by Tan, Amy
But, as I soon learned, those qualities could not make the world turn in a different direction. I sought a job as an English teacher at a school for Chinese translators. The students were men and they could not hire a woman. I offered myself as a governess. Word had gone around the American Club that I had been a courtesan who impersonated a widow. They were horrified at the thought that a prostitute would teach their children. I inquired about teaching positions at schools run by Canadians and Australians, thinking they might not have heard reports of my past. If they had, they masked it by saying they could not hire someone who had no experience.
My only opportunity was to return to the courtesan world. But now I felt as I had when I was fourteen. I would defile myself by offering myself to men. I felt I would be betraying Edward. Even if I returned, I might be able to survive for only a few more years. And then what? It sickened me to realize that I truly had no choices. I had to accept defeat.
Magic Gourd thought we should start a small courtesan house. We would call it a private teahouse, which would set us apart from the opium flower houses. It suggested a place that was more refined, which might require men with manners and at least some amount of courting—perhaps not as much as in a first-class house. In any case, we had heard that even in first-class houses, the courting time required had been much reduced. We could take four rooms, one for her as madam, one for me as entertainer and courtesan. The two other rooms would be for two courtesans we would recruit. I listened dully to her plan and told her it was too early to think about this. She told me to rest. And she went to look for a suitable place to rent. She wrote down expenses that needed to be paid to the Green Gang for protection, and taxes that would be assessed in the International Settlement. We tallied up the cost of furnishing a refined teahouse. We obtained prices from Mr. Gao for the value of our jewelry. And we realized in the end we could afford one teacup.
Magic Gourd came up with another idea: “Loyalty Fang made a promise to you—if you ever needed help when you were in trouble, you could ask him.”
“That was seven years ago,” I said. “He probably doesn’t remember what he said and to which girl.”
“He gave you a big ring as a pledge that his promise was true.”
“He gave many flowers a ring for something or other that was true for that moment. You told me yourself: As time passes, the ring is no longer a promise but a souvenir.”
“Do you remember when I asked if we should keep the ring or sell it with the other unwanted jewelry? I saw the look in your eye. You hesitated a little too long before you told me to sell it. So I didn’t.”
“Then you should sell it now.”
“It’s pride that keeps you from asking him. You don’t have to ask for money. Ask him to help us get a position in a first-class house. Two feet in the door, yours and mine, that’s all. It would take him two minutes, a phone call, a little flattery to the madam.”
I had never thanked Loyalty for introducing me to Edward. There was nothing to thank in the beginning. He was the one who had apologized to me for Edward’s crude behavior. It had occurred to me later that I should have been friendly to Loyalty and his wife, that I should have perhaps invited them to dinner. But then I held off because he would remind me of my past. I told Edward, and he had understood. Now, to Loyalty again, I would be reminded not only of my past but also of the times I was devastated by him. He had known me intimately—sexually and emotionally. He knew my weaknesses both ways and how to make me succumb. I had never loved him deeply, as I had Edward. But if I saw him, he might make one small expression that once made me believe he loved me, or had made me livid, or might remind me of certain erotic nights. He knew me too well. Magic Gourd was right. I was too proud. I would be stupid not to see him, simply because I did not want to be reminded of my past with him. The worst he could do was to fail to remember his promise. I would be humiliated, and so be it. I could not afford pride.
When I finally picked up the telephone to call Loyalty, I apologized quickly that the years had gone by without thanking him. I was honest and said I had wanted to leave my former life behind. I told him briefly about Edward’s death.
“When I heard, I felt great sadness for you. Truly, I did. I imagined you in your grief.” I then told him about Little Flora’s abduction. He groaned. “I had not heard, and I have no adequate words to tell you how sorry I am. I can only say that if that had happened to my son, I would find those who did it and tear off their limbs. I’m glad you still have Magic Gourd to keep you company. She has been a good friend to you for so many years.”
“Like a mother,” I said.
“By the way, do you still have that cat who tried to eat my arm?”
“You asked me that seven years ago. Carlotta died.” A small knot of old sorrow rose in my throat.
“Has it really been that long?”
“So much time has gone by you may have forgotten something you said seven years ago. If you did, I will not remind you—”
He broke in. “I’ve already guessed the reason you are reaching out to me,” he said.
I thought he meant this as criticism.
“I know you had to put away pride and old wounds to call me.”
“You are not obligated to help. It was many years ago.”
“Ah, Violet, you are still resisting kindness. I would like to help, if I can. Speak freely.”
“I need to return to my old job. I don’t know if the House of Vermillion would take me back. I am almost twenty-five years old, and you can’t make me young again, no matter how much praise you give on my behalf. Grief and worry have worsened what age has not. But with your word, they would at least consider me. I am realistic. I would appreciate whatever you can do, without your having to lie, at least not too much.”
He was quiet for a few seconds, and I was sure he was composing a tactful answer to explain why he was unable to help.
“Let me think more about what I can do. Can you come to my office tomorrow?”
I guessed that he wanted to see how aged I had become to know which house might take me. He sent his chauffeur the next day to bring me to his office. I was surprised at how simple and messy the room was: a desk, two hard chairs, a small sofa, armchair, and low tables.
He kissed my hand quickly. “Violet, I am always happy to see you.” He gave me his famous long gaze. “You look as lovely as ever.”
“Thank you. You flatter as well as ever.” I gave him a pleasant smile, friendly but not flirtatious. I saw he was already assessing my appearance more critically.
He sat back, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette. It was a superior businesslike pose. “I have given much thought as to what I can do. And here is what I propose. I will go to Vermillion—she now owns the house. I’ll mention that you’ve decided to return and will choose a house soon. I will then say that I am eager to be one of your suitors, and since the House of Vermillion is my favorite, I hope that she will do what she can to convince you to rejoin them.”
“This is very generous.” I was trying to decipher what he really wanted.
“In any business negotiation, it is better to make the other party think they are benefiting more than you. Don’t denigrate yourself, Violet. You are lovely and able to understand men and you are kind to their failings. I know you hesitate, given your feelings for Edward. My actual proposal is that you give me English lessons in your room. I am serious. I should have improved my English years ago. My business requires it. I am relying on translators and don’t know if they are saying what I intend. I propose that I visit you two or three times a week in your room. I need you to be a strict teacher and make me practice. No excuses. I’ll pay for the lessons, and it will be equal to what a suitor might give you. If I fail to practice hard enough, you can fine me. Naturally, since I am not an actual suitor, I will continue to court other women—at other houses, of course. That leaves you free to receive suitors when you are accustomed to life in the house again. We must have a clear understandi
ng that this is the arrangement. I have no hidden meaning. I want only to help you as an old friend. And I want to learn enough English that I don’t have to use a dictionary that tells me a courtesan house is where you find whores for ten dollars.”
LOYALTY WAS A bad student and paid me many fines. After two weeks we were back to our old ways and became reacquainted in my bed. I had missed the comfort of being with someone, and he was familiar. After another four weeks, we were arguing every night over the same misunderstandings of what was said and what was meant. He made excuses why he could not see me on a few occasions. I learned he was seeing another courtesan.
“If you had known sooner,” he said in exasperation, “you would have been mad at me sooner. By doing it my way, you were happy with me for two weeks more.”
“I don’t care whether you see someone else. Just don’t insult me with dishonesty.”
“I am not obligated to tell you everything.”
In the old days of my infatuation, he could cause havoc with my emotions. Now his antics simply made me angry. I was not in love with him anymore, and his selfishness was tiresome. My heart was full of yearning for Edward and Flora. I wanted them back. The yearning I had for Loyalty had been that of a fifteen-year-old virgin who grew older but continued to believe she would marry the man who had deflowered her. I was glad to be free of the delusion.
“We’ll never understand each other,” I said. I was neither angry nor sad. I said it as if I were reciting a lesson, one I had just learned. “We should admit that you won’t ever change, and neither will I. We make each other unhappy. It’s time we stop.”
“I agree. Maybe in a month we can both be more reasonable …”
“We will never be reasonable. We are who we are. I want to stop. I won’t change my mind.”
“You are too important to me, Violet. You are the one who knows me. I know I don’t always make you happy. But in between our fights, you are happy. You’ve told me you are. Let’s try to have more happiness and fewer fights—”
“I cannot continue this way. My heart has become frayed.”
“You never want to see me?”
“I will see you as my student and you can see me as your English teacher.”
A calm fell over me. I felt no acrimony toward Loyalty. For many years, I had waited for proof of love from him. No amount of patience would bring it, because I did not know what love was beyond the discontent that I did not have it. Now I did know, and I realized I would never find lasting love with Loyalty. His abiding love lasted as long as I was by his side. I wanted a deeper love, in which we felt we could never know enough of each other—our hearts, our minds, and how we saw the world. To finally understand that was a victory over my own self.
CHAPTER 9
QUICKSAND YEARS
Shanghai
March 1925
Violet
Loyalty was throwing a big party at the House of Lin to celebrate the fifteen-year-old virgin courtesan Ruby Sky and her upcoming defloration, which he had bought for a price greater than what he had paid for mine. As with the party where I first met him, he had invited seven friends and there was a shortage of courtesans. As usual, he requested my presence, and as usual, I appreciated the business.
Over the last few years, I had worked hard to improve my skills as a zither player, as well as a singer of Western tunes. Loyalty cited to his guests my unusual musical talents as reason for others to request my services at their parties. In truth, my skills were only passable. Despite his recommendation, my desk was not burdened with stacks of requests. Who among the younger clients wanted to hear plucky zither music when they could spin out a fast song on the phonograph? They preferred whatever was modern, and Shanghai was all about modernity. I had added one musical advantage by singing a few songs in the melodic Western style with the zither providing only the harmony. One guest who had visited the United States said it sounded like I was playing the American banjo, and thereafter I advertised myself as a banjo singer, “widely sought for parties with a buoyant atmosphere.”
The madam of the House of Lin was the former Billowy Cloud at Hidden Jade Path. She greeted me with much enthusiasm. “I’m so grateful you had no engagements tonight,” she exclaimed before the others arrived. “I should call upon you more often. Our girls are busy every night.” At one time, I would have been insulted by her insinuation that I had no regular suitors. Now Magic Gourd was telling Billowy Cloud that she should always think of me to give a party a lively touch. I entered the banquet room and saw Loyalty with his wiggly new favorite. He was gazing at her with the same tender expression he had given me when I was his virgin and he had claimed no other girl had stirred such new and surprising emotion in him.
Loyalty came over to us and greeted Magic Gourd and me in the courtly British manner—a kiss on my hand and a slight bow. I complimented him on the lovely new flower he was honoring. She threw me a suspicious eye. Magic Gourd had complained of stomach problems but still insisted on attending because she had a feeling I would make a new conquest.
Halfway through the party, Loyalty begged that I entertain everyone. I began the party with two sentimental Chinese songs, followed by the banjo-style tunes “Always,” “Tea for Two,” and “Swanee River,” the last being my best, because of my joke that suh-wan-nee meant in Chinese “thinking about grabbing you,” and that fa fa e wei meant, the first time it was sung, “to show you the beautiful rising clouds,” and, in the second, “to show you my hunger for your raging fire.” “Swanee” always ended the party in a high mood, generous tips for me, and, on occasion, a new suitor.
Loyalty jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Maestro!” He used the traditional term reserved for the famed singers at Storytelling Hall. “You make us swoon, you raise our spirits. We must show our appreciation.” He gave a toast and then slipped me an envelope with money, so that others knew they should do the same. Then Loyalty gave another toast. More obligatory clapping and roars of admiration followed.
One man toward the end of the table opposite Loyalty was overly effusive. “I have never heard such a combination of delicate and forceful notes rise from the zither as those your fingers plucked tonight. And from a foreigner no less!”
That tiresome comparison to foreigners, yet again. “Only half,” I said in apologetic tones. “But I still try to be impressive.”
“I did not mean to suggest your talent had to do with the shortcomings of race. I meant it was an added benefit that you can sing also in English. Truly, I’ve never heard such a dazzling banjo performance by anyone.”
It was the usual banal compliment. I doubted he had ever heard another courtesan play banjo music, but I responded with ritual modesty. “I lack great skill but I’m glad you enjoyed it nonetheless.”
“My admiration is genuine. I’m not trying to gain favor to be invited into your boudoir. I speak from my respect and knowledge of the arts.” He looked to be thirty, but he wore the earnest face of a young boy filled with awe visiting a courtesan house for the first time. Young boys wanted to have knowledge of the arts in bed. This man’s bullshit was a ploy I had heard many times before. He introduced himself as Perpetual of the Sheng family of An-hwei Province, second cousin to Mansion, who was one of Loyalty’s friends.
Although he was from An-hwei, he spoke Han without the province’s accent, so it was clear that he was educated. As for looks, compared to Loyalty, he was not unattractive, but he was not the first man on whom your eyes would fall when scanning a room of prospects. As he continued to heap praise, I elevated his attractiveness to pleasing but in an ordinary way, which is to say, he did not have any of the features I disliked. He was not narrow-shouldered and bony nor did he have the broad Mongolian look. The eyes were not squinty like those of a cheapskate. The nostrils were not large like those of a blowhard. The lips were not thick with crude intent. He did have the missing teeth of a man whose neglected hygiene likely extended to less visible parts of his body. He did not have the coarse features
of someone with questionable morals. He had no patchy eyebrows like that of a syphilitic. His hair was abundant, but not so wildly thick as to suggest he had tribal blood. His hairstyle was not chopped like a bumpkin but precisely cut and smoothed back with silky pomade. By all that he was not and a little of what he was, I found him somewhat attractive.
It was difficult to tell whether he was well-to-do. He had come as Mansion’s guest. His clothes were clean but somewhat creased, though that had always been a problem with Western linen suits in warm weather. His fingernails were trimmed and lacked the long nail on the little finger, which opium sots used as an entrenching tool to dig out the sticky residue of a pipe and the waxy crevices of their ears. He spoke again in a serious voice: “Your delicate fingers pranced like fairies and made the music all the more entrancing.”
This was too much. “Do you belong to one of the literati societies in Shanghai?”
“Trying to find out if I’m worthy of your company?” Now he smiled, but only with his mouth, not his eyes. I maintained my aplomb and waited patiently for his answer. “I don’t seek the society of like-minded intellectuals,” he said. “I’m a painter-poet who prefers solitude. I have moods, you see, best not seen in public. The moods give my paintings a moody style, which is not popular with most collectors.”
