CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

In a shining villa in the center of Shanghai, her thighs burning, her back aching, and her knees rubbed so raw they all but whimpered, Lucky kneeled, silent, waiting and more exhausted than any almost twenty-four year old should be.

The Revolution had arrived almost a decade ago on the heels of a brief, bloody civil war. The Communist storm which had darkened the horizon for years had finally crept in and swept out the poor, the infirm, the religious. And now, outside the city, in the rural areas, thousands were dying in what was feared would be an historic famine. The old and weak falling first. Small children left to starve in the fields under the watchful eyes of hungry prey. The trees plucked of their leaves and stripped of their bark, the birds silent in their absence.

But far from the devastation and desolation, Lucky worked.

Her father dead and her mother dying, the family had abandoned Bad Luck Lucky. Closed their hearts, closed their pocket books, and closed their doors, leaving the cursed girl to fend for herself. Scraps of food dug from gutters. The touch of strangers endured for the warmth of a blanket and a bowl of rice.

Then one hot day, the clouds building and the air thick and wet with a coming storm, the woman with the lopsided smile had appeared and Lucky’s life changed.

Although still young, she’d now spent five years as an indentured soldier in the army serving Madame Xuo the Silent. One of many girls who scrubbed Madame’s endless floors and polished Madame’s precious silver and bent under the weight of the buckets of rainwater carried into Madame’s house.

Her fingers would dig into her elbows, squeezing the ache away. And she’d grit her teeth and close her eyes, willing away the fever, the chills, the exhaustion as she wet the brush and lathered the rag and scrubbed away stains that didn’t exist. Accepting her fate as if she was old and the best bits of life were far behind, she’d pick her way through her rice, her fish, her piece of fruit, and then lay on the floor hoping sleep would come.

But regardless the misery the hours held, each day would close with Lucky and her fellow recruits standing shoulder to shoulder to offer a low bow as Yin Ying, the favored servant of Madame Xuo the Silent, passed by on her way to Madame’s very private quarters.

One never saw Madame. It was said she was small and her skin was the color of moonlight. That her feet were tiny and her steps were nimble and all her kimonos were expensive golden silk, her wealth so immense and her power so vast that not even Mao Zedong dared interrupt the life Madame Xuo the Silent had carved for herself.

A life Lucky had a very small part in. And after four birthdays ignored, four birthdays having passed without a word, this, her fifth birthday under Madame Xuo’s roof, her twenty-fourth year, was when the dreaded invite came.

Like much of Madame Xuo’s life, her birthday teas were legendary. An event that lived in furtive fears confided in quiet corners. Yin Ying would approach to whisper in the girl’s ear. A nod of the head followed by a small bow and the newly damned would join the mysterious favorite to trudge down the Great Hall, turn the corner and never be seen again. At least not in the house.

“They found her,” the girl said, her voice low. “On the edge of the water, in the bay where the ships come in.”

“It’s true,” said her friend, moving deeper into one of the darker alcoves hidden throughout Madame’s bright, golden villa. A dream of light and beauty, it was, the scent of rare flowers carried on light breezes sneaking through large open windows.

“I heard she couldn’t speak,” a third said, standing close, her lips against her friends’ cheeks. “That she stood in a flowered dress with her eyes closed, like she was asleep.”

The first girl shook her head. “No, she opened her eyes, but they were black and wet, and when she opened her mouth, flies crawled from between her lips. And her nose, it bled, too, but the blood was thick and black.”

They all nodded.

“She stood there,” said the second girl. “Blind, her nose bleeding black and her teeth missing—”

“Her teeth were missing?” said the first.

“That’s what I heard,” the third girl said.

“How horrible.”

“And then when the black started to run from under her dress and down her legs and onto the dock,” the third said, “the sailors, even the ship’s captain, everyone who’d gathered to help, they ran away. It frightened them. They were sure she was a demon or something.”

“Yes,” the first girl said with another nod. “Something worse.”

Then, their whispers no longer quiet, their hearts fearing discovery, they’d break formation, abandoning their post to scrub the floors or gather buckets of rain water or gently wash Madame’s delicate ceramic cups, the story of this unfortunate stepping wordlessly from the dock to be pulled deep into the churning water of Hangzhou Bay left for another time and a different dark corner.

Lucky waited, kneeling, the room hot.

No one spoke of this space. Until now, Lucky had never heard of it. A part of the house, but separate, it lay hidden and protected by ignorance. Thick walls that shimmered with the glow of flames and a low ceiling that remained in shadow. Coals that smoldered with a dangerous heat in a brazier along the edge, the boards beneath her knees cracked, splintered, and covered in dust. The low table in front of her buckled with a warped ripple in its middle. The air heavy and thick, each breath was clouded with the stench of incense and herbs and heated wood. Around her, the walls were large heavy panels painted red that stretched floor to ceiling, a large bright green and gold dragon slithering, dancing, snapping along the baseboard, its bared fangs in an endless chase with its forked tail.

“You may look at Madame,” the oafish Yin Ying said through thick lips that masked a mouthful of blunt, crooked teeth.

With a glance, Lucky thanked the familiar, but mysterious, servant who stood too tall, walked too heavy, and offered slow dangerous smiles from a lopsided face.

Although both she and Yin Ying kneeled, the servant at the end, her back to the brazier, Lucky on one side of the table, facing her host, Madame Xuo sat perched in a low chair on the other, her knees gracing the floor, but not kneeling for that’s something Madame would never do.

On the brazier, the cast iron kettle came to a boil and Yin Ying, a thick pot holder wound ‘round her hand, poured the water into small tea pots on the table—one for Madame, one for Lucky—until it overflowed to run over the black clay. The tiny lid clamped on, more water was poured, sealing and heating the pot while the loose tea inside steeped.

The ceramic cup beside her pot was larger than usual. Where most held no more than two swallows, hers could hold six, maybe eight. Delicate and precious, the outside was painted with a dragon, a smaller echo of the one slithering along the baseboards.

Although she had yet to accept Yin Ying’s earlier invitation to look at Xuo the Silent, Lucky knew what she’d discover. The face painted white, the brows careful strokes of black. A shining dark wig gathered in a large round bun. The pale powdered lips cleaved from nose to chin by a thick slash of red. The kimono a predictable expensive gold silk, her hands, the color of moonlight, sitting on her lap, discreet and out of sight.

And driven by something strong and unapologetic, something she couldn’t fight, Lucky lifted her gaze. First to the dragon wrapping around the cup and the fingers of steam rising from the clay pot, then to the dim varnish of the low table sitting between them, and finally to Madame Xuo the Silent.

Her eyes saw Madame. And as the silent woman sat, her eyes downcast, the painted, powdered lids heavy, her chin tucked to her chest, the shadow sitting behind her (which could have only been Madame’s) rose to stand and stretch, its arms reaching wide against the glow of the smoldering coals flickering against the painted red walls.