by Amy Tan
But Loyalty Fang acted as if he had not heard her and beckoned me to go to where Vermillion’s zither lay waiting. “Take as much time as you need to prepare,” he called out. He then led the men into singing a ballad about youth and tigers. Magic Gourd arrived and seated herself by the zither. She looked as if we were about to be executed. “We will do ‘Peach Blossom Spring.’” I protested that I could not. I could not remember most of it. “Pay attention to what I play on the zither,” she said. “Tremble with the tremolo, sway with the glissando, and sweep your eyes upward as the music rises. Don’t forget to act natural. And don’t shame me,” she said, “or you will be the reason we sleep on the streets tonight. Tonight, you have an opportunity to build your reputation—and whether it is good or bad will depend on what you do.”
The room quieted. All eyes were on me. Loyalty Fang smiled broadly, as if he were already proud that he had discovered a talented singer in their midst. Magic Gourd swept across the zither and plucked the first few notes. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to speak the first sentence. Nothing came out of my throat. The words were stuck. I tried for several minutes, and Magic Gourd continued to sweep across the zither, adding a few plucks that signaled the beginning of the story. I finally pushed out a strangled sound, and then trembling ones followed: “Has anyone heard the story of Peach Blossom Spring?” Of course, everyone had. A three-year-old child knew it. “I will tell it as it has never been told before,” I said. Loyalty Fang grinned, and when his guests looked at him, they complimented his choice of entertainer. “This is quite special.” “Excellent choice.”
I began in spurts of jumbled words, and when I related how the fisherman’s boat drifted lazily down the stream to paradise, I did so in a torrent of words that would have capsized the boat. Magic Gourd motioned for me to slow down and follow the zither’s music. I did so, stiffly, coming in either too late or too early, and being unsure whether my expressions matched the story. When I recounted the fisherman’s arrival in Peach Blossom Spring, I struggled to recall which facial expression I was supposed to show—the half-closed eyelids, or the parted lips, or the swooning tilt of my head. I did all three in sequence, and when I saw Magic Gourd, her eyes were wide with panic and she repeated a tremolo. At that point, I was so confused the jumbled contents of my memory congealed and turned me into a blockhead. I blundered into paradise like a terrified refugee. “The fisherman finds his wife still alive two hundred years later … even though everyone else is dead … and also the village is burnt to the ground. They get in the boat and return to paradise together, where virgin maidens greet him and provide him with immediate pleasure …”
The men burst into roars. “Immediate pleasure? Wah!” “This is a paradise where I want to go!” “No need to do any courting.” In a wobbly voice, I added that the pleasures were delicious peaches and wine—and that the fisherman shared those with his wife, too. That elicited more laughs. Magic Gourd blinked and her mouth was open, as if she were silently screaming. Vermillion and the madam were stony-faced statues. The courtesans from other houses were barely able to contain their delight, knowing I would not be future competition of any concern.
I returned to the far end of the table to resume my place as the “little ornament.” Magic Gourd stood by me and mumbled to herself, “She shamed me. She made me a fool. What will happen to me?”
I was incensed. Her shame? Were they laughing at her?
A servant brought me a bowl of wine. What’s this? None of the other women had received one. Loyalty Fang stood and held up his bowl. “A single bloom, a swarm of bees, a single pierce, ten thousand slain.” It was mockery made to sound like a classical witticism from a thousand years ago. “Tonight, little Violet,” he continued, “with one song, you have stung all our hearts, and we would kill each other in our battle to win you.” The men thundered in agreement and everyone tipped back their bowls. Magic Gourd nudged me to do the same. How cruel to make me toast my fiasco. Amid cheers, I drained my cup of humiliation in one continuous swallow. Done! I smiled. I didn’t care what they thought.
“And now, little bloom,” Loyalty said, “sit here beside me.”
What did this mean? I looked toward Madam Li. She frowned and hurried a servant to place a chair next to the host. Vermillion was busy talking to the man whom she stood behind. She was such a good actress she knew to act as if she were unaware of what was happening. I looked to the far end of the table where Magic Gourd still stood. She gave me a weak smile. She was puzzled, too. I was helped into the chair. I saw two beauties across the table whisper to each other, blatantly eyeing me. Loyalty called for a courtesan to sing a lively ballad, and Madam Li selected one of the newer girls of the house who was known to be a songster. Everyone pretended to listen, but I knew that much of the attention was on me. I knew what they were thinking: How strange that he had singled out such a silly girl to sit next to him. The room grew noisier. With each refrain of the ballad, the men raised their cups for a toast. Loyalty Fang encouraged me to take a few sips but did not require I finish the bowl. A plate laden with food was set before me. Loyalty Fang beckoned me to eat. I looked at Madam Li, and she nodded. I tasted one dish and then another. The fish was succulent, the prawns were sweet.
I felt Loyalty Fang lean in close to me. “Seven years ago, I went to Hidden Jade Path. I was seventeen, and I thought I had entered a dreamworld. Beautiful women. Western surroundings. An American madam. I had never met a foreigner. Then I heard a naughty girl shouting as a cat darted by me. The cat flew under the sofa. Do you remember?”
I looked at his face, and after a few seconds, I saw within his grown features traces of the awkward boy who had stared at me. “It’s you!” I said. “But I heard you died!”
“This is terrible news. Why am I the last to know?” The awkward boy had grown into this sensual and self-assured man.
Now I remembered the rest of the incident. Carlotta bit his hand and then slid down his arm, leaving long bleeding furrows. He had tried to pretend the ghastly wound did not hurt, but seconds later, his face went white, his teeth clenched, and then his eyes rolled back and he sank to his knees and fell forward. A crowd gathered around, and someone shouted for his father to come right away. A short while later, his limp body was carried away by two men. The next day, one of the courtesans said he had died. I feared Carlotta would be branded a murderer and I her accomplice!
“Do you remember what I asked you that night just before I died?” he said. “No? I asked in my poor English if you were a foreigner. And what was your answer? Do you recall?”
I did not recall the conversation, but the only answer I would have given was yes.
He continued: “You said in Chinese that you did not understand what I was saying. And then you bent down to search for your cat. I saw the tail flicking from underneath the sofa and grabbed it to pull the cat out. Here is the souvenir of that mistake.”
Loyalty Fang pushed up one sleeve. “Violet Minturn,” he said in his unsteady English. “Look what your cat done me.” I shivered to see those pale white scars. He spoke again, this time in his beautiful Chinese. “I have waited a long time for your apology, Violet. And now I have been more than compensated for my pain.”
So he had indeed meant to humiliate me. “I apologize to you for the bad cat and the bad story I recited tonight,” I said tersely.
“I did not mean it that way. I cherished your telling of the tale. I know it was your first performance. And it was for me. You were truly charming.”
I did not believe him.
He took on a serious expression. “When I was seventeen, my father took me to Hidden Jade Path for my initiation into the world of flowers. I felt as if I were in a dreamland of fairies and gods. He said that when I became a success, I would be able to visit however often I wanted. Just being there caused excruciating yearning for romance, and I was angry my father had shown me the delights and then denied them to me. I was determined to be richer than he one day and to woo all the b
eautiful flowers I wanted in this dreamland. I had remained single-minded about this goal. Within a few years, I became successful in business and had all the pretty flowers I could possibly want. But I had forgotten the dreamland that had motivated me. I forgot to return and fulfill that seventeen-year-old boy’s yearning. I grew complacent, although not content. But I was too busy to notice anything was missing.
“Over the last two years, I have been feeling both a little bored and vaguely dissatisfied. I still enjoyed my life, but I felt I was not moving forward. There was nothing to move forward to. I decided I needed to stir myself up, and come alive—stretch my tendons, my mind, my spirit. But how? Until I knew, I felt this unease would stay with me like a bothersome toothache.
“A few months ago, I was at a party with one of my old schoolmates, Eminent Tang—he’s seated at the end of this table. He was telling me about all the businesses that had been taken over by either the Japanese or the Green Gang. Hidden Jade Path was one. As soon as he said that name, I recalled the dream and my promise to return. I hurried over to the place with seven years of anticipation coiled in my body. But the dreamland was gone. The house was no longer the same.
“I told Eminent about my disappointment and asked what had happened to the American madam. He gave me the story. I’m truly sorry about what happened, Violet. I admired your mother very much and the world she created. But I must be honest that when I heard you were now living at the House of Vermillion, I felt as if a string of firecrackers had gone off in my head, heralding the return of the dream. I know that you did not come here willingly, and I assure you I was not thinking about you in a lustful way. After all, in my mind, you were still a seven-year-old brat. What I realized about the dreamland, however, was the power it once held simply by being withheld from me. It created yearning—and also purpose. It demanded the best of me to meet my purpose: diligence, intelligence, and an understanding of myself and of others. I had to weigh opportunity and morality, ambition and fairness. My early resolve to be successful and independent came from that hunger of desire, which had yet to be sated.
“As I had hoped, when I saw you here, the memory of desire returned, the power of yearning, excitement rippled through me, and I knew it would lead me forward again—to where, I don’t yet know. I feel with you the deep aching of a new desire. The desire is the elusive dream that will infuse me with new purpose. Without purpose, I can’t see my future. I’m stuck in the present, counting off the days, with mortality staring me in the face.”
My heart was racing with pride and excitement, but I was also confused. I did not want to make any mistakes in fulfilling—or rather, not fulfilling—his dream. “You want to think of me as someone who is not real? Is that it?”
“Oh, you are very real. But you are from the dream that was my touchstone, and still can be. You are my memory of desire. Do you mind if I think of you this way? Someone I will forever yearn for, based on what I remembered in my youth?”
“I’m sure I can help you keep the dream strong. What should I do to withhold myself from you? Should I ignore you?”
“Not at all! You should be as charming as you are. In fact, you should do what you can to increase my desire. I will use my willpower and do all the withholding. Give it your best efforts. The stronger my desire, the stronger my willpower, and the stronger my purpose in life. That’s what I need to rid me of this nagging complacency.”
He wanted an unconsummated romance. I was a little disappointed. I imagined what would be denied him—our bodies pressed together, limbs encircled, our cries of endearment, the little nap afterward. At that moment, I longed for him—and a second thought followed. I longed for a Chinese man, and until this very second I had not considered him to be one race or the other. How strange! I had practiced the arts of seduction, believing I would never have to use them here. In refusing to believe I would not, I had never imagined I might desire one of the customers of the house. I wanted romance, knowledge of him and our bodies together. I felt freed, relieved, and joyful to be unbound. I had fought all these years against the Chinese half becoming mine. I resented it was there. But now I was no longer wavering between the two halves. I had stepped across a threshold that had divided my American and Chinese halves only to discover I had imagined there was any such line. I was still myself, no different, and I did not have to deny who I was. He yearned for all of me and not half. I yearned for all of him. Such tragedy for the two of us! We were monk and nun to each other. By suffering desire, we helped each other become—what was it he said?—invigorated with purpose? I would have to find one. But at least Loyalty Fang was mine for the night, and everyone could see that.
I sat confidently beside him as he conversed with his friends. I admired his leisurely manner of speech, typical of literati families, perfectly articulated without a hint of a regional burr, and embellished with a few archaic phrases. This was the man who longed for me. He casually mentioned heroes and maidens from novels to emphasize a humorous point. He talked about his work with a consortium concerning the new government and the United States. He asked his guests for their opinions on the new president and rephrased each person’s answer to make it seem that they were better informed than they actually were. This man, who discussed so knowledgeably the reasons why the rubber factories went bankrupt, had never-ending yearning for me. He addressed his friends but glanced often at me and smiled. I was his dream.
“Little Violet,” he suddenly said, “tell us what you think. Should I invest in Japanese companies with new equipment, as the bankers say I should? Or should I buy the failing Chinese companies and equip them with new machinery and management? Which way would make enough money to pay for this very expensive banquet?”
Magic Gourd had told me I should answer any questions asking for my opinion by deferring to a man’s better knowledge of the situation. Agree with him. Anything else would signal I was brainless to think I knew more than he did and that I would also be annoyingly chatty in bed. But I was flush with tipsy bravado, bolstered by his recent confession, along with two bowls of wine. I had listened to countless heated discussions between my mother and her clients on the subject of foreign investments. I had always thought the conversations were tedious. The guests asked the same questions. Mother gave the same answers, chock-full of facts and figures, predictions and projections. She used to practice them in front of Golden Dove, and Golden Dove would suggest that she move her hands a certain way. I would listen through the door in Boulevard and then deliver those lines to Carlotta, who purred, quite happy to listen.
And so I mimicked my mother once again. I rose from my chair and stood with erect posture and delivered the memorized phrases, along with the hand gestures—and with far more ease than I had earlier with my sad rendition of “Peach Blossom Spring.” I imagined I was she, confident and with erect posture, as I spoke in her theatrical authoritative voice of optimism: “I recommend a farsighted approach to the answer. Who benefits if your company contributes to Japanese expansion of their businesses, buildings, and profitability? Is it to the detriment of our fledgling Republic? Of course, a businessman cannot make decisions based solely on nationalism. But I believe the new Republic presents an unprecedented opportunity. Buy up the failing Chinese cotton mills to start, select new partnerships with American investment companies, using the new policies to come under the Republic. You can then rebuild the cotton mills with modern equipment, infuse them with better management, and receive a larger share of the profits than what you would have had by investing in a Japanese company. The growth of Japanese businesses is the growth of Japanese power, and we should all look to the future and be wary. You, then, can be a model for commerce in the new Republic: one that is progressive, Chinese controlled, and supportive of foreign trade policies that benefit the Republic.” I sat down.
Loyalty Fang nodded solemnly. The men at the table were quiet, stunned. No one agreed or disagreed. The courtesans were baffled, and I knew what they were thinking: Was this flaun
ting of opinion good or would it prove damaging?
Loyalty smiled. “What you said is precisely what I intend to do. I am dazzled by your knowledge and, more so, your spirit, how vivacious you are, so full of surprise.”
At the end of the night, Loyalty Fang gave Magic Gourd a large tip. He apologized for the behavior of his drunken younger brother, the man who had dropped the scallop on my jacket. He added a sum of money that was enough to buy three new jackets to replace the ruined one. “Lake green,” he said. “That color would complement her eyes.” And then he told Madam Li that he wished to be the first to host a party in honor of the virgin courtesan Violet.
“I hope you won’t spend too lavishly,” I teased, “since you can never have me.”
“Why can’t I have you?”
“You said you want to yearn for me forever, to have the dream withheld.”
“Ah! That is exactly right. In the dream it’s this way. But we are awake and can control our lives. I can yearn for you, I can woo you, and I can eventually, with your permission, fulfill my desire in your bed—unless you still have that cat.”
Back in our room, Magic Gourd bubbled over our success. “The story of Peach Blossom Spring needs more polishing, of course. But now we do not need to hide your half-Western origins. Everyone is talking about your Eurasian blood as an advantage.”
This was the first time I had heard her use the word Eurasian.
“I heard Loyalty and another man describe you that way. They did not say it as an insult. It was rather like elevating your value. That was why the men thought you were captivating when you told the story. You are Eurasian, they said, yet you speak Chinese so well. And now he is hosting your debut party! It must mean he will buy your defloration.” I did not tell her what Loyalty had said. She would ruin it with her interpretation of what it meant.
