“We are.” Juliette parted the beaded curtains, stepping through the partition and into the main den, where the smells of distorted histories and forced addictions floated freely. The scents wafting into her nose reminded her of a rose on fire, of perfume mixed with gasoline and set aflame until the remaining ash could be used as thick, heady cosmetics. “But the Scarlet grapevine tells me this is also a socializing ground for Communists.”
They paused in the middle of the den. The remnants of old China were stronger here, amid the various paraphernalia—the pipes and the oil lamps—that had been brought over from before the turn of the century. The decor lagged well behind the times too, for while the chandeliers on the ceiling looked like the ones hanging golden and glittering in every Shanghai burlesque club, the bulbs were covered in a thin layer of grime, oily in appearance.
“Be careful,” Juliette warned. She eyed the bodies slumped against the walls of the den. “I doubt these people are as docile as they look.”
A few centuries ago, when this place was still the home estate of a royal or a general, it might have been opulent and lush. Now it was a husked-out building of missing floorboards and a ceiling sagging with the weight of itself. Now the couches bore holes where patrons extended their legs, and the armrests were worn down where patrons rubbed their grubby hands before tossing up a few cents and hurrying out—that is, if they weren’t enticed into the back rooms first. As Juliette craned her neck and searched the den for the madame in charge, she heard giggling echo from the corridors. In the next few seconds, a group of young women skittered out, each dressed in a different pale-colored hanfu, which Juliette supposed was an attempt to invoke the nostalgia of China’s previous eras. If only the skirts of their hanfu weren’t caked with dirt and their hairpins weren’t one sharp motion from falling out. If
only their giggles weren’t incredulously fake even to the untrained ear, their red smiles curved vivaciously but their eyes dull.
Juliette sighed. In Shanghai, it was easier to count the establishments that didn’t double as brothels than the ones that did.
“How can I help you?”
Juliette turned around, searching for the voice who had spoken cheerily from behind. Madame, as she called herself, was inclined upon one of the couches, a lamp burning away beside her and a pipe tossed carelessly across her torso. When Juliette wrinkled her nose, Madame rose, inspecting Juliette just as closely as Juliette was inspecting the black stains on the older woman’s hands.
“I’ll be,” Madame said. “Juliette Cai. I haven’t seen you since you were four years old.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we had ever met.”
Madame pursed her pale lips. “You wouldn’t remember, of course. In my mind, you’ll always be a little thing toddling around the gardens, oblivious to everything else in the world.”
“Uh-huh,” Juliette said. She shrugged flippantly. “My father failed to mention this.”
Madame’s eyes stayed level, but her shoulders hitched with the slightest signal of offense. “I was rather good friends with your mother for some time”—she harrumphed—“until… well, I’m sure you heard that somebody accused me of being too friendly with the White Flowers a decade ago. It was all hogwash, of course. You know I hate them as much as you do.”
“I don’t hate the White Flowers,” Juliette shot back immediately. “I hate those who harm the people I love. Most often they tend to be the White Flowers. There’s a difference.”
Madame sniffed. With every attempt she was making to relate to Juliette, she was getting pushed away. Juliette could keep at this all day. She loved picking holes in other people.
“Indeed, but don’t let them hear you say that,” Madame muttered. She shifted her attention away from Juliette then, changing tactics and grabbing Rosalind’s wrist, crooning, “Oh, I know you. Rosalind Lang. I knew your father, too, of course. Such precious children. I was so upset when you were sent to France. You won’t believe how much your father crowed on about the excellence of a Western education.” Her eyes turned to Kathleen. A beat passed.
Juliette cleared her throat.
“Bàba sent us here to collect,” she explained, hoping it would direct Madame’s attention back to her. “You owe—”
“But who are you?” Madame asked, interrupting Juliette to address Kathleen.
Kathleen narrowed her eyes. Rather tightly, she replied, “I’m Kathleen.”
Madame made a performance out of searching her memory.
“Oh, Kathleen. I remember now,” she gushed, clicking her fingers. “You used to be so rude, always sticking your tongue out at me.”
“I was a child, so you will have to forgive my past misdeeds,” Kathleen replied dryly.
Madame pointed at Kathleen’s forehead. “You have the Sagittarius constellation birthmark too. I thought I remembered—”
“Who?” Kathleen interrupted. It sounded like a dare. “Who do you remember having it?”
“Well,” Madame said, embarrassed now. “There used to be three of you Lang siblings, right? You had a brother, too.”
Juliette thinned her lips. Rosalind hissed through her teeth. But Kathleen—Kathleen only stared at Madame with the flattest look in her eyes and said, “Our brother is dead. I’m sure you heard.”
“Yes, well, I’m very sorry,” Madame said, sounding not sorry at all. “I also lost a brother. Sometimes I think—”
“Enough,” Juliette interrupted. This had gone on long enough. “Can we speak elsewhere?”
Madame crossed her arms tightly and pivoted on her heel. She did not ask for the three Scarlets to follow her, but they did so anyway, trotting along and pressing up against the walls when they had to pass the pastel girls flittering about the narrow hallways. Madame led them into a bedroom decorated in various shades of red. There was another door here, one that led straight out onto the streets. Juliette wondered if it was for easy escape or easy entrance.