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The woman for the evening stands in the center of the room, dressed in an ornate performing gown as requested. A soldier had left this dress as payment years before, and it smells of mothballs. On the woman, it is a bit long, only the tips of her fingers visible beyond the sleeves, and the madam approves of the look: Like a little girl. Glittering sequins and braids signifying family heritage and provincial origin dangle off the sides of her costume like afterthoughts. Her hair has been pulled into a bun, and her face has been painted in the ghost-like white of the opera actor. Greeting the guest with a short, stiff bow, she remains in place, waiting for an order, a request, any sort of approval. He was once an important man, the madam told her before the guest arrived. She had scoffed at  |
such a remark, for although she is an imperialist, she has no illusions about men from the old days, from the times of smuggled liquor and indiscrim-inate murders. And indeed, this man seems as corrupt as any of them, with that antiquated wide-brimmed hat and his long flowing robe. Does he think he's in an old gangster movie? she muses. Sensing the uneasiness in the room, the madam claps her hand together in a command. Don't just stand there, help our guest. See to his needs. She backs out of the room, her feet shuffling, parental noises issuing from her throat, and then the door slams closed with a cavernous boom. My shoes, the guest says. The hat hides his face, so the voice seems to rumble from somewhere near the pit of his stomach. She recoils at the  |
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