The Valley of Amazement (55 page)

“Do you imagine a grotto when you write your poems? Is it one you’d want to visit more often than mine?” I slowly spread my legs.

“Yours is better.” He rolled on top of me.

“Have you seen a real grotto like the one in your poems?”

He gave me a hard stare. “Why are you so full of questions today?” He rolled off and told me to pour more tea. I apologized and said I simply wanted us to be everything to each other, as he had once said we should be. I was not trying to be nosy. I threw on my robe and he told me to take it off. While working in the flower houses, I had long overcome shyness over nakedness. But now I felt vulnerable, as if he would be able to see whether I was lying or telling the truth. As a courtesan, I had learned what men were thinking and what they wanted by their movements and the tensions of their muscles. I made my limbs loose, my muscles relaxed. He sat on the bed and eyed me as I served. He bit into a bun and made a face.

He put the bun up to my lips. “Do you think it tastes stale?” he said. He stuffed it in my mouth before I could answer.

I turned away and covered my mouth as I chewed. I nodded. It was rubbery. When I swallowed the last of it, I tried to provide another confession, one concerning a desire to have his baby.

“Of course you do,” he said, and shoved another bun in my mouth, this time more forcefully. “Is this one stale as well?”

I nodded. He was up to something. I needed to say flattering words to put him back in a better mood.

“Spit it out then,” he said. I was grateful I would not have to finish eating it. He pushed down on my shoulders and told me to get on my knees, and the moment I did, he filled my mouth with his stem.

When his excitement mounted, he shouted, “Open wider, you whore!”

I struggled away. “How can you call me such a thing?” I cried, acting wounded.

He frowned. “Can I help what escapes my lips when I lose my senses?” He filled my mouth again, and again he called me names. “Faster, you slimy bitch cunt.”

When he had finished, he lay on the bed, drowsy with satisfaction. He fell asleep. I sat at the other end of the room. What was going on? Clearly I had stumbled across important clues. There was a grotto and he wanted to
keep me from knowing about it. It might take a while to secure more information. In the meantime, I would ask him to give me what he promised when I first arrived: to build me better rooms in another area of the compound, away from the noisy street and in a location that received a little sun. This was not to make my life here more comfortable. I hoped not to be here long enough for anything to be built. I had found with my customers that the more they paid for me the more they valued me. I was at the bottom now and he would treat me with less consideration until I raised my status in the household. I should be at least equal to Pomelo.

The next time he visited me, as I nestled in his arms following a successful bout of ecstasy, I cited the sunless cold, and the embarrassment of having quarters that were far less comfortable than what the rest of the family enjoyed. “The stone passageway carries our voices like a gramophone horn. Everyone can hear what we’re doing.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” he said with a laugh.

“It’s true. Magic Gourd says the neighbors stand by the wall to listen to us, as if we’re an opera troupe.”

He laughed. “Let them listen. It’s the most excitement they’ll ever have in their lives. Why should we deprive them?”

I told him that I did not need an entire new wing. It would be sufficient to enlarge the courtyard wing so that my rooms were on the interior side, away from both the lane and from the echoing passageway. “It embarrasses me that Pomelo and Azure can hear us.”

He was quiet for a few moments. “I haven’t heard anyone complain about noise.”

“The sounds carry in my direction as well.” I made my voice tearful. “I can hear you making Pomelo deliriously happy. Your shouts let me know exactly what you’re doing, whether she’s on her back, her stomach, or flying through the air.”

He laughed. “What an imagination you have.”

“How can I sleep when I hear you telling her you belong to her, that she is your favorite?”

“I didn’t say she was my favorite.”

“You don’t realize what escapes from your lips as you reach the clouds and rain!” I increased my tone of anguish. “How can I sleep when my heart is so wounded?”

He merely laughed. “My sleepless wife. I’ll let everyone know you are my favorite. Turn over and cry out freely.” He was rough from the start. His fingers were like the hard roots of dead trees. He grabbed my breasts and twisted them, causing me to yelp. He bit my neck, my ear, my lower lip, and each time I cried out in pain, he shouted, “Tell me I’m yours. Tell me you want me! Louder.”

After this ordeal was over, I turned onto my side. I had used the wrong ploy. He stroked my hair, telling me that Pomelo now knew how much he cared for me. He reviewed what he had enjoyed the most and I blocked out listening to his repulsive words. I said nothing. He turned me toward him and I saw that his pupils were large and dark, animal-like. I looked down so I would not have to see them. He tipped my chin up.

“Look at me,” he said. “Your eyes are so lovely. They are like openings into your mind.” He kissed my eyelids. “Even when you’re quiet, I can see into your eyes, all the way to where your true feelings hide. Shall I go in and see? What do you really feel about me?”

His pupils were two black moons. It truly felt as if he had entered me through my eyes. I felt an oppressive weight in my head. I could barely think. He was suffocating my thoughts, my will. I had to make my will stronger. He held on to my chin. I was determined to not show that I was nervous. I let my eyelids fall halfway closed to effect a dreamy look.

“Open them wide,” he ordered. “I want to know all of you. I see it now. There it is, your precious thoughts. And here is mine: I will never let you go.”

I startled, and he must have felt my body tense.

“What is it, my love?” he said. He turned my face back toward him. “Look at me. Tell me why you’re frightened.”

I could not speak at first. “I never thought I would hear you promise me that. I was surprised, and now I hope it will come true.”

He continued to stare into my eyes and forced me to stare into his. “You belong to me. You always will. Do I belong to you?”

I felt again the oppressive sense of him in my thoughts. It took the remaining strength of my mind to fight off my fear.

“You belong to me,” I said.

I felt what he was thinking. He was angry that I had lied. So I repeated it in a softer, tender voice, willing myself to look joyful and full of wonder that I was so lucky it was true.

M
AGIC
G
OURD SAID
her life was like that of a Buddhist nun. Subservience to idiots and fools increased her merit in the next world. Being with servants had its advantages, though, she said. It enabled her to learn what was being plotted—Azure was sick. Azure was pretending to be sick again. Azure was lying that Perpetual’s son was sick. Pomelo was sick. Pomelo was pretending to be sick again. Pomelo complained about the food. Azure scolded her for complaining about anything. Pomelo gave Perpetual some kind of sex he liked and he gave
Pomelo a bracelet. Azure said she could not find the bracelet intended for his son’s future bride. Pomelo was angry when she had to return the bracelet. Perpetual was going away to check on the lumber mills and we would all have a week of peace.

Magic Gourd and I talked quietly, which for her was a feat of restraint. She was suspicious of Azure’s maid, whom she had already caught snooping. To keep her from listening by our window, Magic Gourd spread a rumor that she had seen the ghost of a woman with a strangled look in her eyes walking around our rooms. Even with these precautions, we still whispered. Who knew if the other maids were listening—those who served the family on the other side of the house? I used to worry about Pomelo’s maid until she got pregnant by an old man in Moon Pond and the old man paid Perpetual to give her to him. Azure would not use that money to buy Pomelo a replacement.

While Perpetual was gone, the heaviness of our daily lives was removed. Magic Gourd, Pomelo, and I spoke of old times, sometimes forlornly, sometimes with laughter. We told stories about our favorites. We did not relive humiliation. Nearly every suitor, patron, lover, courtesan, and madam was in our cupboard of stories. We could choose who to talk about at length: men who were louts, those who were generous, the good-tempered ones, the young men whose sex demands were endless. We agreed we had each had one customer who made our work effortless, whom we loved and wanted to marry, who later made us wary of ever feeling love. I told Pomelo about Loyalty.

I had once vowed not to think about him anymore. But it was impossible to keep the memories from seeping out. He had known me since I was seven and had seen me change from those days when I was a spoiled American girl. He knew what I had wanted from him, which I would have wanted from any man. He had suffered from my suspicions, my constant probing for more in him, for honesty. I recalled him telling me to take kindness when it was offered, to recognize love. Looking back, I could see how much he had loved me in his own way, but I had wanted more. The good memories of him now were gifts.

The best memories, of course, belonged to Edward and Flora. The saddest ones did as well. The three of us kept our stories of great sorrow as the ones we most treasured. They were proof of love, and I told many stories that ached.

I had cried a great deal one afternoon over Little Flora. It was January 18, her seventh birthday. Magic Gourd and I talked about the day she was born. Remember the look on Edward’s face as he held her? Remember the day she saw a little fly washing its hands? I hoped that she was happy. I feared she had no memory of me. All of a sudden, I heard a sneeze outside my window and quickly opened the shutters. Azure’s maid was darting away. She had seen my tears.

In Shanghai, before I learned that Perpetual had been wooing me, I had freely talked about Edward. After all, he had poured out his grief for Azure. I had told him that the small moments with Edward were always large in my memory—a conversation we had had about the watchful nature of birds, the changing shades of both our eyes—little things like that. Perpetual had praised Edward’s devotion to me—”your beloved husband”—and encouraged me to say more. We were compatriots in sorrow, he said, and I had agreed, not realizing how dangerous it was to proclaim to a future lover that I would never love any man more than the one who had died.

After Perpetual and I became lovers, he would gently ask if I still thought of Edward. I admitted that I did but would quickly add that I thought more often of him. Perpetual had cried to hear that. I gradually sensed he did not want me to remember anything about my past. So I would avoid talking about Edward. Over time, I had to pretend I had lost all memories of every happy moment I had ever shared with another. He wanted it to seem as if my life had begun with him and that he had released all my emotions. But Azure’s maid had seen the truth: all those tears. She would tell Azure, who would give her a reward.

“Azure told me you’ve been weeping,” Perpetual said that night as he entered the bed. “Are you sad, my love?” He looked concerned.

“Why would I be? Perhaps she heard me singing this afternoon. It was a sad song.”

“Sing it to me.”

My mind froze. “I’m too embarrassed. I can’t sing nearly as well as I did in the courtesan house. I need to practice or I’ll punish your ears with my squawking.”

“Everything you do is charming. When it is imperfect, it is even more charming.” He wrapped his arms around me. “Sing. I won’t let you go until you do.”

I racked my brain, and, luckily, I came up with a silly American song that I had hated. The flower sisters used to play it on the phonograph and dance a foxtrot, and the tune would remain stuck in my brain for days. I now sang those English words to Perpetual as sadly as I could.

“Lonesome little lovesick Chinaman,
Packing up his grip, ready for a trip,
on a great big ship.

How he hates to leave his native land.

After all these years,
Time for sailing nears.
He sings through his tears,
‘Good-bye, Shanghai.’”

Perpetual clapped. “Your voice is still beautiful. But what do the English words mean? I understood only
Good-bye, Shanghai.”

“It’s about a sad girl who leaves her family in Shanghai.”

“Were you singing it because you miss Shanghai?”

Where would this unfortunate song now take me? “I hardly miss it at all,” I said.

”Hardly? Then you must miss something. What do you miss most? The parties, the beautiful clothes, the delicious food?”

I searched for something harmless. “I miss the fish from the sea, that’s all.”

He stroked my face, and when I looked at him, he said, “Do you miss the men?”

I sat up. “How can you ask such a question?”

“Are you embarrassed to admit it, my love?”

“I don’t pine for my past,” I said briskly. “I was simply surprised you would ask such a thing.”

“Why did you look away just now?” He turned my face toward him. “I think you like to remember some of those men, certain ones.”

“None. It was just business.”

“You must have enjoyed a few of them, the handsome ones, the charming ones. Loyalty Fang. He was your first, wasn’t he?”

I caught my breath. How had he known that? Did Loyalty boast to him? Did Azure’s maid hear? “I have no special feelings for him,” I said.

“A woman is always fond of her first,” he said. “You must have welcomed him over the years without a businesslike feeling. He’s far more successful than I am and must have given you beautiful gifts. Look at my face. Is he more handsome?” He pinned my arms and stared at me. I turned my face slightly. “Are you thinking of him now? Is that why you looked away? Would you like to pretend my cock is his? Turn over so you don’t have to see my face.”