Mingmei Yip - Memoirs of a Courtesan

The nightclub had a gaudily lit circular facade topped with a torchlike, cylindrical tower. If you were allowed in, you would see a huge hall with many tables surrounding a polished dance floor. Above was a mezzanine from which the VIPs could watch those equally rich but less important. On its all-glass dance floor, powerful men became addicted to pirouetting with their seductive, hired partners in rhythm to waltzes, foxtrots, rumbas, sambas, tangos, even marches played by the impeccable Filipino band. Under the chandeliers, diamonds and pearls glittered as young bodies swayed beside their tuxedoed partners, fuelling the clients’ urge to splurge yet more on an evening’s decadence.

But Bright Moon was not always a paradise; in seconds it could descend into hell. Shots were often heard, and stabbings might spray blood onto an expensive gown. Even the private rooms and bathrooms were not safe havens from scores being settled. Targets of assassination could be almost anyone, from celebrities to politicians, black-society members, even suspected hanjian , traitors who spied for the Japanese.

The most talked-about assassination was of a gangster head a few years back. Late one evening as he was gleefully swirling, lifting and dipping his girl on the dance floor, four men approached. Sensing trouble, he shoved his girl hard against them and tried to run. Their long knives were quickly stained with the freshly minced flesh of the poor girl as they flung her back at him.

But he was a gangster head, after all, not a snivelling coward. So he pulled out his gun, shot down two of his assailants, then collapsed only after both of his arms had been chopped off. Under the astonished scrutiny of the other customers, he bled quickly and heroically to death. His lifeless body had found its final rest on his favourite glass floor, this time flooded not with his rivals’ but with his own precious blood.

People saw only the glamour in my job, but few thought of how the money I made had been recycled in blood. Anyway, only the rich and powerful in Shanghai could afford to come to Bright Moon to be entertained – or murdered.

I was proud to say that, together with seeing and being seen, I was the nightclub’s biggest attraction, but that had not happened overnight. Though only nineteen, I’d already come a long way.

I lost my parents at four and had been sent to the Compassionate Grace Orphanage. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much memory of my parents except for a few blurry images of their faces. Worse, I had no siblings, relatives or friends I could ask about them.

At the orphanage, outside volunteers would come to teach the children to sing and dance so they could perform on holidays like the Mid-Autumn Festival, Dragon Boat Races and Chinese New Year. Even before I became the most popular songstress in Shanghai, I’d already had to learn to charm audiences.

However, these free lessons were not given out of compassion, but to discover beauty and talent so that the gifted children could be sold to work as cheap labour at nightclubs, dance halls and, of course, prostitution houses. While hard work – most of the time forced – was abundant inside the orphanage, talent was unusual and beauty rare. Since visitors seemed to find me attractive, I always wondered why had I not been adopted much earlier. I’d heard from the girls who came back to visit that it was a better life than inside the orphanage. Many times I would watch with bitterness as other girls – less pretty and talented than I – were led away to waiting rickshaws and cars.

Then Mr Ho, owner of the Bright Moon Nightclub, began his visits to the orphanage, bringing the children toys, candies, food and clothes. When I was fourteen, Ho decided to rescue me from this institution notorious for cruelty and neglect. He immediately put me to work with the other singing and dancing girls at the nightclub. Though living and training together, we were not allowed to be friends, or even talk to one another too much. If we did so, we’d be sent to a closet to reflect on our misbehaviour on an empty stomach.

The other girls were either orphans like me or had parents so poor that they were forced to sell their daughters to the nightclub so that they would have a roof over their heads and soup to warm their stomachs.

But sometimes fate was in a good mood, and a girl would become famous and, like a hurricane, lift her whole family out of poverty. The rest of us, who were not famous, lived together in one big room and were not paid.

My sense of freedom from escaping the orphanage hadn’t lasted long. One day Ho took me aside and informed me that my real boss was not he but Big Brother Wang, head of the Red Demons gang. He introduced me to Wang, who told me he was an old friend of my parents. They had been killed in a car accident, and he and his underling Ho had been trying to find me for years. Smiling, he told me that in rescuing me from the orphanage he had fulfilled his duty to his deceased best friend. But next, his smile gone, he told me that finding me had been expensive and how I had to repay him. I was to continue being a singer, but now it was a cover for my real job – to spy on Master Lung of the Flying Dragons.

Before I even had time to think or protest, my training with Big Brother Wang had begun. I realised once again that beggars cannot be choosers, and that to continue to keep a roof over my head, rice soup in my stomach and, most important, my head on my shoulders, I had to do what I was told.

Much of my training was concerned with perfecting my ability to charm men. I was taught ballroom dancing, which was now all the rage in Shanghai. Dancing with a patron, I would put my arms around his neck and exhale my fragranced breath onto his face. And I would press my equally fragranced body against him and feel the heat shooting out from his groin. He might wrap his arms around my much-coveted twenty-one-inch waist, move his hand between my neck and bottom like an elevator or lift me up towards heaven, then dip me back towards hell. I learned early on that I should cling only to the important ones, such as Master Lung, and steer clear of the insignificant losers. Did I enjoy doing this? I can only say that it kept me alive while I watched other people’s lives.

I knew well that I was but a shadow of someone else’s existence.

I took singing lessons from a fifty-something Russian woman, Madame Lewinsky. Mr Ho picked her because she was a famous teacher who’d turned a few nobodies into somebodies. And she was too busy to be nosy. Also, as a foreigner, she was safe because she was too ignorant to perceive the complexities of Chinese society, especially the black ones.

Madame Lewinsky put a lot of effort and time into teaching me. But I heeded Big Brother Wang’s warnings and so told her nothing about myself. She probably assumed that I came from a rich family or had a wealthy patron, since I could afford her exorbitant fees.

Lewinsky had come from Russia with her husband to escape the revolution. But he’d died in a freak construction accident before they’d had a chance to have children. So now she was all by herself in this dusty world. Perhaps because of her loneliness, she often tried to act like she was my mother, which, of course, she was not.

Her face was distinctively Russian, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw, but her figure was voluptuous, like that of a Greek goddess. When she opened her mouth to sing, it was like a lark spreading its wings to soar above the clouds.

Was I fond of her? No. But I did appreciate the way she taught.

She also taught me how to feel – something absolutely forbidden in my training to be a spy.

However, all the songs Lewinsky chose for me had sad overtones. She told me that my voice – high-pitched, tender, innocent – was perfect for this bittersweet sentiment. And, contrary to my training, sometimes I just couldn’t help but feel the music tugging at my heart. Whether my emotions were genuine or pretended, the audience at Bright Moon was crazy about the ‘feelings’ in my voice.