AYEAR AFTER YUAN SHIKAI DIES (from heartbreak, some say, over the collapse of his imperial dreams), a northern warlord charges into the Forbidden Palace and reinstates Puyi, the boy emperor, on the throne.
The news sends shock waves through Shanghai: special editions materialize on every newsstand, in Chinese, French, Russian, German, English, Yiddish. Students take to the streets with mixed déjà vu and disgust. On Ocean Street, the neighborhood grandmothers smoke their pipes and debate the new monarchy, while the NewYouth staff scrambles a crisis issue to press. Setting out on her daily walk one day, Yuliang almost bumps into a tall young man bustling past with a carton of cartoon-embossed leaflets, several of which slide off the top as he stops short. Looking up, she recognizes the boy she’d watched at the academy’s sketching outing to the Bund.
Yuliang blanches. But the boy just smiles at her. “Excuse me,” he says, and steps back.
Yuliang kneels to gather the dropped leaflets, hoping desperately he hasn’t identified her. But as she stands to hand them back, his large eyes light up. “Say,” he says, in his deep, sleepy voice. “You’re that girl from the Bund—I thought I’d seen you before.”
“I…” On top of being one of the few that has ever seen her hawk like a fisherwoman at the market, he has to be the tallest man she’s ever met. Looking up at him requires her to tilt her head back, almost uncomfortably.
“I must apologize for that day,” she begins.
“No. I should apologize,” he interrupts. “My friend was unpardonably rude. I’m afraid he doesn’t see many pretty girls at the academy.”
Not according to the papers, she thinks, recalling the latest anti-nude essay to appear in the Shenbao’s editorials. But what she says is, “Don’t you go to the academy?”
“I did. And I still tag along for the plein air sessions sometimes. But I’ve decided to put my efforts into more important causes.”
“What’s more important than art?”
The question comes out unprompted. Yuliang drops her eyes in embarrassment. The boy’s heavy brows lift in surprise. Then he gives another grin. “That’s a very good question,” he says. “Here’s another I’ve been thinking about: what, in the end, is art?”
Yuliang stares back for a moment. Then, despite herself, she laughs.
A call comes from the New Youth office: “Hey, Lao Xing! Are you here to work or to impress girls?”
“Your friends here aren’t much more polite than those at the academy,” she notes.
“I suppose not. But manners don’t get you far in politics. Yesterday’s news more than proves that, doesn’t it?” Still smiling, he turns away. Then he turns back again. “Wait. I still don’t know your name.”
“Yuliang,” says Yuliang. For some reason she hesitates before adding, “Pan Yuliang. My—my husband knows your editor well, I think.”
She sees the information register in his dark eyes. “Master Chen,” he says. “Yes. He’s in Tokyo at the moment.” He grins again—that big, open grin. “Anyway, I’m Xing Xudun. It was nice to run into you again. I’ll hope to see you again, Pan Yuliang.”
As he hurries to the doorway Yuliang realizes, too late, that she’s still holding the leaflets she’s picked up. She takes a step forward, then stops and studies them, surprised. One, a caricature of a toddler in split pants staggering under a hefty crown, she has never seen before. But the other she recognizes instantly. It’s the NewYouth cover from a little over a year ago. The one showing two hands clasped across a globe.
And for the first time, she also knows how to read the tiny artist’s chop beneath the black-and-white world: Xing Xudun.
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS Yuliang throws herself into her sketches as never before, rising sometimes as early as five or six to work in morning’s first light. She ponders breakfast peaches, with their velvet skin and dripping flesh. She lingers over fish with glassy eyes and paper-thin scales. She spends hours on a durian, its porcupine silhouette, and no easier to draw than to eat with its stink and spines. Her interest fired by the debate over models, she even tries her hand again at a real person, choosing as her subject the one female body she’s sure she still knows by heart: Jinling’s.
Sequestering herself in her little room one morning a little after sunrise, Yuliang draws, her tongue clamped hard between her lips. She summons her late friend and mentor, not bloated and bruised and wrapped in sackcloth, but as she’d looked at the very start of a big evening: hair sleek and bound with pearls. Eyes and lips deftly defined. The eyes, Yuliang thinks, go…there. No, no, lower. There. There. She draws the nose men so adored, its delicate nostrils slightly flared. A nose fortunetellers had said foretold a life of money and ease. Although (only now does Yuliang realize) no one said anything about its length.
After working for an hour, she pauses and takes in her progress. The neck looks squat, the eyes beadlike, suspicious. She sweeps the page away and starts over. Head, hair, neck. Think willow, she wills herself. Fine, slim, straight. A dimpled hallow. A tiny lake at its base. Draw with your arm, not your fingers. She sketches two high breasts beneath a simple silk robe, hints at the tiny furrow that runs to the navel like a small river. The world outside gossips and bustles as always. But Yuliang hears nothing but the soft scritch of her pencil tip and, almost as often, the reproving rub of her eraser.
And then suddenly, it’s ten o’clock.
Exhausted, she sits back, her spine and her eyes aching. She surveys. And once more whatever small hope she’s been harboring withers. She has drawn a girl, certainly. Even a pretty girl. The hair’s the right length and style, the eyes the right size. The body is slim and graceful. Yuliang has captured one lily foot, fetchingly short and pointed but just a shade too wide on the sides. Despite all this, though, it isn’t Jinling. The girl she’s drawn is a complete stranger.
Dispirited, Yuliang rips the picture from her sketchbook and crumples it into a ball. She slumps back in her chair, sketchpad in her lap and eyes fixed numbly on the previous page. It’s a sketch she did last week, the day after she met Xing Xudun. For the first time she’d actually mastered her own hands. She did several versions: one holding a wineglass, another resting against Zanhua’s picture. In this last one, she clasps a silk chrysanthemum she’d bought on a whim from a street vendor. Yuliang studies it listlessly. Why is it, she wonders, that she can draw her own hands so well and yet fail to capture even Jinling’s littlest finger?
She stretches her hands toward the morning light, flexes them, makes fists. The answer comes in a rush of clarity: she can draw her hands because she has her hands. She can draw them from life. That, of course, is why it’s called “life study.” Whereas she has nothing of Jinling’s life but her wine cups.
For just an instant Jinling’s light voice seems to circle the little room. In Shanghai, it was more than just beds and money. We danced, wrote poems. Even drew, if we could…Back in Shanghai…When I worked in Shanghai…
Yuliang picks up the little ball and throws it in the dustbin. Then, barely letting herself contemplate what she is doing, she picks up her shawl and purse and goes out.
FOUZHOU ROAD BEGINS, broad and tree-lined, on the Bund’s western side. Its first mile is lined with the looming Western-style buildings of commerce that give Shanghai its European patina. But that austere architecture is soon replaced by a more suggestive sort of structure, the clubs by teahouses, the banks by brothels with their red lanterns and elaborately carved exteriors.
For those seeking more refined pleasures, there are used-book stores crowding the little cobbled alley. But there’s no mistaking the real trade here. Even now, in late morning, there are still girls in the street, although most are simply returning from their evenings out on call. They come from all provinces, and nearly every country as well—there are even “saltwater sisters” catering to Shanghai’s shifting tides of foreign sailors. Taken together, though, the whores’ worn faces and weary walks strike a startling chord of familiarity—and revulsion. Listening to an exchange she herself has had a hundred times, Yuliang finds herself fighting back a wave of panic:
“Good night, Ling Ma?”
“Ah, not so good, not so good!”
“Eat well, at least?”
“Ha! No time for food with an old dog like him!”
There’s an inexplicable fear that at any moment one of the women will spot her and, if not actually recognize her, see some unseen aura or subtle clue of what she was. Good night? they will ask her. How’s your tax man holding up? How much jewelry, how many dresses has he bought you?
I can’t do it, she thinks as the faded flowers part ways. I don’t know why I’m here.
And in truth the trip was less plan than impulse, a wild, sudden hope that if she found Jinling’s first hall, she might also find some lingering remnant—a calendar portrait, a cameo cutout. A picture from some other lover’s locket. Now, though, the idea strikes her as foolish. For what on earth would be left to find? Everyone knows what happens after a flower dies or leaves: her belongings are sold, stolen, or burned. And while madams may call their workers “daughters,” the term is legal, not sentimental. They’d certainly never hold on to a keepsake of a flower who’d fled.
As with most tasks she sets for herself, though—and as with most boars—Yuliang can’t bring herself to simply give up. So when the runner stops the rickshaw in front of a row of green-painted shutters, she doesn’t say Take me home. Instead, she gives him the name of the flower house Jinling had said she got her start in: “Do you know the Hall of Heavenly Gates?”
“Never heard of it,” he says. “And I would have—I’ve connections with most houses here. I direct many a gentleman to their gates.” He scans the street thoughtfully before nodding toward the biggest establishment in sight. “You might try there.”
He says it respectfully, without a hint of suspicion or implication. As he gallops off, Yuliang stares after him a moment, slightly ashamed of her own lingering demons.
The house he’d indicated has walls covered with climbing geraniums. A swinging sign pronounces it the Palace of Eternal Joy and Pleasure. Except for the Sikh guard in the doorway, it seems deserted. But as Yuliang approaches, she sees two women on the other side of the street hurrying toward the same building. One, burdened with parasol, purse, and some greasy-looking packages (banquet leftovers, Yuliang guesses) is clearly a servant. The other’s profession is easily identifiable by her uniform: a tight yellow dress, Western style, that reveals half her bosom through the white fur coiled limply around her shoulders. “For the love of heaven, Meimei,” she calls, looking back at the maid, “hurry up, will you? I could die, I’m so tired!”
Yuliang squares her shoulders. “Pardon my rudeness,” she calls, quickly crossing the street. She has to call twice before the girl turns around.
“Are you talking to me?” The prostitute speaks with the coveted sibilance of a Souzhou native. But her eyes belie her voice’s softness.
Yuliang swallows. “Yes,” she says. “I must speak to you.”
The girl signals her maid to stop. “Is this about your husband?”
“What?” Yuliang stops short.
“Some advice for you, elder sister.” The woman is already turning away. “You want him, work for him. Keep him happy and he’ll stop straying. But either way, leave me out of it.”
She starts for the door again, maid scurrying behind. Yuliang stares after her blankly. For an instant she actually tries to picture Zanhua with this tart-mouthed beauty. Then she shakes herself. Of course the girl would assume that. As she’s already noted, Yuliang is obviously no whore. The clear alternative is that she’s an angry wife.
“No,” she says, more loudly than she intends. “I’m here because I’m looking for someone else. A girl.”
“We don’t do that.” The girl sniffs, unwinding her stole. “There’s only one place in Shanghai that does. Madame Lou’s, on Rue du Père Froc. You’ll never get past the guards, though. White devil women only.”
“No, no, not like that,” Yuliang says hastily, not even allowing herself to blink at this startling information. “A girl I knew. Know. I—my sister.” She steps closer, fabricating as fast as she can and praying that she sounds compelling. “We were separated as children. Our father sold her here. Now he’s dead—drowned. In the river…”
The girl heaves a bored sigh. Yuliang, sensing a gate closing, holds out both her hands. “Please. My—our mother is very sick. She must see her before she dies, to apologize. She sent me to find her. She said she’d been sold to the Hall of Heavenly Gates…”
It sounds patently untrue, even to her own ears. But at the brothel’s name the girl looks up, her pink tongue touching her lips. To Yuliang’s amazement, she breaks into a peal of laughter. The maid, who has now caught up, joins in with a small titter until her mistress whirls on her fiercely. “Don’t laugh at the lady,” she barks. “Have you no feelings? Her mother’s dying!”
She turns back to Yuliang. “Hall of Heavenly Gates, you say? Unless your sister’s a ghost, it’s not possible.” She wearily pulls out a hatpin. “There was once a place like that further down, near Nanlu Lane.” Carelessly, she places her bonnet on the maid’s precarious pile. “But it fell into ruin long ago. While the empress dowager still reigned.” Seeing Yuliang’s shoulders slump, she adds, not unkindly, “Tell me more. Where are you and your sister from?”
“We were born in Hefei. Though I’ve heard rumors she left here for Wuhu.”
“Wuhu!” The girl wrinkles her nose, as though the mere name releases a provincial stink. “Why don’t you go there, then?”
“I—I did. They told me she’d disappeared. I thought maybe she came back here…” She breaks off again, certain that she sounds as foolish as she feels. When she looks up the Suzhou beauty is yawning so widely Yuliang can see straight through to the back of her throat. “Her name was Yuhai,” she finishes quickly, fighting the urge to step back. “Zhou Yuhai.” She can only hope that this is right. Jinling had several versions of her origins, and several family names that went with them. “Traits? Skills?”
“She sang and danced and played pipa. She had lily feet, many dresses. In Wuhu she was famous for her jewelry.”
The girl shrugs. “She didn’t work with us, anyway. Our men go for modern girls.” She tosses the fur to her servant. “You could try one of the smaller residence houses down that way. A lot of the Anhui girls end up there.” And in the same breath, neither changing her tone nor addressing anyone in particular, she adds, “I must go to bed this very instant.”
And with that, she is gone. The maidservant follows once more. She hands the greasy leftovers to the guard as she slouches through the doorway. The latter grins, then slaps her backside in thanks.
YULIANG SPENDS THE NEXT TWO HOURS combing the smaller brothels and teahouses. Remembering that brothel life hides a soft and sisterly belly, she directs most of her questions to the girls: the younger maids, the little servants. She pleads with kitchen help, with “leaves” hanging laundry in the back courtyards as she and Suyin once did. She reweaves her story until all its holes and gaps are covered, and it flows as smoothly as a sad ballad. Oddly, with each retelling the tale also feels more true, until by noon she almost feels it might just happen: if she finds the right person and strikes just the right note, she actually might find Jinling again. Here, whole. Singing out in her giggling voice, “Yuliang! Where on earth have you been?”
Still, at the first six houses she learns nothing new, apart from confirming that the Hall of Heavenly Gates hasn’t existed for many decades. Her questions are met with universal headshakes and shrugs, except when one bitter-looking madam answers her fabrication with her own malicious lie (“She was here, yes. But she died of Guangzhou sickness. Very sad!”).
It’s well past noon—and well into the formal start of the day at most brothels—when Yuliang reaches the third-to-last establishment on the Lane of Lingering Happiness. A tiny, tumbledown house, it declares itself the Palace of Shining Opulence despite several broken shutters and a balcony that sags. So ramshackle is its appearance, in fact, that Yuliang almost passes it by. But the servant Yuliang calls to returns her greeting willingly enough.
“I’m sorry, auntie,” Yuliang says, picking her way over crumpled, yellowing call-cards and cigarettes. The courtyard looks ancient, as if no one has been through in weeks. Upon closer inspection, the servant proves older as well: her hair is ink-black, but her face is deeply carved with wrinkles. Her complexion is a strange and almost opalescent white, the legacy of years of skin-stripping whitening treatments. But she listens as Yuliang rattles off her story one last time. “Beautiful Moon,” she says, thoughtfully scratching her scalp. “I know that name. Let me think. She was a young one, wasn’t she?”
Yuliang’s heart leaps. “Yes,” she says, trying to calculate how old Jinling must have been when she left Shanghai. At the Hall, of course, she was always sixteen. But Suyin, who always knew these things, claimed that she was twenty-four the year Yuliang arrived.
“I might have known her,” the woman is musing. “I might have. But it takes something to jolt an old memory like mine.” She stares pointedly at Yuliang’s little silver purse.
Yuliang hesitates. If she succumbs to bribery, she’ll have to walk home—something still not easy on her healing feet. Moreover, this woman and her shambling “palace” unsettle her. Yuliang wavers a moment, fingering her purse’s snap. The woman shuffles her tiny feet. “Well, missy?” she croaks.
Yuliang snaps her purse open and extracts her coins. She hands them to the woman, who holds each to the light before tucking it into her pocket. “Crooked teeth. Big lanternlike eyes,” she says cheerfully. “Feet not quite right—a shade too wide. In my day they called them ‘silk with linen sides.’” She eyes Yuliang’s feet sternly. But her disapproval is lost in Yuliang’s burst of excitement: she has just described Jinling’s feet to perfection.
“And something on her leg,” she goes on. “A black mark. This big, wasn’t it?” She holds up her hand, forefinger and thumb making a crabbed circle approximately the size of Jinling’s mole. “Like a big black eye, guarding the jade gates.”
“Yes,” Yuliang whispers, blinking back the tears that suddenly smart against her eyelids.
“We called her Little Black Moon for that circle,” the woman says, nodding. “How she hated it.”
“The name?”
“The mark.”
Yuliang frowns. Jinling had always said her mole was lucky. “Oh, yes.” The woman chuckles. “The girls were always catching her stealing tooth powder and skin whiteners. She wanted to bleach it away.”
The idea of Jinling stealing anything is as beyond Yuliang as the idea of her working in this grimy place at all. Still, the woman’s description connects with something. She steps closer, ignoring the sharp whiff of rotting teeth. “Please, auntie,” she says. “Are there photographs of her here? Pictures? Did anyone paint her portrait?”
The woman peers at Yuliang for a moment, as though gauging whether she is serious. Then she laughs, a coughlike fit that weakens her enough to lean against her broomstick. “Photographs!” she says at last. “Who under heaven would want to photograph her! Even if I allowed them here. And mind you, I don’t. Those foreign-devil fire boxes snatch the soul straight from your body.” She taps Yuliang on the sternum, as though reprimanding her for a bad joke. “But even if I did, why spend the money? She was barely a slave girl here. She’s half river-dweller, you know. Sometimes a gentleman would take her if the others weren’t available. But I’ll guarantee you, none would think to photograph her.”
“You must be mistaken,” Yuliang says when she finds her voice again. “Jinling—I mean, Yuhai was top girl. She was the most requested of all the flowers in Wuhu. She had dozens of dresses and jewels. She was wooed by a prince. The Crystal followed her every move.”
“Wuhu?” The woman scratches her head again. “Is that where she went? I always wondered. Didn’t bother tracking her down, though. Wasn’t worth it.” She turns back to her sweeping. “I suppose that makes sense. Wuhu. Yes, that would.”
“Why?”
“Why, she was with child when she left here,” the old woman says, as though this were common knowledge. “Obviously Cook couldn’t keep her in the kitchen. And the girls all thought she’d done it on purpose, to try to steal herself a husband.” She squints, as though trying to see the memory more clearly. “Xiumei was the angriest. Her best customer was a Wuhu merchant. She told Black Moon to stay away—even whipped her once, if I recall. But she always said that Black Moon made eyes at him. I never believed it myself. But perhaps I was wrong. She probably stole those dresses you talk of too.” She sighs. “Poor Xiumei.” She surveys the little courtyard again before lifting her eyes to the balcony. “You haven’t told me what you think of our banner,” she adds reprovingly.
Yuliang follows her gaze to a tattered yellow triangle hanging limply from the second story. Barely discernible on it is the five-toed blue dragon of the Qing Empire. “Dug it up from the pantry yesterday,” the old woman says proudly. “As soon as I heard the good news. I always said this New Republic nonsense wouldn’t last. Maybe now they’ll stop these wretched inspections.” Leaning her broom against a tree, she nods to Yuliang. “Well, they’ll sleep all day if I don’t wake them.”
As she turns away, Yuliang steps after her quickly. “Wait! Can—can I speak to Xiumei? Or the cook?”
The woman keeps hobbling, shaking her head. “Cook’s dumb as a log. The societies cut out his tongue a few years back. And Xiumei…” She shakes her head again. “She died two years ago. Went out one night, turned up the next morning, her throat cut neat as you like. They’re careless with themselves, these girls. Not like we were.”
She shrugs dispassionately. A moment later Yuliang hears her, voice dry as bark, threatening her sleepy flowers to their feet.
It’s several moments more before Yuliang can pry her feet from the ground. Slowly, painfully, she forces them to walk.
With child. A river-dweller. Barely a slave girl. She’s always known that Jinling embellished things. But was everything she’d said—to Yuliang, her acolyte, her sister of the soul—was every single thing she said untrue?
“Hai!” someone behind her grumbles, practically right in her ear. “Are you a horse, that you sleep standing up?”
Looking down, Yuliang sees that she’s stepped into the gutter. But she doesn’t step out of it. Staring down at the mud, she pictures Jinling at her elegant toilette. She sees her tasting her pearl paste and grimacing: More sugar, Yuliang! She feels Jinling taking her hand after a particularly rough night: Listen, Yuliang. I want to tell you something I learned in Shanghai. Listen, Yuliang. You’re different from them—from all of them. You’re like me. You were not meant for this place…Was she lying then as well? And where did she get it all—her finery, her fancy stories? Were they stolen, as the old woman had said? Well, why wouldn’t they be? After all, the top girl clearly had stolen her own past. And in the end she robbed Yuliang too, of the one beautiful truth she’d had in that harsh world. And of the chance to comfort someone who surely needed comforting, too. She could have told me, Yuliang thinks. She could have cried to me about her losses, her wounds…. her child…
People keep pushing past her. “Are you all right, miss?” someone asks. Yuliang doesn’t answer. Nausea sweeps her, a bile-green flood.
They lie. And then they leave.
And then she is retching into the gutter, watching helplessly as everything within her joins the flowing refuse of the Lane of Lingering Happiness.