Mingmei Yip - Memoirs of a Courtesan

I chuckled inside. Did she really believe I was innocent? If I ever had been, my training as a spy had long since ended it.

My teacher spoke again. ‘Maybe those politicians and businessmen at your nightclub can’t tell, but I can.’

‘Sorry. What can you tell?’

‘Let me be blunt with you, Camilla. Your singing doesn’t have real feelings, only the imitation of feelings.’

I didn’t respond.

‘Don’t worry, once you fall in love …’

‘But I won’t.’

My teacher cast me a curious glance. ‘What makes you so sure?’

Of course I knew why, but the ‘why’ was not something to be shared.

Lewinsky winked, smiling. ‘Hmm … you’re sure you’re not in love already?’

‘No way.’

‘I can tell your mind has been wandering.’

I meant to ask how could she tell, but she was already speaking. ‘With my experiences of focussing on one person during my concerts, I can spot any musician’s wandering mind.’

‘Hmm … Madame Lewinsky, unfortunately I don’t have your kind of sensitivity.’

‘Next time when you sing at Bright Moon, find someone to focus on.’

‘I will.’

Just then the bell rang, and Lewinsky went to open the door to let in a student. It was time for me to leave. This was the first time I’d visited except to have a lesson.

Was there a genuine bond developing between us? I both hoped and feared that.

At the door, my teacher winked at me and hummed the tune from Carmen, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘ The bird you hope to catch will beat its wings and fly away … Love stays away, making you wait and wait. Then, when least expected, there it is! ’

When finished, she reached to pat my cheek. ‘Beware, my little sweetie. Karma happens. So be prepared.’ She winked again, then closed the door with a very tender click, like the sigh on a lover’s lips.

Visiting Lewinsky was an all-too-brief intermission from my tension-filled, murder-oriented existence. But I couldn’t do it often, because being relaxed was dangerous. Tension is like spice on food; without some, the dish would be tasteless, if not inedible.

After having had the right dose of tranquility, now I needed to plan for my next move: to discover Shadow’s intentions and prevent her from stealing Lung from me. And, if there was any chance that she was smarter and more talented than I, plot how to get rid of her.

After some hard thought, I decided to cancel my Thursday night performance and take the risk of inviting Master Lung to see Shadow’s debut magic show with me. In the subtle Chinese art of calligraphy, this is called pianfeng, an unorthodox brush movement for the sake of a startling aesthetic effect. In military strategy it is called bingxing xianzhe – send the soldiers to advance into danger. An illogical move is applied to win an impossible battle.

So now I was using a bingxing xianzhe in asking Lung to Shadow’s show. My real purpose was to prevent them from having any contact with each other without my knowing. In old China, this strategy had been adopted by many first wives. They would rather hand-pick the woman to be their husband’s concubine than let him pick for himself. That way they would have some control over the interloper who was to share their house and their husband’s bed. The shrewd first wife would pick a concubine who, though younger and prettier, was respectful and submissive and, most important, a little stupid.

Know yourself as well as your enemy; then out of one hundred battles you will win one hundred. Sunzi’s advice was as useful now as when he’d written it twenty-five hundred years ago.

Having Lung escort me to Shadow’s show would let her know that the gangster head was my not-to-be-trespassed-upon property. Of course that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to cross the line. But at least she’d get my message. Best would be if Lung had no interest in her big, muscular physique.

But I had learned never to rely on hope. Anyway, the first step is like a house’s foundation; if it’s not cemented right, the whole house will sooner or later collapse. Actually, each step is critical; as the sage Laozi said, ‘Things are more likely be spoiled at the end than at the beginning.’

But as I contemplated this more, I felt as if I were hanging on a cliff above sharp rocks surrounded by starving tigers. Then I asked myself, if it was easy, where was the thrill?

Shadow’s debut show was held at the Ciro Nightclub, a competing establishment with Bright Moon. The manager greeted Master Lung and his entourage with a smile as gleeful as if his wife had just given birth to his first son, then led us to the table in the middle of the front row.

Lung, his right-hand man, Mr Zhu, and I all sat down at a table already set with bottles of expensive wine and plates of snacks – watermelon seeds, dried plums, olives, sugared lotus root. As usual, Master Lung’s head bodyguard, Gao, and his team took the neighbouring table. Nightclub-goers threw us curious, envious stares. Among them I noticed a flamboyantly dressed, striking young man four tables from ours. Five or six tall, beautiful girls in matching pink dresses surrounded him like stars about a bright moon. The only strange thing about this figure, at least from the distance, was that he had make-up on.

When our eyes met, he smiled, then raised his wine glass and made a toast. I smiled back, then quickly averted his scrutiny as an uneasy feeling rose inside me that Lung might notice. Or even Gao, because the quiet but physically intimidating man was watching me intently. I feared, not that he had any inkling of my secret mission, but that he had a crush on me, which could be dangerous for us both. He might not survive trying to seduce his boss’s woman.

Once in a while I admit I did flirt with him, though indirectly, by twirling my hair as if deep in thought, or wriggling slightly when he was watching. I sensed that he was the kind of man who’d risk death to protect a helpless, beautiful woman in danger.

Even though my present status was above his, I always treated the bodyguard with respect. It’s smart to accumulate good karma by acknowledging, and even doing small favours for, those beneath you. You never know when you might need their help or when they might decide to mess up your life, no matter how small a cog they were in the big machine.

Although tonight Lung was physically present, I could tell his mind was somewhere else.

My patron took a long sip of his whiskey, then asked, ‘Camilla, how come you’re so curious about this magician – what’s her name – Shadow?’ Then he turned to Zhu, scoffing. ‘Why would someone in their right mind name their girl Shadow? What did they call their other children, Ghost, Apparition, Phantom? And the parents, Specter and Silhouette? Eh?’

Lung laughed his full-toothed laugh with his thin lips stretching downwards. The Chinese call this the capsized-boat expression. In physiognomy it is deemed an unlucky trait. But so far Lung’s luck, like his bodyguards, was always there for him.

Except for Gao, who was always serious, everyone else burst into hilarious laughter. Not that the joke was that funny, but because it had come from the mouth of the most relentless man in Shanghai.

‘Maybe her other siblings are called Smoke and Mirror?’ I quipped, a risky move, in case Lung might think I was trying to outsmart him. However, judging from his past mistresses, he could be fascinated by a woman’s brain, not just her breasts.

Now it was Lung’s turn to laugh, followed by even more hilarious laughter from the group. Not because my joke was so funny, but because I was the number one gangster’s number one woman.