Mr Lee’s mouth opens and closes like a carp. ‘They put me in a bag to keep me from seeing who was bringing me over.’ His gaze darts to me, then back to Big Wang. I’m enjoying this too much to help him. He licks his lips. ‘Well, perhaps since it helped the first time, being inside a bag will help again.’
Big Wang nods. ‘Consider it done.’
He turns to leave, but Mr Lee says, ‘Though – perhaps since I will be with Lady Jing, then her company will help distract me from my fear. So, perhaps, the bag won’t be necessary after all, if Lady Jing would be willing to offer this worthless one some of her venerable attention.’
He turns those rotted doe eyes on me. I suck my teeth. How can someone so big remind me so much of a helpless child?
I sigh dramatically, like it’s a huge imposition. ‘It’s okay, Big Wang, I’ll make sure he’s fine. No need for the bag.’
Big Wang gazes between us as if trying to decipher some secret code, then shrugs. ‘May your path be smoothed by winds of favour. Spend three days in the mortal realm, Little Jing. Come back on the full moon.’
Twelve
Piercing the Veil
I stand at the edge of the Bund, facing the jetty. Attached to it is a gangway which connects to the floating pontoon where Fisherman Lo waits in his sampan. Below us stream the dark currents of the Whangpoo River, rising with the tide. My feet don’t want to move, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck on a few planks of wood in the middle of the river. I remind myself that on the other side of the veil is the sun. Which means, there’ll be a sunset. And then stars followed by sunrise. I just have to make it across the river. I close my eyes and try to picture a sunrise. A rainbow of colour sparkling in the sky? Or reverse ink wash – the colour seeping into the sky and chasing away the dark? I was so little when I left the Celestial realms for Hell, I only have my childhood impressions, murky and blurred.
I grip the handle of a small suitcase in which I’ve packed a couple qipao, matching slippers, and two hair pins. Mr Lee stands at my side.
I can do this. Iwilldo this.
Mr Lee holds his arm out. ‘Ready?’ His smile is tentative. He’s still trying to make up for earlier.
I give him a hard glare. I’m not ready to forgive him yet. Even so, I lift my chin and link my arm through his. I pray to every deity I know to keep me from embarrassing myself. Together we step onto the jetty. The structure is solid, thick planks of wood supported by great metal pilings driven deep into the riverbed. It’s just like the zigzag bridge to the Lake Heart Pavilion. Solid, unmoving. We make it across without mishap. Now the gangway. I hesitate, but Mr Lee pats my hand and pulls me along.
The gangway is made of metal, but it’s thin. It clanks and bounces with our every step. I feel myself slowing, the cold creeping up my body, but Mr Lee keeps to a fast clip; he doesn’t let us dawdle.
Fisherman Lo stands at the stern of his sampan, watching us approach. He leans on the yuloh oar, one weathered end anchored by a long thick rope attached to a brass ring on the side of the sampan, the other end of the oar disappearing into the black waters. My teeth chatter. Only when Mr Lee tugs me gently forward off the gangway, do I realise I’ve stopped moving. The pontoon isn’t large, there’s only enough room for the one sampan; it’s but five steps from here to the boat. Even so, the distance stretches impossibly far. The feel of cold water wraps around my throat. My legs aren’t working right. Mr Lee tugs again, a little harder, forcing me onto the pontoon. The whole thing sways. My breath hitches.
‘One step, then another,’ he whispers. ‘You can do it.’
I take a single halting step. Then stop again.Four steps to go.My whole body is shaking. I stare at the sampan bobbing on the river. The savoury, sweet, sour, putrid stench of brine and rot fills my nose. I try to conjure the sunrise, but my mind is full of dark, swirling water.
‘I can’t. I can’t do it,’ I whimper. My bones turn to tofu. I feel myself sinking.
Mr Lee places his hand over mine, his grip firm and unyielding; he keeps me from falling.
‘This worthless one humbly asks your venerable fragrant self—’ he begins.
It takes a moment for the words to slice through the icy haze of panic – but when they do, I snap my head up. What is he doing? I hate that piss-fart. ‘Itoldyou—’
‘Contain this unlearned mortal’s poor memory,’ he says as he pulls the suitcase from me, ‘and lift high your honourable hand.’
I stare at him, uncomprehending. Not only does he insult my honour, but he forgets the one thing I asked of him. ‘What part ofthe flowery language of formal court makes me extremely uncomfortabledidn’t you understand?’
‘Step,’ Mr Lee says, completely unbothered. ‘Contain this lowly one’s—’
He’s not even listening. My rage boils over. How dare he? ‘I can rip out your tongue or slice off your precious peaches. Your choice.’ I’m practically growling at him.
‘This unworthy one submits to your most noble and fragrant discretion.’ He gestures for me to sit.
I drop onto the wooden seat, glaring daggers. He joins me on the bench, calm as you like, grinning to himself. He crosses his arms, a hand cradling his chin. Then he starts to chuckle. I’m missing a joke.
‘Is there anything you want to see in yang Shanghai? It’s really not that different to your Shanghai, though I don’t think we have anyone who makes xiao long bao to rival your Old Zao.’
I stare at him, trying to fathom how this mortal, who went green at the thought of me drinking mortal blood, is not at all fazed that I’m spitting mad at him and considering all the different ways I can torture him. He’s sitting blithely next to me in the sampan like he’s off on one of Fisherman Lo’s tourist trips.
Wait.
