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sound of it -- he is clearly a septuagenarian, or even an octogenarian, and although his accent is that of the province where she grew up, his body wobbles with every sound he makes. Don't just stand there, he says again. Wipe my shoes. So this is how it is, she thinks. There is nothing for it. Without a zither to play and with no other useful function in this house, she has resigned herself to being the same as the other girls in this brothel -- it would have been too suspicious if she refrained from working. And leaving this place was out of the question, for who else would look after the girls? The madam meant well, but she was getting on in years, given to talking out loud to herself for the majority of the  |
day, the cries of the other girls at night falling on ever-deafening ears. She bends down to the guest's boots and rubs at them with the corner of her gown. This is good, she thinks. This is almost normal. Much preferable to other alternatives. Already she is imagining the future: the old man's arms around her like mangled stalks, the weight of him on her, the rank breath scarring her face, the interminable moment of release, the heaving body above her collapsing with the dramatic force of a piece of clothing falling in a clump to the floor. Considering these outcomes was good for her, for nothing in real life would ever quite approximate these dire illusions. There are always worse things, she would think. ***
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