The Valley of Amazement

by Amy Tan

  “The color suits you,” he said.

  I did not need to think of what I should say. A courtesan with plump cheeks and big eyes came to his side and reported merrily that after Eminent’s party, there would be a drinking game at her house. He could play until exhausted and then spend the night. She made it clear that he was likely to become her patron. He was going to a drinking party. I was going to have a conversation about Eminent’s mother’s cooking. Loyalty said a few more customary polite words, ones that he could have said to anyone, and then his favorite pulled him away. How did other courtesans accept the kind of humiliation of seeing a lover with another courtesan? A few minutes later, I invited Eminent Tang to my room to play an American game of cards. He accepted immediately.

  True to his word, he wanted nothing more than to please me. He was polite and asked if he could touch me: my face, my arm, my leg, my breast, my pudenda. It was tedious, but I was also glad I could anticipate what he would do. When I removed my clothes, he was grateful rather than charged with the mutual lust that Loyalty and I had shared. I kept my eyes on Eminent’s face to remove Loyalty from my mind. He was kind, gentle, and polite. He could not possibly be a gangster. I closed my eyes, and each time I opened them, I studied more of his face. He was attractive, yet I felt no desire. I pretended to be the slowly awakening virgin. My eyes enlarged with mock uncertainty as he pressed against me. I closed my eyes and let him move inside me. And with his predictable rhythmic strokes, I was comforted and began to cry.

  Before he awoke in the morning, I had already bathed and donned a loose robe. He looked like a sleeping boy. Even his body was slim and youthful. I was about to call for breakfast, but he pulled me toward him, and we began again. I was careful to provide the right balance: no longer the awakening virgin, but one who has been newly awakened. I remembered those courtesans at Hidden Jade Path who knew what suited their clients. I had imitated saying the words they said with every suitor. I did not find it beneath me to say them now. I was proud of my skill, and with Eminent Tang, I already knew he wanted to feel he had conquered my reticence, and I seduced him into thinking he had.

  That afternoon, Eminent Tang met with Madam Li and offered a contract for two seasons. I was taken aback that I had been reduced in value to just the summer and fall. Magic Gourd assured me that this was a good offer and a better arrangement than more seasons. If a patron proves unbearable you would not be stuck for too long. “You may think he is easy to please now. Once he has a contract, he will want much more. Do what you can to keep him besotted for as much of those two seasons as you can. That way you won’t have to work so hard. In two seasons, he won’t be besotted with you. Then he will seek another so he can become besotted once again.”

  “Have you ever known a man whose love was genuine and lasted more than a few seasons?”

  “Every flower wishes she could find a man like that,” she said. “Eventually, we learn not to wish. But hope came true for me twice. Once it was with the Poet Ghost. You know about him. The other was a living man. He was not as rich as most. He owned a small paper factory. And he already had a wife and two concubines. But he declared he loved me. He said this many times and he told me all the reasons. It was not my talents or my skill at flattery or my knowledge of all the different pleasures. He loved my strong character, my genuine heart, my simple good-hearted nature. I spent a lot of my savings to buy him a gold watch. He told me that he drew it out of his pocket every half hour to determine if his workers were keeping pace. One day, two factory workers killed him. Before they were executed, they said they killed him for both the watch and for his mistreatment of them. My lover’s widow kept the watch. I did not want it anyway. I thought it had killed him. However, that was true love. It can happen.”

  1915

  Over the next few years, I discovered that men are alike in many ways. They enjoy flattery of their character and their expression of that in bed. Their leadership. Their hard work. Their generosity. Their persistence and diligence. Their superiority. Most needed a continual stream of flattery from many women. I understood that. I also knew from the start how long a patron’s interest would last by the length of the contract. This ceased to surprise me, and thus, it did not bother me—although in a few instances I was pleased that the contract had been extended for another season. And with some I was also less than grateful that it had been.

  Each man had his particular erotic fantasies, which on the surface seemed similar. It might be a caress on his back—and it might be with a finger, a toe, a breast, a tongue, a feather duster, a flyswatter, or a whip. The more skilled I was at recognizing these subtle differences of need, the more I could find what else he might like and use that knowledge to good advantage. I could provide it once more, then withhold it, then provide it again without warning, or after he had given me another gift. One man liked to wash my pudenda. Another liked to peer into the back of my mouth. Another wanted me to sing a mountain maiden song as I undressed with my back to him. Another wanted me to titillate myself using the pearl polisher he gave me while he hid behind the screen. I told Magic Gourd what each man liked, thinking there would be one she had never seen. “I’ve encountered the same,” she always said.

  I was proud when I could finally tell her about a fetish she had never experienced, nor would she ever. It was to wear prim Western clothes and say in English that I did not understand the man’s repeated sexual demands, which he gave in Chinese. He would then push me down—I preferred the bed and not the floor—and bounce and buck until I said in Chinese that I could now understand him perfectly because his bold knight coming through my gates had united our minds as well.

  NEARLY THREE YEARS after my defloration, Loyalty Fang sent a note, asking to meet me. I thought about whether to accept.

  I was no longer haughty and naive, spirited and stupid. I did not let my feelings run wild and imagine paid romance was love. I was a popular courtesan and took pride that I could create the most convincing romance possible for each man and that I provided this within the limits of time, be it one season or two. I never accepted a contract that was longer. It was not wise to be out of circulation. I built a reputation as a courtesan who was not dishonest with her clients. And if a suitor made promises, I did not believe him, but I was not cynical about his infatuation. I reminded myself of all this as I considered Loyalty’s request to see me. But still my heart raced.

  I had seen Loyalty at parties from time to time—with courtesans and without. He was always polite, and I became more at ease each time, and eventually I discovered I could greet him with the faint affection of former friendship. Finally I was ready to meet him without bitterness or humiliation. As Loyalty once predicted, I would one day see him as a patron who treated me far better than most.

  I told Magic Gourd about the request. She made a round mouth and twitched her eyebrows to be humorous. “Could it be he wishes to court you?”

  I allowed him into my room. I resolved there would be no favors for old times’ sake.

  “I’ve watched you for almost three years,” he said, “and not without a wish we could still enjoy each other. I feared, however, the old pain would return.”

  “I was young and naive,” I said.

  “You’ve learned so quickly and know more than most, I suspect. I see you have your spirit back, your independence. I wondered if you had truly forgiven me. If only we had met now, for the first time. You would have been able to see me as a patron and we could have enjoyed our time together without the burden of expecting more.”

  “You don’t require forgiveness. You did nothing to wrong me. I should ask you to forgive me. I was unbearable, wasn’t I? I look back and wonder why you stayed as long as you did.”

  “You were fifteen.” He then gave me the familiar gaze. “Violet, I would like to be your patron for a season. Could you bear to do that, given your past resentment of me?”

  I said nothing. I usually had a ready answer to any request a man might make. But this one c
oncerned my once-damaged heart. I had carefully repaired it. I was a different person. My desire for him was so strong I could easily lose myself. The next moment I thought: Why not enjoy a season without having to pretend I was in ecstasy, as I had to do with other men? I would have a holiday from work. Whatever happened, whether heartache came later, I wanted to feel the old addiction of love.

  “Before you answer, I need to tell you something else,” he said. “I have a wife.”

  The old pain instantly returned.

  “We didn’t marry for love,” he said. “Our families have known each other for three generations, and she and I grew up side by side, like brother and sister. From the age of five, we were destined to marry. She delayed the marriage as long as possible, and you’ll be pleased to know the reason. She has no sexual desire for men. Both families believe she is the reincarnated spirit of a nun and they had hoped I would be able to change her religious tendencies. But the real truth is, she loves a woman, my cousin, whom she’s known since childhood. After my wife gave birth to a son, everyone was happy, and those two reincarnated nuns went off to live together in another part of the house. Nonetheless, she is still my wife. I tell you this, Violet, so that you don’t think another courtesan is luring her way into becoming my wife. I have a wife and I don’t want the chaos of concubines.”

  As pledged, he was my patron for a season. For that time, I did not have to play a role. I simply gave in to love and pleasure, and put aside the knowledge that I would be wretched later.

  When the season was over, Loyalty made a different pledge to me.

  “I will always be your loyal friend. If you are ever in trouble, you can come to me.”

  “Even when I am old and wrinkled?”

  “Even then.”

  He had just pledged friendship for a lifetime. He was giving me his loyalty, the meaning of his name. He would always help me. Wasn’t that the same as love? Wasn’t that worth all the seasons over a lifetime? Every few weeks, he would visit me for a night or two. I hoped for another contract each time I saw him. I delayed pressing suitors to become patrons so that I would still be available to him. Finally, I chided him gently. “Instead of having a night with me here and there when I am not busy, why not do a contract and have me at your beck and call whenever you wish.”

  “Violet, my love, I’ve told you many times you know me better than anyone else. I have no mirror, but you truly see me. When I’m with you, I feel the old yearning, the vital force, and if I did not resist, I would fill the emptiness, and I would not strive harder. And then I would feel the passage of time, along with the terror that something important had eluded me, my better purpose in life, which I would never find before I died. I would sense the days going by, the edge of life coming closer. I don’t have to say more. You know me better than I do myself.”

  “I know that what you just said is stink from a dog fart. If I knew you that well, I’d make you do what I want.” He laughed.

  With each question I asked, he gave me a better answer than I had expected, but it was contained within a worse one, a riddle of hope. He had pledged himself to me for life, yet he did not want to ever be fulfilled by me, and so we had to remain apart. What did he think I would fulfill? Why couldn’t I simply fail to fulfill it? What about my yearnings? I felt as if I were running in a labyrinth, chasing after something I could not see yet knew was important. I sensed it was just ahead, and then it would go around a corner, and I would be lost. I would have to decide what to do next, where to go, and what I needed to get out of that confusing place. If I stopped running and stood still, I would be accepting that what I had was all I would ever have. And then I would no longer be lost, because there would be nowhere else to go.

  As time went by, I discovered the stranger I had been running after—my happier self, which all my worries and discontent had chased away. I left behind my yearnings, and I continued on with a sharper mind and clearer eyes, ready to take what was in front of me.

  CHAPTER 6

  A SINGING SPARROW

  Shanghai

  March 1918

  Violet

  Spring Festival came and went, and Magic Gourd lamented that I had again failed to become one of the top Ten Beauties of Shanghai. I had not garnered any good gossip worth mentioning in the mosquito press, she said. I had worn the wrong colors. I had failed to cultivate more influential clients. “Do you think those girls who win are prettier or more talented? Not at all! But they don’t lie around cracking watermelon seeds, thinking popularity always goes up and never down.”

  The popularity contest was a sham, but she refused to believe it. The courtesans who won worked for houses run by the Green Gang, and the tally of votes by their members outnumbered the competition tenfold. “Even if the contest were not crooked,” I said, “I’m twenty, a picked peach, no longer new and intriguing. And being a Eurasian flower is not an advantage anymore.”

  She gave a dismissive sniff. “If you already think like that, you better look now for some way to attract more attention, or you’ll wind up as an attendant to a girl as ungrateful as you.”

  The world of flowers was full of Eurasian weeds—half-American, half-English, half-German, half-French—50 percent of a hundred varieties. And there were more in the second-class houses, even more in the opium flower houses. All of us in the first-class houses resented the newcomers, both the sojourners and those who would plant roots and reach out for opportunity. They were changing Shanghai to fill a bottomless greed. The Japanese had taken over more Chinese businesses, buildings, and houses. They owned little shops and big stores. Their geishas had higher status than our first-class courtesans while offering only music that sounded like raindrops, no sex. Why was that popular? If that were all that our flowers offered, they would have been tapping out tunes on a brass begging bowl.

  Last week we were surprised to hear that three of the best first-class houses now welcomed foreigners as customers. At Hidden Jade Path, foreigners had come every night, but they had not been allowed in the courtesan house, except as a guest of a Chinese customer. And even then, they could only look and not touch. We heard rumors that the Western customers who visited first-class houses did not follow the customs and protocols. They did not have the patience to woo a beauty for a month. They did not compete with other men. They flirted and played games, drank, ate, and listened to the beauty sing. The more forceful and generous ones were invited into the boudoir the same night. In our opinion, those first-class houses had fallen beneath the standards of second-class houses. On the other hand, the Westerners left handsome gifts, usually in silver dollars. The houses had been less profitable in recent years. No wonder they were letting exceptions creep in. The jewelry that their Chinese suitors gave them might have been worth more than those dollars, but when the courtesans traded them in at the jeweler or pawnshop, they received less than their value and the money was in Chinese yuan. Many worried that the currency would fall in value with the least little problem among the warlords and the Republicans, but it would be unpatriotic to say so aloud.

  What would happen to our house? If we did not take in the foreigners, what else could we offer? There were over fifteen hundred first-class houses, and many had newer and more fashionable furnishings, more card games, radios, and phonographs in each room, as well as modern toilets that carried away the dirtied water with a pull on the chain. Madam Li said she could not afford to change the furniture and decorations whenever a fresh breeze went by.

  In the lesser houses and on the streets, there were choices, beyond imagination, for salacious sex. Nothing was sacred or too precious to defile. Some prostitutes were widows of noblemen—so they said—who allowed men to rub off their gilt. The wives who called themselves “half-open” welcomed visitors from morning until late afternoon, when their husbands were away. One aging woman claimed she was a famous singer. She had decorated her room with posters from the days when she was at the height of her fame. We did not think she could possibly be the fa
mous singer we had once admired—but we discovered she was when we went to visit her. For the foreigners, there were Eurasian girls, who claimed they were the daughters of diplomats, pale white girls, who advertised themselves to be the daughters of missionaries, many pairs of virgin twins, and pretty courtesans who were, in reality, pretty men. But the lies still drew the foreigners, who were too ignorant to know they were being tricked or too embarrassed to say so later. Those foreigners, we imagined, would be the same ones who might walk through our doors.

  Vermillion was almost twenty-five, past her bloom and luster. She refused to recognize it. Her reputation had carried her far, and she still attracted old-fashioned suitors who threw parties and requested her to play the zither and sing. But now the suitors did not have to wait several weeks before she was available. And not all the suitors were the ones with great power and wealth, although, luckily, some of our longtime customers remained steadfast.

  I saw her eyes widen with horror the day when Madam Li broached to her the idea of welcoming foreigners—respected, wealthy ones, she assured her, not sailors or clerks. “It has become not only acceptable, but fashionable,” her mother said. “We will still be selective about our clientele. A foreign guest would have to be introduced by a longtime customer of the house who can vouch for the foreigner’s good standing.”

  Vermillion looked as if fire would shoot out of her eyes. “They are crude in manners,” she said, “and they carry gonorrhea, syphilis, and bugs that leave you covered head to toe with red itchy bumps. Do you want me, your beloved daughter, to become a diseased whore overnight?”

  Madam Li’s eyes narrowed. “If you want to inherit this house,” she said, “you better take gangsters as your patrons from here on out.”