The Girl Who Played Go

40

As a child my dreams were fueled by the mystery of the Middle Empire. I liked drawing Mandarin pavilions, Tatar strongholds and imperial warriors. Later I devoured its classical literature.

Until yesterday the only part of China that I knew was Ha Rebin, the huge metropolis on the banks of the River Love, and that modern, cosmopolitan place now serves as my yardstick: I keep comparing the town of A Thousand Winds to it. This small city may well be a part of independent Manchuria, but it is instantly recognizable as a little chunk of the eternal Chinese nation.

There are fewer cars here than in Ha Rebin, and there are no trams. Hundreds of rickshaw boys work in shifts day and night, and bicycles are the prized possessions of students from wealthy families.

Unlike the population of Ha Rebin-a coarse-looking people descended from the exiled and the condemned-the natives here have delicate features. Their ancestors are said to have been the illegitimate offspring of princes, the blood flowing in their veins is a subtle blend of Manchurian, Mongolian and Chinese. Their faces, with their regular features, recall those of centuries long past. The men are tall, with darker skin and eyes that are slit right to the temple. The women have inherited their fairer skin, high cheekbones, almond eyes and tiny mouths from the ladies of the court.

The very day after we arrive some of the reserve officers take us off round the brothels just outside the garrison. I am convinced that prostitution was invented for the military and that the first prostitute in history was a woman who fell in love with a soldier.

Here, just as in Japan, the girls try to part us from our savings with their charming smiles. The Chinese girls stammer just enough rudimentary Japanese to agree to a price. Some of the brothels are run by our army, and these employ Japanese and Korean girls, but the prices are prohibitive. Unable to afford a compatriot, I take advice from those who know their way around, and they take me to a modest-looking establishment called the Jade Flute. In the middle of the courtyard a tree stretches up towards the sky, and on the floor above I catch glimpses of uniforms, tumbling hair and silky dresses.

The proprietress, a woman with a thick Shan Dong accent, asks the girls to parade past us. I choose Orchid, who has slanting eyes like a she-wolf and a tiny, dark mouth like a crushed blueberry. Holding her cigarette between the tips of her fingers, with a foxtail slung over her shoulder and her bare feet in stiletto shoes, she swings her hips as she climbs the stairs ahead of me.

Almost before we have touched, she tells me seriously that she is a pure Manchurian and should not be taken for a Chinese girl. Unlike Japanese prostitutes-who hold themselves back and act out their pleasure-Orchid, this daughter of the banner, succumbs and cries out. It is rare to see a prostitute having an orgasm, but there is a disarming naïveté and willingness in the way she abandons herself. When I leave this girl with her powerful, well-muscled buttocks, she leans against the doorpost, waving her green handkerchief at me.