“How much?” the gruff man in front of his stand demanded as he pointed at the undulating carpet of life formed by the thousands of grub pupae that seethed in the barrel. Xi Luan Tu quoted him a reasonable price but not too low. He didn’t want his fellow market pupae-sellers to take too much note of the “new guy.” His forged vendor’s licence had been arranged by a follower whose father used to occupy the spot. If asked, Xi Luan Tu would inform a questioner that he was the nephew of the man who used to sell here and that he had recently arrived from Sichuan Province.
“Too much,” said the potential customer and moved on down the alley to the next grub pupaeseller.
The live things – he thought of them as grubs-intraining – continued their blind movements in the barrel. For three days he’d hidden in that very barrel while federal officers mounted sweeps in an effort to find him. Without the Dalong Fada exercises he would never have managed to maintain his sanity. The moment he lost the sense of himself as merely part of a much greater whole – the moment that he believed that he was the whole in and of himself – then the pain, the fear and misery took hold of him and led him toward madness.
He put his hands into the barrel of moving grub pupae and allowed their motion to become part of his existence. “Like spreading the molecules of yourself wide,” he thought, “and allowing all that space in.”
It was precisely as he completed that thought that two federal officers rounded the corner and headed right toward him.
Xi Luan Tu took another quick glance over his shoulder – he could beat them to the warrens’ entrance if he had to – and once there, he could lose them.
At the same time on the far side of the great city, Joan Shui was holding on to a lamppost and trying to stop the world from spinning. Wu Fan-zi seemed to be everywhere in the city. It was as if he’d just left a room whenever Joan entered or ducked into a doorway, as she approached or turned the far corner, as she turned onto a street. She’d been with her “fire-man” almost every moment of her first trip to Shanghai. Now she was here, shorn hair and all, and he was not.
She found herself drawn to the Hua Shan Hospital where she had seen him last. Where the bomb set by the American who called himself Angel Michael had ended Wu Fan-zi’s life. It was in there their hearts had met. It was in there they had seen each other. It was in there she lost him forever.
“Move along.”
Joan looked at the young man in the ill-fitting brown uniform with the insignia on his shoulder. Who was he talking to in that tone of voice?
“Move along, you!”
“Was he talking to me?” Joan thought. “I’m no stupid peasant who . . .” then she stopped even the process of that thought. It was good that he thought her nothing more than some stupid countrywoman who had come into Shanghai to beg on the streets. As long as people like him thought that way, she was safe.
“Move your fat ass!” he screamed at her.
Now that’s a bit much. Peasant yes, stupid maybe, fat ass never. But she bobbed her head and did a bit of waving with her dirty hands, as if she couldn’t understand his city accent then she put down her head and moved along.
She needed to find a phone kiosk.
She turned a corner and entered a crowded street market that ran down both sides of a narrow alley. The smell of rotting fish assailed her nose and swarms of fat flies circled her head then landed on, and seemed to taste, her filthy skin. She swatted them away only to be assaulted by the fish stink again. The gutted fish on the monger’s dirty wooden table weren’t even on ice. Those yet to be gutted swam in the brownish water of a rubber tub. A man wearing a nicely tailored suit approached the table and pointed at a large carp in the tub. The fishmonger reached into the brackish water and grabbed the fish by the tail. The thing thrashed in an effort to free itself from the monger’s grip but the merchant wasn’t about to let it go until the buyer gave his okay. They bartered briefly as the fish arched its body in protest. A price was settled on. The fishmonger stunned the thing with a smack of a short two-by-four then gutted it and wrapped it in old newsprint, using his right hand to get his money and his left to shove the guts beneath his table. The pile of guts was the source of the stink that attracted the flies. The gap-toothed fishmonger finished thanking the man in the good suit then screeched at Joan, “This not for you. This real fish. This for real people.” Then he made a gesture with his hands toward her, not unlike what he should have done to the flies that encircled his table. Joan resisted the impulse to tell this merchant exactly where he could put his comments and forced her way through the crowded market.
Shanghai was even more densely populated than Hong Kong. She didn’t think that possible, but it was. She finally found a phone kiosk and got in line. She needed to call the number she’d memorized from the e-mail. A half-hour and several nasty comments later, she finally got up to the kiosk, paid the two yuan and placed her call. An answering machine picked up and quickly gave an address then added, “Programmed cell phone there under curb. Pick it up and hit number three once.” Then the answering machine cut off.
Moving to Xinzha Lu, Joan found a bus shelter with a Shanghai street map and oriented herself. It took her two hot hours of walking to get to the address she’d gotten from the answering machine. She passed by the address twice before it was clear enough of people for her to lean down as if adjusting the bundle on her back, reach beneath the cement overhang above the sewer grate and extract the small cell phone that had been put there for her between two bricks. Once she had the phone, she faced another problem. Looking the way she did, it would be incongruous that she owned a cell phone. So she had to find a place to use the phone where no one could see her. Not an easy thing to do amidst Shanghai’s 18 million souls.
And prying eyes in this city could also report. She remembered the eyes of the man across from her in the fourth-class hard-seat train car. The way they bore into her and seemed to glory in the prospect of reporting her. “We Chinese enjoy the failings of our compatriots too much,” she thought, “and although this may be part of the Chinese character, it had grown exponentially under Communist rule.” More reason to promote an opposition like Dalong Fada.
She meandered, drawn by some force beyond her comprehension, to the Old City. Once there, the pace slowed. The dankness took over. There was little or no commerce here. Just lives lived in the shadow of the great. And alleyways. Dark alleyways that at this moment in Joan’s life were her friends.
She reviewed the codes in her head before she hit the number three on the phone. The welcome code was given in response. Then she identified herself. It took a moment for the man on the other end to speak. Then he whistled into the phone and said, “They’re bringing in the heavy artillery, are they?”
“I guess.”
“Do you know the Temple of the City God?”
“No, but I can find it.”
“Good. Go in the front entrance and buy seven sticks of incense. Kneel and hold them between your palms as if you’re ready to light them. I’ll find you.”
“How long will I have to do that?”
“As long as it takes.”
“But won’t it look suspicious if I hold the sticks and don’t light them?”
“Hold them for a while, then as if you haven’t decided on your prayer, put them back in your pocket and walk the grounds. It will not appear odd. Just another Chinese person anxious not to waste the cost of seven incense sticks on a frivolous request of the gods. Then come back as if you’ve made up your mind what you want to pray for and if I’m not there yet, go through the process again.”