Shanghai Girls Read Online Free PDF Page A

the border between the French Concession and the International Settlement, and then we clatter down the cobblestones the rest of the way home.
    The city, like a great sea, has never gone to sleep. The night ebbs, and now the morning cycles and rhythms begin to flow. Nightsoil men push their carts down the alleyways, calling “Empty your nightstool! Here comes the nightsoil man! Empty your nightstool!” Shanghai may have been one of the first cities to have electricity, gas, telephones, and running water, but we lag behind in sewage removal. Nevertheless, farmers around the country pay premium prices for our nightsoil because it’s known to be rich from our diets. The nightsoil men will be followed by the morning food vendors with their porridges made from the seeds of Job’s tears, apricot kernels, and lotus seeds, their steamed rice cakes made with rugosa rose and white sugar, and their eggs stewed in tea leaves and five spice.
    We reach home and pay the rickshaw boy. We lift the latch to the gate and make our way up the path to the front door. The lingering night dampness magnifies the scent of the flowers, shrubs, and trees, making us drunk on the jasmine, magnolia, and dwarf pines our gardener raises. We climb the stone steps and pass under a carved wooden screen that prevents evil spirits from entering the house—in deference to Mama’s superstitions. Our heels sound loud as they hit the parquet floor in the entry. A light is on in the salon to the left. Baba is awake and waiting for us.
    “Sit down and don’t speak,” he says, motioning to the settee directly across from him.
    I do as I’m told, then fold my hands in my lap and cross my ankles. If we’re in trouble, looking demure will help. The anxious look he’s been wearing these past few weeks has turned into something hard and immobile. The words he next speaks change my life forever.
    “I’ve arranged marriages for the two of you,” he says. “The ceremony will take place the day after tomorrow.”

Gold Mountain Men

“ THAT’S NOT FUNNY! ” May laughs lightly.
    “I’m not joking,” Baba says. “I’ve arranged marriages for you.”
    I’m still having trouble absorbing what he said. “What’s wrong? Is Mama ill?”
    “I already told you, Pearl. You need to listen and you’re going to do as I say. I’m the father and you’re my daughters. This is how things are.”
    I wish I could convey how absurd he sounds.
    “I won’t do it!” May cries indignantly.
    I try reason. “Those feudal days are over. It’s not like when you and Mama married.”
    “Your mother and I were married in the second year of the Republic,” he says huffily, but that’s hardly the point.
    “Yours was an arranged marriage nevertheless,” I counter. “Have you been answering inquiries from a matchmaker about our knitting, sewing, or embroidery skills?” Ridicule creeps into my voice. “For my dowry, have you bought me a nightstool painted with dragon-and-phoenix motifs to symbolize my perfect union? Will you give May a nightstool filled with red eggs to send her in-laws the message that she will have many sons?”
    “Say what you want.” Baba shrugs indifferently. “You’re getting married.”
    “I won’t do it!” May repeats. She’s always been good with tears, and she lets them flow now. “You can’t make me.”
    When Baba ignores her, I understand just how serious this is. He looks at me, and it’s as though he’s seeing me for the first time.
    “Don’t tell me you thought you were going to marry for love.” His voice is oddly cruel and triumphant. “No one marries for love. I didn’t.”
    I hear a deep intake of breath, turn, and see my mother, still dressed in her pajamas, standing in the doorway. We watch as she sways across the room on her bound feet and sinks into a carved pearwood chair. She clasps her hands and looks down. After a moment, tears fall into her folded hands. No one speaks.
    I sit up as straight as I can, so I can