I take a deep breath and recite: ‘Because I’m the only one who inherited my father’s ability to gift immortality, I was named heir of House Durand, trumping my half-brother’s claim to the title, even though he has been preparing for the role for centuries.’
Old Zao interrupts my prepared monologue. ‘Is that Max we met at the train station?’
‘The very one.’
‘I thought he looked squirrelly,’ Old Zao quips. ‘What a bad egg.’
‘Indeed.’ The next part is harder to say and comes out in a rush. ‘Since Max has fermented-turds for brains, he decided drinking Tony’s blood would be a fun way to deal with his jealousy. Turns out vampires have pathogens in their saliva which can trigger a deadly illness in mortals.’
‘He made Tony sick?’ The catty tone is gone from Old Zao’s voice. I can feel their gaze, but if I look at them, I won’t be able to finish what I need to say.
‘Bingo.’ I struggle with the next part. It comes out hoarse. ‘I had to choose between a world with Tony and a world where he doesn’t remember me.’ I hang my head. ‘I made a choice I knew he didn’t want and he hates me for it.’
There’s also the promise I made that night to Mémère. I’ll tell them after we find my father.
Old Zao blows out a long breath. ‘One day, you will look back and see this as one of the many challenges which shaped your life. You’ll get through this, I promise.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘But Old Zao, right now, it really hurts.’
Once I’ve washed up, I choose an emerald green qipao, one of Horsey’s favourites, and walk over to the Cathay Hotel. I could walk the route in my sleep, it’s as familiar as my own face. Down the Quai de France, past the white-washed wooden houses holding tight to the old city walls, across the tram lines, past the Angel of Peace statue, the bustling docks.
Fisherman Lo stands at the back of his sampan, a slip of a boat with a covered seating area, leaning on a weathered yuloh oar. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth. When he sees me, he raises a hand in greeting, just as he does every morning when I pass by on my way to Big Wang. My throat closes as I add him to my list of goodbyes.
He tilts his head at my expression, frowning, and I plaster on a smile and bow my greeting before hurrying away, heading towards the far end of the Bund where a distinctive copper roof glows against the black velvet sky.
I stop and stare. Maybe it’s the stress, the effects of travel, maybe I’m just tired, but suddenly, I am in stitches. Laughterpours from me in torrents. I gasp and whoop and snort, bent double because I can’t catch my breath. Ghosts and yaojing side-eye me, some of them cross the street, others adjust course to give me wide berth.
For as long as I can remember, Big Wang has had to listen to me whine about yin Shanghai’s lack of stars. Yet, only when I’m about to leave yin Shanghai do I finally notice that the Bund has its very own star. No matter where I am in the city, the copper roof of the Cathay Hotel has always been my lodestar, guiding me wherever I need to go.
Head back, eyes closed, the sounds and smells of the city flow over me – from the lively music of the dancing halls, the high-pitched voices of Yueju opera singers, the clicking of mahjong tiles from the gambling dens, the street food hawkers with their steamed bao, stinky tofu, candied haw, to the ever present briny stench of the Whangpoo River. A chaotic cacophony;mychaotic cacophony.
I make my way to the penthouse of the Cathay Hotel and head directly to Big Wang’s study, where I find him seated at the low table, teapots and cups at the ready.
‘Looks like you were expecting me,’ I say as I join him.
‘Mmmgh.’ He pours tea in a wenxiang cup, tops it with an upside-down pinmin cup and puts them on the table.
I flip the cups and lift the wenxiang cup to my nose, taking the time to savour the aroma. Another aged pu-erh, judging from the colour. The scent is multilayered: floral notes of honeysuckle and orchid, with hints of ripe persimmon and caramel. ‘This is nice.’
Big Wang nods. ‘It’s a pu-erh tea from the year you were born.’
‘Really?’ The deep amber tea shimmers in my cup as I swirl it, holding it at an angle to appreciate its rich colour. ‘How come we’ve never had it before?’
‘I have it every year.’
Making a face, I say, ‘Wow, thanks for sharing.’
He ignores my dig. ‘It was a gift from Lady Longnu when I adopted you. She told me to drink some every year. It would help me understand. What I was meant to understand, she wouldn’t say.’ He shrugs. ‘As you well know, one does not demand answers of a dragon king. So all I could do was brew myself a pot every year and drink it.’
He takes the pinmin cup, and sips. I do the same. My eyes widen. The flavour is complex and deep, lingering on my tongue with a wonderful mellow sweetness. Under the floral notes and jammy fruit, there’s a nutty creaminess, not unlike a French macaron. A touch of bitterness balances the whole and gives it extra depth.
‘This tastes amazing. I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me, Big Wang.’
He laughs. ‘The first time I brewed this tea, I thought Lady Longnu was playing a mean joke. The tea was so astringent, it was like eating an unripe persimmon. It stripped all the moisture from my mouth. Highly unpleasant.’
‘Gross,’ I say. ‘But the next year, surely the tea got better.’
Big Wang shakes his head. ‘It was just as disgusting the following year.’
