Free French Concession by Xiao Bai

beautiful than she really was. She was not even embarrassed by photographs of her ass sticking up in the darkness, like the ass of a spirited white mare.
    She often asked Hsueh to meet her at the Astor, which resembled a ship with its maroon-paneled maze of corridors leading to hundreds of rooms, and delicate wrought iron flowers inlaid with frosted glass set in the doors. Her usual rooms were in what the stewardcalled the forehold, which faced the waves and humid breeze of the Whampoa. When mist rose from the river at night, you could feel as if you were floating. A curved beam arched across the living room, which was furnished with solid teak furniture. There were rattan armchairs, a coffee table, and a mahogany floor lamp. Behind these living room furnishings, a set of double doors led to the bedroom.
    The bedroom had an Oriental smell of fog on the Whampoa, moldy mosquito nets, and camphor wood, sandalwood, or cinnamon wood. The bottoms of the heavy teak drawers were made of scented wood, and whenever she opened one to retrieve a bathrobe and towel, its scent would fill the room. She opened the windows to let in the cry of gulls and whistle of ships.
    The bathtub stood in the middle of the bathroom, surrounded by soft chairs, a ceramic basin, and a toilet bowl in the corner. The bars of the radiator had been polished by the hotel’s servants until they gleamed. A retractable chandelier hung so low that its arms almost touched her head. She dozed off.
    Then the phone rang, waking her abruptly. Dripping wet, she stepped into the bedroom to answer it. It was Hsueh, calling to say he would be late. He sounded nervous and his voice was hoarse. But before she could ask why, he had hung up.
    She didn’t hear from him again until after ten at night when he knocked at the door.
    Therese looked at him in astonishment. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed while Hsueh lay fast asleep with his back to her. Bruises covered his face, legs, and waist, and there was a cut on his lip. It was not the bruises that surprised her. The type of man she could have for the price of a couple of drinks in a bar often appeared in her room battered and bruised.
    No, she was surprised by how aggressive he was. He seemed to be angry about something.
    He pushed her to the edge of the bed, lifted her legs roughly, and squashed her, ramming her face into the pillow. He wanted to turn her over, to expose her crotch to the light of the hanging chandeliers, as if she were a dancing insect that would freeze when in thelight. She lifted her taut legs high in the air, and the light played on the sleep marks on her knees. Pleasure swept across her abdomen like a wave as she grasped at his arms and ass.
    When he turned, his dick flopped over like a worm. She reached out to touch it, and it became hard before he even awoke.
    His voice came from near her feet, sputtering as though it was bubbling up from somewhere near the muddy bottom of the Whampoa.
    â€œTell me, tell me, do those wicked friends of yours do this to you?” She caught his head between her knees, as if she could capture that brain of his that constantly distracted her. She wanted to rub the wet sponge of her body against the bridge of his nose. She refused to stop and listen to him. If he was jealous—well, let him be.
    Half an hour later, she thought about the “wicked friends” he had mentioned. Did he think she was having sex with Zung? Then he was mistaken. All this time she had resisted Hsueh. He wanted to unsettle her, and the more she resisted, the more deeply he seemed to penetrate her. She could not force herself to like him any less, but she was afraid of leading him on. She did not want to disappoint him. Recently she had found herself mellowing with age, becoming reluctant to let go of things that made her happy. She was afraid of loss, and happiness no longer seemed to lie within easy reach. She had come to see that happiness for her consisted of a certain