The ghost scrunches his face. ‘Huh?’
Mr Lee tries again, repeating his question.
The old man scratches his head, then turns to me, raising his voice. ‘Lady Jing, what did he say?’ He speaks like he has gravel in his mouth, gurgling all the sounds at the back of his throat,gur gur sher sher. Typical Beijinger.Lady Ji-er,wha-er did he shay-er?
‘Speak plain,’ I say to Mr Lee. ‘He doesn’t understand your flowery piss-fart.’ I hold my left hand up, inspecting my nails. Not bad.
Mr Lee tries again. ‘Uh, can you show me where you keep your joss money? How it arrives, how it is divided, how it is distributed?’
The ghost looks at me, as if for permission. I half-heartedly lift the sword. It seems to work because the ghost straightens, interleaves his fingers.
‘We have no joss money right now. It is burned only on the new and full moon, and it’s a few days to the full moon. Whatever is sent over appears on the shelf with the deceased’s surname. The ghosts line up at the appropriate desk, and runners are sent up and down the stairs to fetch the correct bundle of funds.’
Mr Lee looks at me, a pained smile on his face. He glances at the clerk, bowing slightly in apology, then back at me again. I narrow my eyes. Why is he embarrassed? And then it hits me.He doesn’t understand the Beijinger’s thick labourer accent.Tian.He wants me to translate. Mr Lee is a books-and-pressed-Western-trousers scholar. Ink stains his fingers, not dirt. Bathing in garlic while being serenaded by roosters suddenly seems an attractive way to pass the time. I give him my shoulder and work on the nails of my right hand.
‘I am not good with northern dialects. Contain my thousandfold regrets for having fermented tofu for brains.’ The rotted mortal bows low, peeks at me from under a sweep of thick lashes. He has the audacity to smile sweetly. ‘Abundant gratitude for your assistance in this matter.’
At my expression, the ghost laughs, a gasping, wheezing sound.
‘No,’ I say, glaring between the two men.
Mr Lee straightens. He smiles so bright he almost shines with starlight and spun sugar. Dimples twinkle in both his cheeks. The wider his smile, the deeper my frown.
‘How about a deal then, Lady Jing?’ he says.
His gaze is too steady, his smile too knowing. My instincts prickle. I’m not a kanhoo champion for nothing. I know when someone is bluffing, but he looks like someone who’s drawn a winning set of cards.
Slowly, I say ‘What kind of deal?’
He eyes my qipao. ‘That’s one of Master Chu’s, is it not?’
I’m surprised he knows my tailor.
‘I will have him send you a Western-style suit, if you agree to be my translator while I’m here.’
My own suit. Even better than changpao. I narrow my eyes. Though Big Wang said he’d consider getting me trousers, it could be months, or years, before he makes up his mind. The mortal’s not as stupid as he looks. I hesitate. The deal seems too easy. I have to guide him anyway. It makes me wonder what else he has on his agenda.
The old ghost whistles. ‘Old Lord Ma will have a fit if he sees you in men’s clothes, Lady Jing.’
I bark out a laugh. The thought of Horsey’s expression when I turn up in men’s clothes is enough to silence my misgivings. I push off the column and join the mortal in front of the clerk’s desk. Mr Lee holds his hand out, like he did last night on the dock. The ghost and I stare at his hand.
After a moment, he says, ‘You take my hand, and we shake. It’s the modern way of sealing an agreement.’
A plan forms in my mind. There is one other person I know who has a good ear for gossip and who actually knows many hulijing. I let his hand hover. Taking Mr Lee to her is a little risky. Big Wang’s sword won’t scare her, but her intel should be worth the risk. ‘I want two sets of suits by Master Chu, one black, one in his choice of colour. I also want those’ – I point at his clothes – ‘to wear now.’
He looks down. The old man laughs so hard he has a coughing fit.
‘But, what will I wear?’
‘I know a place where you can get a changpao.’
He eyes me. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Of course,’ I lie and meet his gaze.
Already looking forward to running and moving any way I wish without being followed by titters and disapproval, I hold my hand out. He hesitates, his brown eyes boring into me.I do not like liars, they say. The words pinch a tender spot, then I remember myself and scoff. What do I care of some foolish mortal’s opinion? He is merely a means to an end. He can think whatever he wants.
‘Other hand,’ he says.
