by Mingmei Yip
Every night after I had served my last customer, I'd pray: Guan Yin, Merciful Observer of Cries, if you hear me, please guide him from the edge of the world to prostrate himself before my pomegranate dress!
One evening, after the oppressive summer heat had given way to the cool of autumn, Fang Rong dashed into my room, face glowing like a cluster of fireflies. "Ah, Xiang Xiang, your luck's up tonight ! "
"How? "
"How? Don't pretend innocence. Of course because someone has asked for you!"
"Many people ask for me every night, so what's the big deal?"
Mama shot me an affectionately chiding look. "Ah, do you really think I'm so old now that I have memory loss and forget that you're the most desired mingjz? But what big talk, Xiang Xiang! "
She spoke again, her entire face was seized by a smile. "Waiting downstairs now is a very tall and handsome young man-"
"Mama, you also told me that Zhang Zhong was `nice looking,' so-
"Aii-ya, Xiang Xiang, then I was just trying to be polite."
"How do I know you're not trying to be polite again?"
Mama's features tensed up. "Xiang Xiang, trust me. Even though my old eyes are blurry, I can tell from this man's Western suit, silk tie, and shirt, as well as his gold watch, that he's very rich and has elegant taste. I bet he's a dandy who's been sent by his rich father to study abroad, probably in America. So I hope his fat wallet is well stuffed with American dollars!"
She stole a licentious glance at her own reflection in the mirror and spoke again, her voice as shrill as Plum Blossom's. "I'd also like to go to the Wu Mountain with this American handsome if he doesn't mind my paying him, ha! ha! ha!" She reached to pinch my cheek. "You lucky little witch." Now even the third eye between her brows looked envious. "Serve him well and then tell me how you liked it, all right? Now put on your best dress and makeup, quick! "
"But I'm already dressed and made-up."
"Then my advice now is that you put on more makeup and less dress."
The man was waiting in the welcoming-guests room, his back toward me as he appreciated a beauty portrait. Hearing my footsteps, he turned, caught my eyes, and smiled. My heart fluttered like a bird held in tight hands. He was indeed young, handsome, and rich! Mama had told the truth-to my surprise.
His hair, ink black, was pomaded back to reveal a slim, pale face with a high-bridged nose and big, haunting eyes. His lips sensuously balanced an ivory holder with a cigarette. The red spark at the cigarette tip hovered playfully-like a petal dancing in the au tumnal air. A white suit, highlighted by a red tie and a matching kerchief, covered his almost delicate figure.
The young man extinguished his cigarette and, after sliding the holder into his pocket, approached me slowly. In a gentle voice, he invited me to sit down beside him on the sofa.
I looked up and asked, "Sir, would you like tea or wine?"
He held my glance for several moments. "Tea, please, Miss Precious Orchid."
I lifted the pot, then, arranging my fingers to resemble an orchid in bloom, poured first him, and then myself, a full cup. Smiling, I raised my cup. "Sir, to your health." Since I thought this man must have everything he wanted in life, what else could he possibly wish for besides perpetual health?
He returned a smile and a penetrating gaze. "To your beauty, Miss Precious Orchid."
I couldn't believe that I blushed.
There was a long silence while we drank our tea as if engaged in sipping meditation.
"Miss Precious Orchid," he quietly put down his cup, "please stop addressing me as sir. My name is Teng Xiong."
"Yes, Mr. Teng." I blushed more.
Another silence. Then he spoke again. To my delight, instead of coarse talk about business or boasts about monetary gains, we discussed our favorite operas and opera singers-their voices, facial expressions, hand gestures, bodily movements. Then we went on to talk about painting and calligraphy: the interplay of empty and full, the power of line, the meandering quality. He seemed to feel great respect for my knowledge of the arts. When I spoke, he would listen intently, nodding or emitting a "yes" from time to time.
I felt an instant fancy for this man; he was the first customer who'd more than pretended interest in my ideas. While talking, I cast my eyes all over Teng Xiong. His hands were fine-boned; his fingers long, tapered, and so sensitive that they almost looked like a woman's. Like an opera performer, he gestured a lot, as if his speech alone were not enough to convince. I found myself wondering: How would these hands express themselves in exploring the peaks, valleys, and crevices of my body? My heart began to beat like a battle drum and my face burn like a hot pot.
But even when our conversation had gone on for more than an hour, I still didn't see any intention in him to balance his yang with my yin. For my other customers, even scholars, the pre-Wu Mountain conversation was merely a "civilized" act leading to the stirring of the beastly qi. But it seemed that this young and handsome Mr. Teng was interested only in talking. Of course, I was flattered that he respected me as an artist, but what about my face, my body, and my art of pleasing, didn't they stoke any fire in him? Determined to tempt him, I invited him to go to my own chambermaybe he'd feel more comfortable in a private environment.
After he appreciated the decorations in my room, he pointed to my pipa on the wall. "Miss Precious Orchid, I have heard of your fame on the pipa. Will I have the pleasure of hearing it tonight?"
I took down the instrument and began to tune it. When finished, I looked up and aimed him a flirtatious smile. "Mr. Teng, which piece do you want to hear?"
"What about the `Thriving Spring and White Snow'?"
Determined to charm and conquer, I conjured up all the musical cells in my body and poured them into my playing. When interpreting the lyrical passages, my eyes would fix dreamily on his hands, while my mind would anticipate how they'd stir and satisfy my body's desires. When I reached an animated passage, my glances would caper like fireflies while my hair would quiver like dark waves pulled by a full moon.
After I finished, he smiled appreciatively, but only asked me to play more.
When I ended my third piece, he invited me to sit on the bed. Finally. I sighed inside. After all the pipa foreplay, was he now ready to thrust his jade stalk into my golden gate? But, to my consternation, he went right back to talking about the arts. This time it was I who became restless, anxious to lose my soul. Several times I hinted that he had to pay by the hour, but he seemed oblivious.
Three hours later, when he finally took leave, nothing had happened except talking and playing the pipa!
"Miss Precious Orchid," he was now standing by the door, his features looked achingly desirable under the warm, yellowish light, "it's been my wish to meet you for a long time. I'm so happy that today I finally had the chance. It's such a great pleasure and honor. I'll come again. Now good night." After that, he was gone, leaving an emptiness knocking inside my chest like a deserted bell.
Early next morning, Fang Rong plunged into my room. She sat down across from me, then searched my face as if I'd suddenly transformed into a princess. "Hey, Little Beauty, tell me everything about last night."
I took a sip of my bitter tea. "Mama, it's indescribable."
She wet her lips, threw me a meaningful stare, and spat, "Yor.!"
I remained silent, meditatively taking another sip.
She asked again, this time gently, "Really, tell me; how was he? What did he do to you?"
"I told you it's indescribable."
"But try, just try." A long pause. Now Mama looked impatient. "Xiang Xiang, please stop torturing me like this. I ask you; what did he do?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean by nothing?"
I put down my cup. "That's what I mean, nothing."
"You mean he didn't put his jade stalk into your golden gate?"
"Of course not. He didn't kiss my lips, nor even touch my hands."
Mama widened her eyes. "But he paid almost thirty silve
r coins for you!" She tilted her fat head, seemingly lost in thought, then suddenly, "Oh, then his golden gun drooped! But that only means his jade stalk cannot thrust toward heaven, it doesn't mean he shouldn't use his other stalk nor demand other things from you to appease his lusty fire." She paused, now seemingly lost in deeper thought. Then all of a sudden she yapped, startling me, "Oh my heaven, he must be a spy! "
"Mama, what are you talking about? What would a spy do in a turquoise pavilion?"
"I don't know, maybe he's sent here from Temple of Supreme Happiness or Sleeping Flower Pavilion to look into our business."
Since Mama's conjecture seemed ridiculous to me, I kept my mouth shut to leave her to her own nonsense.
Finally she said, "But anyway he told me he'll definitely come again. It's fine with me if he doesn't stir your clouds-so long as he pays another thirty silver coins. Ha! Ha! Ha! That's even betteryou can save your energy to serve more customers."
A week later, as promised, Mr. Teng came back. This time he wore a black suit, black shirt, and pink tie, conjuring in my mind the image of a lotus. Once when Mr. Wu, my painting teacher, was demonstrating how to paint lotuses, he'd said, "This beautiful flower grows out of filth. We say, `growing out of mud but not stained.' Like people who live amidst evil but preserve their purity."
Of course I knew Mr. Wu had said this to remind me that although I lived in a prostitution house, I could retain my integrity as a decent human being.
Was Mr. Teng's outfit a reminder of the same message?
This time I took him directly up to my room. We had tea and snacks and chatted. Like last time, our conversation revolved mainly around the arts. He seemed infinitely curious about such details as how long it took me to paint a landscape, a bird and flower painting, a beauty portrait. What kind of calligraphy did I like: seal script, walking style, or the drunken cursive grass style?
Then he asked me to sing him a Peking opera aria.
"Mr. Teng, which one do you want to hear?"
"Miss Precious Orchid, I'd love anything from your lips, so please pick one you like."
"All right," I did not omit to cast him a flirtatious glance, "then I'll sing an excerpt from Jita."
Jita-Offering Sacrifice to the Tower, is one of the most challenging arias. First, I meditated, then let my eyes float-to Guan Yin on the altar table, to Plum Blossom fidgeting in midair, to the distant hills outside the window, until they finally alighted on Mr. Teng's soul windows.
A smile broke out on his face.
I tried to attain the best way of singing this piece, once de scribed as "cries as sharp as the goose soaring to heaven, echoes as low as the winter cicada clinging to the pine trees."
But alas, when singing the phrase "Our meeting again can only happen in a dream ..." suddenly Pearl's image flashed across my mind. Though I tried my best to hold them back, my tears splashed down my cheeks like spurting springs.
I was mortified. A courtesan should never reveal her true emotions in front of any customer! For a moment I felt so scared and humiliated that I had no idea what to do. But not Mr. Teng. He stood up from the sofa, then took out his pink handkerchief to dab my eyes. After that, he pulled me into his arms, very gently, as if I were an expensive piece of porcelain.
It felt so good. And I thought: I've fallen in love.
Now that I was feeling snug and warm, my tears burst out like water from a collapsed dam. We held each other's gaze for an eternity until my tears had dried. Then I said softly, feeling color rising in my cheeks, "Mr. Teng, you.. . want me to serve you now?"
To my complete disbelief, his brows knitted.
Then they quickly smoothed out, and he was now smiling handsomely. "Miss Precious Orchid, why don't we have something to eat first? I'm starving."
Although his hesitation lasted only a split second, it was long enough to break my heart.
He would rather taste food on a plate than taste my golden gate? I couldn't believe this! I was fucked by not being fucked! But then I thought, maybe he wanted to build up his qi so he could do a better job. Feeling more cheerful, I laid out the dishes prepared by Aunty Ah Ping on the eight immortals table, then poured two cups of wine. In the cozy atmosphere of my room we ate, drank, and chatted.
I was dying to find out who he was-a scholar, government official, businessman, or dandy. But whenever I tried to probe, he'd cleverly avoid my questions, steering the conversation back to art and literature.
"Miss Precious Orchid," he looked at me deeply, "you're very lucky to be born with such a good voice. And I know you practice very hard to achieve your skill. But do you mind if I comment on it so it can be still better?"
"Of course not, Mr. Teng." While I didn't mind having criticism from him, it also surprised me that he was the first customer who dared do it.
He went on, "When you change your breath, bring it all the way down to your dantian. Then start slow and build up. Remember yitui weijin-retreat in order to advance." He looked at me intently, his face flushed an attractive pink. "Do you agree with me, Miss Precious Orchid?"
I was so impressed that I opened my mouth but couldn't utter a word. A long pause ensued before I finally said, "Oh, Mr. Teng, you can be my teacher. How did you learn so much about Peking opera?"
"You're overpraising me, Miss Precious Orchid." He sipped his wine, then soundlessly put down the cup. "I'm just a fan."
Damn! His lips were as tightly sealed as Mama's safe.
Though I was disappointed by his reserve, his delicate evasions rendered him even more desirable.
We continued to chat. And I continued to pour him wine, serve him food, and throw him soul-sucking glances. Until I finally grew tired of all the intellectual discussions.
When he finally looked drunk and tired, I grabbed the chance and asked, "Mr. Teng, would you like to retire to bed now?"
"Miss Precious Orchid," he said, his eyes glazed with alcohol. "I'm afraid I want to go home now. I'm not feeling very well."
I was astonished to have my offer turned down a second time! What was wrong with this man? Pearl had once told me any man's eyes will bleed when he smells free sex, even if the woman is a buck-toothed and pockmarked old hag. Now this man had paid a lot for me, and I was considered, if not the most, at least one of the most beautiful courtesans in Shanghai. But he had no interest in exploring my cinnabar crevice with his jade stalk. Was it something wrong with him ... or with me?
Hiding my confusion, I lifted my lips to resemble a crescent moon. "Then, Mr. Teng, you'd better stay."
"I'll be fine; just call me a rickshaw."
"If that's what you wish."
He simply nodded, while casting me a passionate glance.
When I walked him to the door, Plum Blossom suddenly piped up, "Feels good, eh? Want more?"
Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I looked down and stared at my feet. Pearl had once commented that they were big. Was this the reason Mr. Teng had lost his appetite for me?
After Teng left, I slumped down in a chair and sighed. If he found me undesirable, then why had he come back? Maybe he was shy, or maybe, as Mama had guessed, his gun was not loaded. I hoped not, he was such a nice-looking man! Maybe I should prepare the recipe Pearl had taught me, so next time when he came, I could not only enlarge his jade stalk but make it thrust as high as the Mountains of Heaven!
Though nothing had happened, I could not get Mr. Teng out of my thoughts. As a flower girl, the worst thing would be a customer thinking I was in love with someone else. So I was alarmed when my favored guest Big Master Fung noticed something was amiss.
On one occasion, after we finished stirring the clouds and rain, he asked, "Xiang Xiang, what's the matter with you? Your mind seems to be somewhere else."
Since I couldn't afford to offend him, I apologized, then lifted the corners of my lips all the way to my ears. "Oh no, Big Master Fung! How can my mind be somewhere else when you're right in front of me?"
Several days later, Mama told me Mr. Teng would
be coming that evening. Instead of preparing the recipe for enlarging his jade stalk, I copied some verses by the famous Tang dynasty poet Wang Wei. I lit incense, meditated, then poured all my passion into the cursive calligraphy:
The red bean grows in the South When Spring comes, how many new buds will bloom? I wish for you to collect them till your hands are full Because these beans are grown for love.
I remembered that whenever Baba had left home to perform with his opera troupe, he'd always carry a small pouch filled with these beans, which were only slightly bigger and rounder than grains of rice. When I'd asked him why he carried them around, he said, "So that I can look at them and think of your mother." He explained that these red beans are xiangsi dou-beans of mutual longing. Xiangsi also means-missing you. That's why red beans have become lovers' favorite gifts.
Mr. Teng arrived punctually at seven-thirty in the evening. As soon as we'd settled on the sofa in my room, I handed him the poem. For a long time he looked at it without speaking. Then he began to recite another poem in his clear, almost boyish voice:
