The Ninja's Oath, page 2
I shrugged. “They didn’t serve much on the plane.”
He sighed impatiently then detoured up a one-way road. Steam rose from a corner dim sum stand where giant metal steamer baskets were stacked taller than me.
“What do you want?”
“A couple bao?”
He grumbled. “As if that would ever be enough for you.”
He greeted the merchant in Shanghainese and rattled off an order I couldn’t understand. The woman unstacked the top two steamers, pulled four bao from the next level, and stuffed them in a bag. Lee pointed to the bottom steamer and said something that made her look at me and laugh.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“That she better add a sesame ball or you would cry all the way home.”
She bagged the sticky treat separately and handed it to me. The greasy-sweet smell made my stomach grumble and her and Lee howl. I nodded my thanks and backed my suitcase into a customer by mistake. The man scolded me in Mandarin and shooed me out of the way.
“Stop wasting time,” Lee said. “You can eat while you walk.”
I stuffed a pork bun in my mouth and swallowed my annoyance. I was carting an over-stuffed backpack, a full-size suitcase, and a bouncing bag of steaming bao. Would it have killed him to slow down?
We walked past a cement lane of narrow three-story structures. Some hid behind stucco walls while others showed tiny gardens and elaborate stone designs.
“Are those single-family homes or apartments for rent?”
“Aiya. I almost forgot. Keep up. It won’t take long.”
He turned a corner and darted down the street to another dead-end lane, same security camera system at the entrance, same recycling and garbage receptacles built into a wall. Parked cars lined up on the side, leaving only enough room for another car to enter and back out.
I followed Lee through a garden gate to a tree bursting with yellow blossoms and racks of drying laundry over meager grass. Tools, possessions, and a small washing machine overflowed from a tiny ground-level apartment. I shoved down the handle of my suitcase, lugged it around the motor scooters parked on the path, then lifted it over a puddle of sewage water leaking around the stones.
“Lee,” I yelled, grunting from the effort. “Where are we going?”
He waved from the sliver between buildings and vanished through a door.
I followed and dropped my bag over the threshold beside towers of boxes, bins, and crates. The open door on my left led to a cluttered kitchen and the hanging laundry in the front garden beyond. A bed was crammed against a table set with a meal. The spicy scent of cooking mingled with the sewage odor from outside.
I peered up the dank wooden stairs. “Lee?”
“Leave your bag and come up. No one will steal it.”
After a moment’s deliberation, I opted for trust over effort and wedged my suitcase against the wall. The first flight of steps led to a tiny bathroom and a studio apartment on the right. Both doors were open with excess belongings, cigarette ash cans, and kitty litter stacked on the landing. A calico cat leapt off a perch and charged down the stairs.
Please don’t spray my luggage.
I continued around the bend where the decrepit steps changed abruptly to polished hard wood and found Lee in a refurbished penthouse apartment with peaked ceilings and open French doors. Autumn colors rioted beyond the balcony amidst picturesque slanted roofs.
Lee spoke rapidly in English to a twenty-something man in a Stanford t-shirt and shorts. “The sewage leak is fixed. Don’t worry about it. The water will dry up later today.”
The guy nodded nervously. “Um…all right.”
“You like the apartment?”
“Yeah. It’s great.”
“Good.”
Lee twirled his hand for me to turn around and go down the stairs. I waved at the tenant on my way out.
“What the hell, Lee? I could have waited at the gate.”
He shrugged. “You asked about the lane houses. I thought you’d like to see one inside.”
I hauled my suitcase down the gap between buildings, over the sewage puddle on the path, and around the scooters to the lane. He was right, of course. But I wished there had been an easier way. I yanked out the handle of my suitcase and caught up with my muttering friend.
“Most of these houses were divided into separate apartments before you were born. My tenants on the first two floors came with the building. The ground-level apartment has the kitchen. Second level uses a hot plate. They share the bathroom off the stairs. I’m sure you find it shocking, but these conditions are acceptable to them.”
I stuffed my American privilege and tried to listen with an open mind. My upbringing in Arcadia’s affluent Chinese community had not prepared me for the lane-house living I had seen. Interpreting conditions based on my values and perceptions would only perpetuate my beliefs. I needed to ask, listen, and observe how the locals—collectively and as individuals—perceived their own world. How else could I find Lee’s grandniece in the third most populated city on Earth?
If I had observed this keenly back in my father’s restaurant, I might have noticed more about Lee Chang.
His fluency with the English language surprised me the most. Although Lee discussed restaurant business in complete sentences when speaking with my North Dakota-born father, he spoke in broken phrases to me and our staff. Mostly, he grumbled in Shanghainese or snapped in Mandarin when he wanted me or our dumpling chef from China to appreciate his rebuke. I had studied Mandarin from middle school through college and attended Cantonese class on Saturdays since I was a child. Although out of daily practice, I had always assumed my language skills were superior to Lee’s, until he joined me in Hong Kong. My father’s cook continued to reveal skills I didn’t know he possessed.
Four
If I lived in the Former French Concession and had the money Lee apparently had, I would have chosen a refurbished garden villa with old-world charm. Lee had chosen a doorman and polished granite floors. We rode the elevator to a tenth-floor apartment with a narrow entry corridor. Taking care not to bang my suitcase on the sterile white walls, we emerged into a generically furnished apartment, brightly lit by the window at the end.
“Your bedroom is around this corner. Store your luggage, then come out to eat.”
The tiny room had a bed wedged in the corner and a shallow closet stuffed with blankets, towels, and only a foot of hanger space and two empty shelves. Since I had no idea how long we’d be here or where else we might go, I dropped my backpack on the bed and left my belongings in the case. I made a mental note not to trip over it if I woke in the night.
“You found everything you need?” Lee called as I emerged with my bag of no-longer-steaming buns.
“Yep. It’s all pretty clear.”
He beckoned me into the eat-in kitchen and stepped aside so I could see. “Go ahead,” he said, and slid open the glass doors.
I walked onto the wraparound terrace and gaped at the unobstructed view.
Lee chuckled. “Not bad, eh? Most buildings look up the asses of others. But the low houses in this area give me room to see.”
The russet-colored rooftops and lush green and golden leaves gave way to endless miles of vertical urban life. I walked to the railing and looked over the edge. What most people would consider to be a dizzying drop presented an abundance of ledges and crevices for a skillful kunoichi to climb.
Lee slapped my arm. “Don’t get any ideas.”
He knew I scaled the walls of my father’s restaurant to clean the signboard that hid the entire second story—and my apartment—from the street, climbed cliffs in the Santa Monica Mountains, and honed my freerunning acrobatic abilities on the structures in downtown Los Angeles. After our adventures in Hong Kong, he knew exactly how I put these skills to use.
I stepped up onto the corner bench and then the ledge. A few miles out, buildings shot to the sky.
“How long have you had this apartment?”
Lee shrugged. “Twenty years? I bought it on my first trip home. I rent it and the top floor of the FFC lane house to executive expatriates. Smart, right? Makes a good profit.”
I’d bet my meager savings that Lee’s profit was a smidge better than good.
“Enough gawking,” Lee said. “Finish your snack so we can go.”
He led me to the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. I gobbled up the fried sesame ball, then took my time with the bao as I checked my messages. Since the great firewall of China blocked most of the foreign internet websites and tools, the only app I could access without installing a virtual private network was WeChat.
I tapped my father’s profile square and brought up a message he’d left four hours earlier.
Why are you in Shanghai?
An hour later.
Are you on a plane? Call me when you land.
Two hours after that.
Dumpling, please answer. It’s getting late.
The endearment emphasized his concern.
I calculated the time difference between Shanghai and Los Angeles: 3:30 p.m. for me was 12:30 a.m. for him. He’d be fast asleep if I answered him now, but he’d see my message when he woke.
Lee needed help with a family matter. Nothing dangerous. I’m fine.
Five seconds later, my phone chimed with a call.
I accepted the video chat and offered a reassuring smile. “Hey, Baba. You’re still up.”
He stifled a yawn and sat up straighter in bed. “I couldn’t sleep. Not with you gallivanting across the globe.”
“I’m not gallivanting. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”
“Nonsense. I want to hear about this now.”
His tousled blond hair and bloodshot eyes told me he wouldn’t be able to sleep until I put his mind at rest.
“Lee’s grandniece is missing. He asked me to come to Shanghai and help him find her.”
“What do you mean by missing? And how did he know you could help?”
It was a fair question. Aside from Sensei and—as of two months ago—my father, I had managed to keep my ninja exploits a secret from everyone in my life except Aleisha and Stan, who ran the women’s shelter I worked for back home. After Hong Kong, Ma knew as well. None of this explained why Baba’s head cook would call me for help.
I stalled for time. “Um…Lee’s more observant than we thought?”
“Balderdash. Your story has more holes in it than a rusted milk bucket.”
I couldn’t argue with that. But how could I explain why Lee had called without revealing his criminal history or how I owed him a favor after he had reconnected with the Scorpion Black Society in Shanghai to help me with the Scorpion triad in Hong Kong? Lee’s history was his to tell. If his secrets didn’t endanger the people I loved, I preferred to skirt the whole truth and parcel out crumbs.
“He heard about the rescue protection work I do for Aleisha’s Refuge. Since I’ve found kids back home, he figured I could help him find his niece in Shanghai.”
Baba raised his brows. “Uh-huh. Because you’re so familiar with the city.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “No. Because kids are kids.”
“Then she’s a runaway?”
“I don’t know, Baba. I only landed a couple hours ago. Look, I’ve gotta run. I’ll message you when I know more. Go to sleep. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I ended the call and hoped I hadn’t lied.
Five
“Are you ready yet?” Lee called from the living room.
I put on my stretch jacket and stuffed the pockets with my wallet and phone. When I came out of my bedroom, I found Lee standing in the main room beside two retro bicycles with step-through frames and baskets on the front—a far cry from my racing bike back home.
“We have time for a picnic? I thought we had to find your grandniece.”
“We do. But I have something unavoidable I have to do first.”
He shoved the extra bike toward me and stuffed a fabric bag into his basket. He looked like a harmless old man. If the Scorpions had seen him like this, we never would have made it out of Hong Kong alive.
I followed him into the elevator and nodded at the bag. “Are we going shopping?”
He punched the lobby button. “You aren’t on vacation. We have work to do.”
“I know, but…”
He rolled out of the elevator and onto the noisy street. After the quiet of Lee’s insulated apartment building, the city buzzed like an electrical plant on the brink.
I hopped on my granny bike and headed after him, joining the flow of traffic. Shanghai was a bike-friendly city where the majority of cyclists sat erect with handlebar baskets like ours. Despite the sedate conveyances, Lee managed a crisp pace. He wove between slower bikes to keep up with the cars and sped forward to catch the lights. No one blared their horns as they might have in Los Angeles, but I did hear scooter beeps amid the urban buzz.
Although insanely crowded, the varied heights of the buildings and sizes of the roads in Shanghai gave the city—or at least this portion of it—a more spacious feel, not like Hong Kong, where high-rise apartment blocks had pressed so close I needed to crane my neck for a sliver of sky. I breathed in the exhaust and caught a whiff of tar, sewage, and spice. I hadn’t had time to upload an air quality app onto my phone, but I suspected the smell came from a more tangible sources than smog.
“Are we heading toward a river?” I asked when we slowed for a light.
It changed and Lee sped on his way.
Resigned to an unknown destination, I focused my attention on the lay of the land. This part of Shanghai mixed Chinese culture with European and American flair, thus earning its nickname as Paris of the East. But it also seemed at war—or in competition?—with its past, present, and future. Modern high-rises encroached on historic cottage communities while new construction grazed the colonial-past with promises of China’s new vision. A massive elevated highway cut through it all. Then we passed an unseen border into an older, more bedraggled, even noisier Shanghai.
Lee coasted past the dusty construction sites, buildings, and paint-flaked cement. No London planes or osmanthus bushes here, just taller structures to replace the old and the head-pounding racket of jackhammers.
We turned away from a crumbling highway onto a road beneath a canopy of chaotic wires. Undergarments and sheets dried overhead from rods. Scooters lined the curbs, several with quilted wind guards hanging across the handlebars. Many had storage trunks or sidecars attached. Small delivery vans parked in front of markets to unload their produce while painted French shutters stood open from second- and third-story windows of drab houses from days gone by.
Lee slowed his pace so I could ride abreast.
“This is the Old City, where I grew up. My great-grandparents moved here from Nanjing and built a lane house in the South Gate community of Qiaojia Road. The government has relocated most of the residents. Until recently, my family has refused to leave.”
“What changed their minds?”
“The government and I gave them no choice.”
“You?”
He shrugged. “I own the building.”
We hopped off our bikes and walked them along the sidewalk. Although surrounded by highways and high-rises, this tiny neighborhood had taken us back in time.
“What was this area like when your great-grandparents arrived?”
“How should I know?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you stories?”
“Only my grandmother, but she didn’t move here until the Japanese bombed her parents’ home in Pudong. After they were killed, she fled to the Puxi side of Huangpu River and landed here. My grandfather’s family took her in. My grandfather married her a year after that.”
“It must have been terrifying.”
“Things grew worse. Refugees and citizens packed their belongings on their backs or stuffed them into man-pulled carts, rushing for the International Settlement and French Concession where the Japanese wouldn’t bomb. The streets were thick with fleeing people. Wai Po told me she couldn’t see the ground. The same was true for Suzhou Creek where the river was so crowded people could walk across the water from boat to boat.”
“Did your family go west to the French or to the north to the Americans, Italians, Germans, and Brits?”
“You’ve been studying.”
“I always do when I travel to an unfamiliar place.”
His jaw tensed. “Well, my family didn’t go anywhere. They survived on what had been left behind. They scrounged for food, breathed in the rubble, and dumped their sewage in the street. They lived like rats too stubborn to leave.”
I imagined Lee’s family watching through their windows as their neighbors packed the road—a mass of humanity churning between storefronts, shoving against one another to squeeze through and escape.
As I stared at nothing, I conjured the terror.
Babies cried.
Mothers shrieked.
Men hollered at each other to move out of the way.
An explosion jolted the ground.
A barefoot rickshaw driver stumbled to his knees, trampled by his own cart as desperate families pushed it from behind.
Cannons fired in the distance from Huangpu River and beyond. Smoke billowed into the sky from fires too far away to see while planes roared overhead, bombs whistling as they dropped.
The Japanese soldiers had landed.
Everyone had to leave.
I breathed in the stinging smoke and coughed the grit from my lungs. How would everyone survive? Where would they live? What would they eat?
“Lily,” Lee shouted. “Are you deaf? What’s the matter with you?”
I coughed the imagined ash from my lungs as Lee rolled his bike away from mine. He stuffed a new parcel into his basket. I focused on the details to anchor me in the present.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Supplies for my mother.” He pointed behind him at a dry goods shop. “I was only gone for a moment. Did you fall asleep?”
“Of course not. I was watching your bike.”
