There was a groan.
“What are you doing?”
“Ying?”
“Who else did you think it was?”
“I thought it was . . . Why did you come at this hour?” I fumbled for the matchbox, found it, and then looked for the kerosene lamp at the foot of the bed. But I couldn’t find it. Little Star must have been playing with it. Then near me came another groan, and the bulk of Ying collapsed to the ground. “Did I really hit you that hard? What’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t answer, so I lit a match. The light shone on Ying’s ghastly pale face. His left shoulder was soaked.
“Is that blood? Were you shot?”
He closed his eyes. “Lower your voice, Aiyi. You’re going to get us all killed.”
“You shouldn’t come here.” I had an idea about what he had gotten himself into, and I hated him for it. Finally, I found the lamp. I lit it, went to check the front gate to the alleyway, and pushed the latch to make sure it was locked firmly. Then I returned to Ying.
“Are you going to help me? Give me the opium. Here. In the bag.” He kicked a green canvas satchel near his feet, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“No.”
“Please.”
Begrudgingly, I unbuttoned the satchel. Inside was a boxy leather bag, a pair of binoculars, a small bag of peanuts, and a pistol. Already I could smell the unique flower scent. I held a small amount of mud-like putty, the size of a red date.
He grabbed the putty and bit into it. With the putty, he wouldn’t feel a thing. “Now take the bullet out.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Why should I help you? So you can go out and shoot our people again? I know you work for them.”
“I don’t work for them.” The putty was working; his voice was swelling, losing its edge.
“I saw you walk into their building. I know what you’re doing. I know who you are.”
“Do you?” In the faint kerosene lamp light, he was smiling, and it was not the energetic, comical smile that he used to give. “I’m not going to tell you anything more. But I’m not a traitor. I only want to save my country. I will never betray my country.”
Should I believe him?
“Will you get the bullet out?” He gazed at the light, and I could see he, like Emily, my father, and many addicts before him, was swimming in the transitory realm of fog and oblivion.
I held the kerosene lamp, leaned closer, and dipped my right thumb and forefinger into his shoulder. Soft flesh closed on me; blood spurted. I felt the metal among the viscous pool alongside hard bones and dug out the bullet.
Near dawn, when the alleyway stirred with squeaky rickshaws, Ying awoke. There were still traces of drug on his face, but his eyes were alert. He groaned, examining the knot I’d made on his shoulder, and shook his head. “You are doing a poor job as a nurse, and as a maid. Where did you get that costume?”
“It’s my protection. I couldn’t find anything else to wear. Are you going to tell me how you got shot?” Little Star stirred near me.
He was still groggy as he recounted events in a low voice. He had received important intelligence that a Japanese truck was loaded with sophisticated radio equipment transported from Japan. Ying and his resistance force had ambushed the truck and successfully detonated it, destroying all the equipment, but many of his people died. He’d blown his cover and was shot. But it was worth it, he said, for during the ambush, he had learned key information regarding the war.
“What information? Can you tell me?”
“Sorry. It’s top secret. But you should be proud. I almost killed that son of a bitch.”
I didn’t know he had been after Yamazaki.
“He’s in charge of the military base in Hongkou. I want his head. I want his ammunition and his radio transceivers. I want all the Japanese dead.”
Fifteen months had passed since Cheng’s death. “I miss Cheng. I was so stupid; I didn’t know how much he meant to me.”
Ying twisted his head away, his throat contracting. All these months, Ying had carried his grief over Cheng’s death, the sharpened ax. “Where’s Peiyu? Where are the other children?”
I told him of Peiyu’s leaving for her parents in Jiangsu and how I’d discovered Little Star under the bed. “I’ve written to her, but no replies. The post office is still closed.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re looking after the little one. Where’s my bag?”
I leaned over and gave him the satchel. He could barely use his hands, so I lifted it, put it on his lap, and untied the leather strap. It was a Japanese military device, a radio transceiver, marked with kanji that said IMPORTANT MILITARY INTELLIGENCE DEVICE. Ying held the device and turned a switch. “Glack, glack, glack” was all I could hear.