I head past the collection counter to the special deliveries desk where a wizened old ghost sits, reading a manhua. He wears the standard grey changpao issued to all indentured ghosts working to repay their karmic debt. When he sees me, his face cracks into a toothless smile.
‘Lady Jing, good morning!’ he says. But with his thick Beijing accent, it sounds more likeLady Jing-er, zao-er!His smile fades. ‘Is everything alright? You don’t look yourself.’
‘I’m just tired,’ I say. ‘The Mahjong Council is keeping me busy.’ I look hopefully at the cubbies behind him. ‘Any letters for me today, Da Ye?’
It’s been almost a week since my last letter from Tony.
He smiles kindly. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
My heart sinks but I try not to let my disappointment show.
Da Ye isn’t fooled. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he says. ‘I’m sure Mr Lee’s next letter will be here soon. I have something that will bring a smile to that grumpy little face.’ He pulls a bundle of manhua from his desk – a thick stack of comics all featuring that distinctive waif Sanmao, a penniless Shanghai orphan. ‘I received them just this morning.’
My eyes widen. When I first came across Zhang Leping’s manhua last summer, I was instantly captivated. Since his Sanmao comic strips are published in various newspapers and magazines, it’s hard to track them all down. But here was Da Ye waving a stack of paper filled top to bottom with Sanmao strips.
He studies my face and breaks into a triumphant grin. ‘That’s better,’ he says and hands me the comics. ‘My son is very filial,’ he continues, answering my unspoken question. ‘He knows how much I love manhua and made a special request of his artist friends, one of whom happens to be Mr Zhang. These are all of his strips collected in one place. Some of them haven’t been published yet.’
Da Ye pulls out a second stack of magazines. They’re my collection of Mr Wang comics about a foolish, wealthy old man. ‘They’re as good as I remember.’
‘Thank you, Da Ye,’ I whisper. ‘Ming tian jian.’
Da Ye waves cheerily. His Northern accent makes ‘See you tomorrow’ come outMing-er tian-er jian-er.
Clutching my bounty, I head to see the pixiu. The Treasury where they live is my favourite place to read and think.
I duck behind Custom House, into Hankow Road – a smaller street where silk advertising banners hang from the stone and wood facades. I turn down Henan Road, heading towards the North Gate of the old walled city. The street is a cacophony of colour, fabric banners hang side by side with dazzling neon signs. Shop advertisements and blessings for ghosts on their journey across the Naihe Bridge vie for attention: ‘Shunhsin Ribbons, Please Come and Visit Us’, ‘Douda Big Sale’, ‘Good Luck in Your Next Life’, ‘Price is Hot’, and ‘Pre-reincarnation Commemorative Gifts Included’.
Another dog-leg, and Big Wang’s Treasury appears around the corner. On a pretty patch of grass sits an imposing stone tower surrounded by topiary pruned in the shape of tortoises, of course. What can I say, Big Wang loves his tortoises.
The sheer windowless walls of the Treasury soar ten storeys high, but it’s all for show. The actual treasury is on the ground floor, set out in a traditional siheyuan with four long pavilions surrounding an open courtyard where my two pixiu play and sleep. The tower was built as a space for them to fly in and exercise their wings.
One of the perimeter guards sees me and bows. ‘Lady Jing,’ he says.
His tone isn’t cold, exactly, nor is it welcoming; I have history with this one. When he first joined the guards, he thought it would ingratiate him with Bullhead if he put me in my place.He’d poke at all my sore spots: being Big Wang’s indentured servant, being an orphan, having mixed bloodlines, having poor impulse control, pretty much every trait I hated about myself. Seeing his stupid face enraged me. We were always brawling. We both had black eyes for months and his arms were peppered with fang marks.
I think back to Big Wang’s words:Would Tony consider becoming vampire...I never put any stock in the novels about vampires turning mortals by biting them. If those stories were true, this asshole would be vampire ten times over. I peer at him closely, looking for signs of vampirism. He stiffens at my sudden attention.
‘Show me your teeth,’ I say.
The guard doesn’t move.
‘I’m not going to do anything to you. Just open your mouth.’ I give him a nasty smile, the one that saysI’m the big boss’s bitch daughter, so you better do what I say.
He looks at me like I’m a snoozing rattlesnake he doesn’t want to wake and slowly opens his mouth. I huff in amazement. He really did it. Before he can change his mind, I check his gums for the telltale swell of fangs. Nothing.
‘Do you eat a lot of pig’s blood?’ I ask.
His head moves left to right then back again.
‘Any other kind of blood?’
‘Blood makes me queasy,’ he says.
I knew it. Those stories are just stories. There’s no truth to them.
I slip through the double-height red lacquer doors into the treasury and head to the courtyard. A chittering makes me look up. Cutie, snowy wings spread wide, descends in elegant circles. Her once tawny mane, now white with age, ripples in the wind.She lands with a clumsy thump, raising a yellow dust cloud around us.
Cutie’s whole body wiggles, tongue lolling from a wide-open mouth. She huffs like she’s hiccupping, chittering interspersed with high-pitched whistles, and leans heavily against me, knocking me over.
