Shanghai Girls (Shanghai Girls #1)(30)

The whole time I silently pray that May will stay hidden, that she won’t make a sound, that she won’t be tempted to peek out the door, that she won’t do anything stupid, because the one thing I won’t be able to bear is for her to be in this room with these … men. Pretty soon I don’t hear Mama anymore. I lose all awareness of where I am and even what’s happening to me. All I feel is pain.

The front door scrapes open, and I hear the sound of more boots tramping on the hard-packed earth. The whole thing is horrible, but this is my worst moment, knowing that there’s more to come. But I’m wrong. A voice—angry, authoritative, and as rough as grating gears—bellows at the men. They scramble to their feet. They adjust their trousers. They smooth their hair and wipe their mouths with the backs of their hands. Then they stand at attention and salute. I lie as still as possible, hoping they’ll think I’m dead. The new voice yelps out orders—or is it a reprimand? The other soldiers bluster.

The cold edge of a bayonet or a saber presses against my cheek. I don’t react. A boot kicks me. Again, I don’t want to react—be dead, be dead, be dead, and maybe it won’t begin again—but my body curls in on itself like a wounded caterpillar. No laughing this time, only terrible silence. I wait for the stab of the bayonet.

I feel a wave of cool air and then the soft settling of cloth over my naked body. The gruff soldier—directly above me, I realize, as he shouts his orders and I hear the shuffling of boots when the others file out—reaches down, adjusts the cloth over my hip, and then leaves.

For a long while, black silence fills the room. Then I hear Mama shift her weight and moan. I’m still afraid, but I whisper, “Be still. They may come back.”

Maybe I only think I whisper this, because Mama doesn’t seem to pay attention to my warning. I hear her creep closer, and then I feel her fingers on my cheek. Mama, whom I’ve always thought of as physically weak, pulls me onto her lap. She leans back against the mud wall of the shack.

“Your father named you Pearl Dragon,” Mama says, as she smoothes my hair, “because you were born in the Year of the Dragon and the Dragon likes to play with a pearl. But I liked the name for another reason. A pearl grows when a piece of sand lodges in the oyster. I was young, just fourteen, when my father arranged my marriage. That husband-wife thing we have to do was my duty and I did it, but what your father put inside me was as unpleasant as sand. But look what happened. My Pearl came out.”

She hums for a while. I feel drowsy. My whole body aches. Where is May?

“There was a typhoon the day you were born,” Mama suddenly goes on, switching to Sze Yup, the language of my childhood and the language that keeps secrets from May. “It is said that a Dragon born in a storm will have a particularly tempestuous fate. You always believe you are right, and this makes you do things you shouldn’t—”

“Mama—”

“Just listen to me this one time … and then try to forget… everything.” She leans down and whispers in my ear. “You’re a Dragon, and of all the signs only a Dragon can tame the fates. Only a Dragon can wear the horns of destiny, duty, and power. Your sister is merely a Sheep. You have always been a better mother to her than I have.” I stir, but Mama holds me still. “Don’t argue with me now. We don’t have time for that.”

Her voice sounds beautiful. Never before have I felt her mother love so strongly. My body relaxes in her arms, slowly drifting into darkness.

“You have to take care of your sister,” Mama says. “Promise me, Pearl. Promise me right now.”

I promise. And then, after what seems like days and weeks and months, blackness comes over my eyes.





Eating Wind and Tasting Waves





I WAKE ONCE to find a moist cloth wiping my face. I open my eyes and there’s May—as pale, beautiful, and tremulous as a spirit. I see the sky above her. Are we dead? I close my eyes again and feel myself lurching and bumping.

The next thing I know I’m on a boat of some kind. I fight hard to stay awake this time. I look to my left and see netting. I look to my right and see land. The boat moves in a steady pull, pull, pull. The lack of waves tells me we aren’t on the ocean. I lift my head and see a cage just beyond my feet. Inside, a boy of about six—retarded, insane, diseased?—twitches and shimmies. I close my eyes and let myself be lulled by the steady rhythm of the boat as it’s rowed through the water.

I don’t know how many days we travel. Momentary images tear across my eyes and echo in my ears: the moon and the stars above, the incessant croaking of frogs, the sorrowful sound of a pi-pa being played, the splash of an oar, the raised voice of a mother calling to a child, the crack of rifle shots. Into the anguished hollows of my mind, I hear a voice say, “Is it true that dead men float facedown in water but women look to the sky?” I don’t know who asked the question or if it was asked at all, but I’d prefer to stare down into an eternity of watery blackness.

Once I lift my arm to block the sunlight and feel something heavy slide toward my elbow. It’s my mother’s jade bracelet, and I know she’s dead. My insides boil with fever, while my skin shivers uncontrollably with cold. Gentle hands lift me. I’m in a hospital. Soft voices say words like “morphine,” “lacerations,” “infection,” “vagina,” and “surgery.” Whenever I hear my sister’s voice, I feel safe. When I don’t, I despair.