The Valley of Amazement (46 page)

I was the first to see Little Ox lying facedown on the road. I recognized him by the crescent scar on the back of his head. We saw Old Pine coming toward him and he fell to his knees and turned his nephew’s head to see his face, then wailed. Epithets and a unified groan of sorrow rose. Just then the ground shook with an explosion, and in an instant, I was swept into a stampede of rioters. I felt a hand on my back. Magic Gourd shouted, “Don’t fall! Don’t fall!” I could not turn around for fear that I would do exactly what she warned me not to do, and then I would be trampled. So I let myself be carried in that millipede of legs. Around me were students with armbands, bare-chested laborers, servants in white jackets, rickshaw men and streetwalkers. I might die with these strangers and felt the numbness of acceptance and an odd dismay that I would be found dead wearing a dress I had never liked. It occurred to me only then that Perpetual was nowhere to be seen.

Along the sidewalks, protestors were hurling rocks at shop windows with Japanese characters and stepping inside to help themselves to the loot. “Out with the Japanese.” “Down with the British.” “Kick out the Yankees.”

As I approached the House of Vermillion, I was relieved to see Old Pine standing near our gate. He was looking upward at a burning effigy with a sign that said it was the police commissioner.

“They’ve taught that bastard the last lesson he’ll ever learn.”

His eyesight had been worsening over the years. From three meters’ distance, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between a white-turbaned Sikh and a white-haired missionary. He was crestfallen when I told him that the commissioner was not burnt to a crisp and would live to learn a few more lessons. We pounded on the gate, and Vermillion’s frightened voice asked who we were before sliding the bolt. We rushed into the large reception hall. My flower sisters were clustered in a corner. I was about to tell them the sad news about Little Ox when a rock sailed through a window and everyone ran to the back of the house. We heard jeering. Old Pine said that people thought our house was where the British diplomat lived. They were going to break down the gate. Two days ago, the diplomat had thrashed a pancake seller with his cane for refusing to make way, and an outraged crowd had descended on him in reprisal and broken his legs. When word went out that the pancake seller had died, the furor had mounted to the pitch of madness. And now this!—a rumor that the damned diplomat lived in our house.

The girls ran to their rooms to gather their jewelry from hiding places, in case they had to flee. Where would they go? What would happen if they were caught with those hard-earned baubles? I was glad that mine were in a shallow false bottom I had made under the bed. Only Magic Gourd knew where the cases were and which panels had to slide open first. It was only then that I realized I had not seen Magic Gourd. I had assumed she had returned to the house.

“Where’s Magic Gourd?” I cried aloud as I ran through the room. “Did she return?” I went to Old Pine. “Did you see her?”

He shook his head. Of course he had not seen her. He was nearly blind! “Open the gate! I have to find her.” He refused. It was too dangerous, he said.

“Get away from here!” I heard Magic Gourd say on the other side of the gate. “Are you so blind and stupid that you cannot see this sign? Read it. House of Vermillion. Are you all from the countryside and can’t read? You, over there, you look like a student. Do you know what this place is, or are you still drinking mother’s milk? This is a first-class courtesan house. Where does it say House of British Diplomat? Show me!” We heard pounding on the gate. “Old Pine, you can let me in now.” When it swung open, only a few sheepish young men were standing outside. They craned their necks to see inside.

Perpetual’s anguished face suddenly appeared. He grabbed me and hugged me so strongly I thought he was going to crack my ribs. “You’re safe! I was about to kill myself, certain you had died.” He released me. His face became puzzled. “Weren’t you worried for me?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Scared out of my mind.” I secretly wondered why I had not worried where he was. I fingered his torn sleeve and kept my faced turned down. I could feel his eyes on me. When I looked up, he was staring hard, disappointed, almost angry. We both knew I should have burst into tears of relief when I saw that he was safe.

D
URING THE WEEK
of riots, Perpetual did not come back. I reasoned it was dangerous to walk in the streets when small riots erupted without warning. The word was out that the police commissioner had left an underling in charge of the Louza Station and went off to enjoy an afternoon at the Shanghai Club and horse races. The underling had panicked when the students entered the doors. He ordered his men to fire, and twelve were killed and many injured. It would take a while for things to quiet down in our neighborhood.

The parties were canceled. Vermillion rang our best patrons, one at a time, and claimed that everything had calmed down and that she was hosting a grand banquet to celebrate the new peace. My flower sisters and I rang our suitors and former patrons. Everyone said it was inconvenient to come. Nothing was going our way. Just this morning the corpse of an old man was placed on our steps. Vermillion did not want his ghost to enjoy his afterlife in our
flower house. “Let him do his business in the Hall of Pleasure Gates down the street,” she said. Everyone laughed except Old Pine, who had been told to remove the body.

He had already refused. “I’m not letting this man’s ghost take over my body so he can fuck the girls with my cock.”

I saw a beggar across the lane. “Hey, old grandpa! Ten cents to you if you take this body away.”

“Fuck your mother,” the man said in a thick, drunken voice. “I was mayor of this city. Give me a dollar.” After some haggling, we paid the dollar.

As the days wore on, we heard rumors that some of our patrons had become paupers. Bank loans were taken back. Factories burned down. Warlords seized their unattended businesses in other provinces. There were stories abounding that the Japanese were turning this chaos to their advantage, and soon there would be a Japanese landlord behind every door, as if there were not already too many. What was happening? The world had gone mad.

Vermillion did an account of the house finances, listing the parties that had been booked and canceled, the courtesans whose patrons provided regular income. She calculated what that represented in terms of money to each girl and money to her pocket. I listened with a sick heart as she named my suitors as among the least successful and reliable. Since no one was giving parties, I received no requests to provide banjo-style zither music and songs. Perpetual had stayed away. He was probably angry at me. But I could not worry about him now. He would not be of any help with my finances. He had contributed only one good poem.

When at last the riots ceased and we had visitors again, they were not the same powerful men who had come before. These men had money, but they did not lavish it on us. They wanted less courting and more proof in the boudoir that we were better than the courtesans of other houses. And even without much business, Vermillion expected us to pay our full rent and expenses, but she quickly saw that if she kicked out everyone who lacked enough money each month, she would have no courtesans left. I portioned out my savings to keep my room.

I felt great relief when Vermillion came to me with a new client. Mansion had said he wanted to hold a private party at his house in honor of his guest, a middle-aged business partner named Endeavor Yan. The guest had expressed specific interest in a courtesan skilled at storytelling. Vermillion said no one was as seasoned as I was in the literary arts. I was flattered and thanked her for choosing me.

I wondered, of course, if Perpetual was staying at Mansion’s house. If he attended the party, this would be a good chance to secretly show my affections and have him forgive me for my failure to worry sufficiently during the worst of the riots. That night I dressed in Westernized Chinese clothes, a blend of new and old. I also brought my zither. I was happy to see that Perpetual was indeed present at the dinner party, and I cast fond looks his way while still being attentive to the guest of honor. When it came time for the storytelling, my suggestions were brushed away. Endeavor Yan asked that I read a scene from
The Plum in the Golden Vase.
I was taken aback. This was a pornographic novel. It was popular in the courtesan houses, but only after a suitor had been invited to the boudoir. I had never been asked to perform this before a group of men during a dinner party. Perpetual looked away. More wine was poured for all. Mansion came around and said softly that he had persuaded Endeavor Yan to agree that I read a selection in his room instead.

“He is here for only three nights,” Mansion said, “and I suggested that he provide the equivalent of a month’s worth of gifts, fifty dollars for the favor. He may ask for another performance the next night. I know this may be much to ask, Violet. Forgive me if you find it insulting.”

Before I could answer, Perpetual came up to Mansion to bid him good night. He said to me that he was pleased to see me, then left. I took his departure to mean he disapproved of what I was doing. For all these months, this pompous man had let me pleasure him and had paid nothing for the privilege. I told Mansion I would be more than pleased to entertain his business partner. Fortunately, Magic Gourd was not here to see what I had agreed to do without even one night of courtship. I had enacted scenes from the book before—but only for patrons. Tonight’s decision signaled the rapid descent of my career.

Endeavor was solicitous of my comfort. Was it too cold? Would you like tea? We talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular and then he brought me the book. He wanted me to read from the passage in which the character Golden Lotus cuckolds her master by lascivious encounters with the young gardener. He said he would play the role of both the young gardener and the master of the house. He brought out a hairbrush with a long tapered handle, which I used to punish the naughty but compliant gardener. After a few smacks, he thanked me, then brought out a whip. He was now the master of the house and I was Golden Lotus. He angrily accused me of infidelity and I pretended to weep as I declared that nothing had happened between the gardener and me except lessons in horticulture. But, as the story went, my pleas were for naught, and Endeavor wielded the whip and I provided the requisite shrieks, begging that he forgive me before he killed me. The whip was constructed so that it was not that painful, but what stung was my humiliation when Endeavor asked me to squirm a bit more and to scream with more realism and volume. At the end of my performance, he was again solicitous and asked if I was cold. He then requested to see me the next evening.

The following evening I performed the purchased shrieking with even more realism. Mansion gave me an extra
gift and was voluminous in his gratitude for my being so accommodating. Vermillion was pleased that all went well, and I suspected she knew from the start what had been in store for me. I waited until I had finished both nights before I told Magic Gourd what had happened. She was mad only that I had not told her. She was my attendant and was supposed to watch over me. I had taken away her purpose in life. So that was how I knew that she accepted the need to do whatever was necessary.

Two days later, Perpetual stopped by in the afternoon. He said nothing of that evening at Mansion’s party. We talked animatedly about the usual subjects. I was his equal and I was grateful he had renewed my self-respect. I did not have to shriek and humiliate myself. I welcomed him into my bed, and while lying in his arms, he gave me a new poem and asked me to read it aloud so that he could see the words form and spill from my beautiful lips.

“Untouched paper is the colorless sky.

When washed by brushes, carapaces emerge,
vast mountains rise wet against dry clouds.

With a single hair and meager ink,

I am a daub of hermit in an ancient crag,

Who asks the gods where immortality hides.

But mountain shadows and streaks of cliff
now block the heavenly sky from view.”

I cried. It was a masterly poem. His talent had come back. I had begun to have doubts, but no longer. I told Magic Gourd the news. I told her to sit while I performed it.

“It’s pretentious,” she said when I finished. “What did you see in it? Is your mind that hazy after sex? It’s all about how important he thinks he is—as great as the mountain and the sky, which he believes he created with his brush. How can he be a real scholar? I’m beginning to think the first poem he gave you was not one he wrote.”

I resented her belittling him. What did she know about a good poem or a bad one? She was uneducated. And her suspicions about his character were ridiculous. I had never met a man more forthcoming. His confessions about his wife were heartrendingly honest.

“Don’t answer right away if he asks you to marry him,” she said. “You know next to nothing about him except for his talk-talk-talk about ideas that are useless and that he has written only one good poem. Why does he stay with Mansion? Where is his family home? He said he is from An-hwei, but where? And where does he get his money from?”

“He has a business,” I said.

“Mansion
guessed
that he had a business. Now you are saying it’s certain? Where is the proof?”

“He can’t be poor. He’s from a scholar family of ten—”

“Ten, ten, ten. That is what you love, this number of generations. I have had a growing uneasiness about him. I feel in my stomach what you feel in your heart. He claims to be a man of high ideas. Ideas are like air. What does he do with his ideas? He gives opinions and feels important, and you are his audience, who gives him applause in your bed. He criticizes his own poems. Yet he gives you bad ones and thinks they are suitable to be performed. And the grief he had for his wife until he met you—no sex for five years?—that claim alone tells you something is wrong with his head—although more likely that’s another one of his lies. And think about this: He has never given you anything, no money for all the tea and snacks he’s had. Vermillion told me that she was hoping he would make up for the cost with a few good poems. She told me she’s charging us, since nothing came of her temporary generosity. You must think, Violet. Don’t be tempted to marry this man. He is not the easy answer to your future.”