Dragon.
Julie knew the likelihood of anyone from the mission recognizing her was slight. Her Salvationist sisters preferred patrolling the businesses in San Francisco proper, leaving the waterfront dives to the Women’s Temperance League members and mysterious Chinatown to the men brave enough to tackle its maze of narrow, dirty alleyways. Julie didn’t blame them. She’d lived in Hong Kong all her life and spoke fluent Cantonese and Mandarin, and still found Chinatown and the Barbary Coast surrounding it daunting. The people and the sounds of the area were as familiar to her as the faces of her loved ones, but Chinatown and the Barbary Coast were worlds away from the closed sedans and coaches she’d traveled in and the walled gardens of home.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Julie made her way to the back entrance of the Lotus Blossom. Fridays were busy days for Zhing Wu. On Fridays she made two visits to the brothels on Montgomery and Stockton streets, picking up soiled laundry in the mornings and delivering clean laundry in the afternoons before the brothels began teeming with customers. She began with the Lotus Blossom at the top of Montgomery and ended with the Jade Dragon at the bottom.
Balancing her willow basket on one hip, Julie knocked on the back door of the Lotus Blossom and called out in singsong Cantonese, “Wu’s laundry pickup.”
Someone peered through the peephole drilled in the back door, then slid the bolt, allowing Julie entrance. She stepped inside. “Dirty laundry, please,” she called out in her singsong voice.
In minutes, piles of soiled sheets, towels, and female garments and accoutrements began appearing outside the doors. All the garments were similar. There was nothing to distinguish one corset, silk stocking, nightgown, or sheer robe from the others. The embellishments and embroidery were identical—nothing special, nothing personal. Julie had hoped to find something—a nightgown or handkerchief—bearing Su Mi’s exquisitely detailed embroidery, but so far all she’d collected was dirty bed linens, bathing flannels, and shockingly revealing dressing gowns and blouses. No outer garments and no drawers. Women in the brothels and parlor houses wore sheer robes or opened blouses during working hours, but were required to leave their nether regions uncovered. There wasn’t a pair of drawers or a tunic and trousers to be found.
Zhing Wu had tried to prepare Julie for the immodesty she’d find in the brothels, but she’d been scandalized nonetheless. Nothing could prepare an innocent young lady for the sight of a Chinese brothel. The first day she’d arrived early and had had to struggle to keep the shock off her face and her eyes downcast. It had gotten a bit easier in subsequent days, but Julie feared she’d never get over the sight of girls lounging about with breasts and nether regions bared, or covered in robes so transparent they provided no coverage at all—or worse—entertaining grunting, groaning men behind curtained alcoves or closed doors.
The thought of shy, modest little Su Mi trapped in such a place haunted Julie. Her desperation to find her friend was growing with each passing day.
Reaching for the closest pile of laundry, Julie stuffed it into her willow basket and whispered to the girl in the doorway in Cantonese, “Do you know of a girl from Hong Kong? A girl named Su Mi? Is she here?”
The girl shook her head. “No Su Mi here.”
“Are you sure?” Julie persisted, scooping an armload of dirty linen from the girl in the next doorway and pushing it into the basket. “She left Hong Kong for the Flowery Flag Nation almost three months ago.”
“No Su Mi here today,” the second girl told her. “No Su Mi here yesterday. No Su Mi here day before yesterday.”
Julie heaved a sigh.
“Why you care?” the first girl asked. “No one else care about poor China girls in here.”
“Su Mi is . . .” Julie thought for a moment. She and Su Mi
Julie knew the likelihood of anyone from the mission recognizing her was slight. Her Salvationist sisters preferred patrolling the businesses in San Francisco proper, leaving the waterfront dives to the Women’s Temperance League members and mysterious Chinatown to the men brave enough to tackle its maze of narrow, dirty alleyways. Julie didn’t blame them. She’d lived in Hong Kong all her life and spoke fluent Cantonese and Mandarin, and still found Chinatown and the Barbary Coast surrounding it daunting. The people and the sounds of the area were as familiar to her as the faces of her loved ones, but Chinatown and the Barbary Coast were worlds away from the closed sedans and coaches she’d traveled in and the walled gardens of home.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Julie made her way to the back entrance of the Lotus Blossom. Fridays were busy days for Zhing Wu. On Fridays she made two visits to the brothels on Montgomery and Stockton streets, picking up soiled laundry in the mornings and delivering clean laundry in the afternoons before the brothels began teeming with customers. She began with the Lotus Blossom at the top of Montgomery and ended with the Jade Dragon at the bottom.
Balancing her willow basket on one hip, Julie knocked on the back door of the Lotus Blossom and called out in singsong Cantonese, “Wu’s laundry pickup.”
Someone peered through the peephole drilled in the back door, then slid the bolt, allowing Julie entrance. She stepped inside. “Dirty laundry, please,” she called out in her singsong voice.
In minutes, piles of soiled sheets, towels, and female garments and accoutrements began appearing outside the doors. All the garments were similar. There was nothing to distinguish one corset, silk stocking, nightgown, or sheer robe from the others. The embellishments and embroidery were identical—nothing special, nothing personal. Julie had hoped to find something—a nightgown or handkerchief—bearing Su Mi’s exquisitely detailed embroidery, but so far all she’d collected was dirty bed linens, bathing flannels, and shockingly revealing dressing gowns and blouses. No outer garments and no drawers. Women in the brothels and parlor houses wore sheer robes or opened blouses during working hours, but were required to leave their nether regions uncovered. There wasn’t a pair of drawers or a tunic and trousers to be found.
Zhing Wu had tried to prepare Julie for the immodesty she’d find in the brothels, but she’d been scandalized nonetheless. Nothing could prepare an innocent young lady for the sight of a Chinese brothel. The first day she’d arrived early and had had to struggle to keep the shock off her face and her eyes downcast. It had gotten a bit easier in subsequent days, but Julie feared she’d never get over the sight of girls lounging about with breasts and nether regions bared, or covered in robes so transparent they provided no coverage at all—or worse—entertaining grunting, groaning men behind curtained alcoves or closed doors.
The thought of shy, modest little Su Mi trapped in such a place haunted Julie. Her desperation to find her friend was growing with each passing day.
Reaching for the closest pile of laundry, Julie stuffed it into her willow basket and whispered to the girl in the doorway in Cantonese, “Do you know of a girl from Hong Kong? A girl named Su Mi? Is she here?”
The girl shook her head. “No Su Mi here.”
“Are you sure?” Julie persisted, scooping an armload of dirty linen from the girl in the next doorway and pushing it into the basket. “She left Hong Kong for the Flowery Flag Nation almost three months ago.”
“No Su Mi here today,” the second girl told her. “No Su Mi here yesterday. No Su Mi here day before yesterday.”
Julie heaved a sigh.
“Why you care?” the first girl asked. “No one else care about poor China girls in here.”
“Su Mi is . . .” Julie thought for a moment. She and Su Mi
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