“Damn your cursed heart!” she said. “Coward!”
I thought her anger had to do with what had happened to the emperor.
“Mother,” I said softly.
She startled and turned to me, clutching a letter to her chest. It was in cursive writing, not Chinese characters.
“Violet, darling, we cannot have lunch right now. Something has come up.” She did not mention the letter, but I knew that was the reason. She had done the same thing to me on my eighth birthday. This time, however, I was not angry, only anxious. It was again a letter from my father, I was sure of it. The last one, six years ago, told of his recent death, which was the reason I then knew he had been alive all those years when she had said he did not exist. Whenever I had brought up the subject of my father, she cut me off with the same answer: “I’ve told you before—he’s dead and your asking again won’t change that fact.” The question had always set her off, but I could not help but ask it, because the answer had changed before.
“Will we have lunch later?” I knew the answer but wanted to see how carefully she answered.
“I have to leave to meet someone,” she said.
I would not let her get away that easily. “We were going to have my birthday lunch today,” I complained. “You’re always too busy to keep your promises to me.”
She showed only a small amount of guilt. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I have to do something, and it is urgent and very important. Tomorrow I will take you to an extra special lunch. We’ll have champagne.”
“I’m important, too,” I said. I went to my room and went over what had just happened. A letter. Another birthday lunch put aside. Who was more important?
When I heard her leave, I stole into Boulevard and entered her room through the glass French doors. The letter was not in the drawer, not under her mattress, not in her pillowcase, not in the canisters that held hard candies. Just when I was about to give up, I saw the top of it sticking out of a volume of poetry on the round table in the middle of her room, where she and Golden Dove sat as they went over the business of the day. The envelope was made of stiff white paper and was addressed in Chinese to Madame Lulu Mimi. Below, in English, it said in neat, flowing script: “Lucretia Minturn.” Lucretia. I had never seen that name used as hers. Was it really her name? The letter was addressed with yet another name I had not heard used for her:
My Dear Lucia,
I am released from obligation and am at last able to provide what is rightfully yours.
I return to Shanghai soon. May I visit you on the 23rd at noon ?
Yours,
Lu Shing
Who was this Chinese man who wrote in English? He had called her by two different names: Lucretia and Lucia. What was he returning?
Before I could study the letter further, Golden Dove walked in.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“I’m looking for a book,” I said quickly.
“Give it to me,” she said. She took one glance at it and said, “Don’t tell your mother you saw this. Don’t tell anyone, or you will regret this the rest of your life.”
My suspicions were right. This had something to do with my father. On the twenty-third, I feared, my life would change for the worse.
ON THE TWENTY-THIRD, the house was abuzz with news that a certain visitor was expected at noon. I was hiding in the middle balcony, watching the hubbub below. I was supposed to study in my own room, and not in Boulevard, and was under strict orders from my mother not to come out until she said I could. She also told me to put on my green dress, which was one of my best day dresses. I guessed that meant I would meet this man.
Noon came and went, and the minutes ate slowly into the day. I listened for announcements. None came. I crept into Boulevard. If anyone found me here, I would say I was searching for a schoolbook. I placed one under the desk, just in case. As I had hoped, my mother was in her office, just on the other side of the French doors. Golden Dove was with her. Mother was bristling, sounding as ominous as the rumbles that precede lightning. I could hear the threat in her voice. Golden Dove spoke back to her in a soft consoling tone. The exact words were clumps of sound. I had taken a risk in coming into the room. It took an hour before I had the courage to press my ear to the glass.
They were speaking in English. More often than not, their voices were too low for me to make out their words. Soon the pitch of my mother’s anger rose sharply. “Bastard!” she cried. “Family duty!”
“He’s a coward and a thief, and I don’t think you should believe anything he has to say,” Golden Dove said. “If you meet him, he’ll tear your heart in two again.”
“Do we have a pistol in the house? I’ll shoot him in the balls. Don’t laugh. I mean it.”
These snatches of words added to my confusion.
Dusk came, and I heard the voices of servants calling out for hot water. A manservant knocked on my mother’s door and announced that a visitor had arrived and was waiting in the vestibule. Mother did not leave her room for ten minutes. As soon as she did, I pushed the French doors open an inch, and moved the bottom of the curtain slightly apart. Then I hurried to my hiding place in the middle balcony overlooking the Grand Salon.
Mother walked down a few more steps, then stopped and nodded to Little Duck, who stood by the velvet curtains.
Little Duck drew back the curtain and called out, “Master Lu Shing has arrived to see Madame Lulu Mimi.” It was the same name as the man who had written the letter. I held my breath as he stepped through. In a short while, I would know if this man was who I thought he was.
He gave the immediate appearance of a thoroughly modern gentleman, possessing the carriage of the highborn, erect yet at ease. He wore a well-tailored dark suit and shoes so well polished I could see the gleam from the balcony. His hair was full and neatly cut, smoothed down with pomade. I could not see his face in detail, but I judged him to be older than Mother, not young but not too old. Over one arm, he held a long winter coat and, on top of that, a hat, both of which one of the servants quickly took away.
Mr. Lu glanced casually about the room, but not with the wonderment of most first-time visitors in coming to my mother’s house. Western style had become the norm in most first-class houses and even in the respectable homes of the wealthy. But our house had had decorations found nowhere else: shocking paintings, voluptuous sofas with tiger skin upholstery, a lifelike sculpture of a phoenix standing by a giant palm tree the height of the ceiling. The man made a slight smile, as if none of this was a surprise.
Puffy Cloud came over and crouched near me. “Who’s that?” she whispered. I told her to go somewhere else. She didn’t move. I was about to learn who this man was, and I did not want Puffy Cloud beside me when I did.
My mother resumed walking down the stairs. She had chosen an odd dress for the occasion. I had never seen it before. She must have bought it yesterday. The dress was no doubt the latest fashion—Mother wore nothing less—but the shape was not suited to my mother’s habit of flying around the house. It was tightly fitted peacock-blue wool, which accentuated her full bust and hips. The skirt was cinched at the waist, as well as at the knees, preventing her from walking in more than slow, regal steps. The man was patient and looked at her the entire time. When she reached him, she gave no effusive welcome, as she did with other men. I could not hear her exact words, but her tone was flat yet quivering. He made a slight bow that was neither Chinese nor Western, and when he raised himself slowly, he looked at her solemnly, and she abruptly turned away