2. Old Money

     In the morning, Cheung Po Tsai is still asleep.
     I crawl out from under his strong arm and the silk covers, leaving my robes tangled somewhere beneath the blankets. It's still early, and the sun hasn't yet risen. I light a single candle, crouching by the stick of wax and my mirror. I glance at myself: long black hair hangs over half of my face because of my posture, and I straighten into a sitting position, drawing my hair back away from my face. My hair is my pride. It's always been healthy, and I can grow it long. I keep it just past my shoulder blades.
     I sit back on the floor and listen as the birds start to sing their morning chorus, though the sun still hasn't peaked over the mountains. I hear movement outside the room. Some girls are already up, getting ready for their day. I wonder if Ru is awake.

     Ru met me when I was nineteen. I was by the beach near the Macau Wharf. It was a warm day in mid-summer, and the crowds visiting the sea were happy, cheerful. I had sat myself on an old driftwood log and was crying, quietly, so I would not disturb any passer-bys.
     A woman approached me, a bit older than I, dressed in a beautiful qipao adorned with florals and leaves, her hair drawn up into a flattering and modern style. She was absolutely stunning, and I felt even more miserable and sorry for myself than ever before in that moment.
     "Young girl," she asked me kindly, "what's wrong?"
     I sniffed morosely and bowed my head. "Nothing of importance, miss," I managed to choke out. Words seemed difficult to manage at the time. The beautiful woman sat down beside me.
     "For such a lovely girl to be crying," she responded, "surely it must be something daunting."
     I kept my head down.
     "You can tell me, dear," she assured.
     I turned to face her, emotion swelling deep in my chest like a rising oceanic volcano.
     "Why should you need to know?" I snapped, then quickly softened at the stranger. "I just want to be alone right now, miss. I'm sorry."
     "I see the bruises on your arms and throat," she said, her eyes still calm.
     I stopped in fear.
      "They're nothing," I muttered, pulling my sleeves to my wrists. I watched the visitors of the beach wander happily across the sand and stones, over the wharf.
     "Someone hurt you," she pressed. "A man."
     My heart sunk. I wailed softly into my hands, and fresh tears burned my eyes and cheeks. My body felt strange, as though I was in a dream. Unfortunately, I knew that couldn't be. I felt as though I had to escape the situation. The woman softly took my hand in hers.
     "My name is Ru," she said. "I can help you."

     That was years ago.
     I draw my robe around myself and quietly exit the room, after making sure that Cheung Po is still asleep. I make my way to the upstairs kitchen, a much smaller and humbler version of the one on sea level, the one for the restaurant.
     Fa Ming had this boat built almost twenty years ago. The plan was originally to build a three-story house, but when Fa Ming heard that the tax was much cheaper for crafts docked on a port, he set about to have his very own flower boat. At the time, the reputation surrounding flower boats was murky. Fa Ming changed that. He created his business, one that thrived on an insatiable appetite, a need that never dwindled.
     I pour the fresh tea into two cups, then set them on a tray. One for me, one for Cheung Po. Fa Ming's is known for its customer service. When I get back to my room, Cheung Po is at the window. He turns when I open the door, and smiles when he sees I have tea.
     "Good morning," I say, and set the tray down on the floor by the bed. Cheung Po kneels, as do I, and we sit across from one another.
     "Cheng's crew will be on their way by this time," he says, taking a sip. I nod in understanding. Cheung has his changshan pants on, but has left his shirt off. He has an assortment of tattoos on his body, from colourful animals like birds and a tiger, to different words or scripts. I wonder what they all mean to him. The tiger, I know, represents his loyalty to Cheng. Cheng comes from a long line of powerful pirates, all of them using the great tiger as their symbol. When he moves his body, the tiger on Cheung Po's side moves with him. I watch Cheung Po as he studies his cup of tea, looking suddenly smaller and more like the fragile boy he once was, when Cheng first happened upon him so many years ago.
     I set my tea down and move closer to him. I breathe in his scent, let it envelope me, and lay down in his lap.
     "Where would you be if you were not a pirate?" I ask him. I feel his hand on my hip.
     "I would be a poor fisherman like my father," he answers, voice deep and scratchy from sleep. "Catching fish and crabs and oysters, and making a poor profit."
     "You would smell like a fish in either life," I tease him. He playfully swats me on the behind. I touch his face, and look up at him solemnly.
     "Don't worry, fish boy," I say. "I'd still like you." He leans down and kisses me, and we forget about our tea.

     Outside, the day is clear and cold. Captain Zheng takes in the sight of me, from my red qipao to my long hair, braided neatly into a tall bun.
     We are just outside Fa Ming's, on the wharf overlooking the small, buoyant city of house boats and floating eateries.
     I bow deeply.
     "Welcome, Captain Zheng," I greet warmly.
      "Thank you, young Shi Xianggu," he says, regarding me as I rise back up. I glance around at the crew of The Tiger behind him: pirates young and old, all present for any number of reasons. Some men join a pirate crew after the promise of wealth, some to oppose the stifling empire. Others are simply bored.
      "Fa Ming's is always happy to take care of you and your crew, Captain Zheng," I say, and with that, he, his crew, and I retreat within the brothel.
     The inside of Fa Ming's is always dim, and creates an atmosphere of both intimacy and seediness. A girl, seated on a silk cushion, skilfully plays the erhu. No other customers are inside. The notion of Zheng and his men coming, and people immediately hit the road, but we receive no loss of income. I see Ru come toward us from the kitchen, carrying a tray of numerous goodies. I remember suddenly that I haven't eaten today. My stomach growls hungrily as Fa Ming's Madame sets the tray down on the fanciest table in the restaurant, and I hope nobody hears. Ru beckons us toward the table, the one reserved only for V.I.P.s. I bow as Captain Zheng, Cheung Po Tsai and other high-ranking pirates belonging to Cheng's crew walk past me, and seat themselves. Ru makes her way to my side as the pirates talk amongst each other.
     "I almost thought they abandoned us," she whispers to me. "We'd have to sell our Ming paintings." Although the pirates are a raucous group, the wealth they bring us is invaluable.
     "Fa Ming would have died before he'd sell those paintings," I say. Ru nods her head. She knew Fa Ming better than anyone.
     "Shi," Zheng calls from the table, and my heart jumps. "Come here."
     Ru nudges me.
     "Make our client happy," she says.
     Obediently, I make my way to where he sits across from Cheung. The pirates " a handful of high-rankers, as the rest of the crew are on less fancy, wooden tables " mutter amongst themselves. I catch Cheung's eye, but I see no emotion on his face. He's good at hiding how he feels.
     "Shi, darling," Zheng puts his hand on the small of my back, then motions for me to sit down beside him. I do just that, our legs touching.
     "You look beautiful," he says. "Just like you always do, little bird." We stare at each other for a moment that seemed like several. My face feels hot.
     "Will someone bring some wine!" Hollers Cai Qian, breaking my fixation. Cai Qian is an intimidating man with short-cropped head hair, long facial hair, and eyes like a snake. He likes his alcohol like a bee likes honey. I glance at Ru anxiously, because usually it is she who sits or mingles with the important clients while I serve them. Ru nods her head ever so slightly, assuring me that I am only to sit with Zheng. She leaves for the kitchen to retrieve what I know will be an expensive bottle of Portuguese wine.
     "How is our favourite brothel?" Cai Qian asks me, popping a sweet rice ball into his mouth from the goody tray.
     "Fa Ming's enjoys the auspicious spring customers," I say.
     "I did not know that sex work was seasonal," Cai chortles through his rice.
     "With the coming of warm months," I say, "men seem to find the urge to lay down with women much more often."
     "Something in the air," Cheung muses quietly from beside Cai.
     "It seems to be the nature of the mortal man," Zheng agrees, just before Ru arrives with a tall bottle of Portuguese red. I help her assemble the glasses.
     "And the nature of the mortal woman," I respond, pouring my guests handsome amounts of wine into their waiting cups, "is to always keep the mortal man wanting more." I lock eyes with Zheng, and slide him a glass of Fa Ming's most expensive drink.

     His lips are pressing against mine, messy and hot. We are in my room, where Cheung had been only this morning. It isn't unusual to have a different man in my bed in consecutive nights, but tonight is different. I pull away from Zheng for a moment.
     "Captain," I say, and smile, because I like his title.
     "My little bird," he almost growls out these sweet words. His hands roam up my top, and I arch my back. We kiss again, my palms on his face.
     His hand finds its way between my thighs and I let out a short gasp. I hear a low, hungry noise from Zheng, and I close my eyes. I've dreamt about this moment for a while, ever since we first met. I spread my legs and give him easier access to me, breathing shallowly as he works. Before long, I can't take it, and I urgently whisper that I need him inside of me. Please, please, Zheng! Captain!
     I very rarely beg.
     He takes my waist and flips us, so I'm straddling his hips as he lays on my bed. We look golden in the evening sunshine. Zheng has tattoos, but his are older than Cheung's, stick-and-poke depictions on his battle-scarred flesh. I feel his abdomen, rising and falling quickly. He wants this " me. It's a fact that Captain Zheng gets what he wants. I lower myself onto him, hear him sigh when he feels me around him. I roll my hips expertly, slowly, and let him lay back. I let good food, good alcohol and good sex take him away for the night.

     "Very cute," he says next morning, looking me over.
     I dip my head. "Thank you, Captain."
     We are on the wharf by Fa Ming's, and I am dressed in a beautiful new ruqun. It is Zheng's gift to me. We are overlooking the sea, and the many ships on it.
     "Are you staying here for long?" I ask him.
     He purses his lips. "That depends." He looks incredibly handsome in his black shirt, his hair a long braid down his back. I braided it for him earlier today, after he asked me to. Although simple, the act seemed to me to hold a weight of importance. Something a friend or family member would do for one another. A domestic act. We are becoming closer.
     "What does it depend on?" I ask. He meets my gaze. Oddly enough, I detect a hint of nervousness about him, which seems unusual for his character. As quickly as it appears, however, it vanishes, and it's the confident captain I know once again.
     "Whether or not you'll marry me," he says.
     At first, I can't quite believe my own ears. Then I realise that he must be joking.
     Right?
     "Zheng," I begin, uncertain. "I have a career. Ru, the brothel, the girls. I'm not ... I can't marry someone."
     He takes me by my arm, and it doesn't feel real.
     "It would be an intelligent business venture," he presses. "You've got to be the smartest girl in Guangdong. You've taken dumpy old Fa Ming's and moulded it into the most profitable and powerful brothel in the territory. I need you," he adds quietly, "to join me."
     I think of the brothel. Could I really leave it behind for a life of piracy? Ru would manage it, but all on her own? I run a hand through my hair.
     "Do you think I'm suited for a life of piracy?" I ask him. His eyes light up.
     "Yes. I do," he says. "And you'd be my wife, not some barnacle scraper. You would live the life of a pirate queen." His voice is adherently(?) earnest.
     I think of a life that is not spent on a flower boat. A life that is not spent exchanging lacklustre sex with imperial officials for my income, where I could live my days as I pleased, without fearing that my place of work could get shut down by the emperor any day. As a pirate " a career just as criminal as whoring " I would finally have power, and not just the small grasp of freedom I've claimed at the port. The ocean would be my kingdom.
     I cross my arms, take a deep breath, and nod my head. His brown eyes watch me as though he will never know what I'm thinking.
     "I'll be your wife," I say. "And I want fifty percent. Nothing less."