Minghua 123 left the monastery an hour after dark. Shao looked up at the night sky, grateful that only a tiny sliver of crescent moon added its light to that of the stars. The students wore white handkerchiefs knotted around their arms, the only tokens of mourning they could muster for Mr. Shen.
In retrospect, it was a miracle that Mr. Shen had been the only victim. There had been a short debate about changing the name Minghua 123 since they were no longer 123 people.
“If we change to ‘Minghua 122,’ then we exclude Mr. Shen,” Shao argued. “Keeping our name the same pays tribute to his memory, that he is still part of our group.”
“And do we want to change our group name every time someone dies?” Shorty said. “It would be so demoralizing.”
His words were shouted down and Ying-Ying slapped his shoulder. “How can you even talk about such things?” she said indignantly. “Implying that others in our group might die?”
“Don’t yell at me,” Shorty said. “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He rubbed his shoulder.
During their time at Chuanjiao Monastery, Mr. Lee had asked for volunteers. He appointed a dozen of the seniors, including Shao, as scouts. The scouts drilled Minghua 123 on the actions they would follow when under aerial attack. The feeling was unanimous that they should light as few lanterns as possible. They had to learn how to walk safely in the dark. They coordinated getting carts and barrows off the road, donkeys and all, giving priority to the precious library carts. They practiced throwing tarps over the wagons to camouflage them. They knew to run for cover, scattering as widely as possible, heading for trees and ditches, outcroppings of rock, whatever might offer protection.
Whether this was of real use or not, Shao couldn’t tell. Was there really anything they could do to be safe? But it was all they could do. It was all they had.
The property where they would stay was only a few hours’ walk from the monastery. When they reached it, the walls of the vacant estate were surrounded by stands of bamboo, barely visible from the road. Minghua 123 would’ve missed it completely if not for their guide, a young monk who had accompanied them from Chuanjiao Monastery.
The students settled in quickly, the routine now familiar. There was a head count upon arrival. Then the search for sleeping quarters, the female students given first pick of rooms. Each group of roommates carried out another head count of the students in their room. Afterward, they ate. The cook, his assistant, and the kitchen cart had left a few hours in advance so that meals would be underway by the time the rest of Minghua 123 arrived.
Then at last, they slept.
MORNINGS WERE COLDER now and, like everyone else, Shao had slept in his clothes and spread his coat on top of the blanket. His eyes opened to coffered wooden ceilings painted in green and gold with figures of lucky animals. He counted off each one. Bats for good luck. Cranes for long life. Phoenixes for success. Horses for swift advancement. Bears for courage. And qilin unicorns for the birth of talented sons. He smiled, remembering his nanny, Amah Fu, and her stories. How she believed absolutely in the existence of supernatural creatures.
It will be an easy walk this evening, he thought. Their next destination was only a short distance away. Mr. Lee had told them Minghua 123 would rest at Shangma Temple for ten days, giving the professors time to teach a few classes before getting back on the road. Shao suspected the lessons were to keep their minds off Mr. Shen’s death as much as anything else.
The fragrance of steamed rice drifted into the room, the kitchen staff already busy with breakfast. Most of his classmates were still sleeping but a few had tied up their bedrolls and were gone. Shao decided to take a walk around the property. He pulled his coat on and noticed a button had come loose. He pulled the button off and put it in his pocket. He’d have Sparrow sew it back on for him.
The estate felt curiously and pleasantly familiar. His father had taken him once to the outskirts of Shanghai where the Liu family’s real estate firm owned an entire street lined with old-fashioned courtyard homes much like this one. The courtyard homes were soon to be demolished, making way for more fashionable foreign-style villas. Shao had tagged along behind his father and the architect as they inspected each of the properties. It was one of the few times he’d had his father to himself. Wandering around this old house brought back pleasant memories.
A bamboo garden flourished in one of the courtyards. Some grew thick canes striped in green and yellow, others stood only knee-high, their leaves as dainty as ferns. Weeds pushed up between paving stones. Another year of neglect and the courtyard would look like a wilderness.
A movement between the trees and he realized someone else was in the courtyard. Wang Jenmei, her voluptuous figure a contrast to the austere elegance of bamboo. If he’d known, Shao would’ve avoided this courtyard, but now it was too late. She had seen him and flashed a smile, one that invited him to join her. A smile that seemed to imply he was entering her domain.
“The floor too uncomfortable for sleeping?” she said. She lifted one shapely eyebrow, giving her words a slightly mocking intent.
“Not at all,” Shao said, “there’s just no point in oversleeping. I wanted to take a look around this old place.”
“There’s estates like this all over China, Shao,” Jenmei said, waving her hand at the surrounding houses. “High walls protecting fine homes meant to house generations of a single family. Rather like yours, I’d guess.”
“My great-grandfather built eight houses side by side on the same street,” Shao said, “for his sons and grandsons and their families. I suppose that counts as one estate for one family.”
“My family’s home is three hundred years old,” she said. “Three hundred years of ancestors under the same roof, same town, same street. Unlike your family, however, my grandfather and his sons lack ambition. Our wealth flows out the door, never in.”
“But obviously they believed in giving you an education,” Shao said, hoping to end the conversation. He’d made enough small talk to be polite. But she put a hand on his arm, stopping him from leaving.
“After this war, China will be different,” Jenmei said. “Farmland and homes like this will belong to all the people. The Chinese Communist Party will make sure no one lives in luxury while others starve. Come to a Communist Students Club meeting, Liu Shaoming. Just one.”
Shao shook his head. “You know my family. I could never join any Communist group.” He smiled pleasantly as he said this. Minghua 123 was a small community and they had months on the road ahead of them. There was no need to create an uncomfortable situation. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He left the bamboo garden to look for Sparrow. He needed that button sewn back on.
SHAO’S MEMORIES OF his early childhood were vague, his days an interchangeable series of games and meals, of being put to bed by Amah Fu. Until the day Sparrow walked into his room. What Shao could recall was that he had been crying, throwing a tantrum over some now-forgotten indignity, when a small girl appeared at the nursery door. She walked straight to Shao, which startled him so much he stopped crying. He rubbed the tears from his eyes to take a better look, at her pale skin and wide-set eyes, her birdlike frame. Shao had been too young to explain to himself, let alone to an adult, how the sight of Sparrow affected him. It was as though his real life had begun and that Sparrow was part of the journey.
The Liu household’s younger children mixed freely, masters and servants. All of them ran back and forth between the houses, all part of a single huge estate. They played together, seemingly heedless of the difference in their parents’ positions until they were old enough for school. The Liu children attended private school. The servants’ children did not.
Shao learned before then, however, that Sparrow was not his equal. His parents had been hosting relatives from Changchow and he had refused to play with his cousins, preferring Sparrow’s company. For this, he’d been scolded by his mother. It was the first time his mother had ever raised her voice to him.
“You shouldn’t spend so much time with the lower classes,” she said, an angry frown marring her perfect features. “She’s just a servant. Play with your cousins. You are their host.”
As a child, Shao always assumed Sparrow’s parents were family retainers, servants whose own ancestors had served the Liu clan for generations, their lives and well-being tied to their masters’ prosperity. They counted on the Lius to arrange their marriages and funerals, to provide jobs in Liu family businesses. But Sparrow, he learned, was an orphan.
“I think your fourth great-uncle picked her off the streets,” Amah Fu had said. She frowned, her broad forehead wrinkled in thought. By then she was no longer his nanny but still worked in the house. She paused for a moment from folding a tablecloth, then shook her head. “I don’t know, but there was talk that Sparrow’s mother was a maidservant who died. Unmarried.”
That was all anyone could tell him about Sparrow. She never volunteered any information about herself. When asked, she’d only say she had no memory of her life before the Liu household or how she got there. Over the years, Sparrow took over from Amah Fu. In addition to her other household chores Sparrow cleaned Shao’s room, mended his clothing, and always appeared when he needed her. Sparrow was the one constant in his life, always calm, always reassuring. It wasn’t because of anything she said, it was how Sparrow made him feel. As if there was something else that mattered more, something more real than his father’s indifference, his mother’s melancholy.
His mother’s moods darkened Shao’s early childhood. That he was not the only one affected became clear one momentous day when Grandmother Liu tottered through their front door, actually making the walk from her mansion at the other end of the estate. Supported on each side by a maid, she entered the spacious foyer. Then his grandmother sat down on a small wicker chair and two burly house servants carefully lifted the chair up the circular staircase, the old woman’s tiny bound feet dangling, her two maids trailing behind.
A silent crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs, her sons and daughters-in-law, her grandchildren and an assembly of servants. At the back of the crowd, Shao clutched Amah Fu’s hand. His father waited at the top of the stairs, his handsome, square face downcast. He met his mother’s irritated glare with a look of shame. The servants set down the chair, Grandmother Liu and her maids vanished down the hallway. Shao’s father stood for a moment with slumped shoulders, then followed. Whispers drifted around Shao.
Do you remember the first time she tried to take her own life?
She doesn’t realize how lucky she is.
Too spoiled. Too educated. No wonder the master turns to other women.
Soon after, Shao was old enough for school and worries about his mother became easier to push from his thoughts, supplanted by the excitement of new friends and teachers, books and sports. It became even easier when the Zhu family moved in across the street. The Zhu boys soon discovered how many playmates there were in the Liu estate and came over so often some of the elderly Lius mistook them for members of their own clan. By the time Shao finished high school, he and Zhu Pao had been best friends for years. Shao was closer to Sparrow, but that didn’t count. Sparrow was only a girl and a servant.
Her devotion required no effort from Shao.