The Valley of Amazement (43 page)

L
OYALTY WAS A
bad student and paid me many fines. After two weeks we were back to our old ways and became reacquainted in my bed. I had missed the comfort of being with someone, and he was familiar. After another four weeks, we were arguing every night over the same misunderstandings of what was said and what was meant. He made excuses why he could not see me on a few occasions. I learned he was seeing another courtesan.

“If you had known sooner,” he said in exasperation, “you would have been mad at me sooner. By doing it my
way, you were happy with me for two weeks more.”

“I don’t care whether you see someone else. Just don’t insult me with dishonesty.”

“I am not obligated to tell you everything.”

In the old days of my infatuation, he could cause havoc with my emotions. Now his antics simply made me angry. I was not in love with him anymore, and his selfishness was tiresome. My heart was full of yearning for Edward and Flora. I wanted them back. The yearning I had for Loyalty had been that of a fifteen-year-old virgin who grew older but continued to believe she would marry the man who had deflowered her. I was glad to be free of the delusion.

“We’ll never understand each other,” I said. I was neither angry nor sad. I said it as if I were reciting a lesson, one I had just learned. “We should admit that you won’t ever change, and neither will I. We make each other unhappy. It’s time we stop.”

“I agree. Maybe in a month we can both be more reasonable …”

“We will never be reasonable. We are who we are. I want to stop. I won’t change my mind.”

“You are too important to me, Violet. You are the one who knows me. I know I don’t always make you happy. But in between our fights, you are happy. You’ve told me you are. Let’s try to have more happiness and fewer fights—”

“I cannot continue this way. My heart has become frayed.”

“You never want to see me?”

“I will see you as my student and you can see me as your English teacher.”

A calm fell over me. I felt no acrimony toward Loyalty. For many years, I had waited for proof of love from him. No amount of patience would bring it, because I did not know what love was beyond the discontent that I did not have it. Now I did know, and I realized I would never find lasting love with Loyalty. His abiding love lasted as long as I was by his side. I wanted a deeper love, in which we felt we could never know enough of each other—our hearts, our minds, and how we saw the world. To finally understand that was a victory over my own self.

CHAPTER
9

Q
UICKSAND
Y
EARS

Shanghai
March 1925
Violet

Loyalty was throwing a big party at the House of Lin to celebrate the fifteen-year-old virgin courtesan Ruby Sky and her upcoming defloration, which he had bought for a price greater than what he had paid for mine. As with the party where I first met him, he had invited seven friends and there was a shortage of courtesans. As usual, he requested my presence, and as usual, I appreciated the business.

Over the last few years, I had worked hard to improve my skills as a zither player, as well as a singer of Western tunes. Loyalty cited to his guests my unusual musical talents as reason for others to request my services at their parties. In truth, my skills were only passable. Despite his recommendation, my desk was not burdened with stacks of requests. Who among the younger clients wanted to hear plucky zither music when they could spin out a fast song on the phonograph? They preferred whatever was modern, and Shanghai was all about modernity. I had added one musical advantage by singing a few songs in the melodic Western style with the zither providing only the harmony. One guest who had visited the United States said it sounded like I was playing the American banjo, and thereafter I advertised myself as a banjo singer, “widely sought for parties with a buoyant atmosphere.”

The madam of the House of Lin was the former Billowy Cloud at Hidden Jade Path. She greeted me with much enthusiasm. “I’m so grateful you had no engagements tonight,” she exclaimed before the others arrived. “I should call upon you more often. Our girls are busy every night.” At one time, I would have been insulted by her insinuation that I had no regular suitors. Now Magic Gourd was telling Billowy Cloud that she should always think of me to give a party a lively touch. I entered the banquet room and saw Loyalty with his wiggly new favorite. He was gazing at her with the same tender expression he had given me when I was his virgin and he had claimed no other girl had stirred such new and surprising emotion in him.

Loyalty came over to us and greeted Magic Gourd and me in the courtly British manner—a kiss on my hand and a slight bow. I complimented him on the lovely new flower he was honoring. She threw me a suspicious eye. Magic Gourd had complained of stomach problems but still insisted on attending because she had a feeling I would make a new conquest.

Halfway through the party, Loyalty begged that I entertain everyone. I began the party with two sentimental Chinese songs, followed by the banjo-style tunes “Always,” “Tea for Two,” and “Swanee River,” the last being my best, because of my joke that
suh-wan-nee
meant in Chinese “thinking about grabbing you,” and that
fa fa e wei
meant, the first time it was sung, “to show you the beautiful rising clouds,” and, in the second, “to show you
my hunger for your raging fire.” “Swanee” always ended the party in a high mood, generous tips for me, and, on occasion, a new suitor.

Loyalty jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Maestro!” He used the traditional term reserved for the famed singers at Storytelling Hall. “You make us swoon, you raise our spirits. We must show our appreciation.” He gave a toast and then slipped me an envelope with money, so that others knew they should do the same. Then Loyalty gave another toast. More obligatory clapping and roars of admiration followed.

One man toward the end of the table opposite Loyalty was overly effusive. “I have never heard such a combination of delicate and forceful notes rise from the zither as those your fingers plucked tonight. And from a foreigner no less!”

That tiresome comparison to foreigners, yet again. “Only half,” I said in apologetic tones. “But I still try to be impressive.”

“I did not mean to suggest your talent had to do with the shortcomings of race. I meant it was an added benefit that you can sing also in English. Truly, I’ve never heard such a dazzling banjo performance by anyone.”

It was the usual banal compliment. I doubted he had ever heard another courtesan play banjo music, but I responded with ritual modesty. “I lack great skill but I’m glad you enjoyed it nonetheless.”

“My admiration is genuine. I’m not trying to gain favor to be invited into your boudoir. I speak from my respect and knowledge of the arts.” He looked to be thirty, but he wore the earnest face of a young boy filled with awe visiting a courtesan house for the first time. Young boys wanted to have knowledge of the arts in bed. This man’s bullshit was a ploy I had heard many times before. He introduced himself as Perpetual of the Sheng family of An-hwei Province, second cousin to Mansion, who was one of Loyalty’s friends.

Although he was from An-hwei, he spoke Han without the province’s accent, so it was clear that he was educated. As for looks, compared to Loyalty, he was not unattractive, but he was not the first man on whom your eyes would fall when scanning a room of prospects. As he continued to heap praise, I elevated his attractiveness to pleasing but in an ordinary way, which is to say, he did not have any of the features I disliked. He was not narrow-shouldered and bony nor did he have the broad Mongolian look. The eyes were not squinty like those of a cheapskate. The nostrils were not large like those of a blowhard. The lips were not thick with crude intent. He did have the missing teeth of a man whose neglected hygiene likely extended to less visible parts of his body. He did not have the coarse features of someone with questionable morals. He had no patchy eyebrows like that of a syphilitic. His hair was abundant, but not so wildly thick as to suggest he had tribal blood. His hairstyle was not chopped like a bumpkin but precisely cut and smoothed back with silky pomade. By all that he was not and a little of what he was, I found him somewhat attractive.

It was difficult to tell whether he was well-to-do. He had come as Mansion’s guest. His clothes were clean but somewhat creased, though that had always been a problem with Western linen suits in warm weather. His fingernails were trimmed and lacked the long nail on the little finger, which opium sots used as an entrenching tool to dig out the sticky residue of a pipe and the waxy crevices of their ears. He spoke again in a serious voice: “Your delicate fingers pranced like fairies and made the music all the more entrancing.”

This was too much. “Do you belong to one of the literati societies in Shanghai?”

“Trying to find out if I’m worthy of your company?” Now he smiled, but only with his mouth, not his eyes. I maintained my aplomb and waited patiently for his answer. “I don’t seek the society of like-minded intellectuals,” he said. “I’m a painter-poet who prefers solitude. I have moods, you see, best not seen in public. The moods give my paintings a moody style, which is not popular with most collectors.”

“Most collectors think popularity is a style,” I said.

“Anyone can have original style,” he countered. “And yet no one truly does. We’re influenced by those who came before us, beginning with the painters thousands of years ago who imitated nature.”

What a pretentious boor. “Why do scholars always apologize for ignorance?” I asked.

“You persist in wanting to know if I’m from a scholar family … Ah, now I’ve annoyed you, I can tell.”

“Not at all,” I said pleasantly. “We courtesans enjoy playful banter. That’s what you like and I’m happy to accommodate.” I turned to Magic Gourd, who was standing to the side, slightly behind me. “It’s warm. I need my fan.” If I later put my fan in my lap, that was the signal for Magic Gourd to call me aside to let me know someone had sent me an urgent message. She always kept a note in her pocket for that reason. I was sure now that he was a poor prospect. If he had any money at all, he’d make me turn upside down for it. I had already been at the party for well over two hours and it was unlikely that further monetary appreciation would come my way from the other guests.

I turned back to Perpetual. “Are you ready to confess? Do you have a ship of gold? Are you the bureaucrat we must bribe?”

“I confess I am indeed from a scholar family—and a wastrel.”

“Have you spent the entire fortune? Isn’t there still some for me?”

“It wasn’t money I wasted. It was my education. I passed the third-level examinations five years ago, when I was twenty-six and I have nothing to show for it.”

”Twenty-six! I don’t know of any man younger than thirty who passed at that level, and that includes the cheaters.”

“From the moment I sprang from the womb, I started studying to pass the examinations at the national level. While still at my mother’s breast, my father laid out the plan for my life, the typical one of the old Ching dynasty days: take a high civil post in a small district, adhere strictly to form and custom, and at the end of the two-year appointment, move to successive posts in more and more important counties and provinces. That’s what my father did.”

“And what happened after all that breast milk?”

“I excelled in the six arts. Revenue and taxation were my undoing. I couldn’t apply my mind to a system that robbed the poor and enriched the rich.”

“Those are not lively topics, I agree.” I placed the fan in my lap. Soon I could leave this tiresome man.

“The Ching system was unjust. The new system? It’s just different hands taking the money now.”

What an idiot he was. The men in the room might occupy the positions he maligned.

Mansion shouted out, “Eh, cousin, are you tormenting her with your usual revolutionary talk? Let’s forget about all the injustices tonight. You can fix them tomorrow.”

Perpetual kept his eyes on me. “My criticism of the old system left me unemployed. Like many without a job, I call myself a painter-poet. And now you have your answer. I am too poor to be your suitor. I wouldn’t have been able to afford to be here if my cousin had not invited me.”

“I’m not as mercenary as you make me out to be,” I said, one of my oft-used lines. “Recite me a poem to compensate me for my time.”

“Listen to the street vendor calling outside the window right now—his praises about the virtues of fermented rice soup. That’s one of my poems.”

“Your humility is bottomless. I will not give you any peace until you recite a poem for me. Just choose one that has nothing to do with bureaucrats or fermented rice soup.”

He paused, then said, “Here is one suited to you.” He looked steadily into my eyes.

“It was an endless time before we met, but longer still since she left.

A wind starts up from the east, blowing a hundred flowers into flight,

And the spring silkworms begin to weave, weave on till they perish.

In her morning mirror, she sees her halo of hair changing color,

And yet she taunts the chill of moonlight with her evening song.

And by late evening the candles weep under their wicks.

It’s not far, not so far to her Enchanted Mountain.

Blue birds, listen with care to what she says, bring her words to me.”

I was stunned almost to tears. It touched the sadness I had over my separation from Little Flora. We were parted, time went on, and she was alive somewhere else. The man had awakened me from the lassitude of a meaningless routine.

“It’s magnificent,” I exclaimed. “Truly. I’m not being polite. It’s vivid but not overly so, and so natural that it seems written without effort. There is no forced sense of style or effect. It rises out of true emotions. I feel the wind, see the candle. The poem reminds me of those by Li Shangyin. In fact, it is just as good.”