Mingmei Yip - Memoirs of a Courtesan

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.’