Page 40

Her cash was running low, and soon, she’d have to pay rent. She needed a job.

Anyu mulled over her options. Returning to the Mandelburgs was out of the question—it would hurt her pride—and working for other foreign houses was equally humiliating.

She decided to look into the local Chinese stores.

The city had nine jewelry stores, called silver shops, with which she had become familiar after walking in the city for many days.

She still had the skills of a jeweler, and surely, the shops would hire her.

Anyu visited the Yang Qinghe Silver Shop on Nanjing Road, a stately two-story building painted in gold and adorned with calligraphy.

She introduced herself simply as Anyu at the counter and asked if they needed a jeweler.

She had no tools, or she would have demonstrated her skill to show her qualifications.

The man at the counter looked surprised and told her to wait.

While waiting, she browsed the jewelry in the glass cases.

Most of the objects were accessories for men, such as pendants, belt hooks, and belt rings; there were also enameled padlocks, decorative boxes, porcelain vessels, and vases with blue enamel glaze.

Many designs, as she had expected, featured auspicious animal motifs, such as cranes, dragons, and phoenixes.

Deities such as Buddha and the Goddess of Compassion, who would provide protection to the wearer, were also popular, as were peonies and chrysanthemums.

There were few jewelry pieces for women.

Anyu only saw some bangles, earrings, and hair accessories, their designs plain and simple, but all gleaming with an astounding sheen of yellow that could only come from twenty-four karat pure gold—a surprise.

It seemed the shop had found a way to go around the government’s decree.

But she also understood the Chinese customers desired jewelry made of twenty-four karat gold, which was regarded as authentic gold; ornaments made of alloy, which Isaac and other jewelers had chosen, were looked down upon and considered fake.

However, pure gold was too mellow to maneuver; even Belperron had opted for a lower grade of the metal.

The techniques of the jewelry mainly featured engraving, filigree, and inlay, and the designs were more realistic than stylistic. Most were made of jade in various colors and grades. Few used diamonds and gemstones.

“Miss Anyu?” The owner, Mr. Yang, a thin old man wearing a long gray robe, received her at the counter.

He looked as though he had just awakened from his nap.

He asked her about her training in his casual voice, scratching his chin and arms. When she replied she had learned her skills from a Russian jeweler, he appeared skeptical.

“We are a small family-owned silver shop, Miss Anyu, and we only hire reputable, trustworthy jewelers from local artisan families who have a history of designing jewelry for the Chinese imperial families.” Mr. Yang stressed “trustworthy”.

She took her leave, wondering if it would have been helpful if she had mentioned the House of Mandelburg.

Then she went to the Old Feng Xiang Silver Shop. This time, she gave her name as Anyu, from the House of Mandelburg.

She browsed the shop again while waiting.

Old Feng Xiang sold items similar to what she had seen in Yang Qinghe’s shop, but one hairpin caught her attention.

It had striking blue enamel that appeared to be lapis lazuli from one angle and turquoise from another.

The owner, a short man with glasses, explained that he had used the kingfisher’s iridescent plumage as a pigment and laid feathers on hot metals shaped like stars and shells.

Traditionally called dian cui , this was a technique he had learned from his grandfather, who had been an imperial metalsmith.

Even Fabergé’s eggs, which used 144 enamel colors, couldn’t produce two shades of blue with one pigment.

The owner’s son, a youth wearing red suspenders, interviewed her.

He had heard her name, read about her in the newspaper, and highly valued her designs.

But sadly, he must honor the agreement held by the nine silver shops in Shanghai, which barred the Chinese shops from trading gold or silver with foreign dealers or employing foreigners.

She was unaware of the local businesses’ agreement, which explained why the silver shops didn’t feature jewelry with diamonds or other precious gemstones—they had no access to them.

“I’m not a foreigner,” she said. “I’m from Harbin.”

“You were trained by a foreigner. We don’t work with artisans associated with them.”

Anyu walked out of the silver shop, her head hung low. For the first time since she left the House of Mandelburg, she realized the immense luck she had had to have met Isaac, who had selflessly trained her, nurtured her, and elevated her career. It was foolish of her to have discarded it all.

Should she return to the Mandelburgs?

One morning, Anyu found a package wrapped in greasy newspaper left at her door. She opened it. Inside was half a roasted duck; its golden skin glistened, beads of fat dripping.

A man left it there, her neighbor, the old man who liked to play the erhu , told her.

Anyu brought the duck inside and devoured it. The meat brought memories of the duck Mother had bought when she was thirteen. How Mother smiled, chewing on the bony head, while she stuffed her mouth with the succulent meat, and her heart was full, too, with her mother’s love.

Whoever left the duck knew her taste.

Then, one day, she opened the door to see a man leaning against the railing. “Surprise!” he said cheerfully.

She recognized him instantly. “Confucius!”

The last time she saw him she had just turned seventeen. She had thought they’d never see each other again. “It was you! You left me the duck!”

He had grown taller, his face leaner, his eyes bigger, alert like a house mouse’s. His hair was still the same shoulder length. “I thought you might like it. You look awfully thin.”

Who would know they’d meet again. She smiled. “How did you find me?”

“You were sulking all over the city for months! My men had been following you. They were thinking about kidnapping you but held back because they believed you were crazy, a woman with nine fingers and a dead look in her eyes. You scared them.”

“Your men?”

He gave five fingers. “We’re a gang of five. We offer the best crimes in Shanghai: Kidnapping, coercion, burglary, bribery, gang fights, gun fights, spying. All except murder. For you, free of charge.”

“I wonder if the great teacher Confucius offered advice on a code of conduct for criminals.”

“Criminals? That depends on how you see it. But the great teacher’s wisdom is free for all. Here’s one: An oppressive government is more to be feared than a tiger. ”

She shook her head. Still, it was good to see Confucius. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I stayed away from you, as you said. But I’ve been following the news about you.” He leaned on the balcony, brushing aside the laundry on a clothesline overhead. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Mandelburg is twenty-five years older than you.”

“I know how old he is.”

“Bellefeuille is even older than Mandelburg.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Why do you like old men?”

Anyu’s face grew hot. “They’re not . . . old . . .”

“Is it because you don’t have a father?”

What was that supposed to mean? Why would he say that?

Yet it was true that sometimes she did perceive Isaac as a father figure, and for her entire life, she had felt the emptiness of not having a father—it was there, out of the corner of her eye and behind her back, where she couldn’t see.

Sometimes, this emptiness—wondering if and how and why—hung above her head like the sun.

Did she mistake Isaac’s fatherly adoration for a lover’s affection?

Had Isaac known this all along and tried to tell her?

He loved her, he had confessed, but he understood she was deep in her adolescent passion, and he had wanted to give her more time to mature, with an understanding that one day she’d realize how she truly felt about him.

She understood, finally.

“I knew it! You have a father complex!”

“Too bad. I was going to invite you in.” She shut the door.

Confucius came over for a visit once a week and brought roasted duck and chestnuts and glutinous rice balls with sausage and egg yolks.

Sometimes, they sat on the edge of the bed, feasting on the savory meat and licking their fingers; sometimes, they leaned on the windowsill, talking about the goings-on in the city and listening to the high-pitched operas carried by the wind; sometimes, he was a bit too close, his hand touching hers.

She didn’t say anything. She liked Confucius, and she had thought of him in the lonely hours for the past four years. But love was a dangerous art that she had failed at time and time again. She wanted to take it slow.

One evening, they leaned against the windowsill, watching children play with fireworks in the street. The vendors had closed their stalls early, and the street was a children’s playground. They held sparklers, their faces lit by the brilliant light.

“Why did you come, Confucius?”

“I can’t stay away.” He would like her to know him as a man, not a gangster, Confucius added.

He had been born into a wealthy family, with his future planned out for him, he said.

But his father died, and his mother got pneumonia, draining his family’s wealth with each bowl of herbs.

As a young man, he had once won a top scholarship at a university, but a magistrate bribed the school and the scholarship was given to the magistrate’s son instead.

When Confucius protested, he was dismissed for disobedience. He hadn’t found a decent job since.

He was not a brave man, nor a good gangster who committed crimes like it was his calling.

His motto was “It’s better to be a living coward than a dead daredevil.

” Deep down, he felt guilty about robbing people of their money or possessions, and he swore to quit when he went to bed every night, but those oaths dissolved as quickly as the morning dew at sunrise.

“All I can say is that life is a thief who takes pleasure in showing off his sleight of hand. Most of us are incompetent players, and most of us are losers. But here we are, at the game table; we might as well pretend to win and have some fun, don’t you agree?” Confucius said.

She considered. Who would have thought she’d end up in a dingy apartment like her mother?

“But you’re still a gangster.”

“If you think about it, you’re more of a gangster than me,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Because you have nine fingers.”

She held up her hand. The stump, where the missing finger had been, looked like a shriveled jujube date. She still remembered the shock and the pain when the gunshot tore through her finger. “If it weren’t for you, I would have died.”

“No doubt about that. But I would never let you die.”

She didn’t speak. Confucius was kind to her, but this might be another mistake. On the street, more children were running out of the buildings, shrieking, holding sparklers; her gaze followed them, those little sprites who reminded her of the child she had lost.

“Those stinkers,” he said. “I want to have ten of them.”

She turned to him.

“I assume you still want to get married?” he asked.

“Yes, in fifty years.”

“I’ll be there.”

Deeply, she kissed him. What if she was an incompetent player? She would take a chance. And one day, she’d tell him about the child she lost.

They made plans: he’d take her to visit his mother, who lived in a modest room in the Hong Kou District, and when her apartment rental ended, she could choose to live with them or find another place. Anyu felt like smiling. Would she have a normal domestic life, with relatives and a home?

“I do hope you will find something decent to do,” she said.

Confucius hesitated. “One last job tomorrow, then I’ll quit.”

But then, the next day, Confucius didn’t come.

Anxious, Anyu searched for him. Restaurants.

Gambling houses. Opium dens. And even a brothel.

Outside a gambling house, she found his friend, Yong, his face bloody.

The poor man’s kneecaps were shattered, his ribs broken.

There had been a gang fight, and the police arrested them. Confucius had fled.

Anyu hoped he was unharmed, somewhere safe, hiding and taking care of himself. And when the time came, he would find her and they would be together again. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they were not meant for each other.

The other Chinese jewelry stores declined to offer her a job as well, citing her background of being trained by a foreigner, and the only employment options left for her were as a maid or a washerwoman.

Anyu couldn’t believe this was her fate.

Frequently, she thought of Isaac—she still cared about him.

And his egg. And Esther— You’ll always be a member of the Mandelburg family. Should she go back?

She studied her fingers; the tips were round, smooth, having not held tools for almost a year. She missed jewelry making—the joy of designing, sawing a gold plate, and watching a piece of metal transform in her hand. If only she were given another chance to be a jeweler.

One day in June, she passed a news stall. Glancing at the North China Daily News , she stopped. At the bottom, in large type, was the news: A Russian jewelry shop had been burglarized. The old man, the owner who fought hard, was wounded; the burglar had escaped.

It was Isaac’s shop.

Anyu was worried. Was Uncle David wounded?

How about Isaac? She wanted to know how they were doing and how much they lost, and above all, she wanted to apologize to Isaac for her stubbornness.

She had made the mistake of leaving him.

She should respect his wish—he couldn’t marry her; that was all right. She just wanted to be a jeweler.

The next day, at the break of dawn, Anyu got out of bed. She picked up her suitcase, which contained her few belongings, and left the apartment. On the street, she began to walk, looking ahead, toward the only place she wanted to go, the only place where she truly belonged.