ELEVEN

AGAIN, PEIQIN WAS TRYING to help in her way.

She attempted to gather background information about Qiao, the eating girl. Since Peiqin herself worked in a restaurant, she had no trouble getting people to talk about those girls. Chef Pan turned out to be knowledgeable on the subject.

“Oh, three-accompanying girls-singing, dancing, eating,” Pan started with great gusto over a dish of peanuts flavored with Daitiao seaweed. “Another characteristic of China ’s brand of socialism. Socialism still has to provide a cover for everything, like a sign of a sheep’s head, behind which dog or cat meat is selling like crazy. The Party authorities keep saying that there’s no prostitution here, black words on white paper, so there appeared the gray area of three-accompanying girls.”

“You’ve worked at high-end restaurants,” Peiqin said, pouring him a cup of ginseng tea, a gift from Chief Inspector Chen, “and you surely know a lot.”

“Confucius says, ‘Enjoyment of delicacy and sex is of human nature.’ In the unprecedented economic reform led by Comrade Deng Xiaoping, what industry has scored the most incredible expansion? The entertainment industry. All the new and fancy restaurants and nightclubs, where Big Bucks and Party cadres are spending money like water. So eating girls appeared as a matter of course.”

“But how does an eating girl make her money?”

“For a Big Buck rolling obscenely in money, the company of an attractive girl adds a finishing touch to a perfect night, her nestling against him at the table, putting the delicacies on his plate. It boosts enormously his feeling of power and success, a sensual candle flickering between them. Actually, there are high requirements for the profession. She has to be pretty, and clever too, capable of convincing a Big Buck that he is getting his money’s worth with her company. For her, it’s a free dinner, plus a huge bonus. Through her choice of expensive wine and delicacies, the bill can be staggering, from which ten percent goes to her, not to mention the tip. In addition, she may strike a clandestine deal on the table, or under the table. What happens afterward does not concern the restaurant. So all in all, it’s a sizable income for her.”

“You have observed well, Pan.”

“Eating girls won’t come to a shabby place like ours, but they bring profit to a restaurant. We will have to change too.”

“Thank you so much,” Peiqin said, though slightly disappointed with the general introduction. For her purpose, she needed to know something more concrete.

The tidbits about three-accompanying girls from her other colleagues were also secondhand, vague, unreliable with their embellishments. After all, none of them had any real experience.

So Peiqin went one step further. Through her connections, she succeeded in obtaining help from Ming River, the particular restaurant where Qiao had served for the last year. The restaurant manager, Four-eyed Zhang, suggested to Peiqin that she should talk to Rong-a “big sister.”

“Rong, the eldest among the girls, is in her mid-thirties, a big sister with longer experiences, more connections, and more importantly, a list of those regular customers requesting the service. And she’s well-read in her way, too, especially about Chinese culinary history, which makes her popular among old customers,” Zhang said. “Some of them will call ahead for eating girls, and she helps to make arrangements. As for new customers, it’s not always easy to approach them, and her experience can be invaluable. Rong is also said to have befriended Qiao.”

“That would be the perfect one for me. Thank you so much, Manager Zhang.”

“But you have to get her to talk. She’s quite a character.”

So she phoned Rong. Peiqin introduced herself as a would-be writer. Having learned from Zhang about Rong’s knowledge of Chinese cuisine, she invited Rong out to lunch at Autumn Pavilion, a restaurant known for its fresh seafood. Zhang must have known Rong well as she agreed readily.

Rong stepped into Autumn Pavilion in a white jacket and jeans. A tall, slender woman, with no makeup or jewelry, she was not easily recognizable as an eating girl. Choosing a table in a quiet corner, Peiqin explained what she needed-in addition to an introduction to China’s culinary tradition, she would like to learn something about Qiao, so she might be able to write a short story about it. It was not too difficult for Peiqin to play a would-be writer, filling her speech with popular quotes, but she wondered if Rong really believed her.

“It’s interesting,” Rong said. “Not too many people want to be writers nowadays. You crawl on the paper for months, and all the money you make can hardly buy a meal.”

“I know. But I’ve been working in a restaurant for more than ten years. I have to do something different besides caring about three meals a day.”

“You may be right about that. Now, we are sort of colleagues, so you don’t have to order like those Big Bucks,” Rong said in a crispy voice, picking up the menus. “Slices of lotus roots filled sticky rice, home-grown chicken immersed in Shaoxin yellow wine, live bass strewn with ginger and onion slices. These should be enough.”

“What about the appetizers?”

“Let’s have a couple of deep-fried oysters. I’m going to Ming River tonight, you know. We are here to talk.”

“Great,” Peiqin said, glad that Rong knew better than to be an eating girl in her company. “Now, how long have you known Qiao?”

“Not too long. From the time she came to work at Ming River. That’s about a year ago, I think.”

“According to Zhang, you kindly befriended her. So you know a lot about her.”

“No, I don’t. In our business, people usually don’t ask and don’t answer. She was young and inexperienced, that’s why I gave her a suggestion or two. Now that she’s dead, I don’t think I should tell-even if I knew something.”

“Whatever you tell me goes only into the background of my story. No real names will be given. I give you my word, Rong.”

“So it does not have to be about her?”

“No, not necessarily.” Peiqin understood her reservation, for people could sell the information about Qiao to a tabloid magazine. “Zhang knows me well. Otherwise he would not have given your name to me. It’s just for my fictional story.”

“Well, here’s a fictional story,” Rong said, draining her cup in one gulp and holding a golden-fried oyster in her fingers, “but with real background information about the profession. I won’t give the girl’s name. For a story, you don’t have to take it too seriously.”

It was smart of Rong, whose insistance on its being fictional meant she was not responsible for whatever she was going to say.

“She was born in the early seventies,” Rong started, nibbling at the fried oyster. “The maxim that ‘beauty is not edible’ was a favorite one for her parents. On the wall above her cradle was a poster of Chairman Mao’s ‘iron girl,’ tall and robust, muscles hard like iron. Indeed, when people have a hard time feeding themselves, beauty is like a picture of cake. In her elementary school, she drew a magnificent restaurant as her dream home, which she didn’t step in until she was fifteen.

“Her beauty blossomed in the mid-eighties. While her parents’ maxim might no longer be universally true, it still applied to her. In an age of connections, it took much more than looks to become a model or a star. She had no connections. For a girl from an ordinary worker family, a state-run factory job was considered an ideal ‘iron bowl.’ So upon high school graduation, she started working in a textile mill, a job made available through her mother’s early retirement.

“There, her beauty meant nothing. She worked three shifts, dragged her tired feet around the shuttles, back and forth, like a fly circling the same spot. Back home, she kicked off her shoes and clasped her callused soles. Outside the window, the willow shoots barren in the autumn wind, she knew one thing for a fact: a textile worker grows old quickly. Soon, the spring splendor fades / from the flower. There’s no stopping / the chill rain, or the shrill wind.