‘Where to, honourable sir?’ he asks.
I gaze at the man’s feet – his shoes are nothing more than a leather sole held in place with twine.
‘Rue Bourgeat,’ Mr Lee says.
I put a hand on Mr Lee’s arm. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
The coolie looks at me. He’s so thin a sharp ridge cuts across his cheekbones, and his eyes are sunk deep in his leathered skin.
‘We can’t make him pull us.’
Mr Lee glances at the coolie, then back at me. ‘It’s safer if you’re not among the crowds. Easier to test your mettle.’ He gazes over my shoulder and lifts his chin at the river. ‘A cruise ship just docked. That thing carries ten times the passengers of a ferry.’
I follow his gaze and, sure enough, an ocean liner sits in the middle of the Whangpoo. Mortals press together at the railings, many layers deep, waving to the shore. I can smell their yang from here.
I don’t want to be caught on the Bund with so many people, but the coolie – he’s barely eating enough to survive. I can’t see how he can pull us.
‘I’ll pull us,’ I say.
The coolie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
‘And if you faint, Lady Jing?’
‘I am strong.’ The coolie thumps his chest. ‘I will get you where you need to go. Please, honourable lady, sir, I may look weak, but I can pull this rickshaw better than any ox.’
Mr Lee holds a hand out to me. I feel uneasy and conflicted. But the yang wafting over from the cruise ship is making the earth sway beneath my feet, so I climb onto the rickshaw.
With momentous effort, the coolie heaves the rickshaw forward, and we roll down the Bund. I cannot stop watching him – his loud gasps as he plants each foot and hauls us forward. His shoulders as they bunch together, rough hands gripping the carrying poles. Rickshaw runners in my Shanghai are well fed. Big Wang takes care of every inhabitant. No one goes hungry, not even the lowliest yaojing or poorest ghost. What kind of place is this where even the most basic needs are at the whims of fortune?
A warm hand on mine startles me from my thoughts.
Mr Lee leans in, whispers, ‘This is honest work. There are many who are not so lucky. Would you reduce him to begging in the streets? Or put him at the mercy of the triads? Guilds control the rickshaws. If he doesn’t have fares, he will fall into debt to the guilds. If it makes you feel better, I will pay him what I would pay a taxi that takes the same amount of time.’
We watch the coolie struggle along. It makes me feel marginally better to know he will be paid well for his services. But I dislike the nature of this kind of work. Coolie is an apt term. It means bitter labour.
We pass through well-dressed foreigners and Chinese alike swanning down the Bund, necks long, chins in the air; they remind me of the deities arriving for the Ministerial Mahjong Council. Mr Lee’s sigh is empty and sad.
‘Shanghai is known as the Paris of the East. Glory and opportunity always have a cost.’ His gaze unfocusses and for a moment he’s not here with me.
I wonder what vexes Mr Lee. What brought him to Big Wang in the first place? I want to ask, but he shakes himself, and an almost too-bright smile replaces the sombre expression.
‘There is much to see in Shanghai, but I thought it would be fun to start in the French Concession, since Lady Jing is half-français.’He says the last word with a rolling trill in the r, making me blush to remember my antics.
I eat a few moretoo seerolls as I watch the familiar yet not familiar streets roll by. The buildings, the roads, the trams are just like at home, but our buildings don’t carry the multicolour advertising posters selling foreign products, and none of our ghosts are bedraggled and downtrodden like the coolie pulling our rickshaw.
The coolie brings us to a stop before a particularly busy section of the street. Tables and chairs crowd the pavement, as mortals chatter under a clear blue sky, drinking and eating. Nestled between a florist and a cake shop is a dress shop. Its curved glass window is filled with qipao that rival Lady Gi’s creations.
‘Rue Bourgeat,’ the coolie says.
Mr Lee hops off. ‘This is the best shopping street in all of Shanghai. Master Chu’s shop is just over there.’
Sunlight glazes every surface, burnishing everything to a golden glow. There’s an art store, an optician, a jeweller’s, shops that sell shoes and gloves, and one specialising in crystal knick-knacks.
‘It cost me three suits, if you include the one you took off my back, for your guiding services in your Shanghai. What will I get in return for being your guide and translator, Lady Jing?’ Mr Lee says, then laughs at my shocked expression.
He turns to pay the coolie who startles at the number of bank notes Mr Lee gives him. The coolie looks as excited as I am. I take Mr Lee’s hand and we embark on my first ever shopping trip, but a prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause. Rickshaws and motorcars vie for space on the wide avenues, the leafy canopies above cast dappled shadows on the sidewalks. Nothing seems amiss, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us.
