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Already the Peach Blossom House is disintegrating before her eyes -- walls peeling like dead skin, strict schedules in effect for conserving electricity or water. You had a difficult time with the client? You're bleeding from the inside? You must wait until tomorrow, no more water tonight. The madam is not a malevolent woman; with her childlike forehead and the fine sets of wrinkles around her eyes she could be anyone's favorite aunt. And so she brews her fine herbal tea, a blend of ginger, liquid cayenne, and ginseng, and brings them to her girls in tall glasses. She saves buckets of water for emergencies, and although the water often grows fetid with wriggling insects and random bits of debris, it does have its uses. You are in for a treat tonight. My girl is very talented, she says reassuringly. Used to play  |
the zither, before it was stolen by those damned rebels. I think she's been a little lonely since then. She will love to have the company of a mature man. A nice touch, that, she thinks. Who would not be flattered by such a statement? But the guest grunts once and says no more. The madam has reserved the gold chamber for the guest, gold in name only, for all the valuable linens and accoutrements of the room were lost or stolen long ago. Still, with its heavy velvet curtains damp with rain and the long mirrors that line the ceiling and walls, it exists in a different time and place than the rest of the house, the rest of this bombed-out town. One can say the word debauchery here, and not be met with a derisive giggle. ***
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