The Painter of Shanghai by Jennifer Cody Epstein

free.’
    ‘There will be.’
    Sleep-crusted gazes flick toward the table’s foot, where the woman named Xiaochen sits. Apart from the top girl, she’s the only one to appear in full makeup. But the pastelike layers of powder can’t hide the harsh lines by her eyes and lips. Her pupils are abnormally large and empty. Xiuqing sees them and thinks of Uncle Wu.
    Jinling sniffs. Her chopsticks hover over the main dish.Xiuqing watches the red-tipped hands as though they speak a silent code. ‘He never puts enough yams in,’ Jinling says, pouting.
    ‘He puts in as many as we can afford,’ Godmother retorts crossly.
    ‘Tea!’ someone else squeals. ‘What’s her name again? Hey, Yuliang!’ And then, because Xiuqing keeps forgetting that her name is now Yuliang, ‘ New girl! Little idiot! More hot water!’
    Obediently, Xiuqing takes the pot into the kitchen. It’s empty at the moment, and she edges over to the stove. She eyes the contents of a pan for a moment. Then, quickly, she slides an extra bowl from a shelf.
    Back in the dining hall, she puts the bowl by Jinling’s elbow, just close enough to be within reach. The other young girl, Suyin, looks at Xiuqing curiously. She catches Xiuqing’s eye and slowly parts her lips. A little orange tongue emerges, flickering. It takes Xiuqing a moment to see that it’s actually a prawn tail. Xiuqing gazes, entranced, until a small breathy yelp pulls her attention back to the table. She realizes she’s just missed Jinling’s cup entirely with the tea. The spill cuts a watery brown path across the table.
    Jinling picks her arm up quickly, strokes it like a hurt cat. Xiuqing waits for a rebuke, or another blow.
    But when she looks up, Jinling’s not looking at her. She is frowning at the bowl of yams Xiuqing has just set before her. And when she lifts her hand, it is just to produce a handkerchief and mournfully dab at her silk sleeve.
    Then she looks up. ‘You certainly need training,’ she says.

5
    In the end Yuliang acclimates to this harsh and glittering new name, much as she acclimates to her harsh and glittering new life. It is Jinling who helps her with both tasks. In fact, just tumbling from the courtesan’s red lips (‘Ai, Yu Liang !’), the words seem less punishment than a playful new song.
    The top girl guides her new charge through the nightly schedule of primping, preparing, and cleaning up. She shows Yuliang how to pare the end of her kohl eye pencil so it makes a clean line. She shows her how to refill her rouge locket for the nights when she is summoned out on call. She shows her how to brush her hair with just the right number of strokes – one hundred and sixty-eight, for prosperity.
    It’s Jinling who explains the rituals that must be performed, the incense that must be lit, the prayers that must be chanted. The gold paper ingots that must be tucked monthly under her mattress, to ensure guest satisfaction and healthy tips. She shows Yuliang the store of seed pearls that she keeps locked in her drawer, and she teaches her to steam them in a white cloth, and to grind up the moistened gems with a pestle and some sugar. Jinling eats the gritty paste in three or four small bites, grimacing. No one else in the Hall can afford to eat pearls. But Jinling says the custom pays for itself in her luminousskin. Plus, it helps with her digestion; regularity, she explains delicately, is key to maintaining one’s balance and womanly composure. ‘It’s like when chickens eat sand,’ she says. And then giggles, because chicken , as she has also taught Yuliang, is another term for whore .
    The Hall’s top girl shows Yuliang the other fruits of her years of labor: nearly two dozen dresses, stiff with gold trim and brocade that, while not quite as skillfully created as Yuliang’s mama might have done, is nevertheless impressive. She has so many scarves that when she opens up their drawer they burst out in a gauzy, jewel-toned gust. She has boxes of hair