The Nine Fold Heaven

  The Nine Fold Heaven

  Mingmei Yip

  In this mesmerizing new novel, Mingmei Yip draws readers deeper into the exotic world of 1930s Shanghai first explored in Skeleton Women, and into the lives of the unforgettable Camilla, Shadow, and Rainbow Chang.

  When Shadow, a gifted, ambitious magician, competed with the beautiful Camilla for the affections of organized crime leader Master Lung, she almost lost everything. Hiding out in Hong Kong, performing in a run-down circus, Shadow has no idea that Camilla, too, is on the run with her lover, Jinying—Lung’s son.

  Yet while Camilla and Shadow were once enemies, now their only hope of freedom lies in joining forces to eliminate the ruthless Big Brother Wang. Despite the danger, Shadow, Camilla, and Jinying return to Shanghai. Camilla also has her own secret agenda—she has heard a rumor that her son is alive. And in a city teeming with spies and rivals—including the vengeful Rainbow Chang—each battles for a future in a country on the verge of monumental change.

  Mingmei Yip

  THE NINE FOLD HEAVEN

  To Geoffrey

  “Holding hands till our hair turns white”

  —From the 3,000-year-old Chinese Classic of Poetry

  Pursue profit and advantage,

  Seize the moment

  This is the winning strategy.

  The way of war is the way of deception.

  —The Art of War, Sunzi (ca. 544–496 BC)

  Looking for you a thousand times in the dense crowd,

  I turn, and your face suddenly appears under the fading light.

  —“Lantern Festival,” Xin Qiji (1140–1207)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It is hard to believe that The Nine Fold Heaven is already my fifth novel published by Kensington Books. While my life has been, fortunately, much easier than those of my heroines, the road to creating a novel is a long and sometimes arduous one. This is a process that needs a lot of nurturing, encouragement, and advice.

  Though writing is a solitary journey, I have been fortunate to have many people help and cheer me along the way.

  The first one I have to thank is my husband, Geoffrey Redmond, an endocrinologist and excellent writer with six books to his credit. Geoffrey is my eager first reader and honest critic, who is also patient and accommodating to his wife’s eccentricity, long writing hours, and weeks of living on Chinese takeout.

  I would like to thank the wonderful Kensington group, which has given me warm support throughout the years: my wonderful editor, Audrey LaFehr; the always helpful Martin Biro; publicists Karen Auerbach and Vida Engstrand; as well as President Steven Zacharius and Vice President Laurie Parkin.

  I would also like to thank my agent, Susan Crawford, at Crawford Literary Agency, as well as Lewis Frumkes for inviting me to the wonderful Hunter College Annual Writers’ Conference, where I met many of our era’s greatest writers and some of their most enthusiastic readers.

  And special gratitude for the friends who have given me needed encouragement and support, especially Teryle Ciacica, Eugenia Oi Yan Yau, and her husband, Jose Santos.

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  This is a work of fiction, set in 1930s Shanghai and Hong Kong, a relatively lawless time. It was a time of extremes—from sybaritic luxury to abject poverty. I have tried to describe both extremes: the indulgences of the rich and the plight of the poor. Actually, for those at both levels life was full of dangers.

  The rich were often involved in corruption, but others were always trying to usurp their place, either by guile or by murder. Those without money were treated as expendable, particularly the many children abandoned to orphanages. Some passages in what follows are disturbing, but they are based on actual travelers’ observations. Unfortunately, similar conditions still exist in some parts of the world. But I also feel that conditions in the world will not improve unless we face them honestly.

  But there are always some who overcome even the worst of circumstances. I like to write about those women throughout history who overcame their misfortunes and, like the dragon, “soared to the nine fold heaven.”

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  Three months ago, I was singing to loud applause in a Shanghai nightclub; a few days later, I became unexpectedly wealthy. But immediately I fled Shanghai in a fusillade of bullets to hide out in a run-down apartment in Hong Kong.

  In the British Crown Colony, my days were calm, but my nights were troubled—not by bullets but by dreams. When I slept, my baby kept disturbing me, either running on his chubby little feet or babbling to himself. But I had never met him in this life, my little treasure whom I had called Jinjin, meaning “Handsome Handsome.” In my mind he looked just like his father, Jinying, “Handsome Hero,” whom I had left behind in Shanghai and whose face rose up before me—bleeding, scared, abandoned.

  As I looked back over my life, though I had known only twenty Springs and Autumns, it seemed to stretch out endlessly behind me, filled with treachery and loss.

  I’d led a double life, but not by my choosing. I was the singer Camilla, known to Shanghai’s beautiful people as the Heavenly Songbird. But while admired by my fans for my freshness and innocence, I was secretly a spy assigned to send Shanghai’s number one gangster boss Master Lung to the Yellow Springs. For my real boss was Big Brother Wang, head of Shanghai’s Red Demons gang, who had “rescued” me from the Compassionate Grace Orphanage—but only to prepare me for this fatal mission.

  Orphaned when I was four years old, the word love had been torn out from the dictionary of my life. From my first days with Big Brother Wang, I was trained to charm others but to have no emotions myself, as befits a cold-blooded murderess, assigned to eliminate Wang’s arch enemy, Master Lung of the Flying Dragons gang.

  But despite all the effort put into my training, love had somehow tiptoed into my life. Whether this was heaven’s gift or punishment, I could not tell.

  It happened because of Lung Jinying, the son of the man I was to assassinate and the father of our little Jinjin. Now they had both vanished from my life. Was this heaven’s plan—to give me a taste of the sweetness of life, only to snatch it back? Or was it karma for something I’d done in a forgotten past life?

  Most of all, I was anxious to know the situation and whereabouts of my lover Jinying, and our son, Jinjin—if he was still in this life or already departed for the next. And, too, there was Master Lung’s bodyguard and my other lover Gao. He had taken a bullet for me and, after the shoot-out at Master Lung’s villa where I’d taken the gangster boss’s money, brought me to the ship that had carried me to safety in Hong Kong. Had he survived, or had he lost everything because of me?

  All these events in Shanghai were as in a past life. My twenty-year life now seemed unreal to me, like a movie. Was I about to leave the theater forever?

  But three months after I’d made my escape, I decided to go back to Shanghai to find out.

  In Shanghai, I was a multifaceted diamond glittering before my enthusiastic audiences, but now I felt like a street rat chased by people wielding sticks and knives…. I knew that I had stepped onto a path of no return. I now had not just one enemy, but two, and they were no ordinary enemies, but the two most notoriously relentless gangsters in lawless Shanghai.

  1

  My Fate on a Piece of Paper

  After I decided to go back to Shanghai where I’d run away from, planned to do something that I’d never done before: go to a Buddhist temple to pray for my safe trip to Shanghai and an equally safe one back. Although I was not a superstitious person, I needed to rest my mind and pacify my heart. After all, I was a fugitive from two gangs and a criminal in the eyes of the law.

  However, I knew well these matters would not
be decided by my praying, no matter how sincere or urgent, but my dark karma—which so far was as bad as a rotten apple.

  The Pure Light Temple was remotely situated in Diamond Hill on the Kowloon peninsula. I chose this small temple so as to minimize my chance of being recognized. However, I doubted any monks or nuns read gossip news—even in the unlikely event that there would be any Shanghai gossip in Hong Kong newspapers.

  The tanned and wrinkled rickshaw puller abruptly stopped at a small gate, inside of which was a muddy path. “Miss, you have to walk fifteen minutes to go to the temple.”

  “Why can’t you just take me there?”

  He pointed a knotty finger to the scorching sun above. “Miss, the path is filled with holes. You want me to have a heat stroke, set my rickshaw on fire, and ruin my business so my family will starve?”

  There was no way to argue with this. “All right,” I said, paid him generously to soothe my guilt, then got off.

  Of course, I could have paid him a lot more to carry me. But I feared him thinking I was rich. Though I had enough money, I wasn’t sure I had enough good karma. That’s why I had come to the temple, to generate more.

  So I began a tortuous walk with the hot sun beating down on my head to keep me company. I passed stores selling all sorts of necessities such as dried plums, bags of sugar, salt, tinned biscuits, bottles of sauces: chili, black bean, XO, and more. Also on display were household utensils, such as thermos bottles, electric fans, and blankets. Interspersed were a clothing store, a shoe repair store, a barber shop, and a couple of street stalls selling such delicacies as pig’s ears and cow’s intestines in bubbling dark sauce, filling the air with pungent, yet appetizing, aromas. On benches, a few women were napping as small children dutifully fanned their mothers’, or grandmothers’, semi-exposed, protuberant bellies.

  Feeling wilted by the sun, I stepped into a small food store and paid a few cents for a soda. When I was handed the drink, the bottle was as warm as the overbearing sun.

  I protested to the vendor, a fortyish, droop-shouldered man. “It’s not cold.”

  “But you only paid three cents.”

  “So?”

  “One more cent”—he pointed to a refrigerator—“cold soda in here.”

  “All right.” I smiled and paid him the extra cent.

  Downing my cold drink and feeling much relieved from the physical and mental heat, I asked, adopting a casual tone, “You know the Pure Light Temple?”

  He cast me a curious glance. “Why would a young girl like you want to go there? It’s nothing but superstition.”

  “Aren’t all us Chinese superstitious?” I pointed to the jade pendant hanging from his scrawny neck.

  He chuckled. “You’re right, miss. This will protect me from being scared.”

  “What are you scared of?”

  “A lot of things: rich people, poor people, gangsters, ghosts, pretty women.“

  This time it was I who chuckled. “Why pretty women? I think all men love them.”

  “Because they are always making trouble. Haven’t you heard about skeleton women?”

  My heart skipped a beat. That was what people called me in Shanghai, behind my back, of course, but also in the gossip columns. And it was not something pretty. Because women like me, considered beautiful, talented, and extremely scheming, could turn men—as well as women—into skeletons under our touch, though it was as light as a petal and as tender as silk.

  I didn’t want to talk about this, so I gulped my soda, then pointed to his jade. “Does it work?”

  “Of course. Now I have no fear, even talking to a pretty woman like you.” He paused and looked curiously at me. “Where are you from? Why visit our run-down temple?”

  Rather than answer these questions, I decided, as I finished my soda, that it was time to conclude our conversation.

  “Oh, just passing by and curious to take a look. Thanks for the cold soda. Good-bye.”

  He called to my back. “Come back soon, miss. Superstitious or not, pretty girls are always welcome here!”

  Fifteen minutes later, I reached the small, red-roofed temple. As I stepped across the threshold, the faint fragrance of incense snaked its way into my nostrils. Then I noticed an altar with a gilded Buddha and a white ceramic Guan Yin statue. In front of the figures had been placed the usual offerings of flowers in vases and fruit in bowls. Incense rose from the openings in a bronze burner, curling into question marks, or so they looked to me. Except me, there were no other people in the temple, at least not that I could see.

  At the foot in front of the altar were three cushions for the faithful to kneel and pray. I took an incense stick from the burner, held it in both hands, and made wishes to the Buddha and Guan Yin—that my trip back to Shanghai would be safe and that I’d find Jinying and that our son, Jinjin, would somehow be alive. I prayed for the enlightened ones’ generous protection so that I would complete this dangerous trip of mine without losing even one strand of hair. And that heaven would decide to smile down at me and let me return with my son and his father.

  Was it too much to ask? Was I too greedy?

  When I finished praying, a gaunt, sunken-faced, fiftyish man in a gray monk’s robe emerged from a hidden door.

  He didn’t look like a monk since he had his full head of tea-and-milk hair, but I nevertheless bowed and said respectfully, “Master, I hope I am not disturbing the tranquility of the temple.”

  He smiled, revealing some long teeth. “Oh, not at all, miss. This temple has known many with troubled minds.”

  Was trouble written on my forehead like a newspaper headline?

  Instinctively, I faked my most cheerful smile. “But I’m not troubled. I just happened to pass by and decided to come in to pay my respects to the Buddha. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘Whenever you arrive in a new country, follow its customs; whenever you enter a temple, make offerings to the gods’?”

  “The offering to the gods” is, of course, a donation, with cash, checks, jewelry, or even land, to be humbly offered and respectfully—but enthusiastically—accepted.

  “Ha-ha! Of course I know this saying. Anyway, good for you. I don’t mean you particularly, but all us sentient beings swimming in the sea of suffering. We are all troubled. No one can escape this karmic cycle until we attain enlightenment. That’s why we all need temples and incense.”

  And donations. I silently finished his sentence.

  He paused to give me a once-over. “So, do you want your fortune read?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know that our temple also provides this service? Are you ready?”

  Was I ready? Not if he would predict something bad—I had troubles enough already. I remembered what the sage Laozi said, “When things reach their peak, there is no other way to go but down.” I believed my life had already hit bottom, so according to the same theory, I hoped it meant that I was about to begin my ascent.

  But he seemed to read my mind, saying, “Don’t worry, miss, as they say, ‘If you haven’t done any wrong, you needn’t fear even knocks on your door in the middle of the night.’”

  Damn, but I had done wrong. In fact, my whole life in Shanghai was wrongdoing. They were not entirely my fault, yet the list of my offenses was long: I’d alerted Big Brother Wang to send his gang members to assassinate Master Lung. Not only did I have sex with Lung, I’d made love to his son, Jinying, and also his most trusted bodyguard, Gao. I’d caused my singing and knife-throwing show partner, the magician Shadow, to lose part of her little finger, just to keep her from stealing the limelight—and Master Lung—from me. As her revenge against me, she’d also ruined our much publicized show the “Great Escape” by nearly drowning in the water tank then disappearing from my life.

  Anyway, I was very bad. I knew I was referred to as a “skeleton woman,” a femme fatale who could bring anyone to ruin with the blink of a mascaraed eye.

  The fortune-teller’s voice interrupted my reverie. “
Miss, please have a seat.”

  He signaled me to sit down by a table next to the altar, then sat down across from me.

  He picked up a cylindrical bamboo holder and put it in my hand. “Miss, shake it until a stick falls out.”

  “What about if it’s more than one?”

  “Believe me, that won’t happen.”

  I did and miraculously, though I shook as hard as I could, only one stick fell out onto the table as if it obeyed the man’s bidding.

  The man picked it up. “All right, it’s number eighteen.” Then he shifted through a pile of yellow papers, lifted one out, and began to read silently. “Hmm… it’s a strange reading, not the worst, not the best. But it’s not neutral either.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You can read it yourself,” he said, handing me the yellow slip with characters printed in red.

  The beauty crosses the sea to the immortal’s realm.

  Golden lights shine at the end of her journey.

  In the wind and clouds, dragon and tigers advance

  To the gathering of heroes and sages at Jasmine Lake.

  Then she leaves like a cicada shedding its shell.

  Heaven’s mystery should be kept to oneself, not revealed.

  After the main text, there were three smaller lines below:

  Let the wind steer your boat,

  Move forward.

  Have no fear.

  After I finished reading, I said, “But I don’t understand.”

  The man replied, “Since it’s heaven’s secret not to be revealed, I’m afraid I can’t interpret this for you.”