Fourteen
Friends
The world has a mauve tint from my new sunglasses as we stroll in the sunshine along lines of plane trees. Around us mortals chatter away in a foreign tongue. Mostly French, Mr Lee tells me. It is strange to think my father must have sounded like this. The scent of walnuts and persimmons is a constant companion, but I feel only mildly giddy. Thetoo seerolls have done wonders; I gobbled up the last one in the art shop where I bought a small sketchbook and a watercolour set. Mr Lee picks a few bags of treats up from a nearby patisserie. For the ride home, he said.
‘We should hire a rickshaw; it is too far to walk back to the Bund.’ At my expression, he adds, ‘We can do our part to keep the coolies from going into debt to their guild. Plus, it’s faster and more comfortable than walking.’
My feetaregetting sore. The edges of my silk slippers have turned grey from all the dust. And that feeling of being watched is back.
‘Alright,’ I say, glancing around, but the crowds and busy street make it impossible to identify anyone suspicious. Perhaps it’s only Willie keeping an eye on us. ‘So long as you pay the coolie well for his work.’
Mr Lee wastes no time in hailing a rickshaw; this coolie has more flesh on his bones. We clamber in, my paper bags tucked safely between us, and the bags from the patisserie piled on Mr Lee’s lap. We sway and bounce gently as the coolie pulls us along.
Mr Lee hands me one of the bags. ‘Ma ka rong,’he says.
Inside are pretty cake-like cookies in the softest pastel colours. I choose one that’s the pale pink of a cherry blossom bud and when I bite into it, the crisp surface collapses and my teeth sink into a rich, smooth filling. The whole thing tastes like a candied rose.
Mr Lee picks a tan coloured one. ‘Salted caramel, my favourite.’ He breaks it in two and offers me the other half.
The thought of the caramel vodka from our first night turns my stomach and I almost say no. But, he was right about thetoo seerolls, so I take his offering and pop it in my mouth. It is nothing like the sickly-sweet stuff from the bar. Thisma ka rongis full of contrasting textures, soft and crunchy. The salted caramel is smoky and savoury, which offsets the intense sweetness. It’salmostbetter than three-day-old blood.
Mr Lee watches me, but the sun is low in the sky and even with my new sunglasses which soften the glare, I can’t see his expression. It makes me feel self-conscious, so I hand him the bag ofma ka rongand pull out my watercolour set – a bright yellow tin case – and open it. A clever white tray with three grooved sections flips out to facilitate mixing colours. Nestled in the base of the tin are forty-eight little cubes wrapped in coloured paper to match their contents. The pigments are infused with honey to make them dry more brilliantly. Who would have thought a little sweetness could add so much lustre?
‘What kind of things do you paint?’ Mr Lee asks. ‘I can’t quite imagine you painting plum blossoms and writing poetry about graceful willows and cavorting butterflies.’
I touch each little package, still amazed at Big Wang’s generosity in providing me a shopping allowance. ‘This and that,’ I say.
Mr Lee takes out a lavenderma ka rongand hands me the bag.‘I won’t laugh, you know.’
I keep my eyes on the watercolour set. I know he won’t laugh, but I am out of sorts here. The constant assault of yang, the sunshine, the small freedom to do as I please without wagging tongues judging my every action, make me feel both nervous and bold. I look up, my home-grown stars on the tip of my tongue, but his attention has shifted to the pile of paper bags crammed between us.
‘What’d you get at the bookstore?’
Before I can stop him, he’s pulled out my treasure trove and is flicking through the titles, frowning at the comic of ‘Mr Wang’, a hapless wealthy old man, on one of the back covers.
‘Careful! Those are discontinued issues – I was lucky to find them.’ I take the precious copies ofShanghai Sketch, a weekly pictorial magazine full of clever comics. ‘It’s been out of print for years.’ I place the rare issues back into their paper bag.
Mr Lee examines another volume from my pile – a yellow book with a black-and-white photo of a scholarly looking foreign man on the cover.
‘How to Win Friends and Influence People. This one was only recently published.’ He flicks through the pages. ‘Never imagined you would be concerned about what others think of you.’
I snatch the book from his hands. ‘Leave my stuff alone.’ My face burns hot as Old Zao’s braziers.
‘Lady Jing, why do you think you need this book?’
‘Isaidleave my stuff alone.’ I shove the book in with the others and put the paint box back in its bag too.
‘Don’t you have friends?’
The coolie’s heavy breaths punctuate the street noise – the rhythmic clacking of our rickshaw wheels, motorcars with their musical horns, and pedestrians chattering like magpies as they stroll along the wide boulevards.
‘There’s no shame in wanting to learn new skills,’ Mr Lee says, a softness in his voice that makes the back of my eyes burn. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re charming, in a prickly kind of way.’
Mr Lee touches my wrist. The tips of his fingers graze my skin ever so lightly. His nails are short, a perfect half-moon rising from each bed. Blue-green veins crisscross the broad back of his hand and fine lines ladder his knuckles. His fingers are long and elegant, much like the man.
I pull away, curl my hand in my lap. Mr Lee drops his own hand and bows his head slightly, as if I’ve chastised him. Something sour twinges in my chest. I want to bridge the silence, but I don’t know how to speak my heart.
Instead, I ask, ‘What deal did you make with Big Wang?’
