5Over the next few days, Trương Tiểu Niên and I talked more and more.
At first, we only talked about Chinese opera. Then we moved on to everyday things—anything and everything.
I’d never gone to school growing up, so I’d always been curious about what school life was like.
Besides, my family ran a funeral shop, so I basically had no friends.
Trương Tiểu Niên was my first real friend.
He often asked me how to win a girl over, and what gift he should give his upperclassman.
Two guys who’d been single since birth, sitting around figuring out how to woo girls together—it had its own kind of fun.
Then everything changed, and it happened fast.
I remember that day. I’d just finished lunch and was helping Dad tie together paper figures.
Trương Tiểu Niên rushed into the funeral shop, panicked and drenched in sweat.
“What’s wrong?”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me outside. “I’m begging you to help me with something.”
“What is it?”
“Do you know anyone who… um… can read fortunes?”
I laughed. “Come on, man. Didn’t you tell me to believe in science? What’s with you now?”
“My upperclassman’s missing.”
“Then you should call the police.”
“I did. They couldn’t find her either.”
Dad leaned against the doorframe. “I know someone.”
Trương Tiểu Niên and I both turned to look at him. Dad seemed a little embarrassed. “I can’t promise she’s the real deal.”
“What are you doing, Dad? A few days ago, you were calling people ghosts. Now you’re taking someone to see a fortune-teller? Just say what you want.”
Dad looked Trương Tiểu Niên over a few times. He’d already decided the guy wasn’t a ghost, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit he’d been wrong. “Anyway, you can go if you want. If not, don’t.”
“Uncle, I’ll go. Please take me.” Trương Tiểu Niên took Dad’s hand, and Dad instinctively gave the back of it a gentle pat.
I looked at Dad smugly, thinking, See? Doesn’t it feel nice?
6
Dad and I closed up the shop, then drove into the mountains.
Dad was a man of few words, so I spent the whole drive comforting Trương Tiểu Niên, quietly reminding him that most fortune-tellers were frauds. There was no harm in going to get some peace of mind, but he shouldn’t let himself get scammed.
The mountain road was rough and winding.
Then the road suddenly widened. We rounded a bend and saw a house.
There was just one lonely house in the middle of the mountains. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to live there.
The three of us got out of the car.
“Um, Dad’s not going in.”
Trương Tiểu Niên took the steps two at a time and hurried inside.
“Dad, can I… go in?”
“If you want to.”
“Okay.” I didn’t believe in any of this, but I was curious to find out whether these so-called “immortals” had real powers or were just con artists.
I entered a few steps behind Trương Tiểu Niên. Inside, a woman sat on a wooden bed. She looked about thirty. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she had an indescribable air about her.
Three needles held the work in place as she moved another needle up and down, weaving something I couldn’t make out.
The woman glanced at us and pointed her pinky at me. “If you don’t believe in me, what are you doing here?”
That didn’t scare me. People in this line of work were good at reading others; all it took was one comment that struck a nerve.
If they got it right, they could lead you on. If not, they had nothing to lose.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. My friend came to have his fortune told. I’m just here with him.”
The woman stopped weaving. “What do you want to ask?”
“I’m looking for someone.” Trương Tiểu Niên’s eyes lit up. He was clearly excited.
“Name.”
“Đỗ Ngọc Oánh.”
“Date and time of birth.”
“Can I give you the Western calendar date?”
“Yes.”
“August 16, 2001, at three in the afternoon.”
The woman paused, repeatedly tapping the joints of her fingers with her thumb.
“I can look into it. How much will you pay?”
“Whatever you ask, I’ll pay.”
The woman smiled. Her voice was a little shrill, grating on my ears. “My fees are very high.”
“I’ll give you everything I have, as long as I have it.”
The woman sat back down on the bed. “Since you’re a Chinese opera singer, sing me a tune first.”
I froze.
Ever since we’d come in, Trương Tiểu Niên hadn’t said he was a student at an arts academy, and the woman hadn’t asked who he was. So how had she guessed he sang Chinese opera?
“Peach leaves point from the treetop, willow leaves blanket the sky~” It was still “Tham Thanh Thủy Hà.” By the time he finished, his eyes were glistening with tears.
“That was lovely. If you’d been born a few decades earlier, you could’ve been a leading performer.”
Trương Tiểu Niên bowed. “Please help me, Master.”
“I like your voice. Give it to me, and I’ll help you.”
Huh?
I was dumbfounded. How could you give someone your voice?
But the woman sounded so sure of herself that I got goosebumps. Could she really be some kind of master?
“All right. Not just my voice—if you want my life, you can have that too.”
“What would I want your life for?”
The woman chuckled. Slowly, she extended the index and middle fingers of her right hand. They were white as jade. She gently lifted Trương Tiểu Niên’s chin, then did nothing else.
Trương Tiểu Niên said nothing, but my throat felt uncomfortable. I had to cough a few times before it eased.
“I’m starting now. Aren’t you going outside?”
The woman looked at me. I firmly shook my head.
7
She took out a pair of scissors, their blades wrapped in red cloth.
She snipped a strand of yarn and picked up a piece about two inches long.
She held one end of the strand toward a lit candle. In an instant, a burst of light exploded out of thin air, so bright it hurt my eyes.
The light came and went quickly, leaving my eyes unharmed.
The strand wasn’t like ordinary yarn. It burned very slowly, glowing blue and giving me the creeps.
The woman held the end of it and took out a brown cup made of some unknown material.
She tossed the strand into the cup. Though the wooden house was sealed tight, a gust of cold wind suddenly swept through it, slipping under my collar and into every pore.
I felt as if I’d fallen into an ice cellar. My body and thoughts both stiffened.
When she was done, the woman remained still, silently watching the strand burn away. In the final second before it went out, she poured a little liquid from a bottle into the cup.
The instant the liquid touched the flame, the sighs and screams of spirits rang out, and the whole house filled with dark, eerie whispers.
The woman’s hands moved so quickly I couldn’t see how she handled the cup. Then she turned it upside down over a sheet of pale-yellow paper.
She lifted the cup, and everything vanished as if it had never appeared.
Three small black characters were on the paper—not ash, not writing, but as if they’d been burned into it: Lê Mặc Các.
“Do you know this place?”
Trương Tiểu Niên nodded. I knew it too. It was a private club, supposedly frequented by wealthy fans of Chinese opera.
“That’s it. There’s nothing else. Go.”
Trương Tiểu Niên bowed in thanks and slowly backed out. I, too, dropped my contemptuous attitude, bowed respectfully, and went outside.
From inside the house came an unnamed opera tune, sung in a voice that sounded eighty percent like Trương Tiểu Niên’s.
The three of us got in the car. Dad didn’t ask any questions; he pressed the gas and sped off…far away.
“Are you going straight to Lê Mặc Các?”
“Yeah.”
I stared at Trương Tiểu Niên in shock, as if he were some kind of monster.
That voice… It sounded like bones scraping together—grating and indistinct.
That woman had really taken his voice.
A cold sweat broke out on me again. To be honest, I was starting to regret going into that house earlier.
I cleared my throat, making sure my voice was fine, then patted Dad on the shoulder. “Dad, how do you know him?”
“They grew up in the same village, together since they were little.”
Huh? He grew up with Dad?
Wouldn’t that make him fifty or so? How did he look barely over thirty?
By the time we got home, dusk was falling.
Trương Tiểu Niên said he wanted to find somewhere to have a drink. Dad took the hint and didn’t come with us, and even slipped me some cash.
We went to the same bar as before. This time, we ordered hard liquor.
After a few drinks, he rasped out the story of his upperclassman.
8
Trương Tiểu Niên and Đỗ Ngọc Oánh had both had hard lives.
Both were orphans, though they hadn’t grown up in the same orphanage. By chance, they’d both loved singing along to the radio as children, and naturally ended up studying the arts when they got older.
Đỗ Ngọc Oánh was two years older than Trương Tiểu Niên, a year ahead of him. They met at a freshman welcome event.
They hit it off at once, and fell in love at first sight.
Đỗ Ngọc Oánh was introspective, sensitive, and kind. She saw things clearly and cared deeply for the younger boy.
Trương Tiểu Niên, on the other hand, was carefree, optimistic, and had a sense of humor. They complemented each other and quickly became a couple.
Đỗ Ngọc Oánh loved folk songs from all over, especially Tham Thanh Thủy Hà.
But that folk song wasn’t suitable for public performance; it was a little vulgar.
Trương Tiểu Niên cheekily changed a few lyrics and toned down the delivery so it wouldn’t sound so crude.
He told Đỗ Ngọc Oánh that if she wanted to sing it from then on, she should sing his revised version.
Everything had been going so well. It all seemed headed for a happy ending.
Even though jobs were hard to come by in opera these days, the two of them were confident they could make a good life together.
Then Đỗ Ngọc Oánh disappeared.
Trương Tiểu Niên said he knew of Lê Mặc Các.
He’d never been there, but there were rumors about it on campus.
It was a brothel, like the old courtesans’ houses.
Every year, pimps came to campus to recruit female students. They’d call it performing opera, but in reality, the girls slept with clients.
A night could easily bring in one or two thousand yuan.
Naive freshmen had been tricked into going there too, but that was in the past. Now both the school and its teachers discreetly warned students about the dangers of the place.
All you could say was that anyone who still went there was basically doing so of their own free will.
But Đỗ Ngọc Oánh couldn’t have gone willingly. She wasn’t that kind of person.
“She… she wasn’t that kind of person.”
After drinking, Trương Tiểu Niên’s voice grew even hoarser. If he spoke too quickly, you couldn’t make out what he was saying.
So he could only speak one word at a time, his tone utterly firm.
“With your voice like that, should I take you to the hospital?”
“My voice is fine. I promised her—I have to give it to her.”
He downed his last drink and looked at his watch.
It was eleven at night, when Lê Mặc Các was at its liveliest.
“Mã Thanh Minh, I’m glad I got to know you. Once I find Ngọc Oánh, I’ll treat you. We’ll have a drink together.”