by Jade Lee
All these things he imagined over and over while she applied herself to her other leg, cleaning and rubbing in a way no Chinese woman would unless she prepared herself for… His thoughts stumbled. Could it be? Did this white woman prepare to sacrifice herself to him for her freedom? The thought was titillating, to be sure. She was a beautiful woman, and he was already bursting through his underclothes.
Then the unthinkable happened. The woman glanced around. He could not tell if she was nervous or angry or simply curious, but he thought perhaps she was afraid and checking the shadows one last time. How very much like a woman to believe that she could have any privacy in a situation such as hers. But according to his English teacher, white women were extraordinarily secluded in their childhood. Perhaps this woman really was a nun. Perhaps Sister Marie had been cloistered in a Christian temple at a very young age. That would explain why she had little understanding of the ways of the world.
What she did next was all the more enthralling. She allowed both her legs to relax against the side of the tub, then lolled her head back as if she wished to rest. But her hands were not still. One traced a path from her neck down between her breasts, and then—rather abruptly—straight to her left breast. She cupped it, squeezing her hand tighter and tighter until her thumb rolled over her nipple.
He could see that the motion was not practiced, not a motion like that of a slave trying to entice her master. There was no subtle offering of the breast to an onlooker, or even a coy glance from beneath hooded eyes; Sister Marie’s eyes were kept tightly closed as if this act were for herself alone.
And then her right hand moved as well. He watched it slip off the lip of the tub to land on her thigh. He could only barely see her long fingers above the wooden edge. And then they disappeared altogether.
She couldn’t possibly be about to… She was. He could see her skin flush with her exertions, heard the water splash in the tub, and—most telling of all—watch her arch her neck back as she pushed against her hand.
He pressed his face forward, and his glasses pushed hard against the bridge of his nose. He saw that she kept her mouth tightly closed—no doubt to stifle any sound—but he heard her anyway, his imagination more than able to supply extra details. Her hips would be lifting and lowering against her long fingers, the water splashing chaotically with her increasing rhythm. He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed, and he imagined himself kissing the hollow between jaw and throat. He loved to press his ear against a woman’s cheek while his lips stroked the pulse point of her neck. He loved the sound of her shortened gasps and feeling her trembling heartbeat against his tongue.
Her left hand abruptly released her breast and flung sideways to grip the wood slats. He saw her fingertips whiten as she lifted her hips in passion and her mouth gaped slightly open from her exertions.
Then suddenly it was upon her. She stretched hard against the restrictions of the tub. He prayed she would lift her belly above the water line, high enough for him to glimpse the tiniest flash of her yin center. Anything would do—her quivering white belly, her long and nimble fingers buried deep inside her, or best of all, the red and puckered lotus petals that welcomed him in his imagination.
She didn’t, of course. But he saw all in his mind’s eye, and with the hard grip of his hand as an aid, he plunged himself into her over and over until he too joined her in glorious release. The roar in his ears and the darkening of his vision ripped her from his senses, but in his heart, he remained inside her throughout. He flickered his fingers, playing upon his dragon like he would a flute—as her body’s contractions would. And he kissed her shy lips, giving reverence to her sweet spirit and beautiful body.
By the time his heartbeat slowed, she had finished her bath. Suddenly, as if ashamed of her actions, she grabbed a towel, wrapped it fully around herself and stood. He saw nothing of her, none of what his imagination had just kissed and spread and impaled. And yet, he cherished her even more for this new modesty. And he held his breath, pressing his glasses as hard as he dared against the mat as he prayed for another glimpse of flesh.
There was none, though she dressed right before his eyes. The angle of her body and the dark outline of his damned desk prevented any. Fortunately, it didn’t matter. Her spirit was already imprinted upon his mind and he would cherish this afternoon for many years to come: the afternoon when he first saw his Wife Number Four.
The lightness of spirit held for over an hour. Long enough for the white woman to finish dressing and combing out her hair. Long enough for the sway of the boat to lull him into a gentle doze despite his cramped location. He was so content that he barely opened his eyes when Jing-Li pressed a knife to his wife’s throat.
From Anna Marie Thompson’s journal:
February 22, 1880
Sister Mary wants me to write down my sins. She wants me to confess all to merciful Jesus on paper. Here are my sins:
I hate Susanna. She acts superior because she has a mom who visits her. She’s not an orphan. Well, I have a parent too. My mom may be buried by the chapel, but my father gave me a pearl ring when he was last in port. And a doll from India. The most beautiful doll in the world. I have a father, and he is not, not, not dead. So I hate Susanna.
I hate Bible study. I don’t care that Jesus healed the sick and made cripples walk some time long ago and far from China. He isn’t helping anyone here, and I still have to clean up vomit and piss and worse whether I pray or not. So why should I study someone dead who isn’t helping anyone?
I hate being white. The Chinese girls come and sit with their mothers. They get to stir the laundry pots and play with their brothers and sisters. They are not dirty heathens like Sister Mole-face says. They’re happy and healthy and in their own country. I wish I were Chinese.
My dad has been gone four months, two weeks, and four days. That means one month, one week, and three days until I start watching the road for him. He said he’d bring me a new doll all the way from England. He’s the best dad in the world. Much better than that stupid Susanna’s mother who smells like flowers but looks like dung.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
from “Kubla Khan: or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment”
Chapter Four
Anna looked at her hands, gently clasped on her lap, the rich feel of silk a sweetness on her freshly scrubbed body. She had never worn anything so fine as the yellow gown now wrapping her body. She certainly hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of a long bath or a quiet afternoon in over a year. She should feel pampered and clean—most especially clean. Instead, she felt unsettled. Not exactly sullied, but not even remotely virtuous.
Fortunately, she was no stranger to guilt and quite adept at ignoring it. She even had the added excuse that she had vowed to do everything possible to survive. What was a little show for the Chinese against her life? If pleasuring herself made her all the more interesting to the voyeuristic Enforcer, then so be it. No guilt. Simple survival.
Except, she hadn’t just done it to tantalize the mandarin, who had surely been watching. Why had she done it? Why had she slipped her fingers between her legs and done what every priest had preached against since the church began?
Why had she done it? Because she was about to die. What a fool she was. She should be thinking of a way to survive, to live to tomorrow, no matter what the cost. But in her last hours of life, she had needed to give herself a little pleasure, a moment of ecstasy to savor before it all ended. It made no sense, and yet she hadn’t been able to stop herself. She had needed release. She had wanted to feel—if only by her own hand—why life could be so very good. And if her erotic dream had replayed in her mind as she touched herself, then it was only to give form and detail to her last
moments of delight.
And now that it was done, she could face death. She didn’t even flinch when a cold blade slid across her shoulder, aiming for her throat. She’d felt the breeze when her assailant lifted the tapestry flap to enter the room. She had absolutely heard his harsh breath as he hefted his blade. Someone had come to kill her. And perhaps this was God’s punishment for her debauchery.
Or perhaps not. Without conscious thought, she slammed her elbow hard into her attacker’s ribs. The knife hadn’t quite made it to her neck. And besides, the man—Jing-Li, she now saw—was obviously not used to slitting throats. He didn’t have a good grip on her or the knife. She was able to knock the blade away with ease, then twist out of his floundering grip and punch him hard in the chest.
He went reeling back, banged into the tub and fell down. He didn’t land flat, which might have been better. At least it would have ended it quickly. Unfortunately, he tried to catch himself. One arm went deep into the water, and his chin banged on the hard wood. His feet were still scrambling for purchase on the wet deck, and he naturally lost his footing. Without his feet to support him, his upper body dropped. His neck caught hard on the edge of the tub and he gurgled in real pain.
She might have helped him. She had not planned to murder the man, simply to disarm him. But his feet were flailing and she could not get close. Within moments, he’d toppled the desk. At least the smooth wood had been empty of ink or brush, but the hard bamboo edge caught her skirt as it overset. Amidst the clatter of the desk and the servant’s garbled curses, she heard the ominous sound of fabric ripping. Looking down, she stifled her own curse.
Her skirt was ripped in a long inverted V shape where the edge of the desk had gouged a hole. Now her entire left leg was completely exposed and scraped raw. She wasn’t sure which bothered her more.
Light flooded the tiny room as the silk hanging on the door was ripped away. The Enforcer rushed in like an avenging god. She glimpsed his face contorted in fury, his long black queue whipping behind him as he bolted forward. And then he was gone.
He’d fallen flat. In his haste to get to her side, he slipped on the very wet deck and dropped forward. But unlike his servant, he’d gone down neatly, catching himself on his hands in a kind of push-up. He was clearly coordinated, as he held himself there for a moment, reestablishing his poise, then abruptly flipped onto his side and tucked in his knees. Within moments, he had settled his legs beneath him and was completely composed, though his silks were darkening with water.
Then he did the most amazing thing of all. He burst out in laughter, catching his breath only to burst out again. “It is a good thing that you are not an assassin, Jing-Li. I am sure you would starve!” Then he settled back into another hearty laugh.
The servant glared at his master, dark fury tightening his wet features as he managed—finally—to lift his neck off the tub. His throat was red, but his face was more so. Anna had not realized how large his hands were until she saw them tighten into fists. Would he lunge at his master? She very much feared so, especially as the servant whipped his dripping queue away from his face only to have it wrap wetly around his opposite arm. This was a man who lost all coordination when angry. A lumbering bull who would cause indiscriminate damage.
All the while, the Enforcer laughed and laughed, seemingly oblivious to the danger. Anna glanced hurriedly around, searching for the lost knife. She saw it underneath one of the cushions, and she stepped quickly to it, tucking it tightly to her side until such time as she might need it.
The Enforcer noticed, of course. He pointed. “See, Jing-Li,” he continued in Chinese. “She is armed now. We are such blunderers that a white nun can overpower us both!”
The servant narrowed his eyes in her direction. He was no longer dripping wet, but his skin remained dark with fury. Anna tightened her grip on the knife, slowly raising it before her. She doubted it would save her life, but it would allow her to cause some damage before other servants came in to overpower her.
She widened her stance and prepared to fight while the Enforcer sobered. The growing quiet seemed to finally affect Jing-Li. He turned to his master and his color began to recede. His lips trembled as if he hovered halfway between mirth and fury. Then the mandarin tipped the scales, leaning forward in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What would your aunt say if she saw us now?”
The servant shook his head. “She would say nothing. We would simply be whipped and sent to bed.”
“Ah, but what would she say to her ladies?”
Jing-Li grinned. “Every detail.”
“With exaggeration.”
“I would have nearly drowned—”
“I would have fallen atop you, holding you underwater by accident.”
“And the nun would be a blind old woman who couldn’t hold a knife with her two palsied hands.”
The two descended into mutual laughter that had Anna slowly drawing the knife down into the folds of her skirt. Meanwhile, the servant pushed to his feet then leaned forward to help his master stand.
“You only got what you deserved,” the Enforcer commented. “I will not allow you to kill her.”
The servant grimaced as he hauled his master up. “You cannot keep her alive. She draws too much attention.”
“We can hide her in a palanquin. No one need see her face.”
The servant threw up his hands in disgust. “Have you lost your reason? We cannot be saddled with a white woman!” He stepped forward, and his boot was loud on the deck. “Lust has thickened your brain. You can have a dozen women such as her! Han women, white women. Ones with fatter breasts or smaller feet. Whatever you want, but not until Shanghai!”
His tirade ended on an loud exhale. The two men stood face to face, the Enforcer slightly taller, his friend and servant shorter but more powerful. Or at least so it seemed. Except, the more the servant blustered, the taller and more composed the mandarin appeared. His face remained placid, his stance almost casual, but there was no mistaking his power when he finally spoke.
“Have you forgotten that you pose as my servant? Compose your tone.”
They spoke in court Chinese—similar to the Mandarin she knew, but more stylized. Clearly they did not think she understood, and she did not enlighten them. But she could not stop her internal start of surprise. She knew the Chinese, like the British, often kept servant families. Children would often grow up together, and therefore by nature would have excessively familiar attitudes toward one another, even servant and master. But what the mandarin said meant “pose.” The friend posed as his servant, which meant things here were not as they appeared.
Meanwhile, the “servant” grimaced, and though his body and tone took on a more servile expression, his face did not. “It is too dangerous to keep her alive.”
“She is my wife, and you will not touch her unless I bid it.”
“You have other wives,” the servant groused.
Anna had to fight to keep from reacting. Of course she was a concubine—a third wife, fourth, maybe hundredth wife. It didn’t really matter. And yet, this blackened her thoughts nonetheless even after the Enforcer dismissed his past spouses with a casual wave of his hand.
“Two dead and the third gone.” He frowned. “Where is she now?”
“Companion to my mother in Canton. She still curses your testicles and swears she will cut them off if ever you come for her again.”
The mandarin gave a mock shudder. “As if that would ever happen.” He glanced back at Anna. “So I have an adequate number of wives, and may now indulge in the women I want.” His voice continued in that conversational tone as he addressed her. “Do you comprehend, wife? Your life depends wholly on me.”
She did not respond, pretending to not understand his words. She doubted she fooled the mandarin, but his friend dismissed her with a shrug. “Why do you play with death? She is a ghost woman. Her kind will only bring ill fortune.”
“That is your aunt speaking, not your brain. How
will you fare among the whites of Shanghai if that is your attitude?”
Jing-Li sighed dramatically. “Most ill, I am afraid. I will likely die within a year.” Then he frowned at Anna. “Less, if you continue in your ignorant lusts.” He leaned forward, his entire body urging the Enforcer to listen. “We cannot take her to Jiangsu. The place is too small to hide her.”
The mandarin stared back, his body rigid. But moments later, he slumped. “I know,” he finally said.
Everything in Anna urged her to step forward and demand an explanation. How far away was Jiangsu? How long did she have before she died? But what was the point? They wouldn’t answer her, and she would give away that she understood their court dialect. She bit her lip and considered fleeing right then and there, but there was nowhere for her to go. Not on a boat filled with the Enforcer’s servants. So she decided to bide her time and pray for an opportunity.
“Leave us, Jing-Li,” the Enforcer snapped. “I have made a bargain with her. Entertainment for her life.”
The friend rolled his eyes. “She will bore you with white God stories, then slit your throat while you sleep.”
“Then you should not be so careless with your knife.” And he held out his hand to Anna, obviously demanding the blade.
She pretended ignorance, shaking her head in confusion. “I only speak Jin dialect of the north,” she said in that language.
Though she knew the man was the Emperor’s Enforcer, his attitude these last hours had been of a scholar and an official. She had seen him give in to his friend and servant. She had not been thinking of him as the Emperor’s killer, so she was not prepared for his next action. He moved with startling speed. Before she could do more than cringe, he was beside her, one arm wrapped across her chest—near to her throat—and the other gripping her hand just above the knife hilt. His thumb was sharp and painful where it dug into her wrist at the base of her palm.
