Shanghai (112 page)

“Didn't know what to do with you, so they sent you in to me?”

“Yes,” the History Teller said.

“Well, you are here now.”

“Yes. I haven't been to the Pudong for a long time. Do you like it here?”

“It's different.”

“A prudent move from Shanghai?”

“Considering our new rulers, yes. Prudent.”

“But do you like it on this side of the river?”

“I miss the place my mother and her mother and her mother before her called home.”

“The magic of the Pudong doesn't impress you?”

“Magic—here in the Pudong?”

The History Teller laughed. “I guess you aren't impressed.”

“Tell me of this magic.”

“The ground here is fecund. It's ready to give birth, to shake off its evil and thrust upward—seventy times—I can feel it.”

She stared at him.
Seventy times?
she thought.
A coincidence of numbers?
Finally she spoke. “Why are you here, History Teller?”

“Tomorrow we start preparing to perform for Mao.”

“I know. How do you think your two newest actors will manage?”

“They will be clumsy, but that may have its own charm.”

“You know that's not what I meant. Will they pass?”

“What choice do they have? They should be safe for a while. Hopefully until the performance.”

“And after that?”

“Ah,” sighed the History Teller, “only fools think beyond the opening night of a new play.”

Jiang nodded. “I look forward to seeing your newest creation.”

The History Teller nodded and moved the suitcase back to his left hand.

“Why are you here?” Jiang asked a second time.

The History Teller smiled, then said, “To watch you dress.”

“Excuse me?”

“To watch you dress. I will play the Princess just one more time—and this time it must be perfect—everything must be perfect.” He unlatched the suitcase and pulled out his elaborate Princess costume, complete with the two long peacock feathers for the headdress.

“And you want me to …”

“To put it on, so I can watch you dress. You are, after all, the only Princess I know.” He walked to the
far corner, sat in a straight-backed chair, crossed his legs, and waited.

Slowly she reached for the sash of her robe and loosed it. Her robe whispered to the floor, like petals from cherry blossoms. Then she crossed to the costume, unconcerned about her nakedness, picked up the first undergarment, and fastened it around her waist.

* * *

Rehearsal, Day One

 

The History Teller wasn't pleased with his company's response to the unexpected arrival of the two new cast members. Some actors were too curious, others were annoyed at the realignment of roles. The actor playing the Serving Man, the lead in
Journey to the West,
already unhappy that he appeared only briefly in the new opera, was openly hostile. “I'm just there to be killed. I come on, say, ‘Hey, look at me,' then the fuckin' Monkey King eats me or something.”

“Actually, we don't know how you die,” the History Teller said, although he wanted to say,
We don't care how you die just as long as it's very quiet and extremely painful.

“Look,” the actor said, riffling through the pages of the script, “my part is so small you could replace me with a lamppost and no one would notice.”

Replacing this actor with a lamppost struck the History Teller as a suggestion worthy of consideration. He'd seen a marked change in the man over the years. As his own fame had grown, this man had become more and more bitter—and since the arrival of the Communists there was something new in the man's look, something vaguely feral.

“It's time to start rehearsing,” he said, “we play for the King in six days.”

The History Teller's implicit criticism of Mao did not go unnoticed by the company. Maximilian, standing as unobtrusively as he could in the back and struggling not to touch the makeup on his face or the dark wig that covered his red hair, thought it unwise for the History Teller to literally—
mao
meaning cat—“bell the cat.” But he said nothing. In fact, he seldom spoke to the actors unless he had to. His Mandarin was excellent, but his accent could still betray him.

His son, also in makeup, stepped closer to him and took his hand.

“Let's look at the final scene from
Journey to the West,
” the History Teller said. “That's where the new play begins.” Then he looked at the actor playing the Serving Man and said, “You'll like this, you're the lead in this section.”

“Yeah, for two fuckin' minutes,” he muttered.

“What was that?” the History Teller's voice snapped in the thick air between the two men.

“Nothing,” the Serving Man said, and donned his headdress.

Maximilian and his son retreated to the back of the auditorium as the History Teller got down to serious rehearsal—arduous, exacting, and, at times, magnificent.

* * *

Night One

 

The actor playing the Serving Man stood patiently outside the Confucian's office door—waiting for the great
man. He was not used to waiting. He was a star—or he used to be. In an unusual moment of insight he thought,

Is there a more dangerous person in the world than a man who was at one time thought to possess genius?
Then the door opened. The Confucian was standing, in his traditional blue robe, by the window.
Not a bad look,
the actor thought.

—

The History Teller stood in the door of the small prop room and watched his grandson sleep on the mat he had placed there. Maximilian approached with two steaming mugs of tea. “He's beautiful,” Maximilian said.

“Like his mother,” the History Teller replied.

Maximilian didn't say anything. The Chiao Ming he had seen was in the advanced stages of starvation—and gangrenous.

“You do know that they'll find you?” the History Teller said. “You can't wear the makeup and wig forever—and eventually the actors' curiosity will overcome them and they'll find you out. Even I can't keep actors' curiosity in check. It's their nature.”

Maximilian nodded and took a long drink of his tea. “It's very good.”

“It is. It's oolong. Enjoy it. I fear it will be a long time before we will see its like in the market places of Shanghai again.”

“That's a bit pessimistic.”

“This from a
Fan Kuei
hiding in makeup and wig?

“You use a peculiar rhythm in your speech sometimes.”

“Do I really?”

“You do.” The History Teller turned from Maximilian. “Why do you say that about there being no oolong tea?”

“Our new rulers hate us. We offend them. Everything we do offends them, as a library offends one who cannot read. They are frightened of our joys—our pleasure offends them. They will take our pleasures from us first—our city later. The tyranny of the many needs be no more just than the tyranny of the few.”

The History Teller looked from Maximilian to his grandson. “Do you have your rigging set?”

Maximilian was aware that the History Teller had changed the subject abruptly but answered, “Yes. The silk is easily strong enough to hold us both.”

A darkness crossed the History Teller's face as he whispered, “Silk, that which is made from women's tears.”

“Excuse me?” Maximilian asked.

“Nothing. Just an old thought.” He sipped his tea, then asked, “And you did as I suggested?”

“Yes, I rigged it all the way up to the rafters beneath the trap door in the roof. Why not just rig it to the overhanging grid?”

The History Teller ignored his question and asked one of his own. “How did you make the circle of fire in Nanking?”

* * *

Rehearsal, Day Two

 

The soldiers arrived first thing on the second day of rehearsal.

“It's to be expected,” the History Teller said to Maximilian, “Mao is going to attend the performance, and they are going to be sure that things are safe. Just keep your fingers out of your makeup and stay back in the wings and you'll be fine.”

But the presence of six wardens with the soldiers was ominous.
How far behind could the authorities be?
Maximilian thought as he retreated farther into the darkness of the wings and adjusted his headdress.

Then, one of the wardens, a sugar-fat peasant, sat down in the front row and made it clear that she was not leaving.

The History Teller caught Maximilian's eye and nodded in the woman's direction.

Maximilian turned to his son and said quietly, in English, “Remember. If they catch me, you are going to claim you don't know me—right?”

His son looked away and then slowly nodded his head. Rehearsal continued. The History Teller's temper was shorter than usual. He was particularly concerned with the Monkey King scene but seemed to relax when loud snores came from the cavernous mouth of the peasant warden, who had draped her large upper body over two seats and her fat legs over a third in the front row.

The actor playing the Monkey King said, “Our first critic.”

Or our last,
the History Teller wanted to say, but chose to say, “She may be right. This scene needs work.”

—

Later that same day the first government notices were delivered to
Fan Kuei
citizens of Shanghai. Their presence was no longer wanted at the Bend in the River, and transport would be supplied in five days, at the end of the New Year's festival, for their departure. They were to be ready and were permitted one bag per family of no more than twenty kilos in weight.

Any door that was not opened was promptly broken down, and all the contents of the home or office were confiscated “for the state.”

The notices were not really a surprise. But most of the
Fan Kuei
who remained in Shanghai had known no other home. They were not Shanghailanders who'd come to rape the Middle Kingdom. Almost all of them spoke Mandarin, lived in harmony with their Han Chinese neighbours, and loved the vast city. But they had been smelling the reek of change in the air for some time.

* * *

Night Two

 

“Because I need them,” the History Teller said. He wasn't used to explaining himself to anyone.

The Assassin was surprised that the History Teller had come to him. “How did you find me?”

“Jiang,” he said simply.

The Assassin nodded and said, “Of course.”

“The night-soil boy has the only two remaining beads. My grandson willingly gave me his. Now, to make Chiao Ming's necklace complete, I need those two beads from the boy.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “It's going to be my final performance as the Princess, and I want to wear the complete necklace. I know it sounds …”

“Petty? Yes, it does. But I'll retrieve your beads for you.” He thought of Fong and asked, “Can the boy be allowed to see your play?”

The History Teller nodded and said, “I'll arrange for him to watch from the wings.”

“Good. I'll try to find him.”

The Assassin got to his feet, then turned to the History Teller. “When you add those two final beads, how many beads are on the necklace?”

“Seventy. Why?”

—

Fong found himself lifted from the ground, and before he could call out, a strong hand covered his mouth. The honeypot he'd been cleaning fell from his hands and emptied its contents on the doorstep. He heard his grandmother shout his name, then he heard a soft voice in his ear, “It's me, Fong.”

Fong jerked his head around. He saw the Assassin and his eyes lit up.

Loa Wei Fen removed his hand from the boy's mouth and said, “Come with me, quickly.”

Ten minutes later Fong understood what the History Teller wanted and gave his two glass beads to Loa Wei Fen. “Can I get them back?” he asked.

“I don't know. That's up to the History Teller.” Fong thought for a moment, then said, “That's fair. They were his to begin with.”

“Five nights from now, come to the west door of the History Teller's theatre, the one down the long alley, and you can watch his play.”

“His new one?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be there?”

Loa Wei Fen heard the need in the boy's voice.

An old woman's scream pierced the night, “Zhong Fong, you lazy creature, where are you?”

“My grandmother,” Fong said.

“Sounds pretty angry.”

“The pot spilled when you picked me up. I hope it didn't crack.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Fong said.

Loa Wei Fen saw the boy's smile in the moonlight. He smiled back.
This one is going to find his way,
he thought.

“I should go,” Fong said.

“Yes, you should.”

But Fong didn't move. He suddenly understood that, like his father, he might never see this man again.

—

Late that night, the Assassin pushed open the History Teller's dressing room door. The man never went home when he was working, and he seemed never to sleep.

“You wanted these,” Loa Wei Fen said, holding out the two glass beads.

The History Teller took them and said, “Thank you,” then turned back to his mirror. “It's you they are looking for, not the red-haired
Fan Kuei,
isn't it?”

Loa Wei Fen nodded.

“So if you leave, my grandson would be safe?”

“He's safer with me here.”

“Why's that?”

“I come from a long line of bodyguards. I'm very adept at bodyguarding.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I think I do.” The History Teller looked at his feet for a moment, then directly into Loa Wei Fen's eyes. “What have you done to make the authorities hunt you down?”