Everything Under the Sky (14 page)

“Voilà!” he burst out contentedly, stamping in the pool of water forming at his feet. “We've got it!”

“Why did the carp attack you?” Fernanda inquired, wrinkling her nose when Biao came to stand next to her.

Mr. Jiang ignored her, so it was Paddy who answered.

“Carp are very nervous fish. They immediately feel threatened when you enter their territory and become extremely fierce if it's spawning season. Wan the scholar chose well: these carp have kept curious swimmers away from the box for centuries. He was a very intelligent man, that Wan.”

“We should have known right away that the carp were part of his trick,” Lao Jiang added as he put on his glasses.

“Why?” Tichborne asked, seemingly offended.

“Because carp are the Chinese symbol for literary merit, applying oneself to one's studies, having passed an exam with an excellent mark…. That is, they're the very symbol of Scholar Wan himself.”

“Let's open it!” I exclaimed.

“No, madame, not yet. First we must leave Shanghai.” The antiquarian lifted his eyes to the sky and looked for the sun. “It's late. We've got to go right now, or we'll miss our train.”

Our train?

“Our train?” I asked, perplexed. All this time I'd been sure we'd escape up the Yangtze by boat.

“Yes, madame, the Nanking Express, which leaves the North Station at twelve-thirty.”

“But I thought …” I stammered.

“The Green Gang will expect we've escaped by hiding on a river sampan, and they will search every boat on the water in the Yangtze delta over the next few days. By now the two thugs who ran off after the fight will have told them what happened. The Green Gang will already know we've started our search and that if they don't catch us now, they'll have to chase us all over the country.”

We walked back toward the exit. The assassins whose necks Lao Jiang had touched were still in the same position, motionless, although their eyes were bulging and darting from side to side. The antiquarian didn't show even a flicker of expression.

“What's wrong with them?” I asked, examining them apprehensively from afar.

“They're locked inside their own bodies,” Biao confirmed fearfully.

“Indeed.”

“Will they die?” Fernanda asked, but Mr. Jiang remained silent, still walking toward the exit.

“My niece asked whether they'll die, Lao Jiang.”

“No, madame. They'll be able to move in a couple of Chinese hours—that is, four of your hours. Life, all life, is to be respected, even ones as unworthy as these. You'll never achieve Tao if you've unnecessary deaths on your conscience. A fighter must not abuse his power, even if he's superior to his opponent.”

The antiquarian was speaking like a philosopher now, and I knew he must be a compassionate man. What I didn't understand was that bit about Tao, but there would be time to ask the hundreds of questions piling up in my throat. Our priority was to escape, to leave Shanghai as soon as possible, because, as the antiquarian had said, the Green Gang would know that the five of us had visited Yuyuan Gardens first thing that morning and they would know that we hadn't been sightseeing.

“Do the imperial eunuchs know the real story of the legend of the Prince of Gui?” I then asked.

“Who can say?” Tichborne replied, wringing out the long tails of his tunic. “But we can assume they don't. Otherwise why would they need the chest?”

“They most likely knew of its existence,” Lao Jiang sensibly observed. “Someone may have read it once and then kept it in a safe place in order to use the text when the time came. Puyi's stupidity was once again revealed when he ordered that inventory without calculating the consequences. Logically, the eunuchs and officers who'd been getting rich off the thefts were going to make sure they didn't get caught. The easiest solution was to burn the evidence, start the fires so there'd be no way ever to know how much had been stolen.”

“But someone might remember what the text said,” I objected.

“Whatever the case, madame, it doesn't matter whether Puyi and his Manchus knew where the pieces of the
jiance
were hidden—though this is highly unlikely given the absolute lack of intelligence shown by members of the imperial family and the old court. What really matters is that there's no way they can allow anyone else to have that information. Think carefully. Any warlord, any noble Han, any high-ranking, ambitious, erudite Hanlin could be just as interested in discovering the First Emperor's tomb, and for the same reasons as Puyi. That's why they need to get the chest back whatever the cost, and we are the ones who have it.”

Tichborne burst out laughing. “Do you want to be emperor, Lao Jiang?” he asked.

“I thought you were deeply nationalistic,” I mused, ignoring the Irishman.

“I am, madame, but I also believe that China can't keep turning its back on the world, reverting to the past. We have to make progress so that one day we can be a world power like Meiguo and Faguo, even like your country, Big Luzon, which is struggling to fit in with modern democracies.”

“I'm from Spain, Mr. Jiang,” I objected.

“That's what I said, madame. Big Luzon. Spain.”

He had a time pronouncing the name of the country in Spanish. It turns out that Chinese merchants had been doing business with Manila, capital of the island of Luzon, for three hundred years. To them Spain was “Big Luzon,” the far-off country that bought and sold products through its colony in the Philippines. They didn't have the slightest idea where it was or what it was like, and they didn't really care. I therefore once again agreed with Mr. Jiang: China had to open itself up to the world and stop living in the Middle Ages. What they needed was not more feudal emperors, whether Manchu or Han, but political parties and a modern, republican parliamentary party system that would bring it into the twentieth century.

We had come out into the narrow streets of Nantao again and were attracting a lot of attention, because all three men were soaking wet. The morning heat would soon dry their clothes, but in the meantime we needed to get to the railway station as quickly and inconspicuously as possible to board the Nanking Express.

We moved swiftly through the noisy crowd that filled streets lined with shops. There was no time to lose, but as we drew closer to the North Gate of Nantao, it became increasingly difficult to get through the ever more dense mass of Shanghaiese. A melon vendor struggled to get the wheels of his cart out of a ditch, while a half-naked coolie, arms outstretched, pushed from behind. Both had their heads down, tense with effort, sweaty, and oblivious to the holdup they were causing. There was no passing through.

“I know a way,” Biao said, looking at Lao Jiang.

“Then we'll follow you,” the antiquarian replied.

The boy turned and ran toward a narrow alley that twisted to the right. We all followed, trying not to fall behind. We raced through streets no wider than a handkerchief, the ground soft with filth. At times the smell was nauseating. After a short while, Fernanda was puffing like a set of bellows.

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked, turning to look at her.

She nodded, and we continued on until we realized we had left Nantao and were running down boulevard des Deux Républiques, that grand avenue that circles the old Chinese city on top of what used to be a defensive moat that had been filled in when the old walls were destroyed.

“Rickshaws!” Tichborne shouted, pointing to a group of coolies playing cards on the road next to their vehicles.

We quickly rented four and climbed into them as soon as Lao Jiang had paid our fares. Because Biao and I were the smallest in the group, we shared a rickshaw.

“How am I going to get on the
huoche
with you?” he turned to ask worriedly.

“I don't know what you just said, child.”

“The
huoche
… The fire car … The train.”

The poor boy could hardly pronounce the Spanish word. I never would have guessed that
ferrocarril
was so difficult, but those double
r
's and the
l
were torture for the Chinese.

“Well, I suppose you'll get on just like the rest of us,” I confirmed as we sped through the French Concession following Lao Jiang's directions. He seemed to want to take a particular route, away from the big avenues and boulevards.

“But who'll pay my fare?”

I suspected I'd be responsible for lanky Biao's expenses, because as far as I knew, Fernanda hadn't brought any money with her. In truth, I had only a handful of heavy Mexican silver dollars that I'd found in a chest of drawers in Rémy's room. Although the franc could be used without too much trouble in the French Concession, the official currency in Shanghai was the Mexican silver dollar, still the worldwide monetary standard since many countries refused to accept the gold standard (including Spain). When I took the money from Rémy's, I calculated that it would be a considerable sum once exchanged for Chinese taels, the currency we would most likely use during our trip into the interior.

“Don't you worry about a thing,” I said to the boy without looking at him. “You're with Fernanda and me, and all you should worry about is doing a good job. We'll take care of the rest.”

“But what if Father Castrillo finds out I've left Shanghai?”

Oh, I hadn't thought of that. That irresponsible Fernanda had made a decision that could get us into hot water. How could we justify Biao's disappearance from the orphanage and the city? It seemed the boy had more brains than my foolish niece.

“I told you not to worry about a thing. Now be quiet, you're making my head spin.”

We had no trouble leaving the French Concession through one of the border posts after Lao Jiang had a chat with the head guard, who seemed to be a friend. Once inside the International Concession, the antiquarian's rickshaw pulled up beside Tichborne's and then moved over beside mine as we continued on our way.

“Can you hear me, madame?” he asked, speaking very quietly.

“Yes.”

“The French police are looking for us. All concession border posts received the arrest warrant issued by Pockmarked Huang just a few minutes ago,” he explained, laughing.

“And what's so funny?” I replied. I had become a criminal sought by the Shanghai French police. How long before the consul general of France, Auguste Wilden, found out, and what would the charming consul general of Spain, Julio Palencia, think?

A black coupé sped past us, causing my rickshaw coolie to yelp loudly.

“The race has begun, madame,” Lao Jiang exclaimed.

“You'd better make sure that box from the lake isn't empty before we take this madness any further!”

“I already have.” His wrinkled Chinese face expressed a happiness bordering on fanaticism. “There's a beautiful fragment of an ancient bamboo slat book inside.”

I suppose his enthusiasm must have been contagious, because I was conscious of the sudden change in my own facial expression, from unease to the most I had smiled in some time. Trust was not my strong suit, but the piece of the
jiance
cut by the last, forgotten Ming emperor and hidden by the scholar Wan hundreds of years ago was in that black box stained with verdigris sitting on Lao Jiang's lap. The millions of francs that would settle Rémy's debts and make me rich just might exist: They were real, and above all they were a little bit closer, more within reach.

Lao Jiang's rickshaw moved off once again to lead our retinue to the station via streets and roads. It gave me scant opportunity to enjoy my second trip through the International Concession. I did, however, notice that the French feel of the neighborhoods had given way to a more Anglo-Saxon, more American setting, where the women wore light, fresh designs and no stockings, the men spit on the sidewalks with shocking calm and wore impeccably cut summer suits with doublebreasted jackets and their hair shone with brilliantine. But I didn't see a single skyscraper, not a single avenue with illuminated signs, not even, what I most hoped to see, one of those big, modern, North American automobiles. We moved on through the outskirts heading north, avoiding the most inhabited, busiest streets, hidden inside our rickshaws even though Pockmarked Huang couldn't do a thing to us here because we were no longer in French territory.

At ten to twelve, we finally arrived at the big Shanghai North Railway Station building. With our bundles we looked like a Chinese family on our way home after a short stay in Shanghai. I was worried that the ink used to make my eyes look Oriental could have been smeared by sweat or humidity, but my reflection in the station windows confirmed that it was still intact. The same was true for Fernanda and Tichborne, who kept his parasol-shaped straw hat on at all costs.

Lao Jiang didn't say a word about the price of the trip. He left us under the station clock and marched off toward the crowded counters, coming back with five tickets a few minutes later. I managed to catch only a few words of what he said to Tichborne, something about a friend of his being the stationmaster. The man was turning out to be a veritable wealth of resources, and, truth be told, it was coming in very handy.

Not far from the enormous black locomotive that spewed soot and clouds of gray steam, a large group of foreigners stood on the platform, fenced off from the loud mass of Chinese we were among. When the whistle blew, they climbed into elegant cars painted a bright, dark blue, while the Celestials’ cars were little more than rusty old crates with splintered wooden seats and floors covered in spit and garbage.

Shortly after we clattered off, a never-ending flood of vendors knocked on the compartment doors, offering a variety of foods. We bought noodles, rice pap, and meat-and-mushroom dumplings, all accompanied by green tea. An old woman poured the hot water while a young boy who must have been her grandson set a few leaves in the cup just long enough to give the brew a bit of color and then reused them in the next one. This was the first time Fernanda and I had been faced with the difficult task of trying to pick up and hold on to food with those thin sticks that Celestials use instead of cutlery. It was a good thing we were alone, because our cover wouldn't have lasted long with that display of extreme incompetence: Food flew, sauces splattered, and the chopsticks slipped out of our fingers or got tangled up in them. My niece quickly became quite adept; I, unfortunately, was having a little more trouble. Poor Biao wasn't used to the rocking motion of the train, and our lunch didn't sit so well with him; he vomited everything he had wolfed down, and more, into one of the spittoons.