by Amy Tan
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Loyalty Fang told Madam Li he was happy to make an introduction. Our foreign guest would be the American son of a distinguished family whose shipping company had done business in China for over fifty years. Loyalty said he was more than satisfied with their services in transporting his porcelain to Europe and America. This commendation attested to the father’s good character and, apparently, the son’s.
“He’s been in China for nearly a year,” he told me over tea. “Very earnest, but very Western in his thinking. He told me he’s been teaching himself Chinese, although I must say, whatever Chinese he is trying to speak is so atrocious it’s impossible to understand. I have resorted to using my English to converse with the man, and since I’m a little rusty, our conversations have been limited to the weather, the country where his family lives, their state of health, when his grandfather died, the food he has eaten in Shanghai, and whether there was any particular dish that he thought was strange but delicious. It’s laborious making small talk. Every few minutes, I have to use that damn Chinese-English dictionary you gave me. I know how to say in English vegetable, meat, and fruit. But how do you say cabbage, pork, and kumquat? Anyway, from those few conversations, I can assure you he is polite, humble, and bashful—ha!—truly unusual in an American, don’t you think? The last time we spoke, he said he wanted to meet a Chinese woman who spoke English well enough that he could enjoy interesting conversations. Of course, I thought of you.”
“So I am no longer your little Eurasian beauty,” I said. “For your friend, I’ve become Chinese?”
“Eh, are you ashamed to be Chinese? No? Then why are you so quick to criticize me? When we met, you were Lulu Mimi’s Eurasian princess. That was how everyone saw you. Since then, I have not thought of you as one race or two. You are simply who you are—a hotheaded vixen who will not forgive me—and for what, you won’t tell me.”
”I don’t know why I bother to talk to you at all,” I said.
“Violet, please, let’s not argue now. I have an appointment soon, in thirty minutes. Anyway, this man said he wanted interesting conversation. And I hope this one we’re having is not the kind you will provide.”
Now that I was no longer infatuated with Loyalty, I could clearly see his faults, his insults and arrogance, the worst being his careless attitude about my past feelings for him. He greeted me at parties with an intimate look but did not request my attendance at his next party. At a previous party, we enjoyed flirting as he reminisced about my defloration. I took this as a sign that he wished to spend the night. When I boldly invited him to relive the past, he begged off, saying he was exhausted from having just returned from Soochow. I was humiliated. “Ah, Soochow, Land of Beautiful Courtesans,” I had replied. “No wonder you are depleted.” He retorted that I did not appreciate that he had made the effort to visit me. I said he had made the effort to attend a party where I happened to be. The last time he showed interest in spending the night, I said I was too tired to take visitors, and he became angry. He knew why I had answered him that way. We had been bickering for nearly two years and yet we could not be rid of each other—until now. I suspected he had so little feeling for me he did not hesitate in referring an American to me, knowing the man would want to fuck me as soon as he learned a few useful phrases in Chinese.
In the late afternoon, a manservant announced that the foreigner had arrived. He was expected, and he was also an hour late, which already made us feel we were not going to be treated with respect. I was in a sour mood when I walked into the salon. The man stood up. I looked at the clock on the credenza and said in English with mock surprise: “Oh my, is it already four o’clock? I hope I did not keep you waiting. We thought you were coming at three.” I gave a slight smile, expecting he would apologize for his tardiness. “No need to apologize. Loyalty Fang said I should come at four.” Damn Loyalty and his shitty English. The American stared at me, no doubt disappointed that I was not the exotic flower he had hoped for. “I am half-Chinese,” I said bluntly.
Madam Li and Magic Gourd were already seated. Vermillion was absent, as she had said she would be. Shining and Serene soon entered. They were new to the house—sisters, who had been at another first-class house, until its madam died and the house quickly went downhill. Madam thought they should see how Westerners behave. I had been tempted to dress like a Westerner, but decided I should not let my irritations toward Loyalty guide what I do. My hair was pulled back into a chignon and my dress was Chinese but modern, long and slim with a high neck. He was seated in an armchair and I took a seat across from him. I could tell by the stiff-lipped expressions on the other courtesans’ faces that they found it disturbing to see their first foreigner in the house. His presence changed the status of our house. He did not have the air of sophisticated Americans or the demeanor of the wealthy businessmen my mother had entertained.
His name was Bosson Edward Ivory III. Loyalty told me he was perhaps twenty-five, but he appeared to be older. He was slight in frame, and he had the typical bony-faced features of an Anglo-Saxon. His head was shaped like a turnip—a large crown and forehead, which tapered to a long chin. His eyes were hazel, and his sandy hair was wavy and unkempt, as was his mustache, a feature on men that reminded me of a dust broom for collecting half-eaten debris. His clothes were well tailored, crisp with starch, but also rumpled. A disheveled appearance was always a sign of disrespect, unless you were a starving beggar.
“Please call me Edward,” he said, and kissed each courtesan’s hand in a laughable courtly manner.
“Edward is difficult for the Chinese to pronounce,” I said. “Bosson is much easier.”
“Bosson is the name of my dead forebears and carries the onus of success and hard work, neither of which I have.” I knew he meant this humorously, but I translated what he said, as if it were not. “He is too honest,” Magic Gourd said.
“Of course, if it’s easier for them,” the foreigner said, “I would be pleased if they call me Bosson.”
I told them in Chinese: “bo-sen”—the bo that means “radish” and the sen that means “huge.” Giant radish! They appreciated my joke.
Tea arrived with a little pitcher of milk and a plate of butter cookies and jam. Madam Li said she had had to go to the foreign marketplace to find milk for spoiling the tea.
He and I made small talk about his time in China and what he had seen. Every so often, I gave brief translations. He claimed he had arrived a year ago but had not seen as much as he would have liked, but he planned to stay for awhile, years even. He leaned back against the sofa and sat with his legs far apart, as if he were in a saloon. He did not seem bashful, as Loyalty had described him. In fact, he was too much at ease.
“I like to visit places people don’t ordinarily see,” he said. “Most Americans aren’t adventuresome about delving into the foreign world.”
“In China, you are the foreigner.”
“Ha! After a year here, you’d think I would remember which way it goes. Perhaps over the next five years, I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Five years is a long time for a visitor. Or do you intend to live here?”
“I came here with an entirely open mind. All I know is that I will not be leaving soon.”
“Are you comfortable where you’re staying? That is always important with a long visit. Otherwise, you’ll have nothing but bad things to say about Shanghai, and that would be a pity when it is so easy to discover what is heavenly.”
“I’m completely pampered. I’m at a guesthouse not far from here on Bubbling Well Road. It belongs to an old friend of my father’s, a Chinese fellow, Mr. Shing. While studying abroad, he lived with our family in upstate New York. I was too young to remember much about him, but he made an impression of being Old World and mysterious, even though he was quite young at the time, as well as friendly. I think he’s the reason I’ve long been curious about China.”
As he continued to talk, I translated for the beauties, abbreviating more and more as the
conversation went on. His family owned a shipping company, which his great-grandfather started eighty years ago.
“I’m sorry to say the Ivory family made its fortunes on opium. These days we transport manufactured goods, like Loyalty Fang’s teacups and saucers.”
The family sent him to Shanghai to become acquainted with the business, since he would one day inherit it. I translated this to the beauties and they took more interest. “That was the story he gave,” I added, “and Americans are known to make up all kinds of things when they’re away from others who know better.”
“The truth is, I haven’t learned anything about the business,” he said. “I ran away from responsibility and I would be better described as a vagabond, without plans. I would like to discover China in a spontaneous way, and not by schedules to see shrines and pagodas. I don’t want to read a guidebook and be told what I will find and that I will feel transported to the ancient days of the first emperors.” He pulled a leather notebook from his coat pocket. “I am writing a travelogue—putting down a pastiche of scenes, which I’ve illustrated with pencil sketches.”
“Will you publish them?” I asked politely.
“I will, if my father buys a publishing company.”
The man did not have a serious thought in his brain.
“I write for myself,” he said. “I would not foist my rough little stories on others. That would be cruel.”
“Do you have titles for books you write only for yourself?”
“To the Farthest of the Far East. I came up with it last week. You’re the first to know. Of course, I’ve had a dozen titles before this one, and another may strike me later. That’s the problem when you have neither goal nor destination nor readers.”
“How far east have you gone so far?”
“Not east at all. Only to the southwest boundaries of Shanghai. However, what I mean by farthest is not as much distance as it is a state of mind. Do you know Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass?”
“We have many things in Shanghai from around the world, but, alas, not all the English books that have ever been published.”
“Mr. Whitman is admired by all. His poems serve as my travel guide, so to speak, like this one:
“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
Perhaps it is everywhere—on water and land.”
I had never read the poem, yet I had lived the heartache of those words—the loneliness, being on a road to an unknown place, set there with no understandable reason. It was like the painting of the valley between the mountains, with clouds that were both dark and rosy pink, and a bright place ahead that was a glowing paradise or a burning lake.
“By the look on your face, I assume the poem is not to your liking,” Edward Ivory said.
“Quite the opposite. I would like to read more one day.”
Magic Gourd broke in: “Ask him if he is planning to sell a story about his visit to this courtesan house.”
He gave his answer to her directly, as if she understood English: “If I write about you, I will likely sell more copies on the basis of that alone.”
I translated and Magic Gourd snapped: “Tell the liar to make me young and beautiful.”
Edward Ivory laughed. Shining and Serene smiled, although they did not know what was being said.
“Lovely girls,” he said. “The one on the left looks barely older than a child. So young to have fallen into this life.”
A stone fell down my throat. Who was he to pity us?
“I don’t see myself as a fallen woman,” I said.
He choked on his biscuit. “Poor choice of words. And I was not referring to you, of course. You are not one of them.”
“I am indeed one of them, as you put it. But you don’t need to pity us. We live quite well, as you can see. We have our freedom, unlike American women who cannot go anywhere without their husbands or old maid aunts.”
His face became serious for once. “I apologize. I have an unintentional habit of offending people.”
I decided to put a close to this unsuccessful encounter. “I think we have had enough conversation for the day, don’t you?” I stood up, which forced him to stand, and I waited for him to give his thanks and farewell.
He gave me a look of surprise, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out an envelope and handed it to me. It contained twenty American silver dollars.
Damn Loyalty! “Mr. Ivory, it seems that Mr. Fang neglected to explain to you that this is a courtesan house, not a brothel with whores you can bed as soon as you walk through the door with a few coins jingling in your pocket.” I poured the silver dollars onto the table and some of them spilled onto the carpet.
Madam Li and Magic Gourd cursed. The beauties cried that Vermillion had been right about foreigners and their diseased minds and bodies. They left at once.
Edward was baffled. “Is it not enough?”
“Twenty dollars is the amount charged by your Yankee whores on the painted boats in the harbor. I thank you for thinking we’re worth an equal amount. However, we are closed for business today.”
THAT EVENING LOYALTY came to the house and Magic Gourd took him to my room to avoid having others listen to my tirade. I did not wait for the door to close before shouting, “Your foreign devil friend treated me like a saltwater whore! Are you spreading rumors that we’re a come-and-go brothel?”
His face showed anguish. “It’s my fault, Violet, and I know that’s not hard for you to believe. But it is also not what you think. The man and I were speaking in English about his wish to meet a companion who spoke English. I told him I knew a woman who was highly unusual and I described you in ways that are completely true—that you speak perfect English and are beautiful, cultured, intelligent, educated—”
“Enough flattery,” I said.
“I then told him you were a courtesan and I asked him if he knew what a first-class courtesan house was. That’s what I thought I had said. He said yes. I asked if he knew the customs. It turns out that instead of saying the English term for first-class courtesan house, I used the English dictionary you gave me and it translated those words into ‘number one whorehouse.’ Edward later went to the American Bar and asked a man who had lived in Shanghai many years what a Shanghai whorehouse was like. And that man said that Edward’s wildest dreams would come true after a little chitchat and an offering of a dollar or two for a regular visit and up to ten for one with specialties. When Edward later told the same man about the fiasco, the man laughed and told him what a courtesan house was and why he would never be allowed to set foot in one again. Edward immediately called and told me everything. Violet, when you said you were done with the conversation, he thought you were ready for his wildest dreams. You can’t blame either Edward or me entirely. Some of it was due to that damn Chinese-English dictionary you gave me. And this is not the first time it’s caused me to make embarrassing mistakes. I can show you, if you don’t believe me, which these days, it seems, are too often the case. Can’t we call a truce?”
Loyalty placed two elegantly wrapped boxes on the tea table. “Edward asked me to bring these gifts to ask for your forgiveness. He worried he had made you angry at me as well. I told him, ‘Don’t worry about that. She’s been mad at me for years.’ Eh, Violet, can’t you simply laugh for once.”
The larger box contained a book with green leather covers and a gold-embossed title: Leaves of Grass. Sprouting from the title were vines and tendrils that wound around the letters and ran freely to the edges. I found a thick sheaf of deckle paper inscribed with the passage that had felt so familiar.
The smaller box contained a gold bracelet with rubies and diamonds, an extravagant gift from someone who might not ever see the recipient again. I read the note.
Dear Miss Minturn, I am deeply ashamed of my unintentional crude
behavior. I cannot expect forgiveness, but I hope you believe the sincerity of my apology. Yours, B. Edward Ivory III
Magic Gourd went with Madam Li to Mr. Gao’s jewelry store, where they learned that Edward had paid two thousand yuan. Mr. Gao said it would have been half that price if the foreigner had known to bargain him down. Nonetheless, we should still consider that Edward Ivory had paid us that higher amount of respect.
“The bracelet is worth forgiveness,” Magic Gourd said, “especially since it was Loyalty’s fault to begin with. Madam Li and I agreed.” She added: “The foreigner should not expect anything to go further than that—unless you want it to, of course, in which case, this bracelet is a nice start.”
Loyalty rang two days later and asked if he might host a small dinner and bring Edward as one of his guests. “I must be honest, Violet, he asked if I would do this. He received your note of forgiveness, but he is still in a terrible state. He has not slept or eaten. He spouted nonsense about wounding everyone he meets. I told him it was my fault, not his. That did nothing to put his mind at ease. Maybe all Americans who suffer from melancholy act as if they have gone mad. But I truly thought he might throw himself in the river, and I don’t want his ghost visiting to keep telling me he’s sorry.”
His reasoning was always exasperating. “So instead, you’re making me responsible for whether a crazy man kills himself, is that it? Why did you tell me this? Host your party. I’ll be there to accept his apologies in person. If he drowns himself afterward, I can’t be blamed. As for you, you should have taken English lessons from me when you had the chance.”
Loyalty brought Edward and four other guests, enough people for a noisy party of drinking and games. Edward was quiet and did not speak to me at first, except to say “please,” “thank you,” and “you’re very kind.” He stayed his distance, as if I were a scorpion. But I felt him watching me. He was solicitous toward Madam, Vermillion, and Magic Gourd, and was excessively polite to the other beauties. They smiled as if they had understood all his English words. At the end of the evening, he gave Magic Gourd and the maids generous tips and then placed another gift before me, wrapped in green silk. He bowed gravely and left. I opened the gift in private, without Magic Gourd’s prying eyes. This time, it was an emerald-and-diamond bracelet. The card said: