The city sniffs, and the clouds grow dense, blocking the shine of the moon. Shanghai fights a war too. The soldiers in uniform have not arrived yet, but it is a war, nonetheless.
“Your numbers mean nothing,” the megaphone tries once more. “Disperse, or—”
The officer steps back abruptly, seeing something in the crowd. It is a chain effect, and all the workers turn to look too, one after the other, raising the gas lamps in their hands and lighting the dark night.
And they see a monster standing in the crowd.
At once the masses falls loose in fear. Police officers and gangsters on the other side of the line rush for shelter. By now this city knows how to react. Its people have gone through this play enough times that they have memorized their lines and they remember which exit to take. They pick up children and haul them to their shoulders, they offer the elderly their arms, and they run.
But . . . the monster does not do anything. Even when the workers have dispersed, it stands there, one lone entity in the middle of the road. When it blinks, its eyelids come together from the left and right, and at once a collective shudder shakes the city from all who look upon it. They wish not to see how the monster’s blue skin grows murky under the light, but the moon shines on anyway, and the officers in the station must turn away from the window, breathing shallowly with fear.
In this part of Shanghai, the uprising pauses. Other places—other fringe districts and dirt roads—burn and become awash in blood, but here there is no movement from within the station, no slash of a broadsword nor heads atop pikes, so long as the monster remains.
It tilts its head up, looking at the moon.
Almost like the monster is smiling.
Eleven
February 1927
The sun was out today, burning above the city as if it were a large diamond studded into the sky. It seemed most suitable, Juliette thought as she stepped out of the car, breathing in the crisp air. There were parts of Shanghai that she could not look at directly because it glimmered too harshly, so overwrought with the strength of its own extravagance that it could not be appreciated for any of it.
Particularly here, at the heart of the city. This was technically International Settlement territory, but the French Concession was only some streets over, and the overlap in jurisdiction was messy enough that Juliette never cared much about the border that existed along Avenue Edward VII. Neither did its inhabitants, so this was where they were starting their work in the French Concession: outside of it.
Juliette ducked into the shadow of a building, slinking around its exterior. Here lay all the fanciest hotels, so close in succession, and Juliette didn’t want to get trapped into conversation with any overeager foreign ladies out to experience the local culture. Quick as she could, she stepped into the alley and stopped, steeling herself.
He was wearing white again. She had never seen so much goddamn white on him.
“Alors, quelle surprise te voir ici.”
Roma turned at the sound of her voice, unamused by her false astonishment. Both his hands were in his trouser pockets, and it may have been Juliette’s imagination, but she swore one hand twitched like it was clutching a weapon.
“Where else would I have been waiting, Juliette?”
Juliette merely shrugged, having no energy to continue being a nuisance. It didn’t make her feel any better; nor did it improve Roma’s default scowl. When his hand came out of his pocket, she was almost surprised to find that it was a golden pocket watch he retrieved, flipping its cover to check the time.
Juliette was late. They had agreed to meet at noon behind the Grand Theatre because their destination was across the road at the Recreation Ground, where the foreign race club was. The race club was always at high capacity, but especially at these hours, when socialites and ministers threw bets like it was their full-time job.
“I was running errands,” Juliette said as Roma put the watch away.
Roma started off in the direction of the racecourse. “I didn’t ask.”
Ouch. Juliette physically flinched, a throbbing hot sensation starting in her heart. But she could handle it. What was a small bout of meanness? At least he wasn’t trying to shoot her.
“You don’t want to know what errands I was running?” Juliette pressed, following his brisk walk. “I offer you information on a platter and you do not even take it. I was checking the postmarks on the letters, Roma Montagov. Did you think to do that?”
Roma glanced over his shoulder momentarily, then turned back around as soon as Juliette had caught up at his side. “Why would I need to?”
“They could have been fake if the blackmailer hadn’t truly sent them out of the French Concession.”
“And were they?”
Juliette blinked. Roma had stopped suddenly, and it took her a second to realize it wasn’t because he was enraptured with their conversation. He was simply waiting to cross the road.
Roma waved for them to cross.
“No,” she finally answered when they were on the sidewalk again. From here, she could already hear the thundering of hooves. “They indeed came from various post offices across the Concession.”
What Juliette didn’t understand was why someone would go through the labor. It was harder to make stamps talk than people . . . Juliette could accept that. No one would be foolish enough to hire help for delivering the messages, because then Juliette could catch the help and torture a name out of them. But to use the postage system? Could they not have left letters around the city for any old gangster to pick up and bring to Lord Cai? It was as if they wanted Juliette to storm into the French Concession, given how obvious the postmarks were.
She didn’t say any of this aloud. Roma didn’t look like he cared.
“You’re giving this blackmailer too much credit,” he said. “They come from the French Concession because, as expected, it is someone around these parts of the city who took on Paul’s legacy.” A sigh. “So here we are.”
At once, Roma and Juliette lifted their heads, looking upon the race club’s central building. The clubhouse stood on the western side of the racetrack, spilling outward with its grandstand and climbing skyward with its ten-story tower. A collective roar sounded from the track to signal some race finishing, and activity inside the clubhouse rumbled with excitement, awaiting the next round of bets.
This was a different face of the city. Each time Juliette walked into a Settlement establishment, she left behind the parts that juggled crime and party in the same hand, and instead entered a world of pearls and etiquette. Of rules and dazzling games only maneuverable by the fluent. One wrong move, and those who did not belong were immediately ousted.
“I hate this place,” Roma whispered. His sudden admission would have taken Juliette by surprise if she, too, weren’t so simultaneously captivated by awe and revulsion—by the marble staircases and oak parquet flooring, by the betting hall within glimpse of the open doors, loud enough to compete with the grandstand cheering.
Roma, despite what his words were saying, could not look away from what he was seeing.
“Me too,” Juliette replied quietly.
Maybe one day, a history museum could stand where the clubhouse was instead, boxing within its walls the pain and beauty that somehow always existed at once in this city. But for now, today, it was a clubhouse, and Roma and Juliette needed to get to the third floor, where the members’ stand was.