‘It’s only Brother Zhu. I didn’t think it was important.’ Ah Lang rubs the back of his neck, attempts a pained looking smile. ‘You know now.’
I feel sorry for Ah Lang, who is squirming and clearly confused as to Gigi’s sudden pique. But this is perfect. Brother Zhu is exactly who I need to see.
‘Maybe you’re right, Gigi. Maybe some fun is in order,’ I say, but Gigi’s answering glare makes me hesitate. I clear my throat. Probably best to let her calm down first. ‘I’m full, I need to walk for a bit.’
Mr Lee stands as well. ‘Yes, excellent idea, Lady Jing. One hundred steps after every meal is the path to longevity.’ He raises a fist palm salute to Gigi and Ah Lang. Neither notice. Ah Lang is too busy staring wide-eyed at Gigi, who reminds me strongly of a cobra about to strike.
Willie glances at us, then at Gigi and Ah Lang. He too stands. ‘I’ll wait in my car.’
We all hurry out of the restaurant. As soon as the doors glide shut behind us, Gigi’s voice, strident, rises in volume.
‘She’s very intense,’ Mr Lee says, casting a glance over his shoulder as Willie heads to his car. It isn’t until we’re out of earshot of Gigi’s shrieking that we slow and start giggling.
With great effort, I pull my face into a mock frown. ‘This won’t do.’ I mimic the sonorous intonations of old-school scholars, clasp my hands behind my back as we stroll beneath crooked pines. ‘Effort makes the mind, Mr Lee. And what better way to hone our intellect and moral aptitude than to recite the classics.’
Mr Lee clasps his hands behind his back and nods sagely. ‘Ah yes. I am curious as to which poets you consider to be classics.’
My neck prickles and I have the sensation we are being watched again. I pretend to take in the scenery, gazing all around. Two white-haired men in navy silk changpao play xiangqi chess on one of the stone tables dotted around the garden, there’s a pond beyond them where a group of women have gathered, and songbirds flit from tree to tree, their chirps a pleasant background symphony. Nothing jumps out. But the malice burning holes in my back is undeniable.
I clear my throat, play the game of carefree nonchalance, and intone, ‘Wind sweeps the world; rain darkens the village. Thunder rolls from the mountains like churning waves. The fire and blanket keep me very warm. Me and my cat are not going out.’
Mr Lee cough-laughs. ‘You consider Lu You’s poem about his cat a classic?’
‘It displays common sense and compassion,’ I say haughtily, keeping my senses alert. ‘And there are no rotted butterflies, peach blossoms, pines, or heavenly ponds.’
Mr Lee laughs, then glances sideways at me. ‘Perhaps you’ll enjoy this one. It is not a classic as Lord Ma might consider, but I find it moving, nonetheless.’ He runs a hand over his face, wiping away his goofy smile. He strokes a non-existent beard, gazes at the pond with its nodding lotus flowers, and recites:
‘Please pardon my wanton stubbornness, immortal goddess.
Awake or asleep I see you always; the reason being
I carved your image into a stamp,
And with it branded you over and over onto my soul.
My praises for you, whether you care to listen or not,
are faithful and dependable as a cockerel’s midday crow;
Every second stretches as long as a day,
Every second raises my voice even higher.
I never wished for you to come down from heaven –
A thunderbolt that disrupts all.
But I hope, on an unexpected spring day,
When people are busy minding their own happiness,
a quiet breeze should bring me a message
That heaven and earth will one day meet again.’
‘Wah. Apart from the rotted roosters, that was really good. I’ve never heard anything like it.’ I guide us towards the women, to check if any yaojing are hidden among them.
He ducks his head, looking pleased by my reaction. ‘It’s new, not yet published. My friend Shao Xunmei wrote it.’
