room might house a family of nine. Two months for her to find work, in a city where businesses had their pick of desperate workers. She would have to tell her mother about this in the morning. And also the news that they had lost the cot at the Southern Baptist Mission office.