At the bottom of the street, facing the water, he found the restaurant and realized it was the same one in which Lin Ming had given him advice about Anya a lifetime ago; he remembered the rich seafood soup as he climbed the worn-down stone stairs to the second floor. Lin and Song were already there, at a table by the window. Below them, the river cacophony of Asia was subdued, as it had been in the two years since Japan invaded. The merchant vessels, tramp steamers, winged junks, barges, and foreign liners had come back to ply the river, but lights were trimmed and horns silenced. The exuberance was gone.
Yet in front of him now was Song, smiling, more lovely than he had ever seen her. Her eyes shone with humor and self-assurance, and her every move was fluid. Seeing her now, he could barely remember the tight, stiffly brocaded qipao dresses Du had made her wear. Her skin had darkened in the sun, and even here in the city, she wore the blue tunic and black trousers of a country woman, yet she was radiant.
Lin was the opposite, gray with sorrow, his constant companion these days. He was bent over the table, studying the bai jiu bottle and then measuring out the fiery liquor into three tiny cups. They drank to each other, and then she told them what she had come to do.
“But that is easy,” Lin said with a wave of his hand. “I will take you to the Sword of David Society.” They were the ones who had dispatched An Gong Geun and Amleto Vespa to Chongqing with the money; they would spread the truth about the Fugu Plan throughout Hongkou.
“And what about Mr. Pao, the editor of the Shanghai Daily who I went to see?” Thomas said. “He might like to write an article about the Fugu Plan.”
“You are right,” Lin agreed. “Don’t worry, Sister. Soon everyone in Shanghai will know the facts.”
“Thank you.” They all drank.
Lin became morose again. “It seems so long ago, Ye Shanghai.”
“Another world,” said Thomas, remembering the three-month battle, stealing glances at Song. Yes.
“The night is gone,” Lin complained. “The music. I walked all over last night, even through the Daitu, the Badlands-what a joke.”
The waiter brought a tureen of the fish soup, which sat between them. Lin shook his head. “We may be here again, the three of us, but this time we make the minor chord.” He drained his cup and refilled it. He had forgotten to make a toast.
Song met Thomas’s eyes. “Brother,” she said, half rising to ladle out the fragrant soup. “Eat something. You’ve had a terrible loss.”
“You need time,” Thomas said.
“No one has time now,” Lin said, tipping up his cup. “The war has eaten our lives. Though we try to escape it.” He poured again.
“Come on,” Song said to Lin, again meeting Thomas’s eyes. She slid Lin’s soup bowl a little closer. “The broth will restore you, the fish, the scallops and sea cucumber, tofu and mustard greens-such a Shanghai taste.”
Lin poured more bai jiu. “You know what is Shanghai taste to me? The shrimp dumpling and noodle peddler.”
“Oh yes,” Song agreed.
“He would come through our neighborhood with his own little kitchen on shoulder poles. He had his own song. You always knew when he was coming, for no one else had just that melody. All gone.”
“Not gone,” she objected. “These things will return in their time. Soon we start a new decade, 1940, and before you know it, the sour plums of late spring will be here, the ones sold on the street with a frosting of sugar.” To Thomas she added, “When they appear, it is the start of huang mei tian, the yellow plum rainy season.”
“Remember the hot roasted ginkgo nuts?” Lin cut in. “The vendor comes through calling-let me think-‘Hand-burning hot ginkgo nuts! Each one is popped, each one is big!’” Putting the chant in English brought at least a small lift to the corner of his mouth.
“Shanghai still lives,” Song assured him.
Thomas said, “I agree.”
And at last Lin pulled his bowl and spoon closer and began to eat. But after a minute he reached for the wine again and refilled his cup, shaking the last drops out of the small crock. “And the Resettlement Plan,” he said morosely. “What if Chiang Kai-shek cuts it off?”
“Why would he?” said Song. “It’s as fine an idea as anyone ever had. Even my side thinks so.”
“The Germans will hate it. And Chiang wants to please them. Why, he would lick Hitler’s running sores if he could get close enough!”
“Niu bi hong hong,” Song said, meaning the ox vagina was steaming red, a way of saying he exaggerated.
Lin gave her a laugh as he pushed back and got to his feet, for this was the kind of language she would never have used before. “You’ve grown up, Meimei,” he said, and then he steadied himself against the tabletop and squared them both in the eye. “Don’t make my mistake. An inch of gold cannot buy an inch of time. You could die first, both of you.” Thomas reached for her hand under the table, humbled by love, while Lin closed his eyes and rocked on his heels, as if trying to remember something else he had wanted to say to them. He gave up, and dropped his voice to a mumble. “I should go.”
But then he remembered. “Oh. I know. There’s one more thing I miss. The vendor with the new corn, those tender baby kernels-you know-who comes down the lane singing, ‘Pearl-grained corn! Pearl-grained corn!’” He shook his head. “Gone.”
“It is past the time for corn,” Song said.
“I told you, no more time.” He turned for the door. A low, sustained boat horn sounded from the river below.
“We’ll see you home,” Thomas said.
But Lin raised a hand to wave him off. “I’m all right. See you tomorrow. We will go to Hongkou about your business, Song.”
“And I’ll call on that newspaper editor,” said Thomas.
With that, Lin settled his hat on his head with tipsy dignity, stepped out of the dining room, and vanished down the stone staircase.
Her hand trailed up Thomas’s leg, which made him tremble. “I know I come and go with no warning,” she said. “I never know when they will send me here. It’s unfair. I’m sorry. Sometimes I wonder if it is wrong, what I feel with you.” Her voice was very soft. “But if you still want, I have a room in a hostel, and-”
“Let’s go,” he said brusquely.
Much later she lay next to him, watching him sleep. She looked at his hand with love, so skilled, the exquisite fingers now thrown carelessly across her leg, and held her own hand next to it, smaller, paler, crude by comparison. Through his hands he was able to pour all he knew and felt, on the piano, on her body, on the map of her life. She was his, and every time she came back to him, she knew it again.
But. Her head was heavy with uncertainty, and she laid it down next to his on the pillow.
She had once again left the diamonds in Xi’an.
The next day at noon, Thomas came back to the tingzijian to change his clothes, and found Lin Ming frantically dressing.
“Where’s Song?” Lin said.
“She went down the street to the laohuzao.” Tiger stove shops, the name used for the local bathhouses, was in his tiny vocabulary, even though he patronized them only when he could afford it, making do in leaner times with a bowl and pitcher. “Half an hour is all she needs. Then she wants us all to have lunch at Sun Ya and-” He stopped short as he saw Lin was stuffing all his belongings into a cloth sack. “What are you doing?”