Beneath him were rickshaws, military motorcycles, automobiles, screaming people, carriages, and more Japanese soldiers holding rifles. But he had gotten the floor wrong. This was not the first floor—it was the second.
“No!” He wanted to hold on to the windowsill or the window frame, but his hands caught nothing, and his feet swiped the air.
47
AIYI
Cheng sent a team of seamstresses to make me new tunics. What I wore became his decision, and he had deemed it improper to wear the fitted dresses that showed my curves.
In front of a tall mirror, I stood still as the seamstresses measured my size and cut out the fabric four times larger. There was no tuck at the waist, padding around the chest, or careful trimming on the hemline—all the fastidiousness of a high-quality dress-tailoring technique I was used to. When the tunics were speedily made on a treadle machine, one in black and one in gray, both with an upright mandarin collar that reached my chin, I put one on. With my neck fenced in a high collar, sleeves long enough to cover the tips of my fingers, my body sheathed in a shapeless trunk, I was seamless like a dumpling.
Ernest would not recognize me if he passed by me.
Insomnia. Again.
The night was too quiet. Each scratch on the wall, each scuttle in the garden, each murmur of the wind jolted me like a ghost’s breath. The candlelight slithered on the wall; the shadows curdled behind the wardrobes. The disjointed, harsh music was playing in my ears again. I hugged my shoulders, curling on my bed, fear a cangue on my neck.
Before dawn, I went out to find Ying for some company. But he was not in his room; very odd, especially at this hour. Near the courtyard, I heard a creak come from the front gate. A burglar? The gate, unbelievably, was unlocked. I held the door ajar and looked out. On the street near an alleyway just one block away, Ying was in his shirt with suspenders. Holding a flashlight in one hand, he handed a wad of bills to a short, bald man in a robe. Behind him, two men carried a crate out of the alley. Ying opened the crate with his free hand and picked out a long stick like a broom. A rifle.
I closed the door, furious. All the money I gave him. He was not playing a poker game. He was engaging in an illegal trade of guns. He was going to get killed! I went to the round table in the dining room, waiting for him. But I must have dozed off, because when I woke up, my old butler stood next to me.
“Where is Ying?” It was dawn. The house was still sleeping.
“Youngest master said he had a poker game,” he said, swallowing his saliva loudly—his habit. He spread out my breakfast—two tea eggs, a bowl of porridge with green onions, and a bowl of soft tofu—and turned away.
“Can you stay with me?” I said.
“Yes, Miss Shao. Do you need anything else?”
“No. Just stay and say something.” I held the warm tea egg. The hard-boiled egg, marinated for hours in tea leaves and anise pods, had a unique, enhanced flavor of tea. It was my favorite. I hit it against the table and began to peel; when the shell came off, I held it—soft, naked, waiting to be eaten. Suddenly, I felt sad. I had no business, no love, no future. I felt like a peeled egg, vulnerable.
A thud came in the distance. The ground trembled. “What’s that?”
“Miss Shao?”
His hearing was not good. Or maybe I was going insane. I bit into the egg.
Another thud. “Did you hear that?”
I dusted off the flakes of eggshell on my coat and stepped out of the dining hall. It was not my imagination. The ground was indeed shaking. My Nash, parked near the fountain, was rattling; the two red lanterns strung on two ropes across from the courtyard to the central reception room, which Peiyu had installed for good luck to welcome the new year, were swinging. The red tassels swayed, and the golden letters spun, a swirl of confusion. I rushed toward the fountain and opened the gate.
Outside, the dawn air was pungent, sickening with burning oil. I had smelled the air like this before, when the Japanese attacked the city. But the street appeared normal, a rickshaw puller dozing near the alley. Then I saw a bloom of black explode from the direction of the river.
It was happening. The attack on the Settlement, like Ernest said.
His apartment was some distance away from the river. He should be safe, and if he knew better, he would stay away. But what if he was not?
I dashed back inside, almost crashing into my chauffeur, who’d just awoken. “Quick. Let’s get in the car. Take me to the Settlement.”
“What’s going on?” He started the engine.
“Just take me there. Let’s go.”