Xiao Bai - French Concession

No big deal, he looked calm and hadn’t been drinking. But he was uneasy, and the policemen gave him an unusually thorough search. This wasn’t the usual Chinese policeman with too much time on his hands deciding to give someone a hard time, a Frenchman taking it out on a Chinese man, or even a regular cop just going through the motions of a search.

Luckily he never carried anything important with him. But the search made him so tense that his back muscles ached. Maybe it was because it was windy and the moon was blotted out by clouds. He thought he saw a shadow behind the tree on the other side of the longtang. He stopped, lit a cigarette, cocked his head, and cupped his hands around the cigarette to keep the wind from putting it out. A silvery moonlight filtered through the knotted branches of the parasol tree and lit up the dark shape under the tree — it was only a pushcart. In the moonlight, even the words painted on the pushcart were legible: SOYBEAN MILK FORMULA, which the Kuomintang Municipal Government’s Department of Health was promoting as being nutritious and cheap. As he slipped into the narrow longtang, he heard a rustle behind him and spun around. It was a wild cat, which stopped to stare at him for a moment, two beads of green gleaming in the dark, before it vanished.

Ch’i’s expression when she opened the door surprised him. He couldn’t tell whether she was startled or eager to see him. Were they both feeling nervous, or was it just him?

But as soon as he went inside, the scene that welcomed him made him relax. A large bowl of congee and two plates of pickled vegetables lay on the table, and Ch’i’s floral curtains kept out the draught. She took off all her clothes, except a tiny bodice. Squatting behind the bed, she pissed and washed her behind.

He sat by the table, smoking, and when she was ready, she came over to undo his buttons. Her shoulders smelled of jasmine.

He decided he had gotten himself worked up over nothing.

He would smoke a cigarette before dinner. Taking the cushion from his own chair and putting it on the seat next to him, he patted it to signify that Ch’i should keep him company instead of getting into bed. Who knew that Ch’i of Fu-chih Alley had a meek side. “I always thought you sit like you’re a tycoon,” she had once told him. When he was about to laugh out loud, she said: “Then I realized you weren’t a tycoon — you were a hit man.”

Local newspaper headlines always gave him a false sense of security. Police Raids Chingho Road Saloon after Bartender Seduces Owner’s Wife. The subtitle was Boss Finds Lover under Bed, Adulterous Couple Arrested.

Brothel in Tung-sheng Hotel Fined.

Chief Culprit in Wang Yün-wu Kidnapping Executed Yesterday.

Rue Amiral Bayle Gunman Shot Dead by Police.

He occasionally glanced at the newspaper as he ate his congee, barely noticing Ch’i. She was just like a pet dog. She wouldn’t mind. All women are obsessed with some man, and besides, Ku had saved her life. A gang of men had come after her for adding an extra zero on the end of a check. If they had asked nicely, she might just have given the money back. But they had bullied her, and in a rage, she threatened to expose that man in the tabloids and humiliate him. The next thing she knew, his men were storming into her apartment, and if Ku hadn’t been there, they would have killed her on the spot. If he hadn’t happened to be in Fu-chih Alley — and she had wondered for the past eight months why he happened to be there — they could have disfigured her with limewater, or stuffed her in a sack and thrown her into the Whampoa. But he had rapped his pistol on the table and forced the men to negotiate with him. As they talked, one of them had crept up behind him with a chef’s knife, but he had gotten up suddenly, pushing his chair back and tripping the man over, and then felling him with a well-aimed punch to the chin. At that they had said: “Don’t mess with us and we won’t mess with you!” Then they had stormed out.

That was why she did everything he asked. She knew he liked watching her, so she would walk around naked and fix him tea as though the June night were not cold at all, as though she were a White Russian prostitute. She hid a gun under her mattress because he asked her to. If his life depended on it, then so did hers, and if it made him feel safer then she would feel safer too. She could give him a sense of familiarity, but she also knew how to make him feel special — when he was depressed, she would pant harder and shriek louder to boost his ego. She had taken the gangs a message because he wanted her to, although he knew Morris Jr.’s bloodshot eyes gave her the creeps.

Ku got under the blanket, and pressed his stomach up against Ch’i’s cold bum through the thin cotton blanket and shirt. He waited for her to turn around and tug mischievously at his pants as though she couldn’t wait, which was part of their usual routine. Her being naughty gave him an excuse to pretend he despised her, but the more he did that while pleasuring her, the more she enjoyed it.

His loosened trouser band lay twisted on his stomach like a caterpillar. She was stroking him, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. She opened her mouth, as if to say something. She pinched him too hard by mistake, making him gasp in pain. He caught her by the hair and said: “What’s the matter with you today?”

“They came here looking for you,” she squealed.

“When? How many of them?”

“Just after dark. Three. They looked everywhere — in the closet and under the bed.”

He sat up and reached under the mattress for the gun. There it was. He felt better.

“And what did they say?”

“A lanky man with a scar on his cheek slapped me in the face!” She told him the fact she considered most important first. Her hand brushed her cheek, as though to indicate the slap, or the scar.

“What did they say?”

“They said they would be back.”

His back ached. He was nervous and angry. He turned over, gripped her wrist, and reached one hand under the mattress toward that cold piece of metal. He could feel his armpits sweating, and the sweat ran down his ribs to his belly, dripping onto Ch’i’s bodice. He ripped it off as if he were ripping off the scales of a carp to reveal its white belly.

His fingers were stretched taut and pressed tightly together. Her strained vocal cords let out a long moan like the cry of a seagull on the river at night. That was how they missed the rapping at the door.

The strange noises outside had been going on for a while. Heavy, sloppy footsteps on the stairs, someone knocking and then battering at the door. By the time he finally turned to look, it was too late. There were two men in the room, and one standing at the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom. Between them they had an axe and two guns, a Browning in the room, and a Mauser at the doorway.

The Mauser straddled the doorway, one foot inside the room and one out. He pursed his lips and brandished his gun. Ku could see that it was set to fire a single round.

He ignored the two men in the room, and focused on the Mauser. He wanted to get out of bed.

“Don’t move,” the Mauser said, pointing at him. Then he motioned to Ch’i: “You, get off the bed.”

Ku steeled himself. He swallowed, and forced himself to smile. “Don’t you want me alive?”

“For a couple days, maybe.” The voice was calm, as though speaking to a dead man.

Ch’i stretched out her legs to get off the bed but hesitated, and tugged at the blanket to cover—

“Don’t move the blanket. The two of you, tie him up inside the blanket.”

So all she could do was reach for her bodice to cover her crotch, and stand by the side of the bed.

Behind her, Ku reached for the gun, careful not to let his shoulders move, and edged toward the side of the bed to get into a better position.