Memoirs of a Courtesan. Mingmei Yip
into a single one pointing north, setting off the imitation Westminster Chimes to suddenly flood us with an eerily cheerful melody. But then, in the midst of the clear sky, thunder cracked and lightning flashed …
And the naked figure jumped!
The onlookers gasped collectively, their expressions ranging from horror, to sorrow, to unabashed thrill …
All heads dropped down to gape, some of the women through cracks between their many-ringed, red-nailed fingers. A pause, then another shock. There was no body. Only a pair of red high heels in the middle of a pool of blood!
‘What happened?! Where is she?!’ A collective question burst into the night air.
A group of policemen arrived to inspect the scene, accompanied by a few reporters snapping pictures and asking dazed onlookers questions that no one could answer.
Nothing was happening now, except for an excited buzz from the crowd. Master Lung gave my elbow a tug. ‘Let’s go, Camilla.’
‘You don’t want to find out where she’s gone?’
‘She’s probably dead.’
‘Then where’s the body?’
‘Maybe you’ll find out in tomorrow’s Leisure News. Their gossip columnist, Rainbow Chang, knows everything.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ve seen it all.’
Of course Master Lung had seen it all. He headed the most powerful black society in Shanghai. Not only had he seen it all, he’d also performed it all: shooting, stabbing, strangling, poisoning, decapitating and other acts I’d rather not imagine. And that was only ways to kill. Before the final moment there were often tortures: beating, electric shocks, finger-crushing, eye-gouging, flesh-slicing, tiger-feeding, stuffing inside a snake-filled cage, nailing inside a coffin in a ghost-infested cemetery …
As the onlookers began to disperse, a young couple ogled us, probably recognising me as the famous singer and Lung as the famous gangster head. Immediately one of Lung’s bodyguards approached them and lifted his jacket to show his gun. The two ran off as if they’d been accosted by the ghost of the naked girl who’d just jumped. Just then, Master Lung’s driver pulled up. We climbed into the huge black car and went back to his mansion on Junfu Lane.
Soon I was sipping wine next to him on the sofa, the question still swirling in my mind: who was this beautiful but mysterious jump-and-disappear girl? My spy’s training to dig out secrets just wouldn’t leave me alone.
Lung cast me a stern look. ‘Camilla, what’s going on inside your head now?’
I stared at the scar that divided his right eyebrow into two lizard-like halves. ‘Master Lung, the girl who jumped – what happened?’
‘You’re still thinking of her?’ He smirked. ‘Why are you so curious?’ Lung stuck his fat cigar inside his thin mouth and puffed, making a heavy, asthmatic sound.
‘Master Lung, you’re not?’
He studied me with his protruding eyes set into his monkey face. ‘I have much more serious matters on my mind, not trivialities like that.’
Those ‘serious matters’ were what I, the spy from his rival gang, the Red Demons, was trying to find out.
But I asked, ‘A girl jumping off a tower is trivial to you?’
‘Yes!’ He took a big gulp of his expensive whiskey, then slammed the glass down with an intimidating thud. ‘Unless that girl is you, my little pretty. So, will you stop your silly thinking and come to bed now?’
Early the next morning, I left Master Lung’s house and snatched up a copy of Leisure News from a street urchin. Standing on the pavement, I impatiently flipped through the pages until I saw the big headline:
Naked Girl Jumps to Her Disappearance
Last night at the Customs House on the Bund, the crowd was startled to see a young, naked woman pace on the ledge of the clock tower and then jump. But, strangely, no body was found, only splattered blood and a pair of red high heels. The police are investigating this mysterious, inexplicable incident.
Some say this was an attempted kidnapping but that the young woman escaped. No one can explain where she went. Others say she killed herself – but no body.
But now, more and more are saying that the girl was, in fact, a ghost. They say that before the Customs House was built, that same spot was a cemetery where the bodies of raped and murdered women were dumped by black-society members.
The police claim they are working hard to solve this case to appease people’s fear of a ghost’s vengeance.
Meanwhile, girls from my Pink Skeleton Empire and I have our own sources.
More to follow …
Rainbow Chang
After I finished the article, I almost burst out laughing. It was certainly strange. But a ghost?
The naked girl was definitely not a spirit, but a spirited human.
That was worse than if she’d been a ghost, because now there was a woman who could outdo me in getting headlines from Rainbow Chang. I was used to being the centre of attention as the most celebrated singer in Shanghai’s most famous Bright Moon Nightclub. Yet none of my patrons or customers knew anything about me besides my singing, my body and my name, Camilla, which was fake, anyway. For, since my early teens, I’d been trained to be in the public eye but to keep my real intentions secret.
Now my place in society was under challenge. Someone had stepped into my well-guarded territory. For I didn’t buy that Naked Girl was dead. She was somewhere, and I had to find out where and how she’d pulled off her stunt. Even though I had no idea who this girl was, I knew she was my enemy.
Thus, thinking in the chilly air, I knew it was time to hurry back to Lung’s house to warm his bed.
Four times a week at six in the evening, a limo would take me to the Bright Moon Nightclub. This was Shanghai’s most fashionable – and expensive – entertainment establishment. It was located in the International Concession between Yuyuan Road – the Fool’s Garden – and Fanhuangdu Road – the Emperor’s Crossing. These roads were fittingly named, because, although there were no more emperors, there were still plenty of fools.
The nightclub had a gaudily lit circular facade topped with a torchlike, cylindrical tower. If you were allowed in, you would see a huge hall with many tables surrounding a polished dance floor. Above was a mezzanine from which the VIPs could watch those equally rich but less important. On its all-glass dance floor, powerful men became addicted to pirouetting with their seductive, hired partners in rhythm to waltzes, foxtrots, rumbas, sambas, tangos, even marches played by the impeccable Filipino band. Under the chandeliers, diamonds and pearls glittered as young bodies swayed beside their tuxedoed partners, fuelling the clients’ urge to splurge yet more on an evening’s decadence.
But Bright Moon was not always a paradise; in seconds it could descend into hell. Shots were often heard, and stabbings might spray blood onto an expensive gown. Even the private rooms and bathrooms were not safe havens from scores being settled. Targets of assassination could be almost anyone, from celebrities to politicians, black-society members, even suspected hanjian, traitors who spied for the Japanese.
The most talked-about assassination was of a gangster head a few years back. Late one evening as he was gleefully swirling, lifting and dipping his girl on the dance floor, four men approached. Sensing trouble, he shoved his girl hard against them and tried to run. Their long knives were quickly stained with the freshly minced flesh of the poor girl as they