Shanghai (66 page)

She waited for him in a private backstage room of the theatre. She presumed that his lateness—so unlike him—was due to the new murder. He had led the Chinese investigations of all the previous murders, so she assumed this would be his responsibility as well.

It was well after midnight when he finally arrived, and immediately Mai Bao knew he had been at the crime scene. The darkness in his face and the far-away look in his eyes were not new to her.

“Was it awful?” she asked.

He didn't respond for a moment, then asked, “Do you have your arhu?”

She nodded toward her maid, who handed over the instrument.

“Good. Play me something that will make me forget, Mai Bao, something that will cleanse my dreams.”

Her maid turned off the lights and lit a single candle.

Mai Bao knelt, carefully arranging her skirts about her, and positioned her arhu. As she did, her police inspector leaned forward and buried his head in his hands. Mai Bao plucked a single note from the arhu—then, as it began to dissolve in the still air, she plucked a second note a perfect third above the first—then a third note a perfect third beneath the initial note. Then she strummed a chord and began to sing.

She sang of a Holy Mountain far back in Anhui Province, where an ancient priest saw the world gather its forces and give birth to a dazzling city.

Mai Bao's lover looked up, and she saw tears in his eyes. Inwardly she smiled. She knew that a crying man most often sired girl babies. Perhaps twin girls.
That would put an end to all this foolishness,
she thought.

By the end of the song her lover had regained his composure and demanded wine from Mai Bao's maid. But when the maid returned, Mai Bao sent her away and poured a glass that she held out to him.

He drank deeply.

She leaned forward and tasted the wine on his lips.

He poured her a glass and she smiled. She took a sip and leaned forward again. When she parted her lips he tasted the liquor on her slender tongue. She smiled inside his kiss and he reached for the sash at her waist. Her clothing parted as she positioned her hips.

Another glass was poured, but it stood untouched on the small lacquered table, refracting the light from the single candle into arching rainbows across their bodies as they rocked in the simple motion of bringing on the clouds and rain—clouds and rain that Mai Bao knew would give her at least the first of the daughters she needed to ascend to the title of Jiang.

—

Without ceremony Mai Bao left the city at the Bend in the River. There were rumours that she had retreated to a monastery. Others that she was on a pilgrimage to
northern India to learn the great Sutras. The newspapers had never had much access to her, since she refused to be photographed and never answered reporters' questions when she was in her carriage on her way to parties thrown in her honour. And needless to say, she never participated in the newspapers' Flower Contests. But her sudden absence from Jiang's fascinated the press—and annoyed her sister, Yin Bao, who went on record as saying her sister had retreated to work with a master so she could play “her silly instrument in such a way that she can finally seduce men with her music, since clearly she can't manage it with her charms.”

Mai Bao gave birth to twin girls and left them in the fine care of a peasant couple who were only too happy to have her money in return for raising her children and keeping their mouths shut.

She returned to her mother's house entirely without fanfare and was ensconced in her rooms for over two weeks before her younger sister even knew that she was there.

Jiang, of course, was informed immediately upon Mai Bao's return. She did the simple mathematics of pregnancy, and nodded. “Enough time to have one daughter only,” she said.

“Enough time for twin girls, Mother,” Mai Bao responded.

Jiang smiled. Her spies had already told her. “Indeed,” she said as she lit the joss sticks at her small altar and offered a momentary thanks before donning her sheerest cottons to entertain the evening's guests. Her daughter was sitting on her bed, a small book in her hand. Jiang, with a flip of her wrist, motioned the girl to stand. She did. Jiang's practised eye saw the
reassuring telltales. Mai Bao's exquisitely tailored dress fell from her shoulders with just the subtlest of a fold, where there was no fold intended by the seamstress's hand.

“Welcome home, daughter.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Both nodded. Both knew that the other knew. There were no kind words or tender caresses—just a new knowledge between two powerful women.

“Because they need us as much as we need them,” Charles explained slowly to the two young Chinese Christians sitting in his office. They both had concerned smiles on their faces.
Only Christians could have concerned smiles,
Charles thought.

“But it's sinful.”

Charles resisted smiling, concerned or otherwise. He certainly recognized the theological thinking behind the young man's comments. But Charles had, of late, also realized that such thinking belonged to desert people. People who had never seen or even heard of the Middle Kingdom. And besides, the Good Book was filled with stories of men, respected men, who owned concubines and slaves, and instances of “acceptable” incest and “permissible” rape. Somehow
it was only when people not of their colour or ethnic background enjoyed the company of courtesans that it was a sin.

Charles had had his fill of the hypocrisy of the Good Book—especially the interpretation of the Good Book by White people, those whom he had finally begun to refer to, with an unconcealed joy, as
Fan Kuei.
He still considered himself a Christian, but no longer a hypocritical Christian. Now he thought of himself as an honest Christian, a Chinese Christian, and he would insist that any woman he married adopt his faith and agree to raise his children as honest Christians.

“I see,” Charles said, then added, “Thank you for your input. Now I have work to do.”

The two young Chinese Christians said thank you, and one left a pamphlet on Charles's desk. Once the door had closed behind them, Charles looked at the pamphlet and smiled. He'd both translated and published the thing.

He called in his head printer. The chubby old Japanese man hadn't changed much. Despite the fact that he now managed the six printing facilities used by the Charles Soong Corporation and never touched either ink or paper, he still looked as though he had been up all night turning the printing press himself. Charles loved that about him.

“Sit,” he said, and then slid behind his desk to face the man.

“So?” the Japanese printer asked.

“I want your opinion.”

“Sure.” The man scratched his crotch. Charles wished he wouldn't do that. The man shifted in his chair and scratched again—this time even more vigorously.

“We already publish a lot of articles about courtesans,” Charles began.

“Hookers.”

“Yes. But I think there are more ways for us to interconnect with the Flower World.”

The Japanese looked at him oddly, then finally asked, “Interconnect? Is that a word? If it is, what does it mean?”

Charles smiled. “What else can we write about courtesans?”

The printer smiled back and said, “Favourite positions, secrets of the trade, most men serviced in one night …”

“No. Not that sort of thing. What else happens to courtesans?”

“You mean besides …” He allowed his hands to make an odd circular motion.

“Yes, besides that.”

“Well, dumb stuff. You know, we write about how their hearts are broken by faithless lovers, how they sometimes end up penniless and alone, and even how sometimes they get sick. Personally I don't read any of those stories. I think they're morbid.”

“That might well be, but no, I'm not talking about things like that. Just normal things in their lives. I mean, besides sex. What happens to them that doesn't happen to you and me?”

“Well, they move a lot.”

“Excuse me?”

“They move a lot. A house madam has had enough of them and they move. Someone doesn't pay his bills, so they can't afford to pay the rent, so they move. A building goes up and takes away their sunlight, and they move. Their shit suddenly doesn't smell like roses, and they leave.”

Charles sat for a moment, then said, “And when they leave, their clientele has no way of knowing where their favourite courtesan has gone.”

The Japanese man smiled. “Unless they take out an advertisement in your newspaper to announce their new address. A
gaobai
—in this case, a change of address announcement.”

“Good,” Charles said, “very good. I bet we can market that. But you said something earlier about debts?”

“Yeah, well, clients often stiff them for the money they owe the hookers.”

“Stiff them?”

“Yeah, courtesans don't charge before they service their clients. Don't ask me why—a really dumb tradition, if you ask me—but they don't. In fact, they keep records, and every four months they demand payment. But lots of clients, especially those who don't want to go back to the same whore—I mean, why pay for food if you've already eaten and don't want to go back to the restaurant …?”

“Right,” Charles said, and chuckled.

“That's a dirty laugh, Mr. Soong.”

“Yes, I guess it is. But what would happen if we permitted the courtesans to publish their complaints against clients who … ‘stiff them'? We could publish their complaints complete with accusations, names and addresses, dates and times. Then we could allow the client to respond.”

“It would fill lots of column inches.”

“And bring in lots of readers. What's better than a fight in the press to sell newspapers?”

Two months later courtesans' words filled Charles' newspapers and readers lined up to buy copies “hot off the presses.” Some were innocuous announcements,
gaobai
, such as: “Chenjing Jinlan at Xiao Jiuan has moved her residence to the luxury of Baoshu Lane
”
or “Wen Yuanyuan, who resides in Tongan Lane, is changing her name to Wen Yuyun for the pleasure of her clients and is moving to Huihui Lane for more privacy
.
” Some were anything but innocuous, such as this exchange between a courtesan and one of her suitors.

“Here in this public place I proclaim that the courtesan Miaxi is nothing but a detestable prostitute! She did not appear when I had arranged an elaborate banquet for her, and my friends and I lost much face because of the actions of this loathsome creature. Take care that you do not involve yourself with this unsanitary whore
.
”

In the very next edition of the paper, Miaxi responded, “He has no compassion for the labours of my profession. I was overbooked that night. Besides, his so-called banquet was little more than a cold bowl of rice, which is pretty much what he has both between his ears and between his legs!”

The paper then published learned opinions about these opinions, and then further forays by both the client and the courtesan. The papers were in such demand that people lined up all night to be the first to read the newest slanders.

—

Charles put aside the final article for the next edition, looked at the writers gathered around the table, and said, “Very good, oh, yes, very good.”

“And very profitable,” said Tzu Rong Zi, the drunken scholar who had written the very first story for Charles. “Lots of dough!”

Charles looked at Tzu Rong Zi and wanted to ask him how much he'd already had to drink at this early hour. His drinking had gotten very bad of late. There was a time when Charles would have brought the man to church to cure him of his addiction, but Charles no longer believed in church that way.
At least it isn't opium,
Charles thought. Tzu Rong Zi hadn't written anything worth publishing for almost a year, but Charles couldn't find it in his heart to fire him—after all, he'd been with him at the beginning of Charles's sensational good fortune. So Charles just ignored the writer and looked at the others around the table—all of whom were well scrubbed and anxious to participate in the financial glories of Charles Soong's publishing empire.

“All right, I'm prepared to entertain new initiatives for the paper,” he said.

Suggestions were put forward for new ventures, and a few were seriously discussed. Several writers wanted to add a crime column to the paper. That was amended to a crime “section” that could be launched with a detailed report on the twenty-seven unsolved murders of the merchants, all of whom had “Murdered Collaborators” printed on their foreheads.

“I'll consider the idea,” Charles said, although he knew it was much too dangerous. The Manchu authorities were watching his every move. There was no point antagonizing them by suggesting that there was a murderer out there that their incompetent police force couldn't catch.

Through his spies, Charles knew that the Manchus were aware that it was his money that allowed Dr. Sun Yat-sen to spend so much time in Europe and America looking at their governmental systems. The good doctor had returned to China with what he called his
“Three Principles.” The first was the Principle of Nationalism, which postulated the need for the Chinese people to throw off the “yoke of Manchu rule” and live in peace with the minorities within their borders, and with other nations of the world. The second principle was the Principle of Democracy, which basically stated that the people were the power in the country, not the Emperor, and that all people were equal. The third of his principles, the Principle of Social Welfare, was a sometimes watered down, sometimes hard-line version of socialism that gave most land to the state.

Charles was a supporter of the first two principles but had his doubts about the third.