Memoirs of a Courtesan. Mingmei Yip
gang, the Flying Dragons, took its name from the Book of Changes. The name was appropriate because Lung himself was like a dragon, whose body is always half revealed and half hidden by clouds. Lung heeded well the advice of The Art of War, ‘See all, but stay hidden.’ According to the Book of Changes, there are three kinds of dragons. One soars to heaven and leads the world; one hides in the field and waits for the auspicious moment to act; one becomes arrogant and ends up in bitter failure. The first one is the leader, the second the sage, the third the loser.
Master Lung was already a leader, would never be a sage and was certainly arrogant. So he was ripe for being overthrown. The moment would come when he would relax his vigilance, but I would not relax mine. The Chinese say, congming yishi, benzai yishi, ‘Smart for your whole life, stupid for a moment.’ All I needed was for Lung to be careless for one moment.
And that would be the moment when I would act. Because no matter how brilliantly cunning Lung was, he did have a weakness – his infatuation with beautiful, classy women. But most mistresses are enjoyed for a brief time, then cast away. Infatuation by itself is not enough. Most women did not understand that to bewitch a man, sex is only the beginning. After you have captured his heart, you must also capture his mind.
If Lung really had a heart – or even if I had one. But we both had minds – scheming ones.
One evening, in my living room, I was sipping tea and savouring its warmth slowly soothing my Heavenly Songbird throat. I enjoyed the warmth that I never received from human beings, except maybe Madame Lewinsky. My gaze wandered out the window at night-time Shanghai glittering like an enormous multifaceted diamond. People must be enjoying their youth, beauty and wealth out there, I mused. I knew I was getting sentimental, something I could not allow myself. Then, for no reason at all, the face of Jinying, Lung’s son, flashed into my mind. As if on cue, the telephone beside me rang like a barking dog who’d just lost sight of its master.
I picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Camilla?’
I immediately recognised the voice that had sung ‘Looking for You’ to me at the Bund. ‘Yes, Young Master?’
‘Please, I beg you, Camilla, call me Jinying. I really don’t like to be addressed as Young Master.’
My voice switched to the teasing mode. ‘Do you have a choice?’
As the father was imprisoned by his own suspicion and superstition, the son was confined by his father’s wealth and power.
‘I … really don’t want to go into this.’
‘Why don’t you like the title of young master?’
‘Because I don’t like to be thought of as superior to you or other people.’
I almost chuckled out loud. Of course. He had been educated in America, a country that supposedly advocated liberty and equality. So his mind was liberated, or poisoned, depending on how you looked at it, by this ridiculously unrealistic concept.
‘But you are,’ I cooed into the receiver.
‘Please, Camilla.’
‘All right, Jinying, what do you want?’ Of course I knew exactly what he wanted, the same thing as his father – me. Did he think his father would share with him?
‘May I come to visit you now?’ The tone was plaintive, like that of an orphan desperate to be adopted.
That was an unexpected and daring request. But of course he was, after all, the indulged, privileged son of the most powerful gangster in Shanghai. At least he was courteous enough to ask before coming.
I inhaled deeply. ‘But why would you want to come here?’
‘Camilla, since I heard you sing at Bright Moon and at the Bund, I just can’t shake you from my mind. You sing like an angel.’
If only I were one. ‘Don’t you know that I am your father’s woman?’
An uncomfortable silence passed before he spoke hesitantly. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘You’re not afraid?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you’re not, but I am.’
‘My father won’t hurt you.’
This time I laughed out loud. Was he that naive?
‘Please don’t make fun of me.’
‘I’m sorry. But do you know who your father is and what he is capable of?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what makes you think he won’t harm me – or you?’
‘Because he loves me the most, and he’s superstitious.’
My ear perked up at the word superstitious. Though it was not news to me that the gangster head was a believer in feng shui, Yijing divination, physiognomy, palmistry – the whole gamut of Chinese ways to attain good luck – his son could be a source of other useful information about his father.
So I immediately curtailed my sarcasm and replaced it with a warm, tender tone. ‘Jinying, yes, please do come up to my place so we can chat over a glass of wine.’
In a mere five minutes, Jinying was on my doorstep.
I opened the door and asked, ‘Were you downstairs?’
He nodded, looking anxious.
‘Please take a seat on the sofa, and I’ll ask Ah Fong to fix you tea and snacks.’
He looked around, his expression disappointed. ‘You have someone else living here with you?’
‘She’s my amah.’
Moments later Ah Fong came out with a tray of tea, coffee and sandwiches.
After she had laid it on the table, I smiled. ‘You can leave now, Ah Fong.’ And I took some coins from my purse and pushed them into her hand.
She looked at me appreciatively. ‘Thank you so much, Miss Camilla.’ Then she cast the young master the same look and left.
Delicately sipping my fragrant tea, I asked the fine-featured, intense face across from me, ‘Jinying, what is the purpose of your visit?’
He looked surprised and pained. ‘Camilla, I … wanted to see you. I am hoping you will sing for me again.’
I studied his eager eyes and their two brows. Unlike his father’s, they were smooth and unscarred, like two distant mountains shrouded in the mist. ‘Jinying, you have the money for casinos, nightclubs, anything you want. So why are you so interested in music?’
His smile showed a trace of bitterness. ‘That’s exactly what displeases my father about me. That I would waste my time on something so decadent and worthless.’
This seemed ironic. Wasn’t music the reason the old man came to Bright Moon?
Lung’s son’s face softened under the gentle light of my chandelier. ‘My passion began when I visited New York and a friend took me to see Madame Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera. Since then I’ve been hooked. I used some of the money Father sent me for singing and piano lessons. At Harvard I even performed a few roles in musicals.’
‘When you were in America, you must have heard the most famous singers of the world.’ My curiosity was piqued.
‘I did, but I like your voice the best. I’ve heard all the famous singers, and of course they’re all first-rate, but in my opinion, they all