The Yu Lan Method

Hendrik read and re-read the letter. His legs had long given out, and so he sat in his office in Dejima while he read the words, trying in his mind to change them with each re-reading.

“We regret to inform you,” it started, “that your ship, De Goede Hoop, has capsized at sea when heading to Batavia from the Netherlands. All aboard the ship perished, and the goods were lost.”

He didn't care about the goods. Goods were cheap, plentiful. He didn't even care about the boat. He was wealthy enough to buy another. He tried to let out a breath, but it caught in his throat, his chest shaking, heaving. Next to the letter, the crew and passenger manifest. Many good sailors were lost, yes, but he didn't care about that right now. His eyes went to the middle where three names were written: Annalies, Bram, and Fenna. All van der Molens. His wife, his son, and his daughter.

Then the tears came forth like a squall. Things went dark, things went grey, like somebody sucked all the color and joy out of life. His mind churned, whether he wanted to or not, trying to find a clue, trying to find a solution, trying to find some indication that everybody was all right. Maybe they were stranded on a small island somewhere, and if he followed their path, he could find them and rescue them. Maybe there was still hope. But then the rational part of his brain took control. De Goede Hoop was gone, as was everything aboard it. Everyone aboard it.

He pulled a bottle of sake out from a drawer in his desk and began to drown his sadness.

Hours later, he awoke, and his head was splitting. Several empty bottles of sake lay scattered on the desk and the floor. The room was dark, his lamp having burned the last of the oil within. His head spinning and his legs wobbly, he pushed himself to his feet. The tear-stained papers on his desk reassured him that it hadn't been a dream. Everybody he had loved and cared about had perished.

Then he threw up.

Later, after he had cleaned himself up and sobered up a bit, he found his bookkeeper, a half-Japanese man named Tsutomu Mori, but everybody called him Jan. Jan looked at Hendrik with sympathy in his eyes. “I'm sorry about your loss,” he said.

Hendrik tried to be strong, but the steel man he pretended to be was hollow within. “I can't do it anymore, Jan,” he said.

“Do what?” Jan said.

“Any of it,” Hendrik said, waving his hand across the Dejima harbor with its Dutch traders navigating boats in and out, and Dutch stevedores wheeling cargo here and there. It was like looking into the cogs of a terrible clock, and it made Hendrik's mind reel. “I want to give it up.”

Jan set down his ledger. “You're the best manager we have here. Your brain is like a room of abacuses when it comes to logistics. Even if you do tend to drink too much.”

Hendrik rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I can't get them out of my head,” he said. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Annalies and the children exactly as I saw them before I came to this cursed artificial island, down to the very last detail. I can see the ribbon in Fenna's hair blowing in the breeze, and the unbuttoned button on Bram's shirt.” He opened his eyes. “My memory is a curse, Jan.”

Jan nodded. “But it's helped us out so many times. You only have to look at a manifest once to know what's supposed to be aboard the ship, then watch the cargo come down the gangplank to know if it's all accounted for. How many times did we catch discrepancies that could have been embarrassing?"

“Twenty-seven,” said Hendrik. Then he winced. “Curse this mind of mine,” he said. He clutched his hand to his head and hurried off, leaving Jan standing there alone on the docks.

A moment later, a stevedore arrived with a mail bag. “New shipment of mail,” he said to Jan. “There's even a letter for Captain van der Molen.” The man held the letter separate from the rest.

“I'll take it,” Jan said. He plucked the letter from the man's hand. The stevedore grunted and then left the rest of the mail in its bag at the bookkeeper's feet. Jan looked at the letter. The handwriting on it was fine and fair, and though it smelled of the sea and the ship that carried it, it still had a faint trace of perfume. It was from Annalies. Jan tucked it into his shirt before carrying the rest of the mail to the cabins for the clerks to sort and distribute. After that, he went to find Hendrik.

Hendrik was in his office. His hand rested on the ornamental katana stand on the table by the wall. “Captain?” Jan said.

Hendrik looked back. He gave a weak smile. “I don't think I could’ve done it anyway,” he said.

Jan nodded. “You should take some time off, sir,” he said. “We’ll manage without you.”

Hendrik stepped across the office and stood in front of Jan. “Of course,” he said. He took a slow, deep breath. “But please, give me the letter first.” He held out his hand.

Jan reached into his coat and handed it over.

“I smelled her perfume,” Hendrik said, examining the letter. “The subtle sweetness of orchids blended with tulip. I thought I was imagining things,” he turned. “But I'm much too old for imagination.”

He used a letter opener to slice open the envelope, pulling the crisp, folded pages from within.

“Captain,” Jan said. “Please. You’re only hurting yourself. The loss of your wife and two children is enough, you don't need to be tormented further.”

Hendrik stopped. “Three,” he said. “Well, it would have been three soon.” He dropped the letter to the desk. “She asked what I thought would be good names.” His eyes went to the katana once more. “I think I will take some time off,” he said, barely a whisper.

And that's how he found himself in Shanghai. He wore his flat-topped tricorn and a long coat. The streets of Zhabei were abuzz with activity: motorized rickshaws, street vendors frying rice over gas fires, children and animals running about, and a miasma of smells both familiar and foreign. Hendrik had observed upon the early days of being a sailor that each city had its own unique scent. He had challenged himself to identify the different layers within the city's smell: oil, wood, charcoal, petrichor, fish, sweat. Most cities had the same base odor, but each one layered different scents upon that, like a twisted perfumer. This place had a faint odor of desperation mixed in. He had never quite been able to identify the key traces of this smell, but he imagined part of it was human pheromones. They were inherently scentless, but much like using fat or a powder derived from tomato pulp, shiitake, and kombu in cooking could enhance flavor, these enhanced the odors around them.

He caught a whiff of orchids and tulips just outside of an alchemist shop. He went in the other direction, where the scent of desperation was stronger.

In this city were many distractions: elaborate steamworks, delicious food, music, theatrics, performances, beautiful women, but Hendrik knew that none of these could help him forget his grief. Especially with that lingering flowery odor.

Then he caught the scent of something different, something sweet, like caramelized sugar or burning amber incense, something like the smell of roasted hazelnuts, with a lingering undertone of dried jasmine and poppy. It covered the smell of orchids and tulips and despair. He went toward that smell.

It led him to a den, the room dark, lit only by small lamps. A long-haired man with pointed fingernails saw him coming and read his troubled soul like a book. “Come in and forget your worries,” he said in passable Dutch.

Hendrik let himself be led inside. The attendant took him over to an oil lamp where he rolled a bead of some thick, dark paste on a long needle. It began to bubble and cook, releasing vapors that reminded Hendrik of dark molasses, toasted malt, and the bitter smell of roasted coffee beans. The peanut oil of the lamp here, and traces of sesame oil elsewhere mixed with the odors of stale tea leaves made his head swim. He let himself fall back into a teakwood chair to take in the melange of incense and sweat and desperation.

The vapor from the paste, which the attendant called chandu, wasn't harsh like tobacco, but smooth, covering Hendrik like a warm blanket. He leaned back, embracing the vapor, and let his eyes loll in his head. Soon he was elsewhere. Back home, looking at his wife and children, exactly as the memory that was burned into his head showed him whenever he closed his eyes. They were smiling. He reached out to them, wanting to never leave their side again, but as he reached out his hand, either they got further away, or his arm length decreased. He struggled and reached further, but he could not move. In a blink, the room was full of seawater, and there he saw his family before him, floating there, the mantlepieces drifting and bobbing with their bodies, little bubbles escaping their mouths, and then, nothing. Glazed eyes, pale skin, but still their beautiful faces. He reached out to touch the wall of water, to try to save them, some way, somehow.

His finger broke some seal in this seawater, and it poured out onto him in a stream, splashing his face. He coughed, he sputtered, he opened his eyes. He lay on his back. Someone had splashed a bucket of water on his face. His whole body ached. His arms felt weak, he stunk, and as the water ran down his face, he felt it brush past several days’ stubble. The room was bright. Too bright. A figure stepped between him and whatever bright light it was that felt like it was blinding him.

The figure smelled like orchids and tulips. “Annalies?” he muttered through a parched throat. He tried to reach a hand out, but it felt heavy, and would barely lift from the floor.

The figure leaned forward, no longer a silhouette in the light. She was definitely not Annalies. This lady was Chinese. She wore a pillbox hat and tortoiseshell glasses. “Good,” she said. “You are awake.” She set down the bucket, now empty, she had been holding.

She spoke English.

“Where am I?” Hendrik said. He coughed. The woman handed him a cup of brackish water. He choked it down and coughed some more.

“You are in my workshop,” she said. “I had to pay a fair price to get you out of that den.”

Hendrik tried to sit up. Seeing it, the woman stepped forward. She propped him up, setting a sturdy pillow behind him so he could stay that way. “Who are you?” he said, his voice returning to him.

The woman stepped back and stood proudly. “I am Doctor Yu Lan,” she said. “I am an alchemist.”

Hendrik looked around the workshop. It had all manner of vials and tubes, and a strange mixture of smells that he couldn't yet unravel. He looked back at her. “You said you had to pay a fair price for me?” he said.

She nodded. “I will allow you to work off your debt,” she said. “But I need you to have a clear mind.”

He shook his head. “I can't think straight right now.” He stretched his neck. “Do you have any of that stuff that guy was burning? I think it would help me out.”

Dr. Lan frowned. “You will not poison your mind with that chandu anymore.” She handed him a tincture. “This is all you will be getting,” she said.

He took it from her. His hands began to shake. “I could really go for the other stuff,” he said. He looked at the vial that held the concentrate. It was deep amber, the color of aged whiskey. He gave it a smell. “Licorice root?” he said.

She nodded. “And a few other things. They are a secret. I call it Jīn Qiáo, or the Golden Bridge.”

He gave it another sniff. “I also smell aconite.”

She nodded. “You are perceptive. Money well paid.”

His hand shook again. He wanted to muster all of his strength and crawl back to the dank, smelly room and fill his lungs with the aroma of chandu. He looked at the vial. “Isn't aconite toxic?”

She nodded. “But in the hands of a master alchemist, it can be rendered curative. It will help with the chills.” She smirked. “It will pose you no threat, provided you are not a werewolf.”

He nodded, unsure if she was joking by that last remark. He closed his eyes and poured the contents into his mouth. It tasted like the worst bottle of Boonekamp he had ever drunk. He coughed, sputtered, and after drinking a second cup of the brackish water Dr. Lan had offered him, cleared his throat. “Strong stuff,” he said.

“I would hope so,” she said. “Otherwise, my efforts would be in vain.”

He rubbed his head, noticing that his hat had gone missing since he last was conscious. “So, what do you need me to do?”

“Two things, Captain van der Molen,” she said. She smiled at his surprise at her knowing his name. “First: solve a little mystery for me, and second: get me safely out of Shanghai.”

“How much do I owe you?” he said. “I'm sure I could just have my company draft you a ransom and we could be done with it.”

Dr. Lan shook her head. “You are not being held at ransom,” she said. “But money cannot solve my problem more than it has already.”

“I don't know what you hope to accomplish,” he said. “I’m not known for solving mysteries,” he paused to cough, this time, declining a third cup of the water. “And the last I checked, women aren't allowed in Dejima, especially Chinese women.”

“I only said you had to get me out of Shanghai safely. I did not say you had to bring me to Dejima,” she said.

“Correct,” he said. “But that’s where I'm headed regardless.”

She nodded. “Then leave the matter of forbidding women entrance as my problem to solve,” she said.

Hendrik tried to push himself to his feet. His legs felt as if they were made of seaweed. Dr. Lan helped him to stand. He leaned himself against a table. His head reeled. “What's the mystery?”

“Three days ago,” Dr. Lan said, “I had a very important prototype stolen. A clockwork lotus, a small geared engine that leverages a principle of self-winding using a combination of alchemical catalysts and compressed pneumatic pressure.”

Hendrik ran a hand through his tangled hair. “A perpetual motion machine?” he said.

“Do not be ridiculous,” she said. “I am aware of entropy. Eventually, the clockwork lotus will cease operations without manual intervention.” She grinned. “However, you and I and our children's children will long be dead by then.”

Hendrik gritted his teeth. He held back saying something about his children already being dead.

Dr. Lan saw the change in his expression. Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “I did not realize. My apologies.”

Hendrik waved it away. “Do you have any clues?” he said.

“My apprentice, the clockmaker's son, has disappeared as well. I fear he has been kidnapped. “The only clue I have is a handwritten letter.” She rifled through some papers on a table and handed a wrinkled and stained paper to Hendrik. He read it, though his eyes were still blurry. It was a mixture of Dutch and Chinese, written by somebody who didn't seem to have a firm grasp of either. The message was exactly what he'd expect: a melodramatic ransom note for both the device and the boy with a promise to end the boy's life if she went to the authorities. The price, though, was not a monetary amount, but simply the recipe.

“Which recipe?” he said. “The one I just drank? Because I'm pretty sure the other key ingredient is corydalis yanhusuo.”

Dr. Lan frowned. “The ingredients are only half the key,” she said. “You cannot simply mix sugar and rice flour and eggs to make cookies. It's how they are mixed, when they are combined, and what to do with them before, during, and after, that matters.” She clenched her hand. “However, no, this recipe is a different recipe. The letter was not specific, but based on the context, I believe I know which one he seeks.”

Hendrik looked at the letter again. “You can tell a man wrote this?” he said.

Dr. Lan raised her hand as if she was drawing calligraphy in the air. “Of course,” she said. “Only a man could shape his letters in that way. So soulless and mechanical.” That's when Hendrik noticed the illustrations hanging on the wall. These depictions of soulless and mechanical devices were rendered with a careful, elegant, and dare-he-think beautiful hand. If these were Dr. Lan's technical illustrations, they too were works of art.

Hendrick tested his legs. They felt more sturdy, however, it felt as if there was a creature hiding in the shadows of his mind, ready to pounce on chandu if it even got a whiff. He clenched his teeth. “Well, it's obvious where we need to go next,” he said.

Dr. Lan looked over at Hendrik. “Where?” she said.

“The International Settlement.” He held up the note. “This message is written on French paper with India ink.”

Dr. Lan nodded. “Very astute,” she said.

“But first,” Hendrik said, “I need to get my hat back.”

Dr. Lan frowned. “I will get it for you,” she said. “I do not want you returning to the chandu den. It will be too much for you in your current state.”

Hendrik was disappointed at that. He recalled fondly the euphoria he had felt, at first, and the fondness of getting to see Annalies and the children one more time. Part of him wondered if he could return there each time, and if the chandu were some way to escape the bitter confines of reality and step into the other worlds.

Dr. Lan left him with a pot of tea and instructions to “wait here and drink a few cups.” She returned a half hour later with Hendrik's coat and hat. They smelled faintly of the den as well as something distinctly chemical, probably a treatment of Dr. Lan's to try to eliminate the odor. However, when Dr. Lan got close enough to hand the jacket to him, all he could smell was her perfume: lotus and tulip.

He let in a slow breath through his nose, memories of Annalies flooding his brain as he accepted his coat, and as Dr. Lan affixed the hat to his head. After putting on the coat and adjusting the hat, he was ready to go.

Dr. Lan walked by his side, lugging a large bag. Based on the occasional glass or metallic clink that came from within, Hendrik suspected that it was a sort of portable alchemy lab meant to look like a somewhat cumbersome handbag. He tried to keep her downwind to minimize the smell of her perfume.

They walked past vendors, and shops, and railroad tracks, until they arrived at the border of the International Settlement. Some British soldiers stood on the other side. They saw the two, and one held up his hand, indicating for them to stop. It was obvious, with Hendrik's Dutch sailor coat and hat and Dr. Lan's qipao, that neither of them were British citizens.

“What brings you here?” said one of the guards in broken Chinese.

Dr. Lan stepped forward, followed by the ghost of Annalies her perfume conjured. “We have business here,” she said in perfect English. She held up a document. Hendrik only caught a glimpse, but it looked like a sales order for a prescription.

The guard who spoke took the document and read it. “Very well,” he said in English, a bit distraught as Dr. Lan’s accent was more posh than his.

Dr. Lan nodded, stepping past the guards. Hendrik followed, but the other guard stopped him. “Not so fast,” he said.

Dr. Lan looked back. “I require my assistant,” she said.

The guard looked Hendrik up and down. “He looks more like a sailor and not like an apothecary.”

Dr. Lan reached across the border and grabbed Hendrik's sleeve. “Looks can be deceiving,” she said, pulling him after her. Hendrik got another whiff of her perfume, and it made him stumble. “Now, if you will excuse us, we have important business to attend to.”

The guards did not attempt to stop her.

As they walked through the streets of the International Settlement, Dr. Lan pressed close to talk privately. Hendrik tried not to breathe. “Do you have any ideas beyond this entire sector where our culprit may be?” she asked.

Hendrik thought back to the paper. “One of the stains on the paper was curry. Is there a place that makes such food here?”

Dr. Lan raised an eyebrow. “Just about every restaurant and inn here makes curry. It's the British.”

Hendrik furrowed his brow. “It wasn't an Indian curry,” he said. “I believe it was Siamese.”

Dr. Lan stopped and turned to face Hendrik. “Siamese curry?” she said. “You are well traveled.”

Hendrik grinned, trying to not breathe her perfume. “I spent half a month in Siam,” he said, “and stayed in the home of a local family while my ship was repaired. They make a curry that rivals the ones the British introduced to the world.”

Dr. Lan looked out over the International Settlement. “There is an innkeeper who has a Siamese wife,” she said. “Though I am unaware that she cooks the cuisine of her homeland.” She nodded in one direction. “Come along. At the very least, we can have some beans on bread.”

Hendrik followed after Dr. Lan. They came to an inn. The smell of ale and boiled food was apparent from the street. Hendrik was glad, as it helped mask Dr. Lan's perfume. They went inside. An Englishman sat behind the bar. His eyes widened for a moment when he saw a Chinese woman and a Dutch man enter his establishment. “What can I do for you?” he asked, polishing a mug with a stained towel.

Dr. Lan gave Hendrik a half-smile that only he could see. She looked at the innkeeper. “We are doing an investigation,” she said in English, toning down the posh a bit,, “and we believe that one of your tenants has stolen an object of great value.”

The innkeeper scrunched his eyebrows. “You don't look like police,” he said.

Dr. Lan shook her head. “We are not. We are private detectives under the employ of the shogunate.” She handed him an official looking document.

The man stopped polishing the mug and took the paper. “Why would the shogunate hire foreigners as detectives?”

Dr. Lan smiled. “People treat foreigners differently, so they notice different things. How would you have acted had a samurai come in here asking questions?”

The innkeeper nodded. “I see your point. Now, about this allegation. You say that one of my tenants has stolen something?”

“Yes. We would prefer to keep this as discreet as possible,” Dr. Lan said. As she spoke, a Siamese woman came out from the back. Dr. Lan gave Hendrik a nod, confirming his suspicions.

“Of course,” he said. He set the mug down. “Which tenant of mine was it?” he said. He said something to his wife, and she went off to fetch the guest log. “What was his name?”

“Unfortunately, we do not know his name,” Dr. Lan said. “However, we might be able to provide a physical description.” She looked at Hendrik.

Hendrik looked back at her. She raised her eyebrows. He nodded. He closed his eyes, picturing the ransom note in his head, the handwriting, the other stray marks. Then he opened his eyes, surveying the tables and chairs. “Might I ask,” he said. “Do all the rooms have tables and chairs like these?”

The innkeeper looked at one of the tables. “Yes,” he said. “Each room has its own table. Not as big as these, but the same height.”

Hendrik nodded. The slant of the writing, taking into consideration the pen that the innkeeper's wife was holding beside the guest log, gave Hendrik some inclination regarding the height of the suspect. “I believe he was as tall as my associate,” he said, pointing to Dr. Lan, “and had a penchant for your wife's native cooking.”

The innkeeper looked from Dr. Lan to his wife. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah!” he said. He took the guest book from his wife and found the entry. “Patrik van Oss,” he said, pointing to the entry. “He's out right now, so I'll show you to his room.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Lan.

The innkeeper returned the book to his wife. While she returned it, he stepped around the bar. A large keyring jangled on his belt. “Follow me,” he said. He led them upstairs, where several doors lined the hallway there. “This room,” he said. He used the key on the door, pushing it open into the dark room.

A lamp sat on a table by the door. Dr. Lan produced a flame from somewhere, lighting the wick. Something in the room made a “mmph” sound.

“Wang Qing!” Dr. Lan said. She hurried over to where a boy was tied up and gagged in the corner. She said something to him in Chinese as she untied him. The innkeeper looked at Hendrik.

“It's her apprentice,” he muttered.

The boy was speaking so fast that were he speaking Dutch, Hendrik still probably couldn't have followed him. Dr. Lan patted him on the head and said things that sounded reassuring. On the table in the far corner of the room was a box. “I think we've found it,” Hendrik said, stepping closer to the table.

Dr. Lan looked up from where she knelt on the floor. “It was never in a box like that,” she said.

Hendrik looked at the innkeeper. “We have some investigation to do now. If the tenant returns, please delay him. We want to make sure we have enough to arrest him.”

The innkeeper nodded before returning downstairs.

Qing sat on the chair, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had bound him. He sat silently, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion at seeing Dr. Lan and the Dutch stranger standing side-by-side looking at the strange box.

“What strange markings,” Dr. Lan said. “I recognize many of them, but their placement is meaningless to me.”

Hendrik tilted the box in his hands. It had numbers and letters and alchemical symbols all over it. “I think I know what this is,” he said. “It's a code used by Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie.” He grabbed a sheet of paper and the pen and pot and began to write things down. Dr. Lan watched as he decoded the markings on the box. Each symbol or letter mapped to a different letter, and certain symbols were mapped to double letters. The more he wrote, though, the more the letters grew shaky and spidery. Soon, he was done. He looked at the page, his eyes darting, his hands shaking.

Dr. Lan reached into her bag and produced another tincture of Golden Bridge. She handed it to Hendrik. He scratched his arm absently, feeling that he was beginning to sweat. He took the vial and consumed its contents. It wasn't immediate, but the goosebumps and desperation slowly melted away. Soon, he was able to think clearly again.

“It's instructions,” he said, holding up a page written in Dutch. “I'll see if I can open the box. It's still a bit of a riddle.” He set the paper down beside the box. Tracing the symbols with his fingers, he pressed one here, and turned another there. Things shifted, and after a few more manipulations, a seam formed in the box. It opened, revealing a brass device in the shape of a lotus. He handed it to Dr. Lan. “Is this what you were looking for?”

“I'll be taking that,” said a voice from the doorway. A man, no taller than Dr. Lan, stood there, gun in hand.

Qing gasped, falling out of his chair and backing away into the corner. Dr. Lan's hand went immediately to her satchel.

Hendrik placed himself between Dr. Lan and the newcomer. “So, you're our thief?” he said.

The man pointed the gun at Hendrik. “Hand over the device, or I'll shoot.” He had a strong Irish accent.

Hendrik did not move.

“Didn't you understand me?” He tried saying something in Dutch, but the words weren't in the correct order.

“I understood you,” Hendrik said in English. “But I refuse to move.” He stepped up to the man, whose trembling hand still pointed the gun at him. “I refuse to let you do whatever it is you're planning on doing with this device.” His chest was practically at the barrel. “And if you'd like to try to change my opinion, you're using the wrong method.” He grabbed the nose of the pistol and stuck it against his chest. “Because you have the unfortunate situation where you only have one bullet, and the man you are pointing it at has nothing left to live for.”

The man froze for a second, his eyes glancing from the gun to the very serious expression of Hendrik. The room began to smell like garlic and rotten eggs.

The man pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing happened.

Taking that as an opportunity to act, Hendrik yanked the pistol from the man's hand. He brought the wooden grip down on the man's head, knocking him out. Qing had opened a window and Lan had secured the lotus in her satchel. An empty glass vial lay on the table.

Hendrik stepped up to it and picked it up. “Realgar and burnt sulphur?” he said.

“It makes gunpowder less effective,” she said.

“It stinks,” Hendrik said. He set the vial down. Looking at the unconscious man, he said, “What do we do with him?”

Dr. Lan grabbed a sheet of paper from the table, and using the pen and ink, started writing. When she was done, she had perfectly believable extradition papers. “We will take him out of the International Settlement and let my government deal with him,” she said.

Hendrik examined the papers. They looked flawless. She even managed to forge convincing looking stamps, possibly using other pigments she carried in her bag. He propped up the unconscious man, throwing him over his shoulder. “Well then,” he said. “Let's get back.”

“Don't forget the rest of our agreement,” Dr. Lan said.

Hendrik looked back. “Of course,” he said. “I'll be heading back to Dejima in the morning. I've seen enough of Shanghai to last me a lifetime.”

“Did you really mean it?” he heard her ask.

“Mean what?”

“That you have nothing left to live for?”

He grunted. “Maybe I was overexaggerating,” he said.

She nodded. “Come along, Qing. Let us return home.”