Peach Blossom Pavilion (24 page)

Was it possible that Mother had risen so far above worldly concerns that she'd forgotten her only daughter? Or was she . . . dead? Whenever I imagined she might be dead, all kinds of horrible images would emerge: her bloated body floating on a river; crumpled in a rat-infested back alley; or even swinging from a beam of her temple.. .

But these thoughts came only in my blackest moments. Deep down, I still thought of her as alive. Often, in the middle of the night when I was alone, my body exhausted from my clouds being stirred by the chou nanren's rain but my mind achingly alert, I'd look out the window, gaze at the moon, and think of her. Would we have the chance for a family reunion? Even to sit down together and have a simple meal of noodles and buns, just like in the past?

Sometimes I missed her so much that I'd cherish the idea of running away from Peach Blossom, so I could go to Peking and find her. But, of course, I'd smother the thought right away. Because, if I were caught, I'd end up in the dark room fed to the rats; with my nipples being pierced; or a cat beaten in my pants. Even if I succeeded in escaping from the pavilion, I would have no roof above my head. And I had never forgotten that little beggar who'd grabbed my ice cream years ago. Getting to Peking would be no easy feat. Instead, since I was getting more and more popular, I imagined that someday I'd make enough money to hurl a heavy sack of gold at Fang Rong's face, then walk out of Peach Blossom. I fervently prayed to Guan Yin for that day to come.

Besides my mother, I also thought a lot about Baba and that warlord who'd wrongly accused him and had him executed. A burning desire had ignited in me-to find out this thousandknives-slashed bastard who was the cause of my family's disintegration. If I did, I wouldn't let him go unpunished. I even relished all sorts of ways that I could torture him-slash him with a spiked whip soaked in water (which was how some mamas disciplined their daughters); fill him with water then jump on his swollen belly; force him to swallow a needle-filled bun; push him down a poisoned well; or more simply, put a bullet into his head.

Although thoughts of finding Mother and avenging Baba were never far from my mind, I still kept practicing my arts to maintain my status as a ming ji so I could one day carry out my plan of leaving Peach Blossom.

Besides my name, I had yet another change in my life: my room, which was larger and prettier, with elegant furniture, a gilded mirror, ceramic vases, and a landscape by the famous Tang Yin. I also hung a painting of my own showing young women engaging in the four arts: painting, calligraphy, poetry, qin.

Not only did my customers like this painting, they thought the four beauties were actually one person-me. Naturally I agreed with them, for I was pretty and well versed in all of the four arts. The fact that they complimented my beauty and my talents always pleased me tremendously, even when the praises were poured from wrinkled, toothless mouths.

Now I also had my own maid, a thirteen-year-old girl called Little Rain. She was plain-looking and stupid, but I liked her because of her kind heart and loyalty. Moreover, she never failed to carry out her duties and took very good care of Plum Blossom. She'd also bring me gossip about sisters both at Peach Blossom and the other turquoise pavilions.

Since I'd become famous, Fang Rong's attitude toward me had also changed. It was more respectful, almost as if I were the first female zhuang yuan. Now every morning I was served with meat juice to clean my face, clear egg soup to nurture my throat, and rose petal fragrant water to wash my hair. Every night I took a bath in water steeped with expensive herbs.

Some sisters who had snubbed me now suddenly seemed unable to remember their former feelings. Sweet words poured from their lips while they begged me to reveal my secrets for captivating customers. But there were others whose envious glances betrayed a frightening hatred.

16

Red Jade

uring the height of Peach Blossom Pavilion's business, only -three sisters received flower signboards every day-Pearl, me, and a girl called Red Jade.

I'd never paid much notice to Red Jade. She'd been living in another quarter, working under another sister's tutelage, and had not been pretty or talented enough to attract my attention. Then, over a year, she'd miraculously transformed from a slightly plump little girl into a watery-eyed, oval-faced, fair-skinned beauty. It was generally known that she'd thoroughly mastered not only the skill of the bedchamber but also the invaluable art of flattering Fang Rong and Wu Qiang. She was the only sister who'd lived in the pavilion for four years but had never experienced any "special treat- ments"-rat-infested dark room, cat in the pants, pierced nipples. Her special talent was kouji-lips technique. Not the kind that imitates bird songs, cicada chirps, cats' meowing, or bubbling brooks and howling wind. Everyone in the pavilion knew that her lip technique was put to use inside the guests' rooms late at night.

Unlike Pearl, who was slender, elegant, and haughty, Red Jade was voluptuous, horny, and wild. Her big, round eyes always seemed to shine with a dazzling luster. "Smiling eyes" was the customers' remark. However, young as she was, when she laughed, she already had a few lines bursting from the corners of her eyes.

"An extremely licentious physiognomy," Pearl had once told me.

I chuckled. Wasn't that a trait we prostitutes were supposed to have or, if not, strive to achieve?

Like two fat slices of ripe, juicy tomatoes, Red Jade's lips glistened all the time, even when the weather was hot and dry. When you saw them, customers said, you had to take a big bite. Others described them as hot red chilies. When you sucked them, not only did your tongue get burnt, but the fire would scurry all the way down to inflame your jade stalk.

However, it was neither her eyes nor her lips that were Red Jade's most prominent features, but her breasts. Big and pendulous, they always seemed to cast an enigmatic shadow wherever she went. They stuck out so far that I'd even heard a guest apologize, "Excuse me, miss," when he was just passing by her. I was told a lot of customers went to her just "to have a taste of the flesh papayas."

Although a smile always bloomed on Red jade's face, we never knew what was on her mind. Since I hardly knew her, I neither liked nor disliked her.

But Pearl hated her bitterly. "Xiang Xiang," she always warned me, "beware of this cunning fox. While she smiles, she'll stab you with a knife."

Whenever she mentioned Red jade's name, Pearl would grind her teeth and start her sentence with "that whore." This always made me want to laugh. Weren't we all whores? But Pearl thought otherwise. "We're decent women forced or tricked into being whores, but she's a born one. This slut has indelible `whoreness' through to her marrow." Watching how Red jade even flirted with De, I agreed. I didn't really dislike her deep down, but because I was on Pearl's side, I had to be her enemy.

Since the three of us were now the most prestigious courtesans in Peach Blossom, even in Shanghai, customers loved to compare us-to flowers, birds, animals. Pearl, the oldest and most arrogant, became the rose, the swan, and the cat. I, the youngest and most innocent, was the daisy, the oriole, the rabbit. Red jade, the most scheming and flirtatious, was the peony, the peacock, the fox.

One time Pearl cast me an anxious look. "Xiang Xiang, when a girl like Red Jade can become popular, I'm afraid that's the end of our era.

"What era?"

"Of the ming ji." She sighed. "Men are losing their taste. Red Jade's pipa playing is so sloppy that it makes my stomach flip. But some customers seem not to care as long as her breasts keep swinging with the music. Girls like her are taking over. We spend years perfecting our arts and to become connoisseurs of taste. But Red Jade doesn't even wait ten seconds to strip off her clothes and spread her legs!"

"But Sister Pearl, it's not true. You're still the most admired sister here, and you have many more rich and powerful customers than Red Jade."

"Yes. But I'm also a couple of years older than she. And that makes a big difference. She has all the time in the world to catch up. I don't mean in the arts, since I don't think she cares, but in taking over my status."

Although this had not been a worry on my mind, I didn't know how to relieve Pearl's. Finally I said, "Sister Pearl, I don't think she can be that admired."

"I certainly hope not."

Now I started to read the newspapers. In keeping with my ming ji status, clients often contributed poems addressed to me. While the main news never interested me, I was curious to read anything about myself. Here were some that really made me happy:

Embracing the moon and playing with the wind, Voice soaring with the clouds and resonant as the clicking of mala beads.

I especially liked this one, which cleverly used my name:

Lips pout like cherries breaking open. The three-thousand-threads-of-beauty tremble over a pair of green jade earrings.

Precious body emanating the fragrance of Orchid, An immortal descending on the red dust.

There were many more like these. Actually, I read them with some trepidation because if a sister's luck changed, the poems would shift from veneration to merciless sarcasm. I was sometimes shocked at how the process could be reversed overnight, literally. But fortunately, my luck seemed to hold, and so did Pearl's.

She had once said, "Because we're Guan Yin. Not only that we're invulnerable, we're bestowing compassion on those pitiful, stinking males."

So Pearl and I continued to be, without shame, the Goddesses of Sexual Mercy.

Not all the poems were published in newspapers. Some were executed with elegant brush strokes on rice paper sprinkled with gold flakes or bordered with colorful flowers. While I felt these customers' passion blossom all the way from their fingertips to their brush and onto the rice paper, a sadness would also surge in my heart. I liked the poems about me but, unfortunately, none of the men who wrote them. They were either young, awkward-looking bookworms, middle-aged businessmen with protuberant bellies, or arrogant, heartless dandies.

I'd ask lao tianye-the God of Heaven-was there someone handsome and romantic hiding somewhere and secretly composing a poem to win my heart? If so, why didn't he come out of hiding? If he was there, perhaps he was too poor. I'd sigh. Please come to me; I'll serve you free-for love.

As a child I had loved the legend of the cowherd and the spinning girl. They were so in love that they neglected their work and so the God of Heaven placed them in the sky as constellations, separated by the Silver River of Heaven-the Milky Way. Once a year, on the seventh evening of the seventh month, a flock of magpies, taking pity on the lovesick couple, fly to the sky and form a bridge so that they can meet. On this night all over China, women make offerings to these stars, hoping for love.

So I'd written this poem: