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墨書 Inktalez
The stench of the sewer hit me as I pressed the document against Sister Mei's waist sash. The faded red satin was caught between the iron bars, and the oil-stained Jasmine Powder suddenly invaded my nostrils—just like that night three months ago when I ran into Troupe Leader Zhang backstage.
Blood from Boss Lu dripped onto the wax seal of the appointment letter, scorching a plum blossom-shaped mark into it. "Yun Sheng!"
As Mother Wang lifted the manhole cover, flour from her apron fell into the murky water. This woman, who always hummed tunes in the kitchen, now had veins bulging on the back of her hand as she gripped a rolling pin tightly. She stared at the blood-stained secret order in my arms and suddenly tore open her clothing to reveal an old bullet wound scar three inches below her collarbone. "In the twenty-sixth year of the Republic of China, during the Zhabei Fire, it was Miss Mei who rescued me from under a Japanese bayonet."
The hidden door to the theater's basement slammed shut behind us, and the hem of White Shadow's kimono swept across the drainage pipe. Boss Lu staggered to the distribution box, tearing apart seven rubber wires. "Zhang Xiaoliang's surveillance lines." His bloodied fingertips wove through the tangled cables like a spider's web until he suddenly pulled out half of a golden hairpin. "In Mei Lan's last performance of Mu Guiying Takes Command, there was a miniature camera hidden in her headpiece."
Mother Wang abruptly grabbed a cleaver from the cutting board, and as it flashed in the light, the board split in two. The oil lamp illuminated a tattoo on her nape—a magnolia flower ensnared by iron wire. "That year I transported sulfanilamide for Qing Gang; even the branding iron in the French Concession Police Station's dungeon couldn't make me speak."
She pulled out Sister Mei's Makeup Box, revealing six numbered brass keys nestled in golden silk lining. "The safe at 19 Xia Fei Road holds training manuals for Seventy-Six Agents."
At three in the morning, a whistle pierced through the night in the French Concession. Boss Lu dipped iodine onto a map and circled it. "The Mid-Autumn charity performance of Zhong Kui Marries His Sister; Zhang Xiaoliang booked the first three rows." He tapped on a hidden compartment in the stage dome, causing twenty-seven balloons adorned with Jintan Pills advertisements to tremble.
"A Qiang, you need to add some flair to your hat act."
I felt for the phosphorus paper packet in my suit pocket and recalled Sister Mei's sleight of hand. She always said that trickery required "three quicks and one slow": switching heaven and earth must be quick, creating distractions must be quick, escaping like a cicada shedding its shell must be quick, but bowing during the curtain call must be slow enough to make one's heart skip a beat.
Suddenly, the makeup mirror reflected Troupe Leader Zhang's aide lurking by the side curtain; mud stains on his riding boots were still from last week's rain-soaked red clay in Xujiahui.
"Mother Wang, please warm up some yellow wine," Boss Lu suddenly called out loudly, tapping out Morse code rhythms on the rim of his teacup.
I caught a glimpse of his bronze ring's reflection on his ring finger pointing towards a freshly pasted Shen Bao in the ventilation duct—the headline photo featured Troupe Leader Zhang with an Order of the Rising Sun on his chest; its ribbon pattern concealed codes for Mei Mechanism.
On performance night, as spotlights flared to life with the beat of Night Deepens, I unfurled my black silk umbrella just as my Pocket Watch Chain snagged on copper wire inside my top hat. When Dingjun Mountain’s suona reached its highest pitch and my umbrella flipped over, twenty-three flyers wrapped in phosphorus powder floated gracefully toward the VIP seats.
The foreigners from the French Chamber of Commerce raised their champagne glasses and laughed, while a laborer-looking man stuffed flyers into his toolbox. "There are anti-Japanese flyers!"
As Troupe Leader Zhang's aide drew his gun, I used the force from pushing against the umbrella handle to leap onto the beam above. Amidst the chaos erupting in the audience, Boss Lu pulled down the circuit breaker.
In the darkness, just as thirteen White Shadow were about to reveal themselves, Mother Wang swung the Copper Teapot, igniting the Realgar Wine in the air with a ghostly blue flame.
As the sudden burst of water from a fire hydrant erupted, I felt around for Troupe Leader Zhang's hard-shell cigarette case in his coat pocket. The bottom of the gold lighter was engraved with the Sakura Emblem of Hongkou Dojo, but what was rolled inside the Mint Tobacco was a Defense Map of the French Concession.
When the sound of pursuing boots drew closer, just as the hidden door on stage swung open, I heard Mother Wang humming a nursery rhyme in Suzhou Code—the same tune Sister Mei had taught us for passing messages.
"You've got some skills, young man." Troupe Leader Zhang blocked the escape route, his Nambu Pistol's sights unwaveringly aimed at my forehead. The medal on his chest glimmered ominously under the emergency lights, and the bandage peeking from his sleeve still oozed from where Boss Lu had injured him with a copper coin two days prior. "What future do you think you'll have following a troupe? Come to my mansion tomorrow; I'll show you some real stuff."
As police sirens closed in from Si Ma Road, I caught sight of a jade pendant hanging from his keychain—exactly the other half of Sister Mei's jade earrings. The loud crash of Boss Lu deliberately overturning a prop box echoed from backstage, and once again, the hem of thirteen White Shadow's kimonos swept across the fire escape ladder.
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