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But for now, the Peach Blossom House is enjoying the last withering days of summer. Long streamers flutter in the breeze, the calligraphy inscribed on them bending and breaking: Good fortune, ten thousand years of luck. Neon green floodlights, a gift from the former governor of the province, coat the faux-pagoda tiles with a temperamental glow. This is all strategic: on a rare day such as this, the sun in full bloody retreat, the air heavy with heat, one must pull in as many tired men as one can. The madam leads the guest up the stairs, her slippered feet taking care to smooth the carpet as she walks. It has become a routine with her, so much so that she believes something is wrong if she cannot feel a particular lumpen bit of floor under her foot, or encounters a polished 
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bit of balustrade where there usually is dust. Generous with an obsequious smile, she lays a hand on the man's shoulder, and leans close, so that the scent of her perfume swarms over him. She is my very best, she says. So special that for the longest time, she would refuse to let a man touch her. The guest coughs with the force of a bullet, and the madam snaps her head back to look at him, fearing that he will die on the spot. Certainly the man is dressed presentably enough, or as presentable as can be expected in these benighted days. His wide-brimmed hat is cracked after years of use, and his exposed wrists are as thin and emaciated as a woman's. Who knows what madness or diseases this man carries? It cannot be helped, the madam sighs to herself.  |
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