I frown at them. ‘What do you know about Big Wang’s deal with my mother? He always tells me the same old piss-fart.’
‘Only that you should know by now never to pay heed to what those vixens say to you. Whenever you listen to their poison, you always get yourself into a worse mess. Remember the garlic?’
‘I was the butt of all the ghosts’ jokes for a month.’ I twitch my shoulder, not liking the way the conversation is heading.
‘Then you understand what I’m saying? Be smart. Don’t let bitterness poison your common sense. You know what you need to do.’
Head bowed, I mutter into my chest, ‘Apologise to Big Wang.’
‘Good. I’ll steam some blood xiao long bao for you to take for breakfast.’ Old Zao grabs a large square of cotton from a side table and hands it to me. ‘Now go round up those birds.’
Seven
The Deal
Midnight blue shadows skulk between the trees and puddle on the ground between the streetlamps as I walk down the Quai de France with a bag of tiny cocks slung over my shoulder and a three-tiered basket of freshly steamed bao balanced against my hip. The white-washed wooden houses clinging to the old city walls are silent for now, as their ghost guests slumber. The quiet mornings are my favourite time of day, when both tourists and yaojing are tucked up in bed. I get the city mostly to myself. The roosters squawk inside the bag, shattering the peace. I give the bag a little shake.
‘This is your own rotted fault,’ I say, voice lowered, though there isn’t anyone around to hear me.
The roosters quiet down as if they’re really listening. I shake off the ridiculous notion and ponder instead on how I’m to phrase my apology. Losing my temper despite knowing how important the plenary session was, despite being warned by Big Wang not to cause a ruckus, was not my finest moment. I rub a hand down my face, not looking forward to my further humiliation.
I pass through the old wooden gate that once marked the boundary between the walled city and the docks, but which now marks the start of the Bund and her grand buildings. A tram rattles past me with a single ghost passenger. A pack of roosters – I count fifteen – zigzag across the tracks and the otherwise empty road, their red combs bobbing and their dark blue tail feathers swinging as they strut. More roosters dot the trees – their bright plumes spill from the leaves like exotic blooms: pumpkin streaked with midnight, white and black, teal and yellow. They all stare unblinking at me as I pass and I have the strongest urge to screech at their stupid little faces.
When I pass the Angel of Peace statue, wings spread wide on a low plinth on the river promenade, I bow my usual respects. Big Wang’s official line is it doesn’t matter that she’s a foreign spirit; she honours the dead, just as we do. But I know for a fact the statue is here because Big Wang lost a mahjong wager to Lady Guan, the Goddess of Mercy and Compassion and she wanted to encourage cross-cultural ties; if he had won, he would have had Lady Guan’s vote on ministry matters for five hundred years. He sulked for a whole week after losing that game.
I consider Old Zao’s advice. I cannot believe the solution is so simple – letting Big Wang win. The sour guilt gnaws at my gut. I should not have resisted his command last night; he uses it so rarely on me, and only when I’m being particularly obstinate. The last time was when I refused to wear the dresses Horsey had picked out for me and decided to streak across Shanghai wearing only a square silk dudou for modesty and a pair of silk knickers.
Perhaps courtly piss-fart – the art of not saying what you mean while oozing a disgusting amount of flattery – has some value to it.
The normally bustling docks are empty, apart from Fisherman Lo’s ratty old sampan. I wonder whether Big Wang’s guest would see something different if Fisherman Lo were to take him to the edge of Hell, but then shake off the intruding curiosity about the mortal. He is not my concern. The ferries that bring newly dead don’t start arriving until later in the morning, so for now the Bund is quiet. Fisherman Lo notices me and bows his head in acknowledgement. I bow back. It’s one of Big Wang’s rules.Courtesy to courtesy. I don’t mind Fisherman Lo. He’s a long-standing demon of few words, and I’m sure he thinks his passengers are as brainless as the stray roosters strutting around Shanghai. It’s the fake greetings I hate. The smiles that are soft and sweet on the outside, but on the inside, sharp with judgement.
I push through the revolving doors at the Cathay Hotel, and as soon as I enter the lobby my skin pimples. The air inside is cooled by the marble floors and stone-clad pillars and is a welcome respite from the heat. An octagonal skylight at the end of the lobby shines with bright yellow gaslight. The hotel is staffed by Big Wang’s apprentices, ghosts who, for various reasons, do not wish to reincarnate yet. Most want to work off their karmic debt so they don’t reincarnate as cockroaches. They bow when I pass, but I smell their disdain. I rein in the snarl on my lips; they know I won’t bite them but that doesn’t seem to matter to them. I’m different. That’s enough to warrant their contempt.
Big Wang is breakfasting on the terrace when I step out from the lift. The mortal sits across from him, wearing his grey suit, freshly laundered and pressed. There is an empty chair between them. Bullhead and Horsey stand slightly behind and to either side of Big Wang, wearing their usual black changpao with their swords hanging at their sides.
I take a deep breath, and make my way through the palm trees, past the koi pond and finally towards the dining area overlooking the Whangpoo. Croissants, sticky rice rolls, freshly squeezed watermelon juice, and a large basket of Old Zao’s regular xiao long bao fill the table.
When Big Wang sees me his eyes glow red, but before he can say a word, and before I lose my nerve, I put my bags on the floor, drop to my knees and raise a fist palm salute high in the air. Big Wang raises an eyebrow ever so slightly then leans back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his belly. He watches me the way he watches his tortoises when he wants to see what they will do next.
With my head bowed, I recite the words I practiced on my walk over. ‘Contain this worthless one’s disobedience and lack of respect, most venerable Big Wang. I should not have resisted my esteemed benefactor’s guidance. I made you lose face and for that I shall suffer a thousand cuts of regret.’
I wait, motionless, but no one says anything. Finally, I raise my head. Big Wang’s expression is hard to parse, but the ruby glow of his eyes has dimmed. Horsey’s mouth gapes so wide I can see his tonsils. Bullhead stares like I’ve grown an extra head.
‘Mmgnh.’ The sound Big Wang makes is half-grunt half-clearing his throat. ‘I never expected to hear such fancy words from you, Little Jing. Are you feeling alright?’
My face twists at his incredulity. Is that courtly crap so out of place coming from my mouth? ‘Isn’t this what filial piety is supposed to look like?’ It comes out harsher than I mean it.
‘It is unsettling to hear you speak in such a florid manner,’ Big Wang says.
I glare at him, and he holds my gaze.
‘What brings you here so early in the morning singing like a gilded nightingale?’ Big Wang asks.
I consider reciting the rest of the fancy lines I’d prepared, but judging by Big Wang’s reaction, I decide against it. He might get angrier, or he might laugh at me. I don’t know which is worse. Horsey has gone pink, eyes shining; I’m afraid he might faint from the ecstasy of hearing me sound like a lady.
‘I need your help,’ I say plainly.
Big Wang eyes the bag by my knees. After a moment he holds out his hand and I pass him the wriggling bag full of cocks. A few tinycocorocohsmewl from the bag. He peers inside and then makes thatmmgnhnoise again.
