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Wait a minute, the master snorts, how can that be? No electricity? That must have been over -- The gate creaks open again, heralding the entrance of a woman and an old man. The master recognizes the woman's hooded cloak on sight: the zither woman from the Peach Blossom House. She has been here numerous times for meetings with visitors from afar, notes passed and single cups of tea shared. The master has never questioned the nature of these rendezvous, for he has it on good authority from one of the local imperial commanders that she is one of them, informing on the rebels. Or at least she was years ago, when he first heard of it, but this is the first time he has seen her in years. Who knows now? Who knows about anything now?  |
As an unspoken reward, the master has always provided the woman with the freshest leaves he has on hand for her tea, and she has thanked him for his kindness with a smile that must have bewitched many a visitor to the Peach -- Ah, I'm not young, the master thinks. But who is this old man? He has seen him somewhere -- perhaps a local drunk, he looks the type, especially with that down winter coat filthy from year-round use. Even now the old man is mumbling about wildflower wine. And yet the woman helps him solicitously to a table close to the stranger's table and seats him. Welcome young mistress. The usual? Actually, he cannot be too sure about such a title -- it is difficult to say how old she is. Certainly, she has the figure and demeanor of a courtesan. How the  |
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