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Singing for my living,
Intoxicated not by wine but by this lush nightlife.
My years are spent in dissipation.
When someday I finally awaken,
I will still love Shanghai at night.
I could identify with the sentiments of the song. But had I been spending my life in debauchery? Did I still love Shanghai at night? Thinking, I let the last note end its decadent incarnation in the air.
The audience, as if awakened from a dormant past life, burst into thunderous applause.
‘Wonderful!’
‘What a heavenly voice!’
‘Wah, melts my ear wax!’
Again, my eyes made their obligatory rounds, right, left, middle, back. But then they stopped at a new face among a group of richly attired, refined-looking young men. He looked shy, seemingly ill at ease, as if he had been raised in a different environment and was thrust into a nightclub for the first time. Since the people with whom I had grown up all lived by cunning and cruelty, innocence always surprised me.
I threw this youth a nonchalant glance, bowed deeply, then threw the fan in his direction before sashaying backstage in my golden stiletto heels.
Ten minutes later, after the crowd had quieted down, I left my dressing room and headed straight to Lung’s table under the audience’s intense scrutiny. Because of my popularity, I was usually expected to make my rounds, stopping at different tables and pleasing the patrons by making sexy small talk. But for the past few weeks, I could sit only with Lung. Once the other men realised I was Lung’s favourite and might be his concubine someday, they quietly backed away. Because Lung or his thugs would not hesitate to strangle anyone – not only men but even a crippled oldster, a pregnant woman or a newborn baby.
Behind his back Lung was nicknamed ‘Half-Brow,’ because, it was said, years ago his right eyebrow had been slashed into two by a would-be assassin using a sharp razor. The assassin had probably meant to slash his carotid artery, but during the struggle Lung must have dipped his head to protect his neck, so his brow was slashed instead. While a non-Chinese might have borne this as a sign of bravery, for Lung it was a mark of shame, to the point that no one would risk asking him how he had got it.
For the Chinese, to ‘shave off the eyebrow’ is to inflict the most extreme insult, even worse than calling his mother a dog-fucked whore or his father a shit-chomping tortoise head. Splitting a person’s eyebrow is believed to cut off his vital energy, life breath and good fortune.
Like all Chinese gangsters, Lung was terrified of bad luck, so after his eyebrow was split he had become extremely superstitious. Now he would never take off his amulets, not even when he bathed. From his thick golden neck chain were suspended Guan Yin, the Goddess of Compassion; General Guan, both loyal protector and relentless killer; the ubiquitous money god; and a new addition – a soaring dragon, his zodiac animal, carved from translucent jade. A gift from me for his recent fifty-fifth birthday.
In less than twenty years, Lung had risen from a spat-upon shoe-shine boy to being respected and feared by Shanghai’s most powerful people, even the police chief. The gangster head had begun his ascent by shining shoes for celebrities, wealthy businessmen, powerful gangsters, influential politicians. His shoe-shining was rumoured to be so painstaking and immaculate that with it he softened the hearts of some of his influential customers. He’d rub harder, longer and use more cream than the others. He ran errands faster than anyone else and somehow knew whom to ingratiate himself with by not charging them for his services. If the right situation arose he would chat briefly with these dignitaries, but always remain respectful, never crossing boundaries.
Soon he was invited into the Flying Dragons. Though he was no more than a gofer, rumour had it that he once took a bullet for a powerful gang member. The gangster he saved was an important politician, and so Lung was catapulted to fame, fortune and power. His generosity also greased his way to the top. Unlike many warlords, Lung was free in passing out red envelopes stuffed with lucky money. His beneficiaries were not only his underlings and his favourite women of the moment, but also police and politicians. Whether to ease his conscience or simply to ease his way into Shanghai society, he held lavish banquets and donated millions to charities, especially if they were run by influential people. On his way up, he somehow managed to shed most of his shoe-shine boy speech and mannerisms. Though his speech was still not refined, his money and violent reputation more than compensated for that.
Of course, most of what I knew about Lung was based on rumour. He never told me anything about himself, and asking a too-personal question was possible suicide.
Looking at Lung as I approached his table, I was, as usual, reminded of a monkey. Not only his face but also his limbs, which seemed always to be moving like those of a monkey leaping between branches. During his shoe-shining days, he could steal almost anything from anyone without them noticing. Usually he sold his booty, but if the victim might benefit him in some way, he would return the item, pretending that he had found it.
All the other gentlemen – or gangsters – stood up to greet me, except Master Lung and his right hand man, Mr Zhu.
The boss stared at me with his big, protruding eyes, rumoured to be the result of a near-strangling by a rival.
‘Camilla, you smell really good. Your singing is also getting better. Do you drink special herb soup for your body and your throat?’ Lung’s own voice was hoarse from years of smoking, drinking and screaming.
I smiled, sitting down in a chair automatically pushed under my bottom. Crossing my legs and feeling the squeeze between them, I said in my innocently sexy voice, ‘Master Lung, what else is so “special” besides you?’
I had been trained to say whatever was beneficial to a situation. As the Chinese saying goes, ‘When you run into a human, speak the human language; when you run into a ghost, speak a ghost’s.’
He laughed, his belly making waves. ‘Ha-ha! My Camilla, your tongue is getting more glib, too.’
Of course, I never told him, or anyone, how hard I’d been working to improve my voice. I’d rather they thought it was all natural talent. Nobody wants to hear about the painful years of tedious, bitter practise: only their pleasurable result.
What no one knew was that when my act finished, I would sleep for a while, if I was allowed to evade Master Lung’s clammy hands, then walk to the Bund and sing to the sun as it rose, then to its reflection on the Huangpu River. This way my voice would absorb the powerful yang energy from the rising sun and the yin from the softly flowing river. I hoped to expand my range up to heaven and down to earth, so that when it reached the highest register, instead of cracking, it would be as soothing as the morning light. And when it reached the lowest register it wouldn’t disappear, but would be as deep and fathomless as the sea.
I knew the truth of the Chinese sayings: ‘One minute onstage is worth ten years’ cultivation offstage,’ and, ‘You plant a melon, you harvest a melon; you plant a bean, you harvest a bean.’ Success will not arrive at your doorstep if you just mope around the house instead of getting out and taking action.
But I doubted anyone in the audience tonight cared about the long, arduous hours I’d spent to perfect my four minutes of singing ‘Night-time Shanghai.’ However, that innocent but intelligent-looking youth I’d noticed earlier at the adjacent table, maybe he could understand.
‘Thank you, Master Lung.’ I smiled, taking a delicate sip of his whiskey as if swallowing all the bitterness that came with my practise. As I felt my tongue pricked by the rough-tasting liquid, in my peripheral vision I spied a pair of eyes fixed on me like a mistress’s on her patron. Just then Lung signalled to the next table, and the shy, fresh-faced young man hurried over. His tall, slim frame was covered in a grey pin-striped suit set off by a silver tie with a pearl tie pin.
I wondered, what did this refined-looking young man have to do with the uncouth Lung?
Gao, Master Lung’s most trusted bodyguard, stood up to pull a seat out next to Lung. ‘Young Master, please.’
Lung smiled till his eyes became two slits. ‘Camilla, meet my son, Jinying.’
Could he really be Lung’s son? Maybe he was adopted, or a guoji, a child given to a childless man by a male relative – a gift to maintain the family tree.
The young man and I shook hands. Wrapped around mine, his palm felt warm and cosy, like a cocoon. If I was a yin type of person – remote, cool, calculating, meticulous – then he was definitely a yang type – warm, straightforward, impetuous.
Now Lung smiled a proud, open-mouthed smile, revealing a few sparkling gold teeth. It was the first time I had detected anything like tenderness or kindness in the underworld boss. ‘My son just came back a few days ago from studying in the US.’
I smiled. ‘That’s very impressive. May I know what subject the boss’s son studies?’
The young man smiled, blushing slightly. ‘Law—’
Lung interrupted. ‘At Ha Fuk.’
The son corrected his father. ‘Father, it’s Harvard University, not Ha Fuk.’
The father laughed, watching his son admiringly, as if now he were his son’s underling. ‘Yes, Harr … Fud.’
‘Father, you’re embarrassing me!’
‘So-ri, so-ri, son,’ Lung apologised in pidgin English. The most powerful gangster in Shanghai, who never hesitated to eliminate fools, now looked like a fool himself.
I suppressed a smile. Even this ruthless gangster chief had his soft spot. No one is invincible; it’s just a matter of finding his weakness and waiting for the right time to attack it.
The young master ignored his father and turned to me. ‘Miss Camilla, you have the most beautiful and intriguing voice I’ve ever heard.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, not really meaning it. I’d been taught not to fall for flattery, because to be distracted would ruin my mission. I never forgot that even though people might praise me, it was unlikely they cared for me beyond my beauty, celebrity and talent to entertain.
Oblivious of my bitterness, Lung again cast his son an appreciative look. ‘I want Jinying to help me in my business, but maybe he won’t do a good job, because he only cares about music.’ He paused to pinch the sleeve of his son’s suit. ‘See? I even have this suit made for him at Gray to suit his Hardfud-lawyer status.’
Gray was the most expensive tailor in Shanghai, even more outrageous than the famous Paramount. I heard that each suit would cost nearly three times what it would at the expensive Paramount, which meant a tael of gold.
The young man, red-faced, turned away from his father and said to me, ‘Miss Camilla, my father told me about you and your legendary voice, and it’s such a pleasure and honour to finally have the chance to hear you sing and then meet you tonight.’
I was astonished that the son of the most feared gangster in China would act and talk in such an elegant and courteous way. With such a powerful father, no one would imagine that he spoke that way from weakness. However, his father might have taken it that way, because he cast his son a disapproving look.
Abruptly, Lung stood up and held out his hand to me. I let him lead me to the glass dance floor amid the scraping of patent leather shoes and stiletto heels. Lung put his arm around my waist, and we began gliding to the dreamy tune of the ‘Blue Danube’ waltz. Some of the men, when they waltzed near us with their partners, bowed their heads respectfully as they said, ‘Good Evening, Master Lung.’ The boss returned these greetings with a simple nod.
As we swirled in circles, my eyes glanced alternately at the orchestra and the audience. I peeked towards the young master Jinying, who was intensely watching us. I found myself tightening my arm around Lung. I’d only just met this young man; I wondered, why should I want to arouse jealousy in him?
Finally, when we had made enough dents on the dance floor, Lung and I returned to our seats. But Jinying’s friends kept calling him back to his own table, so he quickly apologised to us and left. Then Mr Zhu, Lung’s right-hand man, picked up a newspaper and handed it to me, pointing to an article. It was the latest gossip column by Rainbow Chang.
A Naked Shadow
We can now reveal the identity of the girl who plunged to her disappearance three days ago. This stunning escapade was staged by a magician, Miss Shadow.
The incident was a prelude to promote her show opening on Thursday at the Ciro Nightclub, the upcoming rival of the older and more classy Bright Moon Nightclub. With this fanfare, Miss Shadow has instantly become the talk of the town. So I believe that the Ciro Nightclub will steal many customers away from Bright Moon.
We were also told that the night she jumped, Miss Shadow was not really naked but wearing a flesh-toned tunic. The blood, of course, was fake, probably from a slaughtered chicken or pig or dog.
Like me, many of my readers must wonder what will happen now to Camilla, our beloved Heavenly Songbird. Will she still dominate the Shanghai nightclub scene, or will she soon be pushed into the turbulent sea? Who will be our supreme entertainment queen? Who will be Shanghai’s ultimate skeleton woman?
Well, we will soon find out.
One question to Miss Camilla: how will you feel when you finally meet your worthy rival?
More to follow …
Rainbow Chang
I bit my lip, then quickly regained my focus and conjured up my most flirtatious smile. ‘Master Lung, have you read this?’
‘Do you think I’d waste my time on gossip?’
Good. ‘Will you be here Thursday night?’
He cast me an amused look. ‘Depends. Why?’
My heart suddenly turned cold, like the ice floating in my drink. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if he would go to Ciro to see the naked magician and her show.
Back in my apartment, I couldn’t shut my eyes. Sipping wine, I could only think of this new rival, her inconceivable trick and her genius in getting attention. Why did she call herself Shadow; did she not have a real existence? Was she a ghost? The name was fake, of course, just like mine. Not that this Shadow, having already bewitched Shanghai, would need a response from me. Did she want to replace me as the number one nightclub attraction? Or maybe Rainbow Chang had guessed wrong. Maybe Shadow’s target was not me but someone else. My heart rose in alarm. Could that someone else be … Master Lung?
Of course, I was smart enough to realise that this Shadow had not jumped to her death and was not a ghost but a human rival.
So of course I was smart enough to deal with her. I remembered the lines from Sunzi’s Art of War:
Know when to attack and when to wait.
The essence of warfare is not attack but strategy.
Know yourself, and know your enemy even better.
Yes! That’s it. Know yourself, but know your enemy even better. Knowing her would be the next step towards clearing this weed on my path to completing my mission of eliminating Lung.
Thus resolved, I reached to turn on the radio. As if on cue, a recording of my singing ‘Night-time Shanghai’ began to flood the room.
They only see my smiling face
But never guess my heart’s pain …
I sighed, then downed the whole glass of wine.
3 (#ulink_39ec2421-2e5c-5938-af6c-9534fb4436c7)
Madame Lewinsky (#ulink_39ec2421-2e5c-5938-af6c-9534fb4436c7)
As a spy, I had to study strategies about scheming. My favourite was the Art of War by the most famous military strategist, Sunzi, who lived twenty-five hundred years ago.
Everything I learned from this book can be summarised in one sentence:
Build your presence, and use your cunning.
Sunzi says that on a battlefield there are only two realities: win or lose. So there is no room for virtue, unless being virtuous or being a gentleman is your strategy. To win, every position has to be thoroughly known, every plan meticulously studied and every act carefully worked out. As there is no room for virtue, there is no such thing as ‘a glorious failure.’ On the battlefield, ‘honour’ is just an empty comfort for losers.
Losers don’t get sympathy; they get killed.
History is written by the victors. So no matter how heartless and dishonest you are, after it is written, if you win, you’ll be remembered as a paragon of virtue and honour. The Chinese say, ‘Those who win become kings, those who fail, thieves.’ Steal a nail, you’re a thief, steal a nation, a king.
You must show no weakness, no human feeling. Like King Liu Bang, who lived over two thousand years ago.
When they were battling for the kingdom, Xiang Yu kidnapped Liu’s father and threatened to cook him alive. Expecting his rival to surrender, Xiang Yu was shocked when Liu Bang exclaimed, ‘No problem. After you’ve cooked my father, don’t forget to save me a piece for dinner!’
In war, you have to be that ruthless.
Having studied the Art of War, the Thirty-Six Stratagems and all other major works on strategy, I believed no one, trusted no one. So I’d already guessed that little naked Miss Shadow had not plunged to her death – and was probably not really naked, either. I didn’t trust my own shadow, so why would I trust anyone else’s?
To decide how to deal with Shadow, I needed to talk to my real boss, Big Brother Wang.
A bodyguard let me into Wang’s spacious study, filled with antiques, polished redwood furniture and string-bound books. My boss sat at a massive desk, where smoke curled up from a cone of incense nestled on a celadon disk. He was reading a book cradled in his jade-ringed, long-nailed fingers. Above him on the wall was a calligraphic scroll:
Befriend all scholars under heaven; study all books written by sages.
So I worked for a scholar-gangster. Maybe that was why he had never been able to beat the cunning, streetwise Master Lung.
The door closed as quietly as a drop of water in a bucket. Staring at the bald spot on Wang’s lowered head, I could see that he would not look up at me until he finished the page. I was curious to know what he was reading, but kept my lips tight to prevent questions from popping out of my itchy mouth. Instead, I glanced at his many books on the shelves.
Trained to be aware of everything in my surroundings, I wanted to know what these books were about and why, as a gangster, Wang liked to read. In addition to his more active pursuits of cheating, scheming, gambling, threatening, kidnapping, torturing, killing and, of course, womanising.
Despite this last proclivity, Big Brother Wang had never tried to seduce me or even force me to have sex with him. This was not because he respected me but because I was the queen on his chessboard. If the pieces on the chessboard of the gangster world shifted, I would have to shift in response, even at the risk of sacrificing my life. But not my happiness, because I’d never known that sort of emotion.
Wang put down his book. His eyes searched mine, gazing intensely above the gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on his square-jawed face.
I straightened myself, cleared my throat and spoke in my most respectful tone. ‘Big Brother Wang …’
